Rhyme & Reason 2021 by Rhyme and Reason

Rhyme & Reason 2020-2021

Cover Art by Andonia Alexander-Smith

Table of Contents

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Table of Contents From the Staff 2021 Pieces The Power of Music Trapped in a Bottle A Sonnet for Someone I Miss Smile Wind Dear Mr. President Messy, Broken, Beauty Untitled Alone on the Swings Untitled Untitled My Inspiration Untitled Wishful Thinking I Watched You Go Beach Days Untitled Would It Be Enough? It’s Just Music Blue An Author’s World Creature of Habitat Rêve en Quatrain Unseeded A Simple Ode to Mint Reflections American Madhouse

3:38 am Milky Way Waltz Wildflower Death’s Destruction Waterfall 2020 Pieces American Literature This Will Not Win The Poetry Contest Clouds Chambers of the Heart Her Coronation Gown 76 Cents An Ode to Aunts in Alabama Untitled Winter Warm Here Through the Valleys of Imagination Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend A Feather’s Final Dance The Night I Cried Fire and Ice, Reimagined At The Football Game Change and Time The Housewives Tale Untitled Black Untitled Untitled The Writings on the Wall

40 42 43 44 45 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 60 61 62 63 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

From the Staﬀ It has been 762 days since the last edition of Rhyme & Reason was published, and we are so glad to finally be able to showcase the last two years of student work – 2020-2021 submissions and highlights from 2019-2020 submissions. Student creativity throughout these trying times has been inspirational, and their work serves to highlight not only their incredible originality, but also their resilience throughout the COVID-19 pandemic. In short, these pieces are all fantastic, and we hope that you enjoy reading them as much as we’ve enjoyed working with them. And with that, here is the 2021 edition of R&R. - Abigail Wells, Editor-in-Chief 2020-2021 has been a total roller coaster in every aspect, and after all this time, calling it “the apocalypse” has started to feel less and less like a joke. However, it is in such times as these that we can join together and create something truly spectacular. It seems that all this hasn’t dulled our students’ creativity, and we are thankful to finally present the 2020-21 issue of Rhyme & Reason for your enjoyment. Especially now, we thank you for reading and hope you enjoy! - Welden, Associate Editor Shoutout to this year’s R&R staff – with the departure of last year’s seniors, we have an entirely new staff, and they’ve all made invaluable contributions throughout the publication process. After a crazy year with COVID restrictions, our hard work has finally paid off. Congrats everyone!

Abigail Wells Welden

Editor-in-Chief Associate Editor

Andonia Alexander-Smith Lily Bell Katherine Poch Tyler Smith

Staff Editor Staff Editor Staff Editor Staff Editor

2021

Music is a universal language of love, pain, rage, and sorrow all strung together in the notes of a compelling melody. If I could obtain a talent in one particular area, it would be in music. Whether you listen to a song that reminds you of a loved one who is no longer with you or a song that you danced to at your wedding, every memory has a soundtrack of its own. Music is about feeling. I want to connect with people and their emotions through music and lift them out of their deepest despair. I want to make the kind of music that makes people laugh, cry, and heal. One of my favorite “anthems” when I am feeling overwhelmed is Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds.” In this song he says that “every little thing is gonna be all right” and it immediately brings me a sense of relief. When I was six years old,

The Power of Music

_______________________________

- Marina Quinterno

I became obsessed with Alicia Keys and her song “This Girl is on Fire.” When she beat on those drums, it ignited a passion, a certainty that making music is as essential for the human soul as medicine is to the body. It is the emotions that lie between those beats and lyrics that inspire people. While I recognize that there are many pressing global issues that might require the gift of knowledge, music has the capacity to unify the deepest divides and change the hearts and minds of even the most reluctant among us. One of my favorite quotes from Beethoven is: “music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy. Music is the electrical soil in which the spirit lives, thinks and invents.”

_____________________________________Trapped in a Bottle - Abigail Jablon 8

The theme behind the

A Sonnet For Someone I Miss__________

piece is that perpetual

- Julia King

plastic pollution creates an environment that is damaging and

How to say I still ache to see your face? A whisper, perhaps, heard only by you Or a shout from a rooftop, heard from space? I still wish for it to be just us two.

constraining to marine life, trapping

I replay moments when we were in love.

these creatures in a

It hurts and it pains even to this day

cycle that humans created. I also used

But even now I still hold you above All others, even if your love decayed.

sand and water collected from

I hate that I still long and I still pine

Peachtree Creek to

After being told “it’s not you, it’s me”

symbolize that all waterways, and

As if I would believe a clichéd line Coming from anyone other than he.

therefore the cities in which they exist, are connected to this issue.

Soulmates come once in a lifetime, they say Not that we’re soulmates, though I wish you stayed.

le i m ___S ous

_ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ __

_ _ _ _ ____

_ _ _ _ ___

It probably meant nothing to you But it meant everything to me When I saw you smile for the first time It probably meant nothing to you But it meant everything to me I want to make you smile again

on - An

_ _ _ _ ___

_ _ _ _ __ _ _ _ _

__ _ _ _ ___

__ _ _ _ _

_ _ _ _ ___

_ ith _ _ _ m er-S ___

d lexand n i W donia A

Leaving you in the dust with the abandoned leaves But still You care for me

- An

I am the gentle breath blown by the breeze

Even when I devour everything in my path

Picking up dusty leaves from your

When my all-consuming greed comes by

concrete doorstep

Leaving nothing but hollow frames and

Smearing them like thick oil paint

broken tile

Covering your step

You still smile when I come by to tickle

I am as brief as the antique lanterns that

your cheeks

light up your path

Or play with your soft hair

And as eternal as the bright stars that

Even in the darkest of days

guide your way.

