Rhyme and Reason 2019
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CONTENTS. 2-5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16-18 19 20 21 22-23 24 25 26 27 28
contents. insomnia. sucker. summer days. untitled. moments from my bedroom. i’m sorry but... 1 nov 2018. not yours. leaf. a man in the woods. world. god and the universe. bitter sweet. with a grain of salt. omas haus. hurting. pen. petty af. roses are red. rain.
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29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36-37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44-45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53
metamorphoses I. your last first time. little lotte. america. america. warden’s respite. the queen’s complaint. oh so much pain. letter to my younger sister. faith. enough. when will we learn. blossom. i could never be a florist. wake upTM. metamorphoses II. ships at sea. sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines. by my side. i don’t see the paint. metamorphoses III. distant memories. her old shoes.
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54 55 56 57 58-59 60-61 62-63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72-74 75 76-77 78-79
london is ugly. pierce the veil. swish. literally. albany. new york. untitled. the piano bench. windows. family feud. heart of darkness. please not another poem. cheer. i dream of times. raft boy. respectful discourse. heart of faith. mass incarceration. staff.
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INSOMNIA . . AI N M OSN I - jaylee davis
and there you were, rising out like an eastern sun over western seas and here I am, roseless stem budding in your wake your sweltering stare blooming me sweet all those years, I’ve spent sleeping dreams cannot compare and I can dream no longer.
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sucker. - ellie rousseau
SUMMER DAYS.
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- aidan zeissner
T
hose warm sunny days in Florida ago were ones that can never be forgotten. Out and about we ran in the yard, playing those games of all sorts. Houses of chalk, huts of mud, pies of dirt, and races around the block. We created worlds out of nothing, games out of thin air, and the most unbreakable of bonds. They played the parents, I was the child, nestled deep in the bush, my crib of some sorts. What was my bed became later a runway where I took flight into the sky. The creek was where we learned to run on water, splashing all about. Nothing stopped us, neither the snakes, the alligators, nor even the vicious mosquitos. When it was time for bed we went inside and when awake we started back up. The days were always too short and the nights always too long. Those summer days in Florida have far too long been gone.
u
.
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untitled. - emily grasing
z 10
moments from my bedroom . - miller reid
damp eyes cast toward the memories we had made dancing on the screen.
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I
’m sorry but… Your eyeshadow is crusty It seems to me you haven’t seen anything remotely close to Chapstick I know I know that was rude but… The sight of your dress appalls me You can see those stench mark from a whopping 100 miles away DAMN have you ever even walked past a gym Oof that was mean I’m so sorry, but you should really get a new foundation color OR at least something to cover up that big ol pimple looking lik*knocking on the door* “Is someone in there I gotta try something on” I glanced at the mirror once more Before I decided to open the dressing room door.
I'm sorry but... - andrea miles
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1 nov 2018
- anonymous moon and stars autumn sky
water droplets on the hood empty streets one man in a cowboy hat
quiet night take me home.
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I
exile myself from you. flung out of space and careening into the next planet but I am pulled back. back to you. you are HOME. and I am a tiny satellite light years away a speck of dust in your sultry night sky you are overwhelming, overbearing, too much too much too much. I can’t stand it. the only star I’ve ever seen there are a million others masked in the veil of empty all whispering, reminding me I’m not yours. NOT YOURS. not yours.
- jaylee davis
not yours.
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leaf.
- ellie rousseau
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A man V In the woods.
ivid emerald fills his dulling senses. His rasping breath drowns out the peaceful chatter of the forest. Thoughts clamor for his attention. A man sits alone in the woods. He breathes. He thinks.
- ronny williams
Who molded man as evil? Who shaped man as good? A man leaves pure society. Serenity invades his aching body. He mourns. He learns. He abandons his home. He abandons his church. A man does not abandon the earth. Under a tree, suffocated by a blanket of green moss, He worships. He wonders. Who will judge when they are gone? Who will care when they stay present? A man cries out for peace. Creatures scurry. The wind blows. He sobs. He prays. Piercing truth wakes his fading existence. Sunlight shines through the jaded leaves. Warmth invades his body. A man sits not alone in the woods. He smiles. He understands.
WORLD. 16
T
here had been an indiscernible amount of time before the Being gained sentience, one could say, if there was such a concept as time to oversee the chronology of events, or lack thereof. Forever, darkness rooted itself in an abyssal plane of nothingness, without even the tendrils of time or space as a tether to reality. Everything and nothing remained stitched into the dearth of space, stagnating in its own incorporeal form, souring in a primordial soup of oblivion. There, in the nothingness, lay everything and nothing in a meaningless superposition. Then, something stirred amidst the darkness. For the first time in forever, there, in the abyss, emerged a single form, light: a small aberration in the nothingness, something tangible though hardly separable from the stifling darkness that prevailed. It seemed as if the nothingness gave in to a whim that had been long stored dormant, relenting to the lure of creation below the precipitous, desolate cliff of abioticity. Soon, the first twinkle of light had engulfed the nothingness completely, extending infinitely far and infinitely wide, extending within the neophytic cradle of time and space. Following the initial expansion, incredible heat filled the swelling mass before elementary particles coagulated into atoms those
- nubia udoh
atoms formed elements. Tendrils of bits of light swirled into the great monoliths of creation, colorful clouds of dust, from which emerged the first stars. Heavenly bodies of rock and gas threw each other across the star-filled vacuum before settling into stately communities. Having vanquished the nothingness, the universe was pleased, and sent the Being out into itself to further the intricacies of its creation. Behind the eyelids of the Being rested a faint red, which faded into the colorlessness of sleep. Hitherto waking, they stirred, gently rousing themself from the reaches of their slumber. The Being, sentient, though maintaining an incorporeal vessel, soon became aware of warmth radiating off some faraway source, blanketing them. An unwitting curiosity of their surroundings coaxed their eyes open. They were greeted with overwhelming brightness which soon faded hitherto their vision adjusting to the light of day. What was the big ball of light that suspended itself in the atmosphere in the sky? Panning their line of sight to the heavens, the Being absorbed the warmth which so graciously extended itself from above. The welcoming heat and comfort was answer enough. Other than the strange culmination of light and warmth in the sky, the Being noted pinkish-
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orange wisps floating sleepily above the horizon, seeming to huddle themselves to the warmth of the rising sun. Clouds, they deemed, raising both hands towards the sky. As if on cue, more amorphous swirls of pink and orange manifested in the sky above their extended hands. In the foreground reaching far before the horizon, tall, dark-green fir trees regarded the Being coldly, surrounded by a retinue of purple daisies. Piqued by the shadowy forest behind the trees, for the first time, the Being stood up, and meandered toward the swathe of austerity that was the wilderness. After beginning to walk, they stopped dead in their tracks, noticing a presence behind them. A fox demanded to be acknowledged with its deep, challenging growls. It bared its teeth, crouching back on its haunches and holding a hefty orange-brown tail stiff and low to the grass. In response to the hostility, the Being simply extended a hand to the fox, to which the fox responded by rolling over, submissively supine to the ground. The Being looked up beyond the fox to find a great amalgamation of nothing, and reckoned that they ought to transform the nothing into an auspicious plot of land for the fox to enjoy. Again, they lifted their hand, commanding the elements of the universe to coalesce into rolling hills, jagged mountains, and expansive lakes which reflected the sluggish pink sky.
