THE ORANGE

THE ORANGE 2012 Chapbook

Literary Arts Department

Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12

A Creative and Performing Arts Magnet

THE ORANGE 2012 Chapbook Literary Arts Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12 A Creative and Performing Arts Magnet

THE ORANGE 2012 Chapbook Literary Arts Department Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12 A Creative and Performing Arts Magnet

Copyright Š 2012 Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12 Pittsburgh, PA The copyright to individual pieces remains the property of each author.

Reproduction in any form by any means without specific written permission from the individual authors is prohibited.

For copies or inquiries: Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12 Mara Cregan, Literary Arts Chair 111 Ninth Street Pittsburgh, PA 15222 mcregan1@pghboe.net 412.338.0374 Ms. Melissa Pearlman, Principal

The Literary Arts Program at Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12 is a seven-year, intensive course of study in creative writing, one of a dozen nationwide. Here at Pittsburgh CAPA, students with a love of writing and a commitment to achievement have opportunities to pursue their passion that are unavailable virtually anyplace else.

Our young writers explore every literary genre: poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and drama. Each year, working with specialists in every genre, they take increasingly advanced courses, as they work to create a broad and sophisticated writing portfolio.

But Pittsburgh CAPA Literary Artists don’t simply write. They edit; they publish; they perform. They use their writing to connect themselves to the larger world, the world beyond our school’s walls. In their classes and in special collaborative projects literary artists explore mythology, literature, history, and many other art forms. They also connect themselves to one another, forming a community of writers that encourages and sustains their imaginative work.

Literary Artists have collaborated with Carnegie Mellon University Writers, Chatham University Creative Writers, The Warhol Museum, The Mattress Factory, The Carnegie Museums, New Works Festival, Saltworks Theatre Company, and the City Theatre as well as with the dance, visual arts, instrumental and theatre departments at Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12.

Pittsburgh CAPA’s Literary Arts program prepares students to achieve in many fields. Alumni of our program have gone on to study writing, anthropology, film, history, education and other disciplines at Carnegie Mellon University, the University of Michigan, Vassar University, Yale, Trinity College in Dublin, Smth College, Bard College, Temple University, Beloit College, Antioch, Sarah Lawrence, Carlow College, the University of Pittsburgh, and other fine schools.

Our writers are recognized nationally and throughout the region. In 2010, a literary artist was awarded the Scholastic Portfolio Award in Writing. In 2007, a literary artist was named a Presidential Scholar in the Arts by Department of Education. CAPA writers have also been awarded major prizes. The winners of Carnegie Mellon University Martin Luther King Jr. Writing Awards, The Pittsburgh Public Schools Power of the Pen Awards, the City Theatre Young Playwrights Festival, Pittsburgh New Works Children’s Festival and the Heinz Endowment High School Writing Awards have all been literary artists.

We may be the youngest program at Pittsburgh CAPA 6-12, but we’re already writing our own place in CAPA history.

Mara Cregan, Department Chair Kristin Kovacic, Poetry Maureen McGranaghan, Dramatic Writing Sarah Shotland, Nonfiction

Lynn Marsico, 6-8 Specialist Kathleen Donnelly, Dramatic Writing Zachary Harris, Fiction

Level Four

TABLE OF CONTENTS Sarelm Brooks

Truth Be Told Juliana Collins

Lost Ones

Cassie Darcy

Progress Lily Deciantis

Dust David Foster

Gluttony Kyara Francis

Love is Transformation Noah Gup

In the Silence of Your Room Kaitlin Manion

Bop 2012 Claire Matway

July Marigny Norman

Holiday

Alexis Retcofsky

Alexis, The Brick House

Teireik Williams

The Invitation

Adam Zell

Thou Shall Not Live to Eat

Truth Be Told Sarelm Brooks

Could’ve fooled me. I figured you’d be here already.

Henry, I thought you were always so prepared, you who can buy and sell politicians to satisfaction, you with grand enough resources to arm a revolution.

Perhaps you’re losing steps in advanced age.

Perhaps you’re trying so hard to manipulate games of young men that you’ve become chaotic.

Is this the same mastermind who taught me to kill?

Henry, do you even know who you are, what you are?

Is disorganization an effect of a man fighting for beliefs, or are you a liar, a hypocrite to his own words, looking not for a country but the prosperity of a wallet?

Truth be told, I believe you’re a fool. I believe that your government and Transcontinental Railroad will turn its back on you when it is convenient for them.

These men are corrupter than you, but you’re always blind.