You come by to dance with me

But I am not light

Ending my quiet solitude

I do not glow like the faint moon when

But I can never stay

heaven is dark

For I am free, and forever float with the

Nor do I dance like the colors in the sky

leaves

I am your best friend in the dreary heat

And you, you never follow

But I do not care for you

You sit and wait for me to finally return

I can blow my cold breath

And eventually I am nothing

Cutting you down

Forgotten like the fallen leaves

Black Lives Matter.

in perhaps the greatest system of

Blacks Lives Matter.

democracy on this planet, I don’t see it.

Black Lives Matter.

How many times must Americans cry out

“The Hate U Give” truly highlights the

these words before they are heard and

issues black Americans face and the

understood? Part of this Nation’s

endless cycle of drugs and

construct was built on systemic racism

incarceration that has for too long

through centuries of white Americans

been normalized as “part of life” in

being conditioned to believe that people

these desperate communities. The

of color are somehow inferior. This must

powerful message of inequality in this

stop. When I talk to our current

title tragically played out over and over

president, I would like to address the

this summer when we learned details

issues this country is facing with respect

about the deaths of George Floyd,

to systemic racism. “The Hate U Give”

Breonna Taylor, and Elijah McClain. We

was a book I read over the summer and I

cannot ignore the journey and the

was both inspired by it and abruptly

actions that people of this nation have

awakened to the foundational cracks in

taken to secure the freedoms and

our democracy. When I think of the term

equal rights woven into the fabric of

“democracy,” the one word that always

our society. At the root of systemic

comes to mind is “equality.” Despite living

racism remains the idea that people of

color are “subservient” to white

four years in basic training while in the

Americans. This is precisely the

U.S., it lasts approximately 21 weeks (or

premise of slavery that the 13th

33.5 weeks if field training is included).

amendment was supposed to eradicate. That section in our

I would implore the current President

constitution however still leaves a door

to consider policies and programs that

open to slavery in specific

promote racial equality, including

circumstances (as punishment for

extended police training that better

crime). Black Americans represent

prepares officers to fight their own

approximately 13% of the population

biases when fighting crime. I believe

but account for almost 40% of the

also that a review of the 13th

USA’s incarcerated population. The high

amendment that convincingly shuts

incidents of police brutality among

the door on slavery of any kind would

black Americans are a further

go a long way in these efforts toward

compounding issue, and poorly trained

real reform. Change can be very

police officers are permitted to bring

messy, but our commitment to equality

their racism and bias to their jobs.

in every aspect of our lives must

When compared with other countries

dominate the way forward if we are

like Germany, police recruits are

truly to remain a global beacon for

expected to spend two and a half to

democracy.

Dear Mr. President

___________________

- Marina Quinterno

I sit at the end of my broken dock, My feet glancing o’er rippling wavelets,

And stare at the strokes of the sky – Full, involved brushstrokes, The kind that take the painter’s whole arm with them And leaving sprinkles of stars, Like the stray glitter on the table, Left over from a past project, That is never quite finished. I sit at the end of my broken dock, My cheeks frozen in the winter wind, And my eyes trace the lines of the other docks – Longer, unbroken, Accomplished, And forever on out to sea But nowhere on their docks-

Messy, Broken, Beauty___________ - Abigail Wells

Never-ending and new – Will they find my beautiful, imperfect, broken view of the stars and moon.

I want badly to be in the ninth grade To speed up time, to be babied much less I am there now, and it feels oh so great but I’m among giants and the smallest I want to be one of those cool sophomores To drive without the weight of my parents I’m there now and for sure is not a bore But I cannot drive any of my friends I want to be a junior now, so fun Even with college prep and SATs I am there now, and I drive everyone Holding me back now is life360 A senior now and done with school in May, To slow down time so longer I could stay

____________________________Untitled - Anonymous

A girl, never mind exactly who she was, stood at the edge of a deserted playground. After surveying the scene for a few moments, she walked over to an old rickety swing set. Alone she sat on the swings, awaiting company that would never come. A place that she knew used to be fun and full of life, was now empty and deserted. Memories as bright as the sun on a hot summer day flew through her mind, each one fleeting and hard to grasp. Playing without a care in the world. No worries about what others thought of her, just if she would be fast enough to reach the slide first. No grades, no expectations, no disappointments, just life, pure and simple through the eyes of a child.

- Katherine Poch

The girl sighed and a single tear rolled down her cheek.

Alone On The Swings_______________________________________ She looked at the edge of the playground and saw a flood

of tiny children racing to play. She looked down at her

watch and knew it was time to go. She stood up from the

swings and took one last look at the place she once could derive endless joy from, and walked away, the

laughs of the children fading into the background.

____________________________________

Untitled - Lili Drymalski

After the endless chaos that sparked explosive celebration, there was finally peace. Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington D.C., November 7, 2020.

- Ansley Coleman

My Inspiration - Marina Quinterno

The former First Lady is a profoundly inspiring figure to me. Her relentless perseverance is a beacon of encouragement for young girls everywhere. As a small African American child, she was constantly subjected to the humiliating and isolating racial stereotypes endured by so many. It is her commitment to rising above this abuse that inspired my desire to truly understand and oppose the racial injustice that consumes our nation. Part of this Nation’s construct was built on systemic racism through centuries of white Americans being conditioned to believe that people of color are somehow inferior. This truth tragically played out over and over this summer when we learned details about the deaths of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and Elijah McClain and once again on January 6 of this year. The breaching of the Capitol was perhaps the most powerful political statement about race ever expressed in the United States. America has always been the envy of the world because of our defense of Democracy. We are respected for the example of Democracy that we have set for hundreds of years. The events that took place a little over a week ago, however, may have irreparably harmed our status as the measure of a successful Democracy. The hate that has divided us makes me wonder what it might take return to the UNITED States of America rather than the current DIVIDED States of America. Michelle Obama has said that when people hate, the only way to respond is with love, and that is what she does every day. I aspire to her example of “combat” and hope that it will make me both a better leader and a better person. I choose to live by her words: “when they go low, we go high.”