Reverently, the fir trees curled their branches to make way for the Being as they tread through the forest. At the Being’s feet, wildflowers sprang out of the soil, dotting the emerald-green grass that seemed to flow like a river in the zephyr splitting through the openings in the forest canopy. A few more moments of walking, and the Being approached a muddy morass framed by a throng of pine trees. Displeased with the muddiness of a clearing, they willed a river to blanket the space with cool, clear water. They were pleased, but only momentarily, for when they looked up from the river, the trees blurred in such a way that denoted another presence. Startled, the Being shuddered. It was with such force that the Being winced that they felled a few of the trees immediately behind them. However, the presence stood steadfast, and the trees behind it distorted a little as if to suggest amusement. Three seconds later, and the presence disappeared from across the river and manifested in the form of fire, which ravaged the spiky leaves of the canopy of pines. The Being didn’t hesitate to summon a strong breeze from above the forest behind them, only serving to spread the blaze further south across the multitude of pines. This time, they summoned a great helping of water from the river to douse the flames, though the impregnable forest fire persisted, and the destructive presence was nonplussed.
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For three days, the Being sat on the riverbank staring helplessly up at the forest fire. After claiming the canopies, the fire greedily consumed the pine trees’ spindly trunks, small portions of which peeked intermittently from its angry orange-yellow blanket as if to plead for help. Soon, the blazing inferno became a sleepy cloud of smoke. In its wake sat the charred remains of the forest of pines beyond the river. The Being mourned for the remnants of their pine forest and felt utterly defeated at the realization that they could do nothing to preserve the forest. With the mysterious presence around, they ventured, their creation would be reduced to a playground on which they would be forced to watch the destruction of their work by their nuisance of a visitor. They noticed that the fallen trees they’d toppled had begun to grow fungi, perhaps another doing of the presence. How ugly and rotten it was. How sickly and morose the singed forest seemed. Despite the wreckage the presence had caused, in the springtime, the Being noticed that the pine forest grew more magnificently than before, and the fallen trees had become one with the soil, which was made richer by its decayed remains. Perhaps the pines needed the fire to grow healthily, and perhaps the fungi were needed to rid the forest floor of the dead. Even though the presence had caused destruction, somehow it was
able to foster a stable environment that nourished the Being’s creations. Maybe, even, the presence was like themself. Maybe it was safe to even label it a Being. Thus, the Being continued to create and watched the other Being closely. They saw that it needed to conduct its destructive properties in order for life to persist, as ironic as they thought it to be. Dead trees, plants, and animals became one with the ground, from which sprang more plants, nourished by the remains. The Being oftentimes observed the fox they found upon their arrival hunting and killing rabbits. Initially, they cringed at the thought of the death of the rabbits. However, they relaxed when they saw the fox bring the rabbits home to her hungry babies in hopes that they would grow big and strong like her. Harmony like such ensued and forever in this world, the two Beings, one of construction and one of deconstruction, coexisted for the benefit of all life.
THE BEGINNING
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- nubia udoh
God And the universe.
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bitter sweet. - katie leonard
B
itter Goodbyes ring out And hot tears overflow Yet somehow it’s all beautifully Sweet
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T
here are days. There are days where the switchbacks of the mountain steepen leaving our legs senseless after every additional step we take. There are days where every clock our eyes wander past will cease. The tic of each second no longer becoming audible, creating the question: Will time ever move again? There are days where you can feel the world hit you. Really hit you. Hard. Like a wave tackling you from behind that, you hadn’t realized had been growing in the near distance, building up its energy to eventually clobber you into the sand and scrape your body against the shells. It forces you breathless and back into the shallow waters. Maybe I was too deep. There are those days. Yet. There are days where we float our heads in the water, just high enough to cover our ears, and silence all of the noise of life above. And there are days where we become so deep in our thoughts that we can’t remember if any light we drove past had been green. Our lives can be told as romances, comedies, epic heartbreaks or horrors. How do I choose to handle the waves forming in the horizon behind me? I’ll find out. However, there is a finite amount of water in this world as there is a finite amount of days I get on it. Maybe I was too deep.