Your government’s been working to build prison cells.

How long until you’re lassoed, thrown in one of those cars, and tossed in a cell with somebody else you’ve betrayed?

Believe me, Henry, these men will not give you wealth.

However, I realize that you did not come here for the truth, you wanted me to cower. Perhaps to run so far away, but you will not see me tremble. Death is imminent.

If you were looking for cowardice, look in the mirror.

Lost Ones Juliana Collins

To Angelea, my best friend of fourteen years: “Sometimes being a friend means mastering the art of timing. There is a time for silence. A time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. And a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it’s all over.”- Gloria Naylor Our thumb-thick curls used to bounce to the melody of classical music and naïveté across Point Park dance studios. The early birds beckoned us on their window-sill perches, singing ballads of dreams kindling to fireworks.

Brueggers bagels slathered in layers of cream cheese melted between our baby teeth as we recalled routines just learned.

Angelic notes always hit me from your green eyes rather than vocal cords.

Your fair fingers intertwined with my long chai ones until we parted for home.

Middle school came and costume dust encompassed the musty air. Mild acne dispersed on my forehead’s epidermis, sebaceous glands working twice as hard while yours hid behind levels of porcelain.

“You’re beautiful Juliana Rae,” you whispered when no one else was around, our favorite stuffed animals listening on the conversation.

Boys kissed you but dissed me, your curves forming before mine and no one even noticed except for the clouds and the sun tagging along.

Under its rays we’d let our fingerprints interlock until identities were mistaken.

High school changed us.

Scuffed ballet slippers reside in the crevices of your lungs now, where you inhale and exhale the oxygen of childhood.

Our fingers still intertwine, but loosely with the tips brushing together gently.

My liberal thoughts of social science and the natural good of each breathing person creates a distance between us and your Bible.

Our souls will scream at one another until our chests burst open to reveal blood clots on the heart; moments of laughter heal the expanse without medical injections.

I cherish the humid days that we bake until we burn and become bronze once more, the nights that mosquitoes obscure our bare arms and legs during conversations of why I love him so hard.

Infinite runs through the woods lead us to bold decisions and uncertainties.

The sun illuminates worries, but then your magenta lips graze my cheek and a long arm dangles around my neck.

We barely speak of college, of smoky cities separating us until our statures blend in with the skyline. “Destiny is not temporary” rings through our joints until they weaken and collapse when we aren’t at peace.

But fear will not win. At least not permanently because even when the map generates borders, our fingers will enclose into each other’s once more and experiences will vanish

Progress

Cassandra Darcy I have your eyes, nose, and thick hair.

I’ve seen your mistakes written on my decisions.

Everything I do is based on the poor choices you told me about. Your past isn’t what I desire to tightly hold when the night approaches.

Our shadows never meet.

You’re a woman; hard headed, and intelligent. You guard yourself from the world because it’s let you down more than it has proved you wrong.

I forgive the tone of your voice because your frustration needs to be heard.

You’re stubborn because you traded in one too many morals to be on someone else’s side.

You hold onto the nights you came home late and the holidays you had to work.

You refuse to forget the mornings you left before I woke up and the night I laughed and you forgot to listen.

You hold onto the guilt, it reminds you to be better.

Your past is your reflection; you refuse to let it go. I’ve watched you mourn for a planned future that went south and I’ve seen you smile in snow storms

and in the middle of the pouring rain.

I’ve smiled with you and cried alone.

I’ve listen to you vent and watch you act.

I’ve noticed you’re one who pushes everything down because fear told you, you couldn’t deal.

You know better.

You’re more than you sell yourself to be and less than who you’ll become.

You’re a mother of two and a work in progress.

Dust

Liliana De Ciantis The heart is the only broken instrument that works. ~T.E. Kalem It feels like an impenetrable weight on my ribs that makes me sunken in the chest like an old, battered soul, aged like wine, an acquired taste.

It feels like a nervousness in my fingertips that a pill won’t fix.

It feels like disappointment in all of my sweet spots.

Like a vacuum stuck sucking in my stomach.

Like waiting for a train that won’t come, a mute to speak, flour that won’t fry.

Feels like a sticky situation, constricting me like a boa, keeps my tongue tied mouth agape ears a-listening to a familiar song that we have forgotten the lyrics to, but we still sing.

Like aging, losing youth growing wrinkles

arching back.

For the longest time I used to think that this feeling would only strike once, like mono, chicken pox, but this lasted far longer and it will come again.