A,er the endless chaos that sparked explosive celebra7on, there was ﬁnally peace. Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington D.C., November 7, 2020

- Lili Drymalski

Wishful

And from the dust, the lies you

Thinking

vanish out of sight.

trust

Lying comes easily when you’re

And you’re left praying– play-

lying to yourself.

pretending–

Shameless denial whispers

that tomorrow will bring daylight.

perfect answers to every doubt. For wishful thinking preserves And you cling to hope like it’s not

the island

a rope twisted in a noose

in the eye of a hurricane for but a

because you can’t face

moment,

heartbreak,

and no known force

or painful mistakes,

upon God’s great earth

or (worst of all) the truth.

can keep the rolling waves from crashing upon the shore.

Heedlessly, helplessly hoping, you built a home out of wishful thinking. Now, with reality slowly appearing, brick by brick, your house like dirt is crumbling to the ground.

- Abbie Reams

I Watched You Go I started off my poem with the opening stanza from “Sonoma” by Jane Munro. He totaled his blue truck – Slowly spun out on an icy bridge, Rammed it into a guard rail.

Twenty minutes ago, we were at the restaurant. Waist-deep in our glasses of wine, Avoiding the obvious tension, Making brief eye contact and then looking away as if it had burned us.

When I finally got it out, His hand stilled while twirling his pasta. A shaky exhale blew the garnish to flutter off his plate. Everything around us stilled as I told what I thought was my future to leave me behind.

I didn’t have a reason for my rejection that would satisfy. There was no explanation that would offer closure.

Especially when you were able to make it look like it was everything you wanted. The eyes I felt safest with snapped to me, Swimming with confusion and hurt, Begging me to open my damn mouth. Willing me to tell him it was all a joke. Saying “I wasn’t ready” would imply there’s a time when I could be. But I won’t be. So, I stayed silent. As the waiter came to collect our plates, As the check was dropped off and returned, Even as he walked me to my car, no words were shared. Only more silence. Here I am, sitting in the hospital waiting room, Trying to figure out how to introduce myself to the staff. Fiancé? No. Friend? Unlikely now. Stranger? Better off that way.

- Maddie Whitaker

BEACH DAYS My alarm goes off at nine

I jump and hope to be in the water

The sun shines bright

when I land

I look out and the weather is more than fine

My toes soak into the sand

I want to stay out all night

I swim against the tide I listen to the playing band

I bike to the beach

No one can break my stride

I read on my sandy towel I’m not at the lake, so there is no

The birds call out in the wind

need to worry about a leech

The ocean waves crash on the shore

I go through my crossword puzzle,

The sun starts to set, making the

trying to think of vowels

lights turn dim I wish I could stay here; for evermore.

The salty smell in the air Flip flops thrown on the sand Sea salt in my hair

- Caroline House

- Andonia Alexander-Smith

Would it be Enough? If I held your hand Would it be enough? If I stood by your side Would it be enough? If I was there for you every day Would it be enough? If I gave you my every moment Would it be enough? If I hung on your every word and did all that you asked of me Would it be enough? If I gave you everything If I gave you my life If I died for you Would it be enough? I would If that was what you wanted Am I enough? -Anonymous

“It’s Just Music.” That music was my friend when my friends were busy That music was my father when he wasn’t there That music was my peace when my mind was at war That music was my mother when she didn’t care That music brought me through all my pain and all my hurt That music was there You weren’t. -Anonymous

Blue Always described as the color of an ominous sky Never the color of the brilliant ocean Always seen as the color of sadness Never the color of wisdom I guess everyone recalls something different when they see the color But me, I think of happiness, because his eyes are the color blue -Jules Ford

An Author’s World The world is made from silence Accompanied by the scratching of a pen. Whether there is peace or violence It is the girl who decides when. Its reality applies to one who is caged in its existence. Yet she does not wish to run For she loves it with consistence. The trap is of her creation But the love was not made so. Her mind molds the nation But her pen pulls her to and fro. She believes her truthful lies Seeing them without worldly eyes. -Lily Bell

Creature of Habitat By Abigail Wells

It was August when I next saw him. He stood straight, looming far above the goats swarming around his boots as they rushed inside and out of the heavy rain. His silhouette was reminiscent of the mountain upon which he lived: an unmoving monument. If I squinted, his stooped back even faded into a jagged, upwardleading slope. There was a white female goat dozing, docile in his weathered arms. Perhaps she was smart enough to recognize his usefulness as an umbrella against the incoming storm. Or, more likely I thought, she was missing a couple screws up top – I’m no expert, but such gentle behavior didn’t seem normal. Worried of offending him, I didn’t mention it; I was tired, and the journey downmountain from my cabin to the village was much more difficult by foot than by way of his borrowed buggy, if he would lend it to me. We sat inside, out of the storm, and sipped at cold leftover soup while waiting for the weather to calm – even the locals, I’d learned, born and raised on the tempestuous mountainside, didn’t dare drive with a summer storm raging outside. “You’re lucky you didn’ leave any lade’r. Any man out for a stroll ‘bout now is goina end up halfway down th’mountain the hard way. I’m jus’ glad I got all the kids inside ‘fore th’rain got too heavy. Upsets’um somethin’ terrible.” The crowd of goats, who’d been relocated to his bedroom, seemed content to nibble on his bedcovers. In his arms, the white goat was relaxed, her tongue lolling out of her mouth slightly. He didn’t seem to notice, but frankly I assumed that he had trouble seeing her, as the straggly clumps of his white beard blended in perfectly with her head. Noticing my glance, he added, “Lit’ul Queenie’s my princess. She needs the comfort durin’ the storms – always has.” The goat didn’t do more than blink as she was treated to the rest of his soup, carefully spooned into her mouth. “She’s picky, you know? An’ b’sides, she can be a lit’ul pampered e’ry now and then. You definitely deserve it, don’tcha princess? 30

