— 1 — Green Eggs And Hamlet - 25th Edition Green Eggs and Hamlet is an anthology of the poetry, prose and art- work brought to life by the sudents and almumni of Southeastern Okla- homa State University. All are welcome to contribute and we welcome the opportunity to display the creativity of those who choose to be a part of Southeastern. TABLE OF CONTENTS: CREATIVE WRITING A Cosmic Comedy – Hannah Jones 5 Apology to Pac – Bryant Lyles 8 B-List Actress: A Tribute – Dewey Briscoe 9 *Heavenly Tears – Kirsten Jackson 10-11 *Dwana, in Simplicity – Alex Lehr 14-16 Don’t Panic – Stephen Comes 18 *Eastside Boys, We Ran – Ron Wallace 19 *Eye of the Beholder – Liz Watkins 20 Forgotominious – Paulette Lancaster 22 Untitled Haiku – Crystal Anderson 22 Good Sense – Cullen Whisenhunt 24 *He Was Reading Chinese – Ron Wallace 26 Holding Hands with Death – Madison Barr 27-30 *Idaho – Travis Truax 31 *In Another Town – Terry Miller 32 Insomniac’s Laundry List – Kelly Blue 34 In A World Without A Home – J. Lawrence Carter 35 Memories of Indian Paintbrushes – Rebecca Gordon 39-40 *Mere Players – Liz Watkins 41 Nonsensical Thinking – Hannah Jones 42 Opposite Sides of the Door – Christian Joy Boone 43 Please Don’t Hit Me – John Adams 47 Running to – Zackary Kemp 48 Serious Problem Limericks – Kelly Blue 49 Storms – Vivianne Wesley 50 *War Horses – Ron Wallace 50 Time Marches On – Stephen Comes 51 To My Best Friend – Adeline Patterson 52 *What Personal Heaven is He Hiding – Travis Truax 54 Your Atlantis – Lindsay Brantley 54 Illusory – Kelly Blue 55 *SOSU Alumni TABLE OF CONTENTS: ARTWORK Prosperous Peonies – Amanda Henslee 6 Follow – Tyson Hudson 7 Dream Reflections – Charles Holloway 11 Rocks – Charles Holloway 12 Christmas – Jeremy Carter 13 Journey’s in Life – Jeremy Carter 13 Comic Explosion – Amanda Perry 17 Untitled Sketch – Samantha Faudree 18 Toobist Trio – Lawrence Carter 20 Pomegranat Blossoms – Ezra Tacosa 21 Following Chaos – Charles Holloway 23 Wondering – Peyton Roberts 25 Shades of Grey – Lawrence Carter 30 Pomegranate – Lawrence Carter 33 West Texas Sunset – Kimber Bosse 36 Untitled – Lakesha Bell 37 Fruit Basket – Lenora Lemons 38 Amanita Muscaria – Amanda Henslee 40 Smoking Man – Rachel Hendrix 44 Contemplation – Rachel Hendrix 45 Assaulted – Stephenie Shields 46 Homosexual Dachau – Rachel Hendrix 47 Sacred Datura – Amanda Henslee 53 August – Tyson Hudson 56 Turning – Tyson Hudson 57 Runner-Up Cover Art – Ezra Tacosa 58 Runner-Up Cover Art – Alexis Olguin 59 — 4 — A Cosmic Comedy of Human Proportions by Hannah Jones What is this life, if not the death of me I want to move further but past my hand I cannot see. Day becomes night; I rise and I fall and yet still I don’t know why I keep walking at all. Is it a race? Surely, it is a tie—one may beat me to the end but I have another day to view to the sky. But is this what I keep moving for: scenery, company, a nice house with a red door? All shall pass—except the house; though it will crumble nice and slow killing all life, even the mouse being crushed by stone, the abandoned rubble left forever alone. Truly this life has become so mundane; the stars die each morning, all days predictably the same I feel I am part of some celestial joke, “Oh, those silly humans and their silly invention of hope.” You! Look closely at the sun, smiling as it goes away— because attachment is futile. Nothing is permanent but change. — 5 — Properous Peonies Amanda Henslee — 6 — Follow Tyson Hudson — 7 — Apology to Pac by Bryant Lyles I remember hearing about you when I was I know somewhat about what you went young through Heard a lot more when I got older And of the thoughts that ate at you while you were all alone Pac was the greatest, ain’t no rapper been colder Because some of these thoughts, But I didn’t get it, just couldn’t understand They are my own how I apologize that I did not realize Thought they only liked you for your inno- vative sound That your eyes, Where most people saw a prophet They were open I only saw another gansta rapper who Not closed happened to sound different Foolish of me not to give your art my at- That fuckin bitches, getting money, and tention gang violence But eventually I learned you were not all Wasn’t the nature of your soul that you seemed Like Vincent Van Gogh, I mean, my God In your own way you tried to set them We both found peace looking into