Gluttony David Foster

One chocolate cherry was all that’s left. I ate that too.

My sweet tooth is my one guilty pleasure. Guiltless If it’s only my own candy eaten, I guess.

Should that have changed at all when, told by Ben, I knew That companies were using slave labor, the people who Toil on plantations to make each year’s harvest Of my pleasure are brutally oppressed.

At first I thought it was too bad to be true, But as he told me more around the campfire He roasting marshmallows, refusing a smore, I saw the truth, a quite unpleasant sight.

When I was all alone in the shadows and light, later, I contemplated a half eaten Hershey bar And sat hungry by the fire that night.

Love is Transformation Kyara Francis

I want you to cut your hair, clean and smooth, smooth on my fingertips when they dance on its surface.

Body covered in green material that is terse to the touch and boots high and strong on your calves; I want you to fight, each medal on your body, a bleeding wound.

But not from war, I never want to lose you.

But fight with me. Fight for me.

I’ll doll myself up.

I’ll bake you some biscuits.

I’ll remind you of home.

Or maybe I want you to zip up the back of my dress.

Step Back. Admire. I want your eyes to Flicker up and down. Jive up and down, hollering “damn baby you went all out!” but with lips pressed in silence. I never want your cologne to stop whispering sweet nothings to my nose.

Keep charming me. Keep spoiling me.

I’ll straighten your bow tie.

I’ll free the lint from your tux.

I’ll grace you with elegance.

Or perhaps I want you to turn up the bass. Sing louder than the crowd can chant your name.

Sing my name. Murmur my name. Dance to my essence. I want you to bring me on stage with you and neglect your fans and remember only me.

I never want my blood to stop vibrating to the kick drum.

Move me with your magical strings. Music me.

I’ll be your entourage.

I’ll tap dance to your tunes.

I’ll show you undying loyalty.

I want you to call me sweet thang.

I want to call you baby.

I want to hop on a motorcycle to nowhere.

Let’s be who we never were.

In the Silence of Your Room Noah Gup

When you left the house became a ghost, the dinner table a minefield.

You left the night deep and silent, the sound of your feet tiptoeing down the stairs missing.

When you left I stopped having to report to you about every detail of my day.

Your songs stopped echoing from the bathroom, diluted by the white noise of water droplets streaming down.

When you left you took the place we sprawled out in the den, Hercules on television.

We sat on the edge of sleep, refusing to give in, muttering lines we knew like the spaces between our fingers. Our voices were lines of thick steam.

When you come home your book bag overflowing your feet filling empty seconds, I am filled with a warmth that is as pure as the night you cried at me in the kitchen, and I hugged you

as the backyard light lit up empty chairs, grass rusting in curls.

Bop: 2012 Kaitlin Manion

we rushed down hallways to finally get to an ending but were left with nothing, just jeans with holes and old middle school t-shirts.

Our neck ties on too tight because nobody told us how to grow.

what do they even know? nothing.

four years ago, nobody told us which grades would count for college credits or whether we would be doctors, or philanthropists, or end up at community college down the street. on ninth street life is different. our air is filtered and we are tiny kings, nervous and happy. eggs spoiled beyond the point of return

what do they even know? nothing.

they could have shoved us into tight fitting catholic school uniforms and stuffed us into classrooms with no windows but would we be the same people? no, we are luminary humans prepared with ten thousands weapons for the world.

what do they even know? nothing.

July

Claire Matway Nine o’clock comes flowering from sidewalk cracks, spread diagonal with dying sunsoak as gold as amber as the taste of crimson on the vanishing sky, and we are walking the way we walked into summer, the way windows fill wooden tabletops with alive gleaming grain.

I will slow-race you across the newborn baby night and we will become birds in between street corners, robins scattered like polka-dots on the great inverted belly of the hill that has cupped so many sunsets.

(imagine that there are tiny silver moons orbiting your fingertips, that the force of your pulse will form storms, and you will be watching as the smallest lightning bolts I have known go splintering into the grooves between your fingerprints)

Nine o’clock comes sprouting into the dawn green where I am sleeping, spread horizontal with slurring summerbeams as opulent as dreams as me and I am a citrus-sounding door-knock on this day. I am moving the way lemons roll through grass, plowing my fingers through lovedust of so many good years and my arms feel like water, like the paths of mornings I

have almost forgotten, but I am

spilling old songs over the streets where I am breathing, where the soft presence of my same self is standing, inhale, exhale, robins, moons.