An’,” he leaned across the table toward me, lowering his voice as though Queenie might take offense, “she’s feeling a lit’ul peaky, poor angel – ate’a whole blanket by ‘erself las’night. It was one o’ Cilla’s, so I’spect it’s too heavy for her del’cate stomach.” He sighed, “I’ll ‘ave to restock down in th’village sooner than ‘xpected to replace it. Cilla don’ sell t’me if she thinks I’m still lettin’ my babies take the beddin’. But they don’ like any other kind of blanket – only ‘ers. I ‘spect its left over from when we‘ere married. They got used to her knitting, or somethin’. I don’ argue with ‘em, even if Cilla’s a right monster sometimes. “Cilla? “Ah right – sorry. I forget you’re jus’ renting that cabin ‘ere for the year. Priscilla ’s my ex-wife, sells whate’er she knits in town, ands downright nasty to the kids, ’specially sweet Queenie ‘ere’s ma, Ellie. She’s ol’ now – I’d let you meet ‘er but she’s sleeping in th’other room.” “Oh, I don’t mind.” “Sure? Well anyways, poor girl had the most terrible time of it back then. She was just a little kid, had a bad cough in the middle o’winter – I ‘ad to stay with her all night. Cilla didn’ like that very much. Made some fuss abou’ it the next day an’ left down th’mountain by noon.” He shrugged off my attempts at consolation. “Nah, good riddance, I say. She ne’er put the kids first anyway. Marty an’ me threw a party when she left,” gesturing out the window to the proud display of gravestones outside for his dead goats. “Marty was always life o’ the party, spirited bastard – ‘e ate all o’ my shirt collars af’er Cilla started dragging me downmountain to see ‘er friends once a’week. Successfully kept me home with the kids af’er that!” He stood, Queenie under one arm, and relocated the soup dishes to the sink. “’sides, I wasn’t really welcome af’er she started talking t’people about why she left me. Always exaggerated e’rything.” “What happened?”

“I told’cha already – poor Ellie was sick asa dog an’ I ’ad to stay up with ‘er. Cilla didn’t ‘ppreciate that though. ‘course, she was in labor an’ all, but the kids’ve gotta come first.” “She was in labor?” “Mm, an’ screamin’ something’ terrible about it too, ‘f I remember righ’. Stressed poor Ellie somethin’ terrible. She was fine though – that Doc was with ‘er and everything.” “I…” I cleared my throat. “Did she take the child with her when she left?” “Wha– oh, no. Baby didn’t make it – she blamed it on me, o’ course. Can’t say I blame the kid though – Cilla was raising the roof all night. I wouldn’t wanna come out t’that either. ‘Sides, like I told her, at least sweet Ellie’s cough let up by the morning.” “Oh…” “Anyways, Cilla’s a right piece o’ work, but her knittin’ lasts,” he huffed, glancing out of the kitchen window. “I think the winds’ve slowed some – if you’re goin’ down t’town, you’ll wanna go soon. These breaks ne’er last long. I should feed the kids now too…” Queenie was still flopped in his arms several minutes later, when I climbed into the borrowed buggy. “Ask for Cilla whiles you’re down there – tell ‘er my bed’s empty and I sent’cha. Those blankets are th’warmest on thisside o’the mountain.” “I will – thank you again for the buggy.” “Eh, don’t mention it. Dudn’t get much use from me anyway.” As I disappeared around the bend, buggy wheels clattering precariously over the wet rocks on the path, he seemed to become one with his mountainside home; white whiskers blended into the white fur on Queenie’s head; grey, weathered skin faded into the rock of the mountain behind him. A creature of habitat, the likes of which I’ve yet to find an equal elsewhere in my travels. -AUTHOR

Rêve en Quatrain By Abigail Wells

J’ai eu un rêve la journée passée Que mon âme s’est levé et s’est promené, Et avec mon cœur, il est allé À ce lieu où mon corps ne peut pas l’accompagner

Translation: I had a dream the other day That my soul got up and walked away, And with my heart, he left to go To that place where my body cannot follow

Unseeded No bigger than a Coca-Cola bottle cap, a tawny acorn sits nestled in my hand, at home in the wrinkled valleys of my palm. Its caramel coloring reminds me of the decaying autumn leaves that once concealed it from sight on our first hike along that trail in the woods. If I had not tripped on that twisted root, I never would’ve discovered its hiding place underneath the fallen foliage, surrounded by rock chips and earthworms. I cannot name the urge that slipped this tiny seed into my coat pocket, where it sat burrowed next to chewing gum, hair ties, and loose change. Perhaps it was the desire to possess a tangible memory of that outing beyond the dried mud on the soles of my boots or the soreness that settled into my calves after our trek up the hill. 34

Perhaps I knew, even then, I would want proof of our shared adventure– that we, in fact, picnicked beside the creek and watched as the geese took flight. Maybe I knew our days wandering the woods were numbered. That our time together had an expiration date. Gazing at my acorn now, I realize the truth of my intuition. Our bond withered, shriveled, died. But it was no fault of yours. I yanked our acorn from soil– held fast before it could take root– because its growing into a sapling meant surrendering my control. I saw our ending in our beginning. I saw potential pain. I cling to this seed with bittersweet memory. Otherwise, I’d wilt with regret. -Abbie Reams

A Simple Ode to Mint By Andonia Alexander-Smith

Mint, oh, Mint, how I love you so. Your sweetness makes my mouth sing, Your coolness makes my head float. Every time I hear your name, I cannot help but imagine Myself basking in the fields of snow. But why, oh why, Mint, must you leave? Dissolve in my mouth, Like a dying glacier How I long for you so, my wonderful friend. How I wish to once again play with the polar bears And slide with the seals. Please return soon, oh, Frost. Take me back to the North Pole.

