I Want Her
by Vivienne Wychorski Pink painted lips appear behind my eyes I imagine them smeared across a canvas Nearly perfect - perhaps so Only inspiration and love can fill the pages Undefined by any limits Eyes half shut or wide with shock Smiling in their own simple way A sound too soft for anyone but myself The perfect fit of a glove in my hand And smooth surfaces dance I want her My heart is full Of want and love and need A strong sense of loneliness from a child Who always gets what she desires But not this time I see her here Beside me Softly And lovely I want her Badly _______________________________________________ We March
by Angela Yuan Flashing lights, blaring sounds And there they go, Marching out. (And there’s no smoke but there’s the fire—) Tearing eyes, blazing shouts And there they go, Speaking doubt. (The right has spoken; the flag stays silent) So now we march! These tears are not new; These shouts are but echoes; Their cries become ours. And now we march! These hopes are not new But these stomps must echo Into now, Into forever. We march on. (And tomorrow grab your woes, Grab your wishes and your hopes; Tomorrow, remember our voices, Seek your flag and remember the choice is to remember what it stands for-- Tomorrow, grab your coat; Raise our flag and cast our vote.) ______________________________________________ How Big Can a Heart Be?
By Emily Tonning "Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold" ~Zelda Fitzgerald A heart that holds secrets about to unfold Glass shards protruding, vile thoughts polluting A heart full of pain, of guilt and disdain Is a heart full of love, full of life all the same. The heart is a seemingly bottomless pit, Of sinking storm clouds and emotional shit I have a question and this, this is it: How can everything possibly fit? How can the “bad” be a sea of such sorrow, Swarming you, making you reach for tomorrow? And how can the “good” be just as extreme, Erasing your troubles and making you gleam? The heart is compelled to the dark and the light, A magnet to the day as it is to the night. Does the heart love to torture you just out of spite? Or is that why it gives you disgust and delight? The heart is a box filled up to the top Of wonderful feelings you don’t want to stop. If you take all the bad with ineffable great Then a balance could align amidst both the weights. Not all questions need answers but I must keep in mind: That there’s beauty and goodness just waiting to unwind. _____________________________________________ Steeping Sweet Memories
by Cam Blondin This poem has a paired painting, The Teacup, in Visual Arts. In a fragile, flower painted tea cup. My small chubby fingers holding it gently as if it would break with the slightest touch, Nana laughing softly. Sitting on the leather couch, Milk, Sugar, Biscuits Covering the table. Ten years later. Now gone, I drink alone. A tea party of one. Quiet and reflective, I have learned to appreciate the little things. How I still feel connected with Nana. My childhood memories return - dirt underneath my fingernails as I plant flowers, the sound of the kettle steaming piercing throughout the house - these memories I cannot forget. I have a collection. Impulsive buys, Birthday gifts, Souvenirs from traveling. Boxes and bags, Steel tin cans with tiny leaves and rose petals inside. A cabinet dedicated to them - Black, green, peppermint teas. Fruity teas, Sleepytime teas, But not chamomile (I’m allergic). I drink black tea every morning before school - Caffeinated - to help me get through the day. Countless nights of no sleep - paint chipping at my fingertips, my eyes stinging from the countless papers and flashcards, my mind racing with uncontrollable thoughts that cannot be silenced. I have become dependant. You are not just for school: Early mornings. Quiet afternoons. Peaceful nights. Sitting. Reading. Thinking. Pleasant memories, But not all. A painful death, Shattering my childhood like an empty, shattered teacup. Years of longing. Years of hurting. Appreciation can come from loss. More than just a pleasing taste, years of healing, years of growing, has formed my love for it. Laughter echoes in my mind As I look at the box of china. An absent minded smile, Still holding it carefully, Gently, As if it would break with the slightest touch. _____________________________________________ |
A Life of Luck
by Freddy Thomas When I first came out it was to my mom. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t alone Not from fear of abuse But from judgement. I am the lucky one. Stories of young boys and girls Disowned, Beaten, Killed, All because of who they love. I am the lucky one whose family supports him. Screaming protesters holding signs: “God hates fags” “Gays die god laughs” I’m the lucky one who grew up with love instead of hate. The lucky one who was given the space to grow. The lucky one Who is free to live. There are many lucky ones like me. But even more unlucky ones. Unlucky ones shoved into spotlights and instead of roses, tomatoes. Unlucky ones without friends whom they can confide in. Unlucky ones who were cut at the stem before they even had a chance to grow. Maybe we are all unlucky ones … No. Whether lucky or unlucky we still have something in common: We are a community And we are strong. And we are brave. And we are proud. And together we can make our own luck. ____________________________________________________ Waves