It is enough.

Holiday

Marigny C. Normann What sordid America!

Shiny night echoed and nothing more.

Only Virginia took up and zoomed to New Year’s Eve, left the expensive Jersey road.

Ten years, zooming through the Appomattox River

Now tell God, “Sal wanted King to see everything exists.

Time. Greeks. Geometry. His fist.

And God.” One family wanted a daughter

like furious coattails!

with the summer’s mist nipping at your heels, you are almost home.

Home is everywhere, as long as you listen.

but received nothing of the sort, no baby’s cries woke them at night, no small foot prints sullied their floors.

Move through life

Except that Denver thought reform was a punk psychological position.

Now, the stones of a man die.

will drive and you can sleep anywhere.

Because people, they take the sweetness.

We are not alone, family is where home is and we

-Original text: “On the Road� by Jack Kerouac

Alexis, The Brick House Alexis Retcofsky

I’m living in the waiting room on the tenth floor of a New York City skyscraper.

I wish. Actually, I’m living in the bedroom on the second floor of a Crafton brick house.

It’s purple and messy and it looks like it’s going to be this way forever.

Like I will come home to this forever.

Like I am a brick house with peeling wallpaper and leaky faucets Like I am a bedroom with slightly stained carpet and lots of dusty things— books I don’t have time to read, porcelain dolls with empty smiles, knickknacks, crayons, wind chimes with a cat in a gazebo.

Like everything is dust.

Like I will live like this forever.

Like living here will be rain, thunder and all,

puddles forming in old ballet shoes hanging above the window by the bed, catching every blustery thought in pink satin lining.

Like staying will create hurricanes, like leaving might create typhoons.

But, I guess it’s true that I can’t predict the weather past the storm.

The Invitation Teireik Williams

Crystal ruined princes and pharaohs came to America and overcame sorrows.

Jaws broke at our strength as we made men, manufactured in the soul and birthed through the pen.

See, we bleed blood of the Nile where all life begins where it connects with the rest that brings death to the men.

The cheetahs and jaguars make you raise your flags higher but we sold our soul to the fool that had his hand higher.

I became a scribe to describe the insides of my mind, of my mind and my soul.

But our story grows old tales that are hardly told our generation doesn’t know.

We fail in the classrooms our glasses are half full our minds are half closed yet the pain still grows.

See, we are caterpillars,

being flung from catapults into pillars knocking over the boulders of realness interrupting the stillness because we can’t stand to hear this.

So witness! this testament of fitness of a young generation’s mental intuition.

And if then you decide that you still don’t believe, if you believe it’s absurd that they are taking our words then kind sir, I politely disrespect you.

I invite you on stage look what you stand next to.

This is our future and we can’t protect who?

There is no reason you and I should have to do what the police receive a check to.

Perhaps if we didn’t pay them, our children they’d save them. Young mothers wouldn’t hover over there covers praying to our savior screaming Lord save them Lord save them

We are living in a nightmarish dream state, country, continent planet. I am but one voice against a generation of damage— I am running out of brothers and sisters left to stand with. Which is why I propose this question to you.

Will you help me stay alive?

Thou Shall Not Live To Eat Adam Zell

Wind bites your neck downtown.

Eyes swivel towards moving cars and bakery windows.

Plump women with round thumbs hold miniature boxes wrapped with tight pink bows.

Welcomed by warmth and smells of sugar you enter the fat walls of claustrophobia.

Cupcakes with blue icing sit atop counters, staring you down like you’re some hot shot. Vanilla and love wrap you like a present and twirl you around. Pointing, you say to the cashier, “I want that one!” The blue icing dances on your tongue, taste buds pulsate like tiny lightning bolts down spinal cords. One turns into two. Two to three. Only when you reach for more napkins have you realized what you’ve done. The blue cupcake speaks English inside your stomach, cheering you on for your sins revolving and turning, following linear trails to your waist. You imagine thin fingers puffing up like sausage links and telephone poles. You are full now.

Satisfied. Wallets open their mouths, exposing an empty gut.

Leaving the bakery, you’re back in the cold, back in the world where wind bites your neck, where cars beep loud horns— where you wish you had

stopped at one because one was enough.

Not two, and not three.

Level Three

TABLE OF CONTENTS David Dull

38th St. Nights With My Father Ekin Erkan

Walking By the Fruit Tree Rowan Fiorilli

Flappers Josie Griffith

What We Stand On Megan Lohner

Letter to Santa Samara McGraw

Paradise Adam MacDonald

Reflections William Marchl

Have You Decided On a College

Yet?