with a grain of salt. - shea fleming
- aidan zeissner h mein lieber Mann! Ich kann es jetzt überhaupt nicht mehr aushalten! Bald kann ich die Oma Deitze sehen im ihrem hause! (Oh my gosh! I can’t wait any longer! Soon I’ll see my grandma in her house!) My young mind screeches at the thought of finally, just finally going back to see my grandma, or in my case, Oma, in her pink white-washed house, a mere 100 meters from the Main River. I sit in the car with a broiling anticipation, holding hands with my sister out of excitement, as I look up through the window of the black Volkswagen rental car, seeing blue skies and upper floors of passing houses (as I am a bit too short to actually take a peek outdoors). I look over to my brother, who has frankly gone off to another world, and then my sister. We both make eye contact and know that we both teem with the same overjoyed euphoria.
obstructing my view of the rushing Main River. Surrounding the garden lays a wonderfully sturdy, wooden fence. A tall house. The top story serves as my grandma’s floor, and from it extrudes a balcony with a two-seated swinging chair, sunumbrella, and a table, the grand commonplace for chatting, eating, and observing the river scene in fresh air. Following the top floor, the next two (Ground floor and 1st floor) have the same principle with balconies, minus the furniture. The last floor, a basement, holds many wonders, from toys to gardening tools and many other knickknacks. When facing the left side of the home, the garage houses Oma’s much famed green ’95 Volkswagen Golf, which she drives on occasion. Our eyes flash from one place to another as we teem with excitement, just seconds away from seeing Oma.
We run from the car to “Wir sind da” are those long-awaited, the front door, hidden in a cove long-anticipated words of my dad. of surrounding houses, and we We’re here! The car vibrates with frantically knock, “Oma, Oma, wir squeals of pure joy, then my sister sind da” (Oma, Oma, we’re here) and I are off to the races comes booming from my sister as we both knock away. Oh, ne du, wirklich. Wir sind da! (Really, we’re here!) With that, “Ja, ja, wir sind da,” (Yeah, yeah, my sister and I come crashing out we’re here) I add into the growing of the left-rear door, exposed to the racket. cloud-covered day in Himmelstadt. Off to the right, I see her beautifully We quickly try the doorknob tended garden with shrubbery and the door unleashes, uncovering
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a long, spiraling, cascading, and white-marble-like staircase (keep in my mind, I am quite young). The quintessential smell of my grandma’s residence hits and registers into a bank of memories of smells. There lies a muskiness in the smell, with the basement contributing a large part to the familiar aroma. The almost hidden floor at the top becomes the ultimate end goal, so the race begins. My sister and I start up the stairs, railings dashing past my peripheral vision, each stair surpassed by my strides. We now stand at an open doorway about to enter the living room. We enter. To the right stands her comfy couch with memories of her story-telling and of flipping through her photo albums. She appears in the room directly connected to the living room, her kitchen, the epicenter of her floor. We waddle over to exchange hugs and hellos. “Schön euch beiden wieder zu sehen,” (Nice to see both of you again) croons my grandma as she squeezes us.
in. She has an Essecke (dining area, but more meaningful in German as it literally means eating corner, so a nook for eating) where we eat all the wonders and foodstuff, like fresh bread from the baker with Nutella, or salads with fresh vegetables from her vibrantly green garden. I look onto the rain-washed balcony where she recalls stories of her life. We step back into the living room, the wood creaking beneath out feet, my parents and brother finally arrive. My sister and I take the opportunity and run back outside to her Brunnen, or fountain, surrounded by a fortress of dark green, bamboolike plants. The fountain gurgles water out into a small crater in the ground filled with warm-colored pebbles, along with two or three larger rocks in the surrounding area. My sister, the champ of discovering pill bugs, lifts up a rock and yells: “Kellerasseln!”
The running water slowly patters along, the pebbles crack as “Hallo,” Ileana and I pitch in as she we move about on them, and I stick takes us both into an embrace. my hands in the cool running water. We continue to search for the small “Na, wie? War jetzt wieder eine creatures in the minuscule oasis and Weile, oder? Guck mal wie ihr I hold a few in my hand, tickling me beiden gewachsen seid.” (So, how with their small legs pitter-pattering are you? It’s been a while, hasn’t about. it? Look at how the both of you have grown.) Her grandmotherly Ein Kind zu sein ist etwas ways touch our hearts immediately. Wunderbares und sowas gibt es We feel at home. I take a moment niemals wieder. to look around and take everything
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hurting.
- andrea miles
That Hurt Did that hit My left big toes? Tears strained down my eye Blood drips down my big toe Was that a cactus down there? I tried limping on the pale wooden floor I finally reached the door going for the nob Oh God almighty is that another cactus on the floor?! It decided to block the door reaching my right big toe
Oh well,
so much for trying to pick cacti
with
my toes
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the scrATch of a pen SCRATCH he writes with a twist of his ScratcH hand signing scraTCH his check SCRAtch mindlessly SCRATCHing away
pen.pen. - aidan zeissner
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petty Af.
- jaylee davis
girl, I see you watching girl, ghosting, peeking and posting girl, I’m natural girl, I’m all real girl, thighs, lips, and hips too girl, you may not like me but girl, your man do.
R
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ROSES ARE RED. - emily grasing
Roses are red I am Groot. Honey, where’s my super suit?
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RAIN. - aidan zeissner
I
don’t care How long you stay
Because you’re A friend to me. Fill the streets With puddles And bring a wave Of honking horns. Annoy those Who cannot see That you’re just as pretty As a sunny beach.
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metamorphoseS I . - alexa marcontell
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you will have no more of me. this is your last bite, savor this last drink. you will steal love from me no longer. I am I am I am I am
not your wishing well. not your deposit. not your plaything. a woman
and I am still unraveling.
- jaylee davis
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- anonymous
Who broke you? None dare touch you. No child has ever dropped you. Dear one, you are just dĂŠcor Nothing more A doll Made of clay, Destined to dry Then crack. Oh, so careful to dress you Slow, cautious introductions with Will the mantle greet you. And there, Bit by bit, Thoughts and dust Build and sit. Friends with the shelf, cold air, and the clock. Still, clay crumples And china fingers fall off. Little Lotte, Who broke you?
