Schillers Schädel

Upon returning from Deutsch class,

Where we spoke of Sturm und Drang,

I reminisce about Schiller’s scull in glass

and think it rather wrong.


Maybe it’s just komisch

your best friend stealing your noodle

somehow it makes sense, I wish

a really great poem he did doodle


Schiller and Goethe, the poets

quite a pair were they!

and even after death we know it,

“Schiller’s” head was on display!


The inspiration knew no bound’ries,

words flowed without a hitch,

like blacksmiths in metal foundries

he truly found his niche


Know nature, life, and death alike

looking in his hollowed out eyes

you never know! Inspiration may strike

inspired, like lightening, o’re the skies.


Lindsey LaBrie


IF you don’t know:

Schillers Schädel–Schiller’s skull–which Goethe (secretly) had people steal 25 or so years after Schiller died, which he kept and displayed in his quarters…talk about friendship! It turns out it wasn’t even his skull! Was ein Pech!! (How’s that for luck??)

Sturm und Drang–in a very, very brief nutshell: a literary epoch in Germany that emphasised that humanity rivalled the gods; feelings were felt, and actions were taken based upon those feelings; you should break the rules! Goethe and Schiller (as young 20-somethings) were a part of this movement!

komisch–Strange, weird, out of place


United, Divided

Look for the vast diversity

on the faces of the university

A globally represented community

consisting of 25,000 and me


Unite through Husker fandom,

sing “Hail Varsity” in tandem,

making waves without an ocean;

one drop sent into motion

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Can it Be True?

It is true! I actually am posting a poem today!

Here it is. I wrote a while back, it’s called “Questions”.


Does a weeping willow know only feelings of sorrow?

With its branches ever drooping,

swaying sadly in the breeze?

Is a heart trained to know only love?

When it feels pain,

does it shrivel?

Does the alley cat wish for love and abode?

To, for once, be cherished by someone dear?

Does a head of cattle know it’s horrifying fate?

That it will soon become dinner?

The answers lie deep.

Some questions remain questions.

Do unanswered questions feel neglected?

Hurt in a personified way?

Omniscience, the only way to know for sure.

Though none have such knowledge.

–Lindsey LaBrie (LinLaB7)

Mario Poem!

As promised, I am writing a poem about the Mario games! (On Super Nintendo) 


Mario 3, World 3-2

Mario, oh Mario,

why must you die?

I’ve been playing this level for hours,

can you not see that I try?


No longer can I suffer,

or I will die myself

if you cannot get through this,

I’ll put you back on the shelf.


I realize it’s mostly my fault,

Since I have the control,

but if I were you, my tiny red man

I’d be on a roll.


Dashing through the levels,

passing all the goombas too,

the coopas, the ghosts

and bowser, especially you.


Finally I’ve passed this level 

with one single life to spare

but what do you know, Mario,

you’ve died and I’ve  pulled out my hair.


I’m turning you off,

and going to bed,

so deal with it Mario,

to spare the hair on my head.


–Lindsey LaBrie