Kelsey Miller

Seventeen Agatha Monasterios

What If It Had Never Rained?

Jordan Montgomery

Go to the man, Talk to the poet Starla Murray

African Bead Shanquae Parker

Extraterrestrial Matthew Reiser

Darling, You’ve a Curious Way of

Showing How You Love Somebody Diana Sims

Together at Brunch Jasper Wang

All I Can Remember Stephanie White

The Sculptor Samantha Winston

Comfort of the Waves

38th St. Nights With My Father David Dull

You tried to deceive me every single time But I was always older than you thought.

You won’t take anything that is mine.

I’ve learned much from life, not from you.

With all of the adversities I fought.

You can’t deceive me, I thought you knew?

Whenever you spoke I wanted to flee.

I wish all of these emotions would just stop.

You’ll never take what belongs to me.

When the sun rises and you return, Take my emotions to the junk shop.

I won’t let you steal anything I’ve earned.

Now time has passed and you want something new, But I can’t give that and I feel forever blue.

You tried to deceive me every time, But you cannot take what is mine.

Walking By the Fruit Tree Ekin Erkan

The veiny summer tree gave me her reddish oval fruit and of course I can’t, or won’t, eat such a precious jewel.

I figure I’ll just let her shine like Pirate’s Loot.

My mouth parched, I cannot talk, I’m a fiddler with a flute.

My tongue is dried, and he asks me why I am so very cruel, but the veiny summer tree gave me this reddish oval fruit In the grey dusk my shoes echo the owl’s hoot.

Won’t roll my fruit down the street and play imaginary boules, I figure I’ll rather let her shine like Pirate’s Loot.

I begin to scratch, scrape, and pick at her golden suit, But it seems that once again, my mind has won the duel, So, I figure I’d just let her shine like Pirate’s Loot.

I’ve reached the town river, where my legs and body fall cool And dunk my old crimson fruit in her watery youth.

For the veiny summer tree gave me her reddish oval fruit, and I figure the water will let her shine like Pirate’s Loot.

Flappers Rowan Fiorilli

Where others put them, these pearls, decked out like a cool frappe that only light makes pale, coiled skin like a cherry flare.

Where is she? Whole new eras try to guess while she takes another leap!

Glitter, those ever-moving sera, catch watching hearts on a spear— Mhm. Fame was for sale back when it was five cents per fare, and when she smiled, stifled fear.

Red Hands, Clean Slate Josie Griffith

Upon eyes, upon lips, upon ancient, swaying hips that bend and lend but never break.

Upon cheeks and silver bones.

And upon the sad, shivering stones aged and weighed down, down, weighed down so deep that the creases in your hands are covered and your own mind is wiped clean.

Letter to Santa Megan Lohner

Dear idiot who thought Santa was a good idea,

I don’t what you’re thinking right now; maybe you’re happy with what you’ve done, or maybe contemplating what went wrong with your innocent creation that turned into a monster. Yeah, I’m talking about Santa Claus.

First you wait hours and hours in line at the mall to see some fat beardy imposter Santa sitting on a throne surrounded by elves saying, “Sit on my lap! You may not know me but I know you! Because I watch you when you sleep!”

And parents encourage this! It’s like once you get into the velvet rope corral they suddenly forget about all that “Stranger Danger!” stuff. Also, if you’ve ever looked this up on Wikipedia, it is described as a “ritual”.

Then you wait for weeks in anguish wondering whether or not you were worthy enough to get what you wanted for Christmas. All the while the real Santa is up at his workshop…no, factory, in the middle of Nowhere, Antarctica whipping deer, ignoring his wife, watching children to deem whether they are “naughty” or “nice”, getting cheap labor from elves and burning a hole in the ozone layer. Where did he get all these elves in the first place? I suspect that they are children forced to live under the title of elves.

Paradise

Samara McGraw Would a person like me dare To go to a place that’s on the side Of the universe next to the pair Of gates leading into heaven? Rising To such an occasion is pivotal because Dasein Is only enough for Heidegger. My mother pries This land with her unworthy glances. I raise My hands as I thank the U.S. for ceasing to raid And destroy this self-proclaimed beauty. Being paid Any amount of money or love couldn’t make this instance die, no matter how secure. I’m here swinging my legs on God’s favorite pier.

Reflections

Written in Terrance Hayes’ anagram form.

