Some Poetry
Butter
Ava Donovan
the way the soft yellow light falls into the cafeteria, in no particular rush, with nobody seeming
to notice that it’s happening before it’s happened. soon this room will be bright with rays of
blinding sun and maybe, just maybe, someone will miss the way the dimmer light spread a butter
colored shadow all over the walls that day, like it did every winter morning at around 8 o’clock.
Ava Donovan
the way the soft yellow light falls into the cafeteria, in no particular rush, with nobody seeming
to notice that it’s happening before it’s happened. soon this room will be bright with rays of
blinding sun and maybe, just maybe, someone will miss the way the dimmer light spread a butter
colored shadow all over the walls that day, like it did every winter morning at around 8 o’clock.
the crest of the breaking wave
Gwyneth McDonough it starts like this - laughter, candlelight, and stolen wine the soft glow of the moon illuminating her face in the night as she dances, smiling, dress billowing her eyes closed, face flushed head turned up to the sky inked midnight blue with the strokes of a paintbrush it starts like a song like the tinkling bells of christmas her voice floating like a melody that you can’t forget, even for a minute her laugh is like penny candy innocent, nostalgic, sugary-sweet everyone wants a taste; if it weren’t endless it would sell out within the week her eyes are so adorned in light that you don’t remember when it gets washed out by the tide the fire in her eyes drips away like the wax of a dying candle and suddenly she’s drowning it it; you can only stare as she tries desperately to come up for air the wax burns her essence away her ethereal voice now strained her laugh now dirt and dust not even attempting to sound melodious it started like something intimately beautiful, like a clandestine meeting in the primeval woods but now she’s all depth and secrets as if drowning herself in darkness could ever help her see and maybe the pain didn’t change her maybe it just released her her angel isn’t hiding from the darkness because it was never there to begin with it started like a dream it ends like this - the painful reality Where I Am From
Emma Pulsifer I am from silk blankets, from bobby pins and hair clips. I am from fresh paint and woodsheddings, the dry air, dust particles, and buzzing. I am from the beautiful maple, growing in my yard. With the named carved in birch, Emma Marie, it grows beside me. I am from broken crayons and DVRs, from Roy and Pulsifer. I am from coffee drinkers and night owls, and the smell of smoke from campfires and lit cigarettes. I am from my left hand underneath my right, as I receive the body of Christ. I still question the purpose of kneeling and sending my thoughts to an empty sky. I am from Genatassio and DeMauro, from meatballs with ziti and pizzettes. From the cookies and special desserts stolen from my mother’s Christmas plate. I am from the hospital visits on the weekends, binging on flavorless crackers and juices. Always watching Noni, her fragile hands holding on to mine as I lay my head on her chest. I hold onto every faint breath. I am from compliments, “You’re just like your grandmother.” I am from curiosity, because at such a young age young minds live in a world of oblivion. I am only familiar with her strength, and unfamiliar with her real voice. I am from the questioning and thinking, from learning and understanding. As I cherish my past, I prepare for the future. The years pass by, and the beautiful maple stands tall. Leaves continue to grow and fall. Its inspiring life taught me to hold on, and how to let go. The Author
Cassidy DiSalle Writing. On and on. Never knowing when it ends. Never knowing when the day is gone. Reading. Again and again. Correcting this, respelling, then-- BING! BONG! The clock does strike. Telling the world, “Tis soon to be night.” Stories are told. Lights shut out. But there is no rest for the author. He writes and erases. Catches and chases. Rewrites then replaces. The pencil still leaving traces. This man. Who goes without rest. Then wakes up the next day, still at his desk. Creating then hating. Hating and waiting, An idea, And creating again. The never ending cycle that goes on and on. More pages. Earning wages. For his pages. Upon pages, and pages, and pages and more. All for a small sack of money outside the door. The money he has to have, But the job he hates to do. Repeating his days again and again. All for our enjoyment. All to keep his employment. And so goes the life of the author. bulldozer
avery heppenstall i ruin things. it’s my nature, i always have every since i was a child i ruin things for you and you tell me that i do every time i feel a deep dark pain and i regret and spiral and spiral down down down but you don’t know that you don’t know how much it scares me to ruin the things that make me happy that make us happy and i seem to do it and do it and soon i will have nothing left at all. just a desolate plain of wrecked memories i’ll never get those back but i do know i’ll use that plain that empty space to build i build new ones new ideas new memories and i remember i tell myself not to ruin them so i don’t have to tear them down. but i always have to. and maybe that’s the fun of it all or maybe that’s the evil i suppose i’ll never know -bulldozer The Life beyond the prairie