Reflections By Andonia Alexander-Smith

The sky was dark as I sat in the classroom, The dim amber light from a lamp painting my desk, The glazed wood cool as I traced my finger across an old marking etched into it. I wondered about who might have sat there before me; Had they laid their head where I now rested my hands? Had they sat there, body still, eyes ahead, Waiting, clenching their hands in anguish as their teacher massaged the worn pieces of paper in her hands? Had they ever felt like they had been placed at the top of a pedestal, But the platform was too small to stand on? Did they ever get scared of mis-stepping on their tall ladder Where only an empty and murky void awaited them below? Or was that just me? I looked to the window, feeling warmth gather at my temple, Longing for the glass’s icy touch. I sighed at my reflection in its glossy finish. Perhaps not.

“American”

What does it mean, To be an American? To fight and torture for stolen land? To take advantage of those less keen? What does it mean? Is it being blessed by God’s hand? For you say, “in God we trust,” “together we stand,” But together is not what I’ve seen. All I see is a divided state, A nation drenched in man’s greed. Its past is stained in blood. I see people filled with hate, A system failing to lead, With hands clean as mud. -Reagan White

I am the madhouse, The asylum; My four redbrick walls rise, never-ending, Casting merciful shade On my wicker chairs and fresh lemonade. Across from my rosebeds, Iron gates are flung open: “So, neighbors, welcome –” Everything’s perfect here: A veritable Elysium. Just don’t try to open my padlocked front door. Though the peephole, the inmates run wild: Chaotic nightmares with Bloodcurdling screeches, Gouge holes through tables, Scratch slashes on floors, Clamoring, crying, trying To break free – “They’re mad, you see,” Is how I apologize When someone gets too close, Catches a glimpse Of a thrashing limb – Long fingernailed and feral – Through a wavering curtain: “It’s just the patients inside; Please, I beg you, pay them no mind.” They always do, Of course, And leave in a hurry. So, I tie closed the curtains Polish my gates, Trim back my roses, And welcome another for drinks on the lawn: Lemonade in the welcome shade Of my four, strong redbrick walls.

Madhouse -Abigail Wells Steve Marine Poetry Contest 2021 1st Place Winner

It’s 7am on a Saturday. She’s still in bed, in a somewhat euphoric place between awake and asleep. She looks up at the ceiling, her alarm rings. She stands up while pushing back the sheets. It’s 7:04am. She crosses her room, wrapping a light grey cardigan over her. Pulling up the blinds, her eyes drift out of the window. She turns away, opening a door to the balcony and stepping into the early air. Her twenty-something neighbors are doing laundry, as they do every Saturday morning. She takes a beat, smelling a trace of a floral washing detergent, the same one her late grandmother had used. Muttering something, she slips back inside. It’s 7:16am. She’s sitting at the desk now, hands shaking slightly. She’s typing, perhaps an email. Often, she looks up, watching the kids across the street. She’ll type some words, maybe three, then look up again. Not distracted, per se, only more interested in other people’s lives than in her own. It’s 8:47am. Standing up, she takes a moment before she draws her blinds shut. The man is walking his dog again. She thinks that maybe, one day, she’d like to have a dog too. She walks across her room to sit on her still-unmade bed. The day’s halfway over, already out of time. It’s 11:22am. Fourteen minutes pass. She stands up, stretching out her arms. Her back aches as she reaches to pull off her cardigan. Distracting herself, she walks over to the edge of her bed and picks up her phone. For a second, she lets herself imagine that someone had called her. But no one had. It made sense why people didn’t want to be around her - she knows she comes across as uptight. Neurotic. Maybe a bit depressed, maybe a bit tense. But she isn’t. She doesn’t think she is, anyway. It was just normal. And so, she assured everyone she was okay. Maybe she was. She didn’t know. It’s 3:01pm. And she’s back at her desk now, scratching her pencil across a torn piece of paper making a to-do list. She looks over it, checking off each completed item. But what has she really done today anyway? She hasn’t completed anything that’ll matter after four years. Nothing she’s achieved will, actually. But what has she accomplished anyway? It’s 4:59pm. The sun begins to set, casting an orange glow over her room. Enticed by the sunset, she walks onto the balcony. The twenty-something neighbors have finished their laundry, and the man isn’t walking now. They had happy lives, she thought. Nevertheless, she’s content. She thinks she is, at least. Not that she’d ever have any idea of what ‘happy’ really meant. It’s 6:48pm. She finishes studying for a test that doesn’t matter. Something she shouldn’t waste time on, and yet,

3:38 am

By Tyler Smith something she cares about. She’s smart enough to know none of this matters, that it’s all just some wall in the way of everything, but stupid enough to not do anything about it. Was it her, or was it the system? It’s 7:51pm. She’s sitting on her bed now, lifelessly watching pictures on her laptop screen change. She’s smiling in some, laughing in others. She looks happy. Right now she should be out with friends, or mindlessly watching some TV show, but somehow, she isn’t. No, she’s here instead, working. As always. But she’s satisfied with what she has. She wouldn’t know anything different. Nothing other than this makes sense to her. It’s a constant cycle of wake, work, sleep. Or maybe skip the sleep because she didn’t finish her work. And even then, even when she’s exhausted, she gets up and she does it all again. What else could she do? It’s 9:00pm. She’s about to plug her laptop in when her mother enters, glancing around the room in dismay. They look at each other, each missing some fundamental understanding of the other. Her mother wearily makes a comment about the collection of dishes in the corner. Then she leaves. She won’t be home again until late. Left to herself now, she sits in the middle of stacks of books and scattered papers, her open laptop providing the only light in her otherwise dark room. Surely, she could stop studying now. It had been months since she’d taken a night for herself, but the night was almost over anyway, and so there wasn’t a point in stopping now. Might as well keep going then, start ahead and stay ahead. It’s 10:49pm. And as she worked, she thought to herself. What could be so wrong in her mind that this was all that mattered? The pinnacle of her life. It had to get better than whatever hell she was living in now. This couldn’t be the “happiest” she’d ever be. The “best four years of her life.” Sure. It wouldn’t matter if she died. She had never lived. It’s 11:12pm. She’s in the kitchen now, making scrambled eggs. She moves to a seat on the counter, reading a newspaper debrief. She doesn’t even like scrambled eggs. The door downstairs clicks as her mother walks in. She goes to her daughter, kissing the top of her head, a trace of white wine on her breath. She turns to go upstairs, but glances back. They hold eye contact for a second. Neither of them speak. It’s 1:23am. By the time she returns to bed, she’s been awake for twenty hours. She collapses on a pillow, exhausted and unsure of how much longer she’ll be able to keep this up. But it isn’t like she has much of a choice. It was either this or being average. Which was worse? But no matter how much she does, no matter how much she accomplishes, it’ll never be enough. There was always someone better, smarter, who worked harder, who pushed themselves further. Someone who was one step ahead. And what did it even matter? It’s 3:38am.