Adam MacDonald Seeing one’s self in a glimmer of tinsel invokes a feeling most sincere.

The notion that a small, silent you can stand before himself. Two clones stare at themselves and massage the other’s cleft.

In a similar way a slippery thought reclines into a Gulden Draak. Swirling into a rose, the thought can now see itself; it’s true self. No room to frolic, no force nearby to provide a sturdy loft, not even the slightest hint of a stencil.

Have You Decided On a College Yet? Will Marchl

I slithered in, in ill-fitting skin, hunched back, hunchback, yellow since day one.

Ectomorphus bag of bones, bitter and unbroken.

Exhausted little infant man.

Punching bag for little women, passing through to pinch my skin raw, bruised, broken, and never coming back.

There’s no more fire in these bones to fight myself or anyone.

I’ve been yellow since day number one, the kicking block for old white men, white like milk, they build weak bones.

A sweaty brow and red flushed skin is all I have to look forward to, or back on really. I’ll probably be broke and maybe even happy, but mostly just broken, with a strong sense of guilt and a feeling I’ve won. One against the world, able to look back and laugh, an old little man in ill-fitting skin and a chill in his bones borrowed from the bones of the old, flushed, and broken.

Violence inside, beneath the skin it crawls like I’ve been since day number one,

exhausted little infant man bag of ribs and flesh and hunched over back.

Some days I wish I could take it all back, even if it took some more bruises and fractured bones.

Whatever it takes to make a wiser man.

I’m sure there’s some rules that I’ve left unbroken.

I’d take it all back to stanza one, and slink back out in my ill-fitting skin Old, wrinkled skin, slowly slithering back, to the lonely one, it only took one bone to break a broken man.

Seventeen Kelsey Miller

So young and bold, we are too proud to admit that we care-Yet, we still have no care in our world.

We are the gold miners of the Earth.

Digging in the dust and in ourselves, we blindly discover life without even knowing it.

We search for what we want but can’t understand.

Dreaming is a lifestyle, regardless of how much we say we know that they may not come true.

We dream of perfection and clarity.

Our train of thought changes faster than a clock can even anticipate the next second.

Indecisive, we want to live in this moment, but aren’t patient enough to wait for the next stage in our lives.

As much as we’d like to think we’re full, life hasn’t even served itself yet.

This is only the beginning and as we grow, our eyes will open wider and wider, embracing the world for what it is, and understanding ourselves and who we are.

We are architects of the world, refacing its foundation with our lives.

What If It Had Never Rained?

Agatha Monasterios

I remember one night it rained.

Cold, then warm, sunlight pouring through the nimbus clouds, the smell of damp mulberries penetrating the sidewalk like mint.

Lungs heaving, I wondered if I had forgotten how to breathe underwater. Thicker and slower than honey, always running, blue bodies continuously eroding land.

I remember you leaned down and kissed the land, clenching dirt beneath your fingernails, and rain poured down your spine. You said we were running, we were the stitches unraveling from the clouds.

It was as if it always rained that way, easy as breathing, circles lingering on skin, tingling like peppermint.

That night the rain was freshly minted, young and green in the garden where it landed, inside the cavity of your mouth. There, I can breath, collapse over your tongue and teeth and throat like rain, fill up your lungs like a cloud, sleeping and running, running, running.

But when it rained you told me I could not stay anymore. You ran from me, lured me out with the smells of the earth and catmint.

I could not stay inside you anymore. You were brimming, a cloud, falling and ribboning through the sky, crash-landing, and I discovered, suddenly, as you tore apart the paths of the rain, that in the water surrounding your body I could not breath.

When you crashed, you took my lungs for your own breath.

When you crashed, I swallowed your drainage and ran, fearful of the roaring of the rain that pricked my nose and tongue like mint.

Chilled bones, cold toes pressed against the land, creating mud, malleable, supple like clouds.

The night that it rained, the clouds billowed, and for the first time breathed, stifling gasps with the unsteady land.

You told me that if it rained not to come running, but senses muted by the sharp slices of mint, blunt like a forest of stone, I didn’t believe in rain.

On that night we tired of the rain, dispelled the clouds; the mint stained our breath as the water ran off the land.