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america. - ryan blagsberg
H
ome of the free, land of the brave America is free because of those we could not save A place where you can accomplish anything you wish Even go down to the pond and catch some fish Live in the city or in the farms Everywhere America is represented strong Raising its youth with strong nationality America is one large family She still has her flaws People still do not understand that g-d loves all Some wish to harm others who don’t share the same beliefs But these crimes don’t allow any release A powerhouse known worldwide Many seek to come to her side
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O
n city train tracks, a dream dies: This is America. Last words, choking it, as it sighs, “This is America.”
In the screaming sun, black hands weep; bloody skin cries, “This is America.” In the returning call of trumpets, white independence lies, “This is America!” Woman, bearing the world’s weight in her womb, she agonized, “This is America!” Freedom and Liberty, watching from above, they act surprised, “This is America?” Black and blue lives named this black and blue body of crimes, “This is America.” “Sinners preach and Preachers sin,” reads the signs of the times, “This is America.” We the people are a climbing suicide rate and a culture of binds; “This is America.” The blood of journalists, hot on the blacktop, crackles and whines, “This is America.” There is no pride in our hearts; only vanity, and that worn, tired chime, “This is America.” Love is obsolete: all love poems read that same worn, tired line, “This is America.” New money print-fresh on old hands, the dealer supplies, “This is America.” I don’t trust in God, but I do believe in angels - singing with throat dry, “This is America.”
america.
- jaylee davis
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warden's Respite. - josh hawn
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the queen's Complaint. - jaylee davis
all that’s worth having I cannot have what is love to the widow but a bitter memory? all that’s worth loving I cannot love what is fear to the soldier whose blood marks the front line? all I am is not worth being what is life to the poet who dreams of death and writes of love and fear? all that’s worth being, I cannot be what is the future to the silhouettes of history? the settling dust of the distant past? all that’s worth having I cannot have and everything I have, worthless
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oh so much PAIN. - anonymous
1.
my eyes are tired of burning my throat sore of bitter words my back weak from keeping us both up and yet here i am hunched over waiting on your approval, bowing down to pray as you prey on me
2.
why is it that i am always staring at your back generously waiting for you to turn around and forgive me for your mistakes
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progression is dead but the pain is alive and has been revived time and time again
3.
i dream of times where God is finally watching me and the world is moving in a circle that doesn’t leave me dizzy and gasping for air where my shoulders don’t carry mountains and my mind only wanders to places i want to be in where my smile ain’t so frown and my eyes don’t look like massacre like defeat like the devil won the battle and the war i dream of times that i am okay and that is okay but for now it is just me and i am the only one watching waiting for God to look back at me
even when we’re patched up and we think we’re finally whole we find holes broken beyond binding but we’re too weak to even try healing so all we do is sit here with broken hearts in a world that just medicates and confiscates all the money we’ve saved with no change to show for it so now we’re broke with broken hearts and a lifetime of pain with tools that only fix temporary disasters
4.
so all we can do is turn to God pray for storms to pass while our life blows away our sanity crumbling right beneath our feet
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lETTER TO MY YOUNger Sister. - jaylee davis
J
asmine, I named you a flower. Because everytime I say your name, A flower blooms in my mouth. I love you. Even when I don’t like you. Even when you make me cry. Even when you don’t love me back. I understand, but please love. When love comes in a look, in a whisper, a rapping at your door, open your eyes, open your mouth, open the damn door! I’ve known this earth for five years more, five years my past, five years your future I’ve been places — I’ve been people that you wouldn’t recognize All the places and people I’ve been and I’ve learned that love is the most important thing everywhere you go. To everyone you are.
Love yourself, love God, love me. Love mom, love dad, love Carlos, love Cari. Love your body, your button nose shaped just like mine, your freckles, your straw brown hair, your baby fat. Love that book, love that poem, love that song. Love that boy, even if you have to learn how to unlove him later. Love everywhere and anything. The world I’ve known five years longer than you, is far too beautiful to not love. And always remember one of the hardest things to be in the world is a woman who loves. Love, Jaylee
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. Faith Never Ends Through the storm God’s grace never ending Even in the toughest moments Faith is challenging to keep up A promise between myself and God Faith can be as shaky as jiggly Jell-O Or like a loose tooth ready to fall out. But you will become like the base of a tree And your roots will group you for all of eternity
Faith. - lee hickman
Enough. 40
- alexa adesokan
I am an African American I am confused I am an American citizen I am scared America to me is opportunity that only knocks at the door once America to me requires walking around egg shells being careful not to break anything or stir up too much trouble America to me is pride that often times needs to be kept in check Americans to me can be gracious and generous Restoring my faith in humanity Americans to me can be crude and cruel I am scared I am unsure When I grow up, do I want the “American dream”? As I grow up I want to do better for the kids that will come after me So they don’t have to be scared How can I make the world “a better place”? How can I stop all the injustice? I’m just an African American girl who is confused and scared, maybe I’m not enough As I grow up, I learn that being confused and scared in America is okay Surrounding yourself with trusting adults who tried their best to do better for us kids They tell me I am enough America to me is opportunity I will answer its call I will be more brave
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When will we learn.
- tara varzi
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BLOSSOM. - matthew raeside
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I could never be a florist. I - matthew raeside
could never be a florist, For what gives me dominance over the humble flower? Whose graceful petals do not demand attention, But rather seek beauty. For what allows me to cut the golden thread of their ephemeral beauty? While their budding bloom provide hope in our darkest winter. For what enables me to annul their exodus from an everlasting frost? That their new life shine new light. For what permits me to alter the fate of any? Those flowers who deserve no untimely eternal rest. For what entitles me to take such elegance from the eyes of the world? As we must cherish such courage and splendor in such a dark place. For I am worth no more than a flower, Fleeting, Magnificent. I could never be a florist. I could never craft bouquets of roses and daffodils, Knowing what I have done.