by Anna Dobles i don’t like waves, guess i never have just don’t like rough waters don’t like the way they push and pull or i guess i don’t like imagining them crashing over me lungs full of salt and blood call me crazy, but i don’t enjoy the thought of drowning. but, then again, i find myself calmer the deeper i get submerged, the waters don’t seem so bad, so maybe it’s not the actual waves i hate maybe i just don’t like their shallow ends the under tow, the breaking after all, who could really like something when it’s described as breaking when i think of ‘breaking’ i think car crash, windshield breaking like failed promises, like fine china like wrists or spines or vases breaking like the way i was always worried your fingers would when they curled and hit my jaw and isn’t that ironic isn’t that funny aren’t i funny the way i would take on a tidal wave if you told me to the way i would swim with sharks if you asked ____________________________________________ No Hiding Places
by Oliver Azmat after Angela Johnson Stuck in my head, thoughts of yesterday Sadness and despair, from the news I found- Nothing has changed, just the Same old, same old. Sky is gray, houses like shacks- The world cares for now, but the day will pass by. Our politicians feed us, line after line, But their impacts flow like a creek, Dried out by the summer’s heat that Used to shelter where the frogs hid. ___________________________________________ Perfection
by Marina Meehan Shall I compare thee to the perfect girl Beautiful and smart her laugh fills the space; A woman who’s more fragile than a pearl. A woman speaks with poise and simple grace And perfect too, the boy who cries at night; A caring man who is strong at the core Who grew up wounded shying from the light, Like dominoes, they clatter to the floor. Which one is perfect? And what would you think? You struggle to come up with clever thoughts. But your stereotypes are only ink The world won’t join up your suggested dots. And if each of us thinks we make the call: Who’s really perfect? None of us at all. _____________________________________________ Splashes of Green
by Honeybee There is an energy within you one that most envy They do not understand your joy or where it comes from For they let their yellow get mixed with blue ______________________________________________ My Desk
by Alexandra Renzetti What lies within my writing desk drawers? Buttons, loose change, shells, and gears School work and cards from throughout the years. Books collecting dust, beside silent ticking watches. Pens, paint, and paper, dried up ink splotches. Dried roses, a stale cookie; scents barely in air Old tickets and photos, faded dates no longer there. Inside my desk is a journey through time but no one can take it, for these things are mine. ___________________________________________ Darling
by Savanna Pena Darling, your sweet touch has electrified my insides your strawberry lips spill magnificent words; lined with passion which extracts my scarce warmth until my chest pours fluttering rose petals your sparkling eyes have the power to provide light to all the constellations laid upon the ever expanding sky and i swear I lose myself every time i look at you, i become immersed in everything beautiful about you when you crashed into me an entire world of glowing rainbows and kryptonite violently erupted prevailing before me supernovas seeping into my skin making my heart bleed galaxies and if you asked I would mend our spirits into the endings of the universe eternally intertwined _____________________________________________ Understanding Contentment
by Jack Moore In the past years of my life, I have made an effort, A strife, To understand something ultimately sought out by everyone, To understand contentment. Yet it's more complex than many know, For it is a destination of limitless paths, So to gain comprehension of the destination, I must comprehend the path to this salvation. Yet the path is the destination, For those who grasp their inner being, In the River's eye you effortlessly go in one direction, And this makes up its entire effortless existence. ______________________________________________ |
Our Home
by Eric Lachapelle
Our school…
Lively…
Busy…
Crowded…
Noisy…
Kids chattering with their friends as they march on through the day…
Excitement jumps around like a enlivened rabbit as time passes on…
When the day comes to a close, the kids say farewell to their friends and the ancient building…
However, after school, the place becomes enlarged, almost as if under a microscope…
The lack of souls is enough to send shivers down anyone’s spine…
An eerie quiet falls down like a hammer, crushing any form of conversation…
So quiet, in fact, one could hear a pin drop…
Some say this atmosphere is rather pleasing…
To me, it is rather melancholy…
And as I walk through the barren hallways, the scenery reminds me of a ghost town…
Deserted…
Lonely…
Hostile…
Remorseful…
Disillusioned..
And yet, at the same time, somewhat serene and tranquil…
Almost as if nature was in harmony with itself…
To me, it will always remain a mystery, a cruel and twisted fate and yet somehow placid all muddled together, almost like a painting…
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
by Eric Lachapelle
Our school…
Lively…
Busy…
Crowded…
Noisy…
Kids chattering with their friends as they march on through the day…
Excitement jumps around like a enlivened rabbit as time passes on…
When the day comes to a close, the kids say farewell to their friends and the ancient building…
However, after school, the place becomes enlarged, almost as if under a microscope…
The lack of souls is enough to send shivers down anyone’s spine…
An eerie quiet falls down like a hammer, crushing any form of conversation…
So quiet, in fact, one could hear a pin drop…
Some say this atmosphere is rather pleasing…
To me, it is rather melancholy…
And as I walk through the barren hallways, the scenery reminds me of a ghost town…
Deserted…
Lonely…
Hostile…
Remorseful…
Disillusioned..