a starry free starry night with Don Mclean I see now a man who contemplated what How I wish I could’ve conversed with you, it is One overwhelmed nigga to another To be Two young brothas who could only find Finding parts of you in me has left my parental love from their mothers’ insanity sedated And I been thinking constantly about the Dear Tupac, kingdom I have to grow You are appreciated. Because much like you, I had no father to leave me a throne — 8 — B-List Actress: A Tribute to Slug and Murs by Dewey Briscoe My heart breaks with your usage of the past tense; I guess my preference lies in the present. I was certain that if anyone could understand the many complexities of love, it would be you. From the first moment I laid eyes on you, I was smitten, drunken from the odious aura you exude. You were young and naïve. I was falling farther into the depths of my own shadows, desperately desiring to hold on. Instead I chose the exit, a misguided noble attempt to save your heart. That last night spent together, craving you more than oxygen, the anticipation build- ing until that last moment, the moment I coyly refrained. Pleasures of the flesh being halted by nothing more than my desire to wait, after all, you were going to be back in a few weeks and it was the only way I knew to disprove those initial assertions. I desired nothing more than to refute a childish first impression and to demonstrate an under- standing of your worth. Lying there with you in that fortress of blankets, I found equal gratification within your gentle embrace. In all honesty, I don’t regret that decision. Just know that my heart broke with yours, and again each time a suitor neglected or failed to notice the beauty you attempt to mask with those tomboy traits and your wit and cynicism. I still see it welling in those piercing eyes, being suppressed by pursed lips, only to display itself slightly again in the corners. For me, Christmas is Halloween Day. That was the night I saw your true beauty; that was the night I fell in love with you; and that was the night I saw you truly smile for the first time. That was also the night I began to let you slip away. Today, my heart continues to break. There is no point in searching for solace knowing my heart still resides in the moments of that day. — 9 — Heavenly Tears by Kirsten Jackson* The day after his Daddy died, Josiah (12-years-old) came to me and asked if we could speak privately. The house was full of people but he led me to an empty bedroom where he had his jacket and his father’s sewing box out on the bed. He placed the sewing box on his lap, placed the jacket close to his face, and began to cry. He looked up at me—tears making tracks down his cheeks-- and held the jacket out, displaying three rips he had accidentally made that morning. The lined wind breaker had two small rips on the outside—one about an inch long and the other approximately two inches long. He carefully flipped the jacket over to show me another tear on the inside, on the soft spot of the liner, about an inch long. (Isn’t it interesting how the words “tear* and “tear” are spelled the same?) My son loves metaphors. He relishes comparing one thing to something that is com- pletely different but shares some common denominator. But on this day he was not trying to be clever: he was trying to share his deepest heart. He pointed to the tears and sniffed. “Mom! There are three rips! I don’t know which one to fix first. It’s just like losing Dad. I don’t know whether I should start here (pointing to his head)…or here (pointing to his heart).” For the millionth time, I heard my heart crack. I was broken for my son. I knew his pain because I was feeling the exact same way. What would I say to this grieving boy? And then it came to me. It came so clearly, so fully-developed, so lovely….that there is no doubt it was divine. The words that poured from my mouth couldn’t have been words from Kirsten’s intellect. These words came straight from my spirit. I hold on to them even now. I pointed to the smallest tear on the outside of the jacket and I said, “Josiah, this tear represents what we have to do THIS DAY. Some of the things we have to do are things Daddy used to do for us…like remembering to close the chicken coop at night. Now, some of the things Daddy did for us, are not things we still have to do….we get to de- cide.