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WAKE up - john trinh
â„¢
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...but youre already awake, arent you
- alexa marcontell
metamorphoseS II .
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- jaylee davis
ships at sea. stranded light draws me out like blood, how I clot. how I sink. I am lost at sea and wading deep bottom lip bruised and eyes fluttering asleep, I am nameless, but I remain afloat hands, tired, outstretched, trembling out towards better angels
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sometime TOO Hot T he Eye Of Heaven Shines. - jaylee davis somedays, I know that the God I serve is a vengeful one I make myself small underneath the wrath of His gaze and He plucks me out — like a seed out of a strawberry me — out of millions, plucked out to quiver and shiver for what seems His delight but what He says is for the love of me the love of me? I’ve been better loved by demons His kiss is more a wound His caress, more a scar And yet, And yet, I find myself praying for His touch
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- ford morgan
by my side . Shaking, rattling, sparks on the tracks No, I can’t order a croque-monsieur in French. I fear my ignorance will doom my façade. Do I even deserve such a privilege? Abroad travelling with no agenda. Let’s absorb. What is it: 4, 6, 8 more hours to the canals? Blurred time zones and restless legs aggravate The wanderlust harnessed inside. A city of architecture awaits me Yet I cannot begin to appreciate its grandeur. Switch lines, transfer carts, and secure your passport Trust no one, but trust everyone, for you’re the foreigner here. The heart of the continent surely is a melting pot Yet burgers, fries, and milkshakes stand before me. A home away from home, that is, lacking GMOs and preservatives. One last stop, and its innovation stands uncontested Extensive city parks with frigid rivers, clothing optional Engineering, historical halls, and impeccable transit timing. Take a note out of their book, America. But don’t make haste to copy: our history proves to be superior… Reflect, retell, and recall all the interactions. Who made you feel content throughout it all? Not everything can cater to your liking But the one beside you can assure that You’re in the right place, because we’re here together.
I don't see the paint. - annie sager
U
ntil that day I had only known dark. On that day I was granted with a mark. Upon my forehead was colorless paint Straining to see it I thought I might faint To where others saw there to be something On the same spot where I saw was nothing.
My eyes opened that day without a choice To be gifted a mark that I must rejoice. For that was what the others around said As they kissed my head and sent me to bed. But my child-like mind swirled with confusion Those not from here wrote our constitution.
Living my life in a place I had roots Was not something that was always the truth. Look in the mirror and see what is clear A reflection made by those you so fear. There’s paint on my skin not invisible. My smile tells a story unfeasible.
There is no born mark where they kissed my head On a face which is inverse to what’s said. My hands are from a world across the sea. Eyes which derive from those placed under me. People are tangled in roots we all share and live in soup with those who don’t know fair.
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- alexa marcontell
metamorphoseS III .
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- tara varzi
distant memories.
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- katie leonard
her old shoes.
H er ol d shoes– so battered and aged, embe dd ed with extr av agance. With c h ampagne shimm ers a nd the undying fervo r for an evening of y ears before.
LONDON IS UGLY.
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- katie leonard
L
ondon is noisy. London is tense. London sucks in a dollar And spits out a halfpence.
London is crowded. London has grimy stairs. London is smelly And hardly conducive to frizzy hair.
the old melding into slick.
There are never-ending strips of potholes, Yet it’s charming all the same. Even the underground Is an exciting brigade.
London is busy. London is confused in politics. London might have Jo Rowling But also a man peeing on century-old brick.
“London is ugly! London is ugly!” I forced myself to think. But eventually gave in when I saw a girl reading At a table near the cobblestone streets, Smiling at the pages with her cup of tea.
London is modern. London is wooden. London has a girl who tried to kick a pigeon When her parents weren’t looking.
I stopped and started And I couldn’t help but think About how much I loathed myself for ever considering that London was ugly.
But if I wasn’t told to “mind the gap,” I’m sure I’d be squashed on the train tracks. That girl who kicked the pigeon? Well, she never actually made contact. (she fell on her back and just laughed and laughed).
London is freezing. London is bird poop. London is accents that make you want to hit yourself over the head With every one of Walter Scott’s seven-hundred-paged books.
The weather is freezing, And I can’t redeem that. But the constant ‘is-it-snowing-yet’ aura Is one that Atlanta doesn’t have. There are winding alleys And ivy growing on brick. There are horses and motorcars,
But, London is bookshops. London is quaint. London is loud and noisy Yet homey just the same. London is ugly. London is horrible. But London is brilliant, and London is beautiful.
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PIERCE THE VEIL. - asia harris
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SWISH. - ronny williams
A
drenaline pumping, I sprint across the court. The sweat dripping stings my eyes, but there is nothing my drenched jersey can do to alleviate the pain. “I got him! I got him” Squinting ahead, I lose another sense to the deafening screams of the crowd. The fans overpower the cliched but energizing chants from the cheerleaders. Their enthusiasm vibrates under my feet. It fuels my desire to win. “Let’s go, Lions! Let’s go!” I follow their instructions. “Open! Open!”
Defend. Shuffle. Repeat.
In that moment, I had the whole world in my hand—albeit a small orange world, dotted with tiny hills, ridges and stagnant rivers. I see my opening and quickly break away from the almost sevenfoot giant blocking my way. Taking my little orange globe with me, I line my feet up at the three-point line, squat, and explode my body off the ground. I make eye contact with the net, curl my hands, push, and release. Silence as the orange planet hurtles through space like a comet.
Grab. Pivot. Search. Dribble. Swish.
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LITERALLY. - katie leonard
“Guys, I literally Can’t even. Like, I’m literally Starving. Ugh! I’m literally dying.” Do one thing for me. Spend a minute With old Merriam and Webster And Look up The word: figurative. (That is, Before I literally scratch my ears off.)