Cayson Branconeir The wind that echoes within my soul However long the grass may go The large towers are my new hole How I will miss the joyous doe Life will always turn a new leaf But a crisp fall is beyond my reach To the busy streets that are loud and not brief I can no longer spend my days alone on the beach All these new discoveries I will now pursue These large skyscrapers seem proud too A toast to my life anew I will say goodbye to my funtime crew To the animals who call my name They want nothing more than to be tamed Should no one have to take the blame We are just playing life the silly game Until then the crickets cricket louder The fireflies shine brighter than the sun For I would not be any proud prouder Till I return to the prairie to have some fun Her Royal Highness
Elly Hume weep, weep, oh willow tree allow yourself to cry. let thou’s tears shed from thine’s beautiful emerald eyes. what hath you seen from within thou’s sacred, peaceful, screen? a lovers quarrel, a lost soul, a girl who wishes she was seen? oh sweet mother, oh mother dear, keep me safe and I shall keep the promise thy made to you when I had fallen from the creek. oh graceful lord, oh father dear, I was just speaking to the tree, she seems to understand me through her soft whip tendril leaves. oh I know, of course, I dutifully understand. she just seemed so lonely, thrust upon this foreign land. weep, weep oh willow tree, but do not weep for me, i must step into the path that hath been laid for me goodbye, goodbye, my willow, to you, my queen, i bow but my time has come, the bell has rung, so i must leave thou now. |
Look At Them Now
Ben Bonczek It started with a time, When African-Americans in sports were scarce, An all-white ignorant world, And Look At Them Now. The effort required trail blazers, Heroes like Moses, Paul, and Althea, Breaking barriers with every action, And Look At Them Now. Coaches would say, “We will not play them,” But that only fueled their fire, And Look At Them Now. Those few brave souls tried and tried, From Muhammad to Jackie to Arthur, Showcasing their opinion for all of those oppressed, And Look At Them Now. Insults from the crowd, One against the world, But they continued to push on, And Look At Them Now. Over many years the voices grew louder, More fists being raised, More kneeling among teammates, And Look At Them Now. Stars began to shine, Proving their worth in the world of sports, Opening eyes of the ignorant, And Look At Them Now. The message was out, They were no longer alone, The awareness was spreading, And Look At Them Now. So in today’s world, A world where they have come so far, A world where they used to be “inferior,” And Look At Them Now. They dominate the court, They dominate the field, They dominate our hearts, And Look At Them Now. They are millionaire celebrities, Giving back to the place, That they fought so hard to escape. And Look At Them Now. They overcame all of the hate, They found a way to climb the sports mountain, And stand at the top as the best of the best, And Look At Them Now. So say their names, Moses. Jack. Paul. Foster. Fritz. Bobby. Jesse. Mack. John Montgomery Ward. Leonard. Jackie. Branch. Althea. Willie. Alice. Charlie. Wilma. Martin. Bill. Willie. Muhammad. Jim. Lew. Tommie. John Carlos. Curt. The Cleveland Indians. Frank. Arthur. John Thompson. Craig. The Haitians. Olden. Mahmoud. Tim. Trayvon. Gabby. Lebron. Dwayne. Ariyana. The St. Louis Rams. Michael. Kyrie. Eric. Andrew. Tamir. John Crawford. Carmello. Freddie. Jonathan. Lindsay. Maya. Rebekkah. Seimone. Feyisa. Abiy. Colin. George. Danny. Jimmy. And next time you watch your favorite athletes, Think of the sacrifice, Think of the hardship, Think of the discrimination, And Look At Them Now. ma lettre d’amour à l’humanité
moyasu (燃やす) we have an inherent need as human beings to make a mark to mark our spot on the world, to mark our homes on a map; to mark and inspire the world. we mark nature, with our half-dones, with our left-behinds. with our parts-that-don’t-fit-into-a-whole. we have engraved unmoving footprints into the river beds. etched our language into the clouds. ripped a hole through the pages that blanketed our history. we leave little drawings little buildings, little cities. the little Big Ben the little Eiffel Tower the little New York our little cream of the cremè, our little colonies made of nothing more than hands and hard clay. we work our whole lives to feel so much bigger than the world around us. we want to feel like more than bees in the hive, carrying out our tiny duties to our tiny queen