Milky Way Waltz By Abbie Reams Steve Marine Poetry Contest 2021 2nd Place Winner

When Fate began to dance, his movements to music shifted the forces of the cosmos. Every leap, twist, and extension of a limb transformed the lives of billions. For the first time in his life, Fate decided to indulge a whim. A change in melody created a change in circumstance. A change in choreography spurred new responses to strange events. Fate, peeved by a future written in stone, unshackled himself from oracles and prophesies. He embraced a new partner: Spontaneity, and the two of them twirled in circles until the heavens unfurled into something unrecognizable. And Fate became satisfied when a final note rang out in an echo to bounce unbound among the shuffled stars and the great galaxies of the now unknown.

Wildflower By Abigail Wells

A girl WILDFLOWER stands on the edge of a field, Caught in a camera’s gaze. Click. Time stops. Look at that green swish of elegance – Her skirt STEM in the breeze – Those artful, arched lines – Her arms PETALS, outstretched, stroking sunbeams. Beautiful, isn’t it? That fresh spirit of youth SPRING? What a perfect picture. She wasn’t perfect two months ago, When the camera passed her by As she crumpled under bitter taunts ICE; Left to starve: No sugars, No carbs When your curves PETALS are wrong. Nevermind. Who cares? The taunts ICE turned to praise BLOOMS, And left her with Brighter colors, Perfect lines, Form to starve for; Click. She’s a better photograph now.

Death’s Destruction I wish that death would die and leave my loves in peace I wish death could cower In front of my friends and me I wish death would wait for flirtations towards the end I wish death was hateful And despised to follow my friend. -Lily Bell

Waterfall -Andonia Alexander-Smith

2020

American Literature this awakens the blood of my ancestors in my veins. my lips form in the old words of a forgotten spiritual. a mangled scream rises that can not escape. my fingers prickling with the bruises of God’s neglect, tears waltzing down my cheeks as I turn the pages of history.

I wish I could write like Plath Write about the heart’s braying And say, “I am, I am, I am” and yet, “Dying is an art,” Find words sweet in saying.

This Will Not Win the Poetry Contest -Andrew Keller 2020 Runner up Steve Marine Annual Poetry Contest

Or like Shakespeare With a fair-haired youth of my own, With words — timeless — with “thine antique pen,” Etch beauty out of forgotten stone Or like Poe, Omens and tempestuous death seem In perfect verse, a perfect simile — all created In the poem of my dreams, within my dreams Or like Giovanni, See the world on an ego trip and knowingly sigh, In abused quilt of black voices, “there may be a reason why” Dull and useless Is my writing in comparison Every word, every line, every verse A tool for future embarrassment Maybe, I will learn to bend words to my will And write art, someday (until, then) This poem will not win the poetry contest, I know Because I didn’t submit it anyway

Clouds so high moving by waltzing through the summer sky they cry they sigh they say goodbye leaving behind a sunlit sky

From an art into a science The deep recesses of my heart As a translator’s nightmare Are split irrevocably apart

Chambers of the Heart

Existing as four living chambers, Pumping love and blood and hate, The heart stands chambers ready, Emotion to create The first three chambers function As love and loss and life, While the fourth itself compresses As small as will suffice. Deep within the first one Live those cherished by my heart, All control relinquished Still they clamor in the dark. The second is freedom’s prison Where all are free to roam, Entrapped remain the hated, Where the pleas of demons drone. The third chamber dances To the plodding rhythm of my blood, And all ongoing beats Lead toward a last sputtering thud. A search of great proportions Ensues to find the last, Because the fourth chamber itself lies hidden Suppressing a void too dark, too vast. Within the tight-knit barricades The feeling itself abhors So, it stays compressed quite naturally By human tendency to ignore Despite all people’s agonies, Such emptiness persists Escape unknown, unimaginable From such a chamber as this

2nd Place Steve Marine Annual Poetry Contest 2020 Abigail Wells

Pitch black night lit by the drumbeat of the bar, bass boosted by streetlight, accompanied by the nervous percussion of clitter clatter. Crisp air, crisp heels on patchy pavement, eyes wide open and dilated dart back and forth, forth and back again. The woman’s eardrums still pound, heart still races from the movement and the music and the rum and coke she clutched to her chest moments earlier. She is the dancing queen: her coronation robe is a low cut club dress, hemline at her upper thighs. Her crown? Forged of sweat and highlighter, her keys clamped between her fingers like jagged diamond rings. This woman knows the perils off walking alone. She’s heard them from the news, she’s heard them from literature, she’s heard them from her father, and now footsteps she hears, footsteps directly behind her. Believe me, she’s conscious of, or should I say, she is more than fully well aware that it could be anyone, and she can throw a punch but she fears that she wouldn’t be strong enough. With a glance back, those footsteps belong to a passing stranger who seems to have paid her no mind.

