Student journal editor-in-chief shows off poetry skills


    Grass Matters

    The wind waves 
    over taxidermied trees; 
    Leaves and berries pop 
    like Technicolor 
    and rays ultraviolet 
    their way through cracks in honeycomb branches. 

    The stream sidewinds
    through the forest, blue and curving like a vein dancing on a forearm. 
    Miniscule waterfalls wash over rocks 
    baptizing and rinsing. 

    Paths form,
    originate organically out of the footsteps. 
    Footprints form in the mud canvas. 
    Puddles form when rain falls,
    mosquito, gnats, and 
    bugs found only under rocks, 
    gather to drink. 
    Communities coalesce in footprint pools. 

    The rogue ground 
    pops up and drops down 
    at its own whim. 
    Ankles are rolled 
    and twisted like a rattail towel.

    Blades of grass
    cut coolly and gently 
    around those who choose to sit or lie. 
    Conforming obediently 
    to anyone willing to rest. 
    This grass is never mowed, 
    but never seems to grow,
    it is the most satisfactory size 
    for the enjoyment of those walking through it. 

    Logs lie, linking 
    like a chain wrapped around the woods. 
    The bark ripples and cracks, 
    showing its elderly age. 
    They’ve long fallen,
    admirably serving a purpose in death. 
    Forever resting on the 
    grass mattress. 

    There’s a soundtrack 
    to the way the forest sounds off. 
    Smooth instrumentals of crickets and birds 
    sail and echo 
    bouncing off the 

    Flatter lands sprawl beyond, 

    arranging like an agricultural Checkers board. 

    The sprawl does not 
    have the same soundtrack. 
    Crickets are gone and 
    the birds don’t acapella 
    their way through the fields and 
    the sweeping sixty miles per hour 
    in the distance 
    carriers over and across 
    the crops. 


    Power surging, 
    faulty line
    and you’re not wearing 
    rubber gloves. 

    Careful what you grab
    10,000 volts can kill you. 

    Shock your heart
    hope to die

    you say reaching for the 
    firefly-shooting whip.

    Come on and
    grab this end

    Illuminated, you’re a good idea
    hanging over a cartoon’s head.

    Grab the alternate end
    embrace electricity
    we’ll play jump-rope 
    with faulty lines.

    Nathan Pesina, a senior writing major from Fort Knox, Ky., is the editor-in-chief of eleven40seven, a student-run, undergraduate journal of the arts that strives to present a student perspective that differs drastically from mainstream campus culture while promoting TCU’s artistic and creative endeavors. The first selection in this spread is an excerpt from a piece of his personal prose called “Desolation Row.” To read past issues of eleven40seven, visit