And yet, at the same time, somewhat serene and tranquil…
Almost as if nature was in harmony with itself…
To me, it will always remain a mystery, a cruel and twisted fate and yet somehow placid all muddled together, almost like a painting…
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Patchwork Boy
by Ireland Weber
I am a patchwork boy,
A toy on a shelf that's been handled for years and torn and teared and cared for less than expected
Like Pinocchio with no hope of granted wishes
I have been sewed so tightly back together the seams seem to burn against my worn scalp
My head is threaded back together, embedded with string and settled stuffing, wetted eyes are dried by my tough tuft of cloth skin
I have a patchwork heart,
Because it's been ripped and fixed up too many times to try and count
But it's still beating because bearing the trials and tribulations in this world of sharp edges is the greatest revenge I could muster
And the luster in my rusty eyes may be faded
And my jaded soul weighed down, and my smile may melt from my face and drown me, and drench my paper thin skin
But I will never stop staring into the hole of the needle I need to thread to put myself back together again
Because I have a patchwork smile
I take the corners of my mouth and mount them upwards to the sky and wrap the string around my ears to make sure I cannot wipe it off my face
And there may be plenty of holes from times in which I let go and rip the string out without flinching
And scowl at my damaged reflection
Full of scars, trailing my frail frame
But I've got patchwork eyes and a patchwork nose and a patchwork soul
And though I think I've used up too much string
I continue to be around only dangerous messes and places treacherous to my flesh
I should not subject myself to such stretching of my sewn skin
I am scarecrow crowing out, while throwing out my edges and pledging to only surround myself with the softest material
Like the eyes of the patchwork girl whose soft skin electrifies my own
I may be a patchwork boy, a tattered toy, but I matter more than the shattered plans to destroy my battered joy, because though it may be bruised not unlike the patterned cloth of my rather decoyed body, hidden underneath tattooed transcripts of coy okays
It's still there to be nursed back like the first cracks I had ever noticed in my own bones
You may see a patchwork boy, so it seems
But do not sew his seams
Because being broken, and open, only means he's survived and wearing his wounds like a medal,
To remind himself that it may have taken time to learn it
But this patchwork boy is worth it
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Little Traumas: A Small Town Odyssey
by Liam Loughlin
Main Street is laid out before you,
Dipping down further and further
Until you can feel the fires of something wicked
Creeping about, below the crumbling concrete
Your grip on the handles is airy, the yellow line is strolled gracelessly
You drift in and out of the street lights’ gaze
Your veins vibrate throughout your body, slamming into your bones
Drowning out the world, filling your head with drumfire
You pass the convenience store
Where, maybe long ago, some candy bars found their way into your coat pocket
And he handled you like a rag doll, hankering for a confession
All it took was a flicker of your lashes, which wet so easily and ever so slightly graze your eyelids,
And the man behind the counter, defeated and defenseless, would let you take mercy on him
It tasted sweet
The man still stands his post, his eyes vacant and his skin poking out and drooping at the edges,
collecting in a pile underneath his neck
His hands now shake as he opens the register
Where’s the thrill?
It tastes sour
Next, you drift by the Sunday hot spot
Where maybe you passed under the watchful stone eyes of St. Aloysius
And fell to your knees, hands pressed together and against your skull
And you bided your time
When you heard it was safe to, you sat up
Crossed your heart
And maybe you wondered
What did they think about?
The same place where maybe, while your parents worked the bake sale
He took you out back and his temptation, from a distance, snaked into your ear
His promises sculked through air, noxious in your lungs
But for a moment maybe you felt like this was you
And when he dropped the bud on your shiny white flats
It took root
And you nourished it
And you...