till we inevitably pass. pass on in life, pass on in death, and pass on our work to the next unbreakable set of shoulders. why does it haunt us so? every heart has carried this burden at some point in their life. we stay awake at night fretting about what could be, what hasn’t, or what could have been, without questioning from where our doubt hath sprout. we try so hard to fight the world around us to make good on the promise to our ancestors: to be “the smart-man” and I say go on, homosapiens, go on. leave your effervescent footprint on the great, big, terrible world. take your brilliant, raving fire and scream at the world. your fury is simply unmatched, foes spectacularly outnumbered. you have left rebellion and destruction in the wake of your enigmatic black wings, your caw of death rings loud and clear over their belligerent heads; your talons rip deep and have torn open the backs of those already at the whipping post. but you live by the proverb of thy Imam Ali, for, of course, Your friends are three: your friend, your friend's friend, and the enemy of your enemy. And your enemies are three: your enemy, your friend's enemy, and your enemy's friend. so light your anger with the bellows of despair to quoth you, ebony bird, “Never-nevermore’.” For there is nevermore than of which I speak, for you are the judge, jury, and executioner, all which is drawn from the town crier’s beak. but, be sure of your destination, your gaze steely and true. trace the constellations and follow the fog tendrils in front of you. yes, yes, go on my little Vikings, go map the uncharted. go on my little Julius Caesars, go make your own Rome. go on my little Amazons, go fight for your right to be seen. go on my little Napoleon Bonapartes, go fight for thy country, brave and true. For we all are trying to be our own queen bee, don’t you know? we refuse to bend our heads, our knee, though evidence may show that prophet is wiser than you see but I sing! i sing, oh! how i sing! march my lovers, dreamers, and peasants, I shall sing it from the top of the bell tower on the execution of thee! from none other than the Place de la Concorde itself! a chorus of a thousand souls strong! i shall yell: march, humankind, oh march! whether it be in lines, whether it be in battalions, white coats stained red! march, oh, march, march, oh march! your tumultuous footsteps, echoing the thunder of Zeus! praise shall rain down on thou, from the heavens, holy thine blessed! whether it be with chains on your name or shackles on your feet, or arm in arm in a multicolored barricade of justice, march, oh, march march, oh, march! so my love letter to you, my bosom catastrophe of humanity, is to march on. you are a billowing hurricane that is continuously bifurcating down the center of our kindred identity. may the light shine down on your toiled, worn, and bruised hands, for we are all so blessed with the right to the sun. from the blood of new revolution, to the gunshots fired thrice, one brilliant feu-de-joie to your legacy; from the mountains and villages from the seas and the skyscrapers from homeward bound to forgotten land: march on, dear lost ones, march on. I Hate My Name and June 26th
Anonymous I am not my name. My name is from baby magazine margins And empty thoughts. The sound of it on my lips tastes like coarse sandpaper Being choked up from the pit of my stomach, Filling my throat with blood. My name sends shivers down my spine, Religiously watching from the upper left window, Wondering why the cross that is supposed to welcome me in Shuns my middle name for the very thing that it is. My name is the very opposite of my bones Crisp and plain, Reminding me of my light blue velvet Mary Janes that I do not wear often Out of fear. Maybe my name does fit me, Only internally. I wish it did not. I wish I was not a name, I wish I was not perceived By the harsh two syllables That become stuck in your throat like hot, thick syrup, Flowing through my veins like a lifeline. I am not my name. I am the tree in the park near my house, I am bright blue walls and warm popsicle sticks, I am a two foot stone wall, I am a hallway in a school that makes me weep, I am red patterned rugs and lukewarm snow that gives me a fever, I am you and them and him and her but never me. I am not my name and my name is not me and I am not my name and my name would never be me and I would never be my name. I am not my name. Walt Whitman, A Cosmic Inquiry
Emily Tonning Do you have a map of the stars? What did you use, Uncle Walt, All those years ago? What gave you the strength, Uncle Walt, To shamelessly walk against the scornful edges of this planet, Despite the chance that your clothes would catch Or that your skin would get cut up? How were you so brave, Uncle Walt? So sure of yourself, and so proud, Amidst a world where your kind wasn’t allowed? What constellations gave you the strength? Maybe it was as if the stars were inside of you the whole time. |
And What Does That Accomplish?