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ALBANY. L
eather scrunched as I slid back in my saddle, one hand grasping the reins, the other dropped lazily by my side. I took my hat off running a mud-covered hand through my curly hair patiently waiting, yet anxious. Riding western was no problem for me. I’d grown up around the rodeo and as a boy could barrel race with the best of them, but I didn’t like this horse. This horse didn’t like me. Besides the crisp air that stung my nose and made my eyes water, it was beautiful outside. Some trees fought hard to keep their color while others drifted to sleep, their leaves dead and resting on the ground that my horse and I trotted over. It was a colder fall day (as cold as a South Georgia plantation may be respectfully considered) and a cool breeze found its way through my flannel making me shiver. The metal of my grandad’s naval wings rattled against my bare chest reminding me to enjoy the
- heath foster
little moments like these. A hawk screeched overhead, and with a shift in the wind a sense of familiarity and home washed over me as I could smell the pecan grove nearby. The dogs ran ahead, tails waging uncontrollably and feet, marking the soft Georgia clay still wet from the previous night’s rain. My buddy and I rode side by side, one hand on our shotguns eager to see a bird flush, snapping our heads in the direction of any foreign sound. Miss May pointed our first covey out by the trout pond and spooked a few quail who were unfortunate enough to meet the wrong end of our barrels. Our cowboy boots stomped the ground as we dismounted, and I slid my 20 back in its holder on the side of Major telling Pete how much better of a shot I was than he. That was the first time we’d been back to Albany in a few years. The two of us were no strangers to the area, as boys we had raced around
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trees on horseback and fished back by the lake, but the years passed one by one until we were once again strangers in our own home. A forgotten voice from the past made me smile. “Good shooten boys. Dangit, if half dem folk back at the barn could hit four off the rise we ain’t ne’er gon get hungry round her again.” Mr. Smith that was. A good man if there ever was one. Reaching towards seventy at the time, he smelled of cigars and much preferred a flask in his pocket instead of a phone. His love for hunting was matched only by his love for dogs but not even his wife would complain about his priorities. Years of working in the sun had left his eyes partially closed, and crow’s feet shot out from each that stretched upwards to his brow and down to his cheeks. His deep laugh was contagious and not even the worst
situation would phase the man. And on that fall day, even if a little loose in the saddle of a younger steed, he was a welcomed sight. God bless his soul. “How abouts y’all yungins run on back to the cabin and get shome bolled peanutsh n see if that tv ain’t workin. Games on in thirty.” The Vols game of course. Mind you this was a Saturday afternoon tradition for him and his god-awful orange and white checkered pants. Nothing would deter that man from watching his team play, not even a 5-7 season and undoubtedly the “worst refereeing I’s ever did see.” Despite the dread of ending the hunt early, Pete and I humored the old man turning our horses around, kicking our heels in, and racing like kids once more in that stunning South Georgia landscape.
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New York. I
t’s 8:45 in the morning and I’m walking down the steps of the subway station on Bleeker Street to take the F train to SoHo. I’ve got my phone in one hand and my coffee in the other. I just finished my 7:30 Beyoncé themed SoulCycle class with Jessie and I’m headed home to change before heading over to Chelsea Market for lunch and shopping. I step onto the subway heading South from NoHo, knowing that this option was faster than taking a cab. It’s my birthday and I am content. I always find the subway more interesting in the morning with all of the hustling millennials with their airpods in, all racing to work, probably with raging hangovers. It’s packed and the girl next to me looks as if she’s had the same makeup on for days. Her under eyes are purple and yearn for rest. That’s New York for you. Sleep is for the weak. I can hear J Cole’s Work Hard blasting in the ears of the twenty-something
- patton mooney
year old guy in a suit standing next to me. His cologne is so strong it burns my nose. The conversations are the best. Usually in the mornings, people will acknowledge each other with a nod or a smile, or something else that identifies the equal struggle of trying to make it in New York City at a young age. However, every now and then you’ll catch the most perfect, random, New York sentence you’ll ever hear. “I knew I needed to go to the eye doctor when I stopped being able to read people’s messages next to me on the subway,” mutters a dark brunette to her friend. She’s holding a cream cheese bagel from Russ and Daughter’s. The train stops at 23rd and Houston and lots of the people clear out. I glance at the opening doors and see a cluster of men with bikes walk onto the train. They’re cackling and are absolutely intoxicated at almost nine in the morning. The
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bottle of Jack Daniels in a brown bag confirms my suspicions. “HELLLOOO SUBWAY PASSENGERS! WE ARE CYCLE FOR A CURE! AND WE WANT TO END AIDS!” I whip my head around to see who is yelling. The same man yelling is attempting to ride his bike on the moving subway train. I can’t help but laugh. “And who are you and where are you from?” one of the men ask me. “My name’s Patton and I’m from Atlanta.” I laugh a little, also feeling slightly hurt that I didn’t pass as a New York local in their eyes. My mom’s accent probably gives us away. “It’s her birthday!” My mom exclaims. She’s probably loving this like I am. We love to people watch. The next thing I know the men have climbed on top of the seats and having starting singing happy birthday to me, and then the rest of the subway people chime in. One of
them offers me a shot of whiskey to toast, but my mom decides it is too early. “We’re cycling from Boston to New York city next month so we’re in training mode!” exclaimed the man on the bike. “Then why are y’all on the subway? Short cut?” I question. “OMG! Y’all? Omg you guys she is SO cute! So southern! I ADORE! And yes. Our legs was ti-ered! Plus, we needed a juice break!” He then raises up the bottle of whiskey. The train arrives at 19th and Weston bringing the subway to a halt, causing a bike to slide down the train and the bottle to fly out of the man’s hand. It’s our stop, so my mom and I wave farewell to our new friends and exit the train. I turn around and the man yells, “Keep in touch girlfriend! Happy birthday sister!”
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63
- kent malcolm
untitled.