Maybe, you tell yourself, you didn’t want it
Your feet have left the pedals
You don't remember when you lost it
You keep hurtling
You pass the bench,
Where you sat that spring night under the streetlights
In your fancy new clothes, with something dark and potent
Floating in your blood
Because the magic man behind the school told you
It would make tonight easier
That you might make it out in one piece
And maybe on that park bench
His breath suffocated you
Your body dethroned your brain
And he held you,
Perhaps a little too close
There’s the police station
Where her voice was raw and violent, and you knew
The foundation of that house was just a story she kept telling you
Slowly changing with every retelling, until one day there were no heroes
Only people, people who didn't know what they were doing
She was scared
So you try not to be
So maybe, just maybe
When you raise your voice
You hear your own
And not hers
You can't stop it now
You’re going faster than they said you would
You push the world off of you and throw your head back, to breathe
If even only for moment before it brings close once more
And you’re stuck
You get flashes
There’s the house
Where the ghost of a girl, whose body is still warm, lives
And who is off in a world you’ll never known
Doing things, that will never touch you
Now there is just the blue light of a TV screen,
Streaming through a window and into the street,
With a family sitting on a couch you once owned every Friday night
Next a boy’s house
Where you left snow tracks out the back door,
So they would all know
And you could have him.
A coffee shop
Where maybe you talked a little louder than you normally do
So he might hear you
Hear the happiness you have
Hear how great you are
...
Hear the longing in your voice
And maybe when he did, and he held back a grin, you realized
It felt good to know,
you still had him
You feel as if everything has let its grip on you loosen
You brace for whatever comes,
When Main Street levels out
The air races from your lungs and eyelids begin to veil your sight
The tar was coarse and sharp, it grated your leg
And brought out new fresh baby pink skin, dripping with vitality
Ahead of you there are no street lights
No convenience stores
No benches
Just the open road
You breath is steady
The world is slow
Take your time
When you’re ready.
by Liam Loughlin
Main Street is laid out before you,
Dipping down further and further
Until you can feel the fires of something wicked
Creeping about, below the crumbling concrete
Your grip on the handles is airy, the yellow line is strolled gracelessly
You drift in and out of the street lights’ gaze
Your veins vibrate throughout your body, slamming into your bones
Drowning out the world, filling your head with drumfire
You pass the convenience store
Where, maybe long ago, some candy bars found their way into your coat pocket
And he handled you like a rag doll, hankering for a confession
All it took was a flicker of your lashes, which wet so easily and ever so slightly graze your eyelids,
And the man behind the counter, defeated and defenseless, would let you take mercy on him
It tasted sweet
The man still stands his post, his eyes vacant and his skin poking out and drooping at the edges,
collecting in a pile underneath his neck
His hands now shake as he opens the register
Where’s the thrill?
It tastes sour
Next, you drift by the Sunday hot spot
Where maybe you passed under the watchful stone eyes of St. Aloysius
And fell to your knees, hands pressed together and against your skull
And you bided your time
When you heard it was safe to, you sat up
Crossed your heart
And maybe you wondered
What did they think about?
The same place where maybe, while your parents worked the bake sale
He took you out back and his temptation, from a distance, snaked into your ear
His promises sculked through air, noxious in your lungs
But for a moment maybe you felt like this was you
And when he dropped the bud on your shiny white flats
It took root
And you nourished it
And you...
Maybe, you tell yourself, you didn’t want it
Your feet have left the pedals
You don't remember when you lost it
You keep hurtling
You pass the bench,
Where you sat that spring night under the streetlights
In your fancy new clothes, with something dark and potent
Floating in your blood
Because the magic man behind the school told you
It would make tonight easier
That you might make it out in one piece
And maybe on that park bench
His breath suffocated you
Your body dethroned your brain
And he held you,
Perhaps a little too close
There’s the police station
Where her voice was raw and violent, and you knew
The foundation of that house was just a story she kept telling you
Slowly changing with every retelling, until one day there were no heroes
Only people, people who didn't know what they were doing
She was scared
So you try not to be
So maybe, just maybe
When you raise your voice
You hear your own
And not hers
You can't stop it now
You’re going faster than they said you would
You push the world off of you and throw your head back, to breathe
If even only for moment before it brings close once more
And you’re stuck
You get flashes
There’s the house
Where the ghost of a girl, whose body is still warm, lives
And who is off in a world you’ll never known
Doing things, that will never touch you
Now there is just the blue light of a TV screen,
Streaming through a window and into the street,
With a family sitting on a couch you once owned every Friday night
Next a boy’s house
Where you left snow tracks out the back door,
So they would all know
And you could have him.
A coffee shop
Where maybe you talked a little louder than you normally do
So he might hear you
Hear the happiness you have
Hear how great you are
...
Hear the longing in your voice
And maybe when he did, and he held back a grin, you realized
It felt good to know,
you still had him
You feel as if everything has let its grip on you loosen
You brace for whatever comes,
When Main Street levels out
The air races from your lungs and eyelids begin to veil your sight
The tar was coarse and sharp, it grated your leg
And brought out new fresh baby pink skin, dripping with vitality
Ahead of you there are no street lights
No convenience stores
No benches
Just the open road
You breath is steady
The world is slow
Take your time
When you’re ready.