Michaella Namiotka
It is quite heartbreaking you know,
To examine the evildoers as they go
You become either a bystander or a victim
Or maybe even both is experienced by some
Do the moon and the stars compete with each other?
No, the stars treat the moon as their faithful brother.
They each seek to provide all with sight
In the darkness of the night.
If the stars envied the moon, and sought to destroy its magnificence, what would that accomplish?
If we were to come across a bird whose wings could no longer fly,
Would you gather your fellow birds around the injured one, laugh, and simply pass by?
And what does that accomplish?
On a day when the sun shines bright, you seek shade
You turn to the trees to provide you aid
Although once the sun falls behind the clouds, you abandon the tree
The tree asks you, “Why are you leaving me?”
You answer “I no longer need you, why would I stay?”
The tree responds, “Are you not aware that I am the reason for your breath every day?”
How many times have you used an individual out of selfishness?
And thrown them away once you see them as uselessness
And what does that accomplish?
I will tell you what this all accomplishes
An accomplishment is merely what enhances positive change
Desire to hurt another individual does not fit within that range
Do not tell the tree that you love her one day
And then act as if she never existed
For I tell you, you accomplish nothing
Do not find entertainment in the brokenness of your fellow birds
For I tell you, you accomplish nothing
Help the bird to fly
Do not find envy in those who shine, and seek to destroy them due to an insecurity of your own
For I tell you, you accomplish nothing
Shine with them
And little by little
Maybe then we will all accomplish more.
Michaella Namiotka
It is quite heartbreaking you know,
To examine the evildoers as they go
You become either a bystander or a victim
Or maybe even both is experienced by some
Do the moon and the stars compete with each other?
No, the stars treat the moon as their faithful brother.
They each seek to provide all with sight
In the darkness of the night.
If the stars envied the moon, and sought to destroy its magnificence, what would that accomplish?
If we were to come across a bird whose wings could no longer fly,
Would you gather your fellow birds around the injured one, laugh, and simply pass by?
And what does that accomplish?
On a day when the sun shines bright, you seek shade
You turn to the trees to provide you aid
Although once the sun falls behind the clouds, you abandon the tree
The tree asks you, “Why are you leaving me?”
You answer “I no longer need you, why would I stay?”
The tree responds, “Are you not aware that I am the reason for your breath every day?”
How many times have you used an individual out of selfishness?
And thrown them away once you see them as uselessness
And what does that accomplish?
I will tell you what this all accomplishes
An accomplishment is merely what enhances positive change
Desire to hurt another individual does not fit within that range
Do not tell the tree that you love her one day
And then act as if she never existed
For I tell you, you accomplish nothing
Do not find entertainment in the brokenness of your fellow birds
For I tell you, you accomplish nothing
Help the bird to fly
Do not find envy in those who shine, and seek to destroy them due to an insecurity of your own
For I tell you, you accomplish nothing
Shine with them
And little by little
Maybe then we will all accomplish more.
A Little Prose
The Job I Couldn't Quit by Sabrina Zhou
Clash! I am startled out of my slumber. My mind is groggy and confused.
Clash! I am startled out of my slumber. My mind is groggy and confused.
Hello, and Maybe Goodbye by Ashley Stewart
"Where were you last night?" The question I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs.
"Where were you last night?" The question I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs.
The Value of a Soul by Livvy P
"I shouldn't be letting you do this you know." A gruff voice was heard in the shadows.
"I shouldn't be letting you do this you know." A gruff voice was heard in the shadows.