THE PIANO BENCH. A 64
- anonymous
s I walked into Grady Hospital, the distinct, overly-sterile scent that fought to mask reality caused the usual drop in my stomach to occur. My ears burned and my legs felt weak, but I carried on. Although I rarely made trips to the hospital, the atmosphere somehow felt so familiar to me. Families, couples, and some lonely individuals passed me, forgetting their southern hospitality in the midst of their own situation. Luckily, the receptionist politely greeted my family and I and restored the hospitality, “Hey, what room are y’all looking for?” “The room number for Smith, please.” Now knowing the room number, we walked through the maze-like halls in search of the correct location. Every hall seemed the exact same: riddled with nurses on stand-by, waiting for the worst to happen. As we entered the ICU, the lights dimmed and the uneasy feeling in my stomach became prominent. I curiously peered into each room I passed, but the sights I found sorely disappointed me. Finally, we reached our destination. The room itself was musty, and I gazed out the window at the concrete buildings below as my family made small talk in an attempt to ignore the screens, tubes, and noises that made up the room. “Mary Anne, I’m
gonna bring dinner over. Whatever you want I’ll cook. How’s chicken casserole sound?”, My mother’s southern Alabama accent seemingly switching off as soon as she spoke to my grandmother. “That sounds lovely, Rosemary.” I could almost see the heat waves of classic summer weather in Georgia roll off of every car below me, and, being such an old building, I heard Grady’s air conditioning straining to keep the temperature below 75°. “They should really renovate this place. It’s even greyer on the inside than it seems on the outside,” I thought to myself. “Elise, sweetie, would you like to say anything?” my dad asked cautiously, as if I could detonate at any moment. Turning away from the skyline, I looked to my grandfather with loving, melancholy eyes and finally realized why my family and I had made the visit. Memories of playing piano and speaking broken Spanish to each other flashed back to me and caused a smile to break upon my stern face. “Beeba, I can’t do it. My hands can’t keep up with the music.” “Oh, you’ll get it soon enough, just don’t give up.” I hear my grandmother, dressed in pearls and the perfect Sunday attire, converse with the rest
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of my family over tea and coffee. “Why, just a few months ago my friend Alice asked me to drive her to Sunday church over at Peachtree Road Methodist an’, with Alice being such the lovely woman she is, I just couldn’t help but accept. Well, weeks go by an’ here I am still driving her to church! I am so cross with her, but my predicament is that she can’t ride with anyone else except for me. Bob, would you be a dear an’ set the table for dinner?” My grandfather slips away to prepare dinner, and I am left to
figure out the piano notes by myself. As the notes I play harmonize, a smile creeps onto my face and a sense of joy spreads throughout the Buckhead condo. I quickly snapped back into reality just as my family prepared to leave the hospital room and say goodbye. The room looked brighter now, the mustiness I once felt was gone, and, most of all, my grandfather was happy. “Bye Beeba, I’ll see you later,” I said with the same sense of optimism given to me on the piano bench.
windows. - tara varzi
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Family Feud. M
- anonymous
Steve Marine Poetry Contest 1st Place Winner y brother is always yelling about my mother yelling my family is loud and talkative because it makes life easier because silence enables our thoughts to unleash a beast we caged and thinking leads to reflection on situations we pronounced dead we have learned to outshot one another because secrets are whispered and demons like silence we are sure to never look back instead, we let it boil on the back burner until the pot runs over and even then we etch-a-sketch memories that are too graphic to stomach but make a feast over leftover feelings which leads to thanksgiving tell-alls like we have drowned in liquor and been
left with hangovers that stop everyone’s memories from hanging over but we’re loud and funny so, to outsiders we’re functioning and striving on a show that’s lasted for too many seasons but no one can stay away for too long for there is never a dull moment and since no one likes the commercial breaks that make up their lives they binge on us because laughter is healing even if the side effects are far worse than the pain that got them there and even in all this joy that’s all so facetious i keep finding myself crying backstage as the play still goes on and i’m not even sure they’ve noticed my character has died off seasons ago
h
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- tara varzi
heart of darkness.
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PLEASE, NOT ANOTHER POEM. Steve Marine Poetry Contest 2nd Place Winner
P
lease, not another poem, Another wallow of despair, Another encapsulation of darkness, Another broken interior. Let me guess, “no one understands.” Please, not another poem, Another wailing of gloomy metaphors, Another calamitous engulfment of ravens, Another enigmatic tale of sorrow. Let me guess, “no hope remains.” Please, not another poem, Another ballad of consternation, Another rambling of exile. Another non-solution. Let me guess, “it’s not a phase, mom!” Where does it end with you cynics? Does every glimmer of cheer evaporate Where the Sidewalk Ends? Does every mention of optimism constitute a shot to your ear? Does every hint of yellow burn your dark eyes? Where does it stop with you pessimists? Does every statement of possibility mark me your enemy? Does every prospect of compassion
- katie leonard
indicate ignorance? Does every twinkle of delight shudder your misunderstood spine? Storm your Bastille of misery! Throw off your cloak of ebony! Sprint into the sun itself, no matter if you stumble, For it aches to wash you in an abundance of comfort. Oh, I see. Crossed a line, I have. Spoken too directly, I assume. Stirred the pot, I gather. But without horrid reminders of compassion, Of blazing confidence, Of imminent victory, Of erratic joy, Of tight embraces, Of brilliant laughter, Of fierce comradery… Darkness never transpires incomprehensible. Gloom hardly emerges an anomaly. And the poets will indefinitely emerge victorious, And separately march home to their caves of solitude, And suck every last promising breath from the air, And write another.
cheer.
- katie leonard
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i dream of times. Steve Marine Poetry Contest 3rd Place Winner
I
dream of times where God is finally watching me and the world is moving in a circle that doesn’t leave me dizzy and gasping for air where my shoulders don’t carry mountains and my eyes only wanders to places i want to be in where my smile ain’t so frown and my eyes don’t look like massacre like defeat like the devil won the battle and the war i dream of times that I am okay and that is okay but for now it is just me and i am the only one watching waiting for God to look back at me
- anonymous
.