Go to the man, Talk to the poet Jordan Montgomery

As a juvenile I became inspired/to describe what I scribed in my spiral notebooks/my style is underground as a thousand earthworms/I’ve learned from the words from the first ones to do this/ words sprout from my two lips like tulips/I grew with the wisdom of the scriptures of the proverbs/ my heart burns in the ashes of an urn with I turned to the world and dispersed upon fertile soil/to roll in rolling mills/ that boy Jordan way too ill/I wrote this for your soul/ each bar shines as bright as gold/my flow is like elixir, one lick of the tongue/ can heal the sickest one young/and eternal my ether burns slow/flows cause corrosions, I eat holes in/instrumentals, I bleed pencil/lead, I can resurrect the dead/heard he’s dope well you spoke correctly/refreshing like a new air breeze/ or a fresh white T out the laundry/Moslov beats are hard to beat/still got a few tricks up the record sleeve/ you better believe in miracles/what you’re hearing now can’t be found on this globe/you the type of people that’ll make them turn the speakers low/that’s probably why we can’t hear you though/ you know?

African Bead Starla Murray

Hang on my hair like an African Bead, Slide down my strands and caress my mind, We share like animals of the same breed.

I cut my soul open, and inside you bleed You dance with my heart, and sway down my spine.

Hang on my hair like an African bead.

You said, over your love I will concede, You brushed me over a hill so divine, We ran like wild animals, of every breed.

You gave me a ring, said I’m all that you need.

And forever, whatever is yours will now be mine.

Hang on my hair like an African bead.

Hang like a conscience, determined to plead Innocent to an accident, but renamed a crime.

Now feeling like an animal of anonymous breed.

We are stitched together, our love is aligned, I’m in love with your soul it is oh so divine…

Hang on my hair like an African bead, We share like animals of the same breed.

Extraterrestrial Shanquae Parker

Time passes as I rest, my hopes and trails on broken rates.

My outer shell rails off into space. Test my human races’ tales of the old world’s last triumph to victory. Alas we win what is real to all, our secret trait of our human stress.

Darling, You’ve a Curious Way of Showing How You Love Somebody Matt Reiser

I find that a child can be quite hard to hold.

You can squeeze their wrist till they start to bruise.

You can leave on their arms squalid crimson stains.

You can look at me, they can cake on dirt.

I can fake a grin. I can ache, a throbbing in my heart.

We can smirk when your friends are watching, smile.

A small, tender woman spreads a sultry smile while my sunny eyes start to fade to a bloodstain. Hold the child as my anxious waist starts to tremble and my heart starts to beat faster, a neurotic pitter patter, my knuckle bruised from punching the walls, and hammering, with my fists, the dirt.

I try to shirk the blame, but how the fault stains!

As a boy, I’d more often than not come home, deep stains in the knees of my jeans. My mother would smile and my father brood as my feet left an imprint of dirt on the living room floor. There was nothing to hold.

Not a girl, not a soul. I played so hard, my legs bruised, made valentines for myself, a paper heart for an empty heart.

A family at the park, a broken shelter, a stronger heart.

A lonely, decaying bench along the path, a manic stain left from a child, calcium carbonate cylinders bruise the winding walk where you looked at me. Where you smiled at me. Where you damned, controlled, anything but hold.

And still I come back to this place to sit, to gaze at rancid

dirt.

A pill to make my pain less real, whitecoats crush my face in dirt.

Dilapidated street decay is poisoning my crimson heart.

And still I chain myself to stabbing pangs, I try to hold myself in line, to keep myself safe in my mind. The stains, I’m afraid, are here to stay. Mirror my demonized smile.

“I will never outlive my past,” says my knuckles and the bruise.

An old man, sitting in the dark, his body sore and badly bruised.

A worm is working through the earth, I now lie prostrate in the dirt.

His son is outside, with the girls. He’s busy now, forcing a smile.

A girl he knows will never bend, never let the iron heart’s grip on herself go, the standards, the structure, the stains, the times he shattered in ten thousand choking pieces.

Hold.

We are only what we choose to hold, until our fists bruise, until our others blood stains, until dragged through dirt.

And still my heart falls. And still my mouth smiles.

Together at Brunch Diana Sims

The girl lightly suggests that death is like sleeping, watching him drink a mimosa, testing the waters to see if it is behind him.

The Pac Man machine bleeps when Blinkie swallows him whole.

Watching him drink a mimosa— it is the last of their Sunday brunches.

The Pac Man machine bleeps when Blinkie swallows him whole.

Memories of anxious phone calls ring in their heads.

On the last of their Sunday Brunches, she gives him an abrupt kiss on an unshaven cheek, but the anxious phone calls still ring in his head.

The yolk of an egg drizzles yellow over his plate.