HER CORONATION GOWN

76 CENTS To keep quiet is to say it’s alright to stare and not right to fight. To stare below velvet skirts is alright, But to fight back is not polite. To dress ‘immodest’ is to know that they’re watching, And to be okay with the cat-calling. To work is to be paid less, And to be okay with their ignorance. To be okay with 76 cents to the dollar because that’s what makes sense. To crave enjoyment is to be shamed, And to be okay with receiving pain. To speak your mind is to be ignored, And to be okay with the scorn. But I won’t be ignored. I have opinions that I won’t be afraid to share, Even if no one listens or cares. I do not dress for them; I do not dress for you. My velvet skirt is not meant to send a clue. It is not giving you permission to make a move. If you are distracted, look away. You should be taught that looking there is never okay. This is a crisis that needs to be solved. You can’t criticize a girl when she falls. You can’t think of us as an object or a doll. You cannot vote on what I can do with my body. What I choose to do has no effect on you. It is not your body so why do you get to vote on the rules? One day our paychecks will be even, And girls will grow up unashamed of the body they’re given. We will not keep quiet and say it’s alright. We will not resist the fight.

an ode to aunts in alabama

my great aunts live in alabama

alabama be home

one leads the prayer line

no matter whose house

two battle over banana pudding

the cookouts at

all three have enough lessons to teach a million sunday school classes

be bickering

and still runneth over

then binding

they keep oil

be new toddlers

in the medicine cabinets

every reunion

and bibles

be cobbler

by the telephone

in the summer

because if nobody picks up

be four-wheelers

God will

and roll-tiders

it seems, we either go

be prayer line on sunday

for baby showers

be answered prayer

or funerals

come monday

which is to say alabama is completion

be thank God

is wearing white to the burial

be amen

smiling at the overpass

and thank God

for this too shall pass

and amen and amen

is peace

for aunties in alabama

even when cancer was doing the devil's work and Ma met the Jesus we prayed to too soon they stuck like glue 54

1st Place

Steve Marine

Poetry Contest 2020 Omari Foote

-Caroline Harper, Lauren Leonard, Kate Reddy, Mary Anna Wearing, McLearn Hamer, Spencer Pearson

winter warm here in between the fading lights of yesterday and the weightless anticipation of tomorrow you tell me how to feel and I will tell you what it means you will bruise my head and I will bruise your heel

Winter Warm Here 56

all I want to do is set fire to myself blazing to know I alive there is no reason to be here only being what it means if I only knew winter warm here and it's all because of you

Through the Valleys of Imagination Step inside And you will find A world of magic Words and colors Dancing with glee Trees growing And rivers flowing Through the valleys of imagination Dragons take to the skies While the poets spin Tales of wisdom and adventure   About the wizards And phoenixes And creatures of every kind Traveling Through the valleys of curiosity Watch them fly And swim And run Through the valleys of the mind Till you find the door And return back to the world

Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend Frank watched Ellen Motley spin around in her tasseled dress, adoringly. The dress was much too short for Frank’s likening- it went as short as her knees! -, but Ellen refused to be forgotten in old styles and hemlines. Frank chuckled at his innocent Ellen attempting to rebel. As content as Frank was to be with Mrs. Motley, she was still more elated by far. Frank Whitney had arrived in the small pocket of Buffalo, New York nearly more than a year before in 1924. He was instantly crowned the most eligible bachelor, never mind the mystery of his past. However, he had asked the fair skinned Ellen Motley to a viewing of ‘King of Main Street’ during the grand opening of Shea’s Buffalo theater, a night that ended up being quite heavenly for Ellen. Though she craved to know his previous 24 years, Ellen wanted his future much more. Ellen sighed as the pianist ended the song. She was awfully flushed and requested from Frank a moment to sit. Being the gentleman, he was, Frank escorted Ellen to a bench against the wall, and asked for his leave to go to the restroom. Mere moments after he walked out of the country club ballroom, Betty Russell ran up to him. “Oh Frankie!” Betty shrieked, hugging him from behind as her shrill pitiful voice drilled into his ears, “It’s been too long. I hate to see you with that bluenose!” “Oh darling, don’t worry about me,” Frank grinned as he turned around. His face was smacked with her improperly held quellazaire. “Sorry, Frankie,” she giggled. After a short embrace, Frank explained his need to return to Ellen. Betty’s heels clicked against the floor she scurried after him, holding her professionally styled black bob in place. “Frankie if you go back to that flour-flusher, we ought’ to be done!” Betty yelled as Frank winced at the sound of her voice. Frank sighed and annoyance flickered across his face. He liked Betty more out of desire than love, staying with her only for what she gave him that Ellen 58

would not. Frank’s lips smiled and he reached into his suit’s inner pocket. Frank pulled out a silver chained necklace with a round diamond on the end. “Oh Frankie, it’s fabulous!” Betty squealed. Frank told Betty sweet lies of the how through the necklace he may always be with her, and suggested he put it around her neck. Frank turned Betty around and layered the diamond necklace atop her endless pearls. Betty stared at her reflection in the usually large gem and begun gushing about Frank and her future together. Frank starred at her neck in boredom, unadmiring the idea of being tied down. “Frankie, tighten it a smidge. My neck is too thin for it,” Betty grinned in vain at her own beauty. Frank unclipped the sliver chain, but instead of adjusting, his grip tightened around the necklace and tugged it backwards. “Frankie dear, that’s a little too tight,” Betty patted her hand against his chest. Frank’s hold only tightened, “Frankie, stop it. This isn’t funny. Frankie…Frank, let go!” Before she could get out another word, Betty Russell’s breath and time ran out… Ellen was draped with worry. The night had begun to grow older and Frank still was not back. Just as Ellen stood and smoothed out her dress to look for him, Frank entered the ballroom, straitening his tweed lapels. Ellen gave him a warm smile that lightened the room. “What took you so long,” Ellen’s inquired, her voice like the first day of spring. Frank took her hands delinquently, and Ellen quickly added, “Not that I paid any mind to waiting, of course.” “Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. I had to take care of something. I got you a present to make it up,” Frank grinned as he pulled out a gorgeous silver chained necklace…with an abnormally large Diamond on the end. “Frank, it’s too much!” Ellen gushed starring at Frank with pure love. Frank put his hand on her cheek gently, “Hold on darling, let me put it on you.” - Lily Bell

A Feather’s Final Dance Once I flew above all else, I heard the cries from hospitals and joyful laughter from late-nights at the tavern. I sheltered through the winter’s winds. I drifted with the falling leaves in the gentle breezes of autumn. the boldest hues of red and orange surrounding me in their cascade. People in little towns and big cities looked up from their daily lives pointing dreamt of their grand dreams amid the ordinary. I granted such dreams. Dreams of dancing in the rain full of joy and love and bliss. an escape from reality, or perhaps just a clever distraction When my noble bird died, I lived on as a plume – a word gentle on the tongue a name as light as my being I was gifted to a lady who sat at a window, laughed at the chaos of life below then wrote the stories of her small village, lives unknown to the world but in her care to not leave forgotten

She taught her daughter to write with me my feather soaked with ink through careful printing and cursive dreams of conquering far away Kingdoms and meeting charming princes A dip into the inkwell that swift movement leaving enough time for a pensive thought then eloquent worlds as I danced atop the parchment I have grown old, I know, Too slow in my patient process Old-fashioned and fatigued Ah, but to have soared in the air above life to have heard the whispered words of a writer as I etched in the actual hand I brought words to life and lived quite a bit myself.

Heath Foster 2020 Steve Marine Poetry Contest Author

Fire and Ice, Reimagined The flames from within translate Goosebumps to quarantine Alone, shivering chattering Bodies are boiling. Temperatures rising and coughing and Taken surprised As, one-by-one, all Are struck, lit, and burned By fever – They’re matches aflame. Close your doors Lock your hearts Keep them six-feet away. Fear chills love for permission To forget and to leave, So, the destitute freeze Together in flames While the “safe” Freeze alone Now that love’s gone. Born from the Frost that favored fire Comes a reimagined pair; Fevered fire And frozen love But either option brings despair.

Runner Up Steve Marine Poetry Contest 2020 Abigail Wells

at the football game if somehow he kills himself or was to get manic depression and suffer from bipolar disorder, he wouldn’t get a shrink, or an abc special my brother would suffer in silence, or in the facebook comments under the news post nonetheless no one will weep for my brother but me and my mother. for even if he develops some dementia, a common side effect, i believe it would be the world that found themselves forgetting how he made a living driving his mind into the gutter, as they cheered, called him a beast and slowly watched him turn into one the media will not question what drove him to insanity instead they will ask why he was in the car in the first place

but, with all this in mind i still find myself watching his football game, as i quietly collect kleenex, preparing for his brain to splat, and tears to spill out my eyes i know he will never join a gang, instead he joins the nfl and suffers from cte, he will still end up a slave to the same owner as the other black boys, they will be beasts together who came from different jungles as for me and my mother as we prepare to weep, i realize that the american dream has never included a black man or the black women that weep because either way we are the menace whether we make it out or drown in generations of poverty

it seems that the prayers of hundreds of captives never make it past survival i think we rarely ask black Jesus for healing, instead we just ask for life in a country that deplores our existence it seems that we’re killing ourselves slowly, just trying to live.

Change and Time you are inexplicable and don’t limit yourself to anyone you take feelings and muddle them irrevocably you make things disappear, die, and grow old you’re an inevitable process inescapable too, and we all feel your presence we acknowledge you want you, even sometimes we choose you, sometimes we can’t and i openly struggle with you you take from me people, places, memories but you give as well and for that i am grateful -change & time

The Housewives Tale

When I say I got it I got it I don't need your help Thank you for the offer But I can get it myself Because you don't help me when I need it the most Up at 6:30 to make breakfast for the house Your off to work and the kids need to get to school Bathe them, feed them, and take them to school But my job isn’t over Laundry is piling up and you don't do yours You throw it on the floor My work are these "chores" Have to go downstairs and cook because that's what's expected And because I don't have an "actual job" my time is misdirected My sole job is to support you and all your plans Disregard my dreams and aspiration Because I'm not a man You come home take your clothes off And once again they’re on the floor Because I'm your maid and that's what I'm here for Going to pick the kids up And help them with their work Get them to doctors appointment, dentist, and more But I don’t do much with my time Comfort you when you had a hard day at work But you don't ever ask me about mine So don't hold the door for me I’m obviously not cripple Because I do everything else around here Don't sweet-talk me with compliments and everything else I can form words

Don't offer your seat I’d rather stand I pray to God that's somewhere out there there's a real man The Housewives Tale

Black Black is the color of the original people Strong, determined and anything but feeble. Black is the color of regal royalty, Guided by the power of Jesus’s loyalty. Black is the color of impenetrable history, They cannot keep us from claiming our victory. Black is a color of tears and fears, We walked down a dark road in those weary years. Black is the color of brilliant minds, I constantly wonder, what will we find? Black is the color of a butterfly, Spread your wings, you know you can fly. Black is the color of a midnight sky, Black is the color of a baby’s cry. Black is a power they can’t deny, Black is the color that’s you and I.

The Writings on the Wall Nobody expected me to write this Once they know, they’ll question it I sit here, my mind goes into the abyss Being who I am, I can’t ever quit I indulge into my thoughts And explore the unthinkable I bring my head above the treetops All of the sea, then comes visible Above and below I sit and wonder Thinking to myself, what lays under As I watch the orange horizon sink The color then turns to pink I climb down to where I come from Back into reality, I then become The silky sand between my toes Over my legs, the water flows I gaze up into the clouds Smooth as snow just plowed There’s shade under the palms The same temperature as Guam’s Someone yells, its comes at a price I start to get that confused feeling Then I start to realize I was only looking at the ceiling.

The Night I Cried the fluorescent lights the bleach-cleaned table the man chewing gum as he paced around the tv playing in the background three minds worn from the horrors of the day I tried not to look at you because I knew I would cry yet, I did and that night I cried