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raft boy. - tara varzi
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respectful discourse. Steve Marine Poetry Contest honorable mention
I
- micah alves-amar
could never comprehend the hatred between Ellen Phant and Jack Assler.
By golly! They seem so alike, but their views couldn’t be more dissimilar. Their voices, firm, strong and determined to pronounce, But when they collide with each other, they are ready to pounce. “To fix the world! That is what I want to do!” They say. As they viciously scream with malicious dismay. Is it really a debate? Diplomacy? Respectful discourse? Or a relentless war with little to no remorse? Do I really need to prove to you that discussions have gone astray? Oh, fine, then we will flashback to afternoon of last Thursday. The day has ended, however Ellen is fuming with rage. Witnessing Jack preaching about a standardized wage.
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She screeches, “How preposterous of you to propose!” “As a member of the right I’m afraid I must oppose.” Jack responds, “Fair enough, but as for trickledown economics,” “In concept as fantastical and unreal as superhero comics.” Ellen replies, “Then make sense of the socialist Bernie Sanders, Whose taxes are so high they can be equated to slanders.” “Slanderous like Donald Trump’s behavior” Jack remarks. “His policies are almost as bad as the insults that he barks” Ellen, furious, steps closer and closer to Jack’s chair. “I will still remain civil, but let me clear the air.” Trump has done a whole lot for this nation.” “Tax cuts, Afghanistan, all due to his causation.” Jack proceeds to slap his palm on his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Trump is a disgrace!” “The Middle East is ruined, Asia will hate us.”
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“The wall that he promised will leave more debt to await us.” Time goes on to pass, no one bats an eye. As Ellen and Jack proceed their war cry. An hour disappears, as social issues arise. Ellen: “Accepting transgender something you can’t surmise.”
people
is
Jack, exhausted, “America is about being who you want to be.” “It is twenty nineteen, do what you like and be free.” Ellen, also fatigued, “You are all such weaklings.” “To quote my favorite lawyer, ‘Facts don’t care about your feelings.’” Both have had enough, their differences consume them. After arguing about religion, Palestine, income. They launch at each other, ad hominems thrown. Tackling and scratching right down to the bone. Sometimes a clash of ideals is a sight to behold. We watch it on television, not knowing we are controlled. Supporters or Warriors, both waiting to maraud. Respectful discourse is nothing but a façade.
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Heart of faith. - josh hawn
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mass incarceration. Steve Marine Poetry Contest honorable mention
M
ass incarceration By the nation Facing racists Got frustration Losing patience My world feeling forsaken
- franklin stanley
I don’t wanna be a statistic Of the ballistics Of our existence As a people unified By a movement so prolific It’s so crazy It’s amazing It’s a blessing I must say To be hearing all these lessons From the wise back in the day Mind racin’ when I see a movement of the People Conquering a system that was meant to be deceitful Who your hero A Rapper that just spit in the mic Or a hooper Who jumpin’ wanna be like Mike I got some heroes back in history And no it’s not a mystery It’s Martin, Rosa, Lonny, All the people who faced misery Of segregation More like a love and justice separated In our eyes The answer is so complicated You can change the laws Force a different norm of life
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But you can’t change the hearts of racists Man that causes strife As the next generation of society I cannot lie the pressure gives me such anxiety They wanna quiet us so we’ll be movin’ silently Fist up in rebellion so the Lord will be eyeing me They wanna take away our fathers Leave us with no influences for our sons and daughters The media will show our Kings and Queens so unbothered By their crimes but they won’t show our people getting slaughtered When I see brown brother on the news he do the crime When he get killed the shooter never do the time They say I’m only just a child there ain’t nothin’ I can do But that just gives me motivation more that I can prove Got the wisdom and the knowledge and the power and the voice To speak against a system will leave us with no choice We caught up in the cycle of oppression and a war That we didn’t even start but we gon’ finish it for sure
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“I
katie leonard - editor in chief
liked myths. They weren’t adult stories and they weren’t children’s stories. They were better than that. They just were.” - Neil Gaiman, The Ocean at the End of the Lane
“L
matthew raeside
“P
- designer in chief
eople observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it’s quite clear that a day merges through a multiude of shades and intonations with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors.” - Markus Zusak, The Book Thief
annie sager
- staff member
ife is a question of nerves, and fibres, and slowly builtup cells in which thought hides itself and passion has its dreams. You may fancy yourself safe and think yourself strong. But a chance tone of colour in a room or a morning sky, a particular perfume that you had once loved and that brings subtle memories with it, a line from a forgotten poem that you had come across again, a cadence from a piece of music that you had ceased to play... I tell you, that it is on things like these that our lies depend.” - Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
“I
miller reid - staff member
find him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain colours.” Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
STAFF:
“S
jaylee davis
- managing editor
tuff your eyes with wonder. Live as if you’d drop dead in ten seconds. See the world. It’s more fantastic than any dream made or paid for in factories.” - Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
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lee hickman
“R
- staff member
eal courage is when you know you’re licked before you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what.” - Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird
aidan zeissner
“H
- staff member
er prominent eyes swam with tears as she gasped for breath... the ludicrously prolonged laughter of Luna Lovegood, who was rocking backward and forward, clutching her sides.” - J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
nubia udoh
“W
- associate editor
hen you realize that quantum mechanics underlies all physical processes, from the fusing of atoms in the sun to the neural firings that constitutes the stuff of thought, the farreaching implications of the proposal become apparent. It says that there’s no such thing as a road untraveled. Yet each such road - each reality - is hidden from all others.” Brian Greene, The Hidden Reality: Parallel Universes and the Deep Laws of the Cosmos
“T
omari foote
- staff member
here is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside of you.” - Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
“I
mrs. batchelor - advisor
f you’re just starting out as a writer, you could do worse than to strip your television’s electric plug-wire, wrap a spike aroound it, and then stick it back into the wall. See what blows, and how far. Just a thought.” Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft