Matt Blaisdell

List Poem

Five by Nine

Sat before my peers,

Pleading I didn’t do it,

The gavel raps. Sentenced to life.

An hour-long ship ride to what some would call;


When I reach the island

A young man grimly says,

“Welcome to your five by nine”.

Deteriorating walls, Beds of stone…

Hearing the hollow sound of footsteps

reverberating off the ceiling. . .
Blocking the ghostly, echoing moans of depressed souls,
As I listen to the maniacal laughter of the clinically insane.

This is what I call home..

Hundreds, trapped,

With a lack of civilization,

No wonder escapes are attempted.

Not a thing to do,

While the civilian’s families enjoy them selves

On the “island resort”.

What kind of place has a bowling alley,

while hard time is being done?

Silent rooms; flickering lights

The mess hall filled with

angry men and woman with the same fate as mine.

As years go by,

People come and go,

With seldom escape or retreat

A young man arrives

Named Jackson, or

As his orange jumpsuit refers to him as

“962135 – A”

He looks around, glances up to me

And I whisper softly

“Welcome to your Five by Nine”.

Ars Poetica

Poetry is silent

A reflection from inside

But also, considered a valiant shout

to reveal what it hides

Poetry is the heavy fist

knocking on the door

And yet, the shattered framework

of a house that is no more

Poetry is the disease

that straddles to your side

warning you, that what you feel

can change with passing tide

A poem is a writer’s spirit

written in black ink
the power that puts it there
It speaks with words your eyes can’t hear

It is the hidden places
Where you go to be alone
A frenzied attempt to escape
Your washed and torn up home

It is a steady current,
a blue flowing river

of thoughts and emotions
passing through the veins of my body.

It is the life giving effort
unseen from the outside
closely warming me

in the coldest of nights.

A pulse,  I feel it moving within.
pounding with ideas of  life .
It tells me I am truly alive.
It is the heart of me.

Though, poetry will often be

a sadness of the soul

we resort to it so graciously

because it keeps us whole


five segments,
written with form,
to depict in spirit.


Sleek – skilled
Flying, beaming, creating,
The crowd applauds.

Fields of color
Gentle, sloping green hills
A river, sparkling in the sun


It is
nice to laugh, joke
and appreciate the
small things like  sunsets, warm nights and
your smile.

To the music
Pounding in your heart like
An abstract painting made solely
For thee

Where I’m from.

I am paper

Cut, torn or brutally burnt

From the blackening ink

Flowing from my pen, my holder

As  I dry in an instant

I am the four years of skill

From passion to technique

Where crativity is key

I’m from that wonderful scratch

Of pencil against paper

Of the color meandering across the page.

I am the bending of bristles

Of the flowing brush

Booming with colors

Painted on the thickening surface of the canvas board.

I am a family of five

Of two girls and a boy

From crazy Family feuds

I am the instigator.

I am the bending of strings

Singing notes in harmony

I have a wooden body with a steel supported neck

I am the milage

Of the onward traveling car

Moving from house to house

Within 18 years

I am the open mind

Of a seer and believer

Open to anything as time passes by.

I’m from lazy days

Where all you can do

Is bask in the glow of  your computer screen.

I’m from that one stupid inside joke,

That noone else gets,

And yet, we’re still laughing years later.

As I may appear

Im a hypothetical Object

However I’m the mind of an optimistic 18 year old.

That’s where I’m from

Micro Fiction: Mid-Verse

Just before the car went off the road, I thought I heard someone singing. “What a weird time to hear someone singing” I thought. I would have commented, had a horrified scream not been lodged in my throat. There was no time for screaming, it seemed, as a sickening feeling ached in my stomach while the car flew helplessly over the barrier and we were trapped in the chilling free fall.
Instinctively, I slammed my foot on the brake pedal, an action I should have done before we hit the point of no return, as if that single brake pedal could somehow affect what was about to happen to us, as if the brake had any control over our descent, as if we still stood some sort of chance of surviving the fall from this height.
As I continued hitting the brake, that song still carried on in its bright manner, despite the destructiveness of our situation. It was a familiar song of days past, a song I knew as surely as I knew my own name, but this was not the time to sing along, remembering lyrics long forgotten. My neck cut to view the songstress, Christina, in the passenger side seat. The song stopped and her voice was halted mid-verse, as her eyes were tense and fearful. No more notes could escape from her lips as the last sound I heard was the orchestra of broken glass while the windshield exploded.