She gives him an abrupt kiss on an unshaven cheek, intrigued by talk of finite and infinite games— the yolk of an egg drizzles yellow over his plate.

Her replies are genuine and unthinking.

Intrigued by the talk of finite and infinite games, the woman at the next table stares openly, smiling when caught.

The girl’s replies are genuine and unthinking, her mood soft like the neck of a dove.

The woman at the next table stares openly, smiling, not caring too much if she is caught.

The girl’s braid rests soft on her neck like a dove.

Two cords tighten between their chests.

Not caring too much if she is caught, the girl lightly suggests that death is like sleeping as she tightens two cords between their chests, testing the waters to see if it is behind him.

All I Can Remember Jasper Wang

As children, we spent those empty hours lying on our backs, the sweetness of mango meat filling our mouths. And at seven years old, of course we didn’t have a clue about what in the world could be beautiful, or how easily it could be broken.

The doors in your house used to be breaking, crumbling, under the weight of so many hours spent outside, before the girls were beautiful and we painted our lips with lipstick, not mango juice. Later, those doors could have been a blazing clue, if anyone had paid attention at age seven.

And in the books of the Bible, isn’t seven the number of completeness? Brokenness was something that came afterward—countless clues that we missed in the multiplying hours and days. We only ever saw each other, mangoes streaked across the sheets beautifully like splattered acrylic, but not as beautiful as you, washing your hair for the seventh time that day, the kitchen swollen with mangoes almost as ripe as we were, easily broken and slowly bruising inside within hours, though we brushed it off as if we had a clue.

You always did everything cluelessly, our things scattered everywhere in a beautiful way, all of our minutes and hours under the couch. With you, seventy dollars could vanish in seconds, but “broke”

was a word best kept in our mouths, like mango juice, forgotten like the mango tree we used to own, like the door clues, like the way the world slowly broke apart under the weight of something beautiful, like you, at seventeen, when our lives seemed only hours long. And we believed that the seventh hour could bring healing of some kind, because God gave nothing if not clues. Today, all I can remember is that those mangoes were beautiful, and that we broke them.

The Sculptor Stephanie White

I’ve got great ideas.

Don’t you toss them like your mother’s.

I know about the people’s needs.

I’ve sculpted the man you’ll never be.

Don’t you toss them like your mother’s— those tablet’s rules I bid you.

I’ve sculpted the man you’ll never be, our divinity forgives you.

A tablet’s rules will bid you stone by which to carve your grace.

My divinity forgives the pebbles you gamble over shame.

Stone with which you’ve carved your grace, my hands still skim for child’s face.

Gamble pebbles for your shame, you hold green marbles to your name.

My hands will skim for child’s face.

A child, you cry in man’s mistake.

You hold green marbles to your name.

A baby’s game, your woman plays.

A child cries in man’s mistake.

Baby, you shadow in stone solid grace.

A baby’s game your woman plays.

A new born’s life the price she pays.

I hold concrete divinity.

Who knows about the peoples’ needs?

Ask the man you’ll never be,

Comfort of the Waves Samantha Winston

The sky is clear on a night like tonight.

Light breezes float off of the ocean and I can taste the salt from my tears.

I would live here forever if I could.

Light breezes float off of the ocean lifting my hair off of my shoulders.

I would live here forever if I could, But tomorrow is enough for now.

Lifting the hair off my shoulders, I hear the rolling waves whisper “Tomorrow is not enough come now”.

I long to immerse myself in salt water.

I hear the rolling waves whisper, “I am here, come. I will hug you”.

I immerse myself in the salt water, its comforting sway repairing my heart.

“I am here, come. I will hug you” is what my mother said when I hurt.

Her comforting sway repaired my heart, preparing me for another day like today.

My mother said that when I hurt it was because I was becoming stronger, the hurt prepared me for another day.

She still gives me hugs to comfort me.

It was because I was becoming stronger, that I came to find comfort with the sea.

The waves still give comfort to me,

as I rock to the rhythm of the waves.

I rock to the rhythm of the waves, and I taste the salt from the water.

I come to find comfort with the sea, when the sky is clear like tonight.

Level Two

TABLE OF CONTENTS Jeremy Beer

Behind Us Shakeria Carter

Beyond Our Limit Mayah El-Dehaibi

An Ideal Reader Tyler Hudson

Stagnant Dra-Vaun Lee

Beautiful Daze Jonathan Lee

A Self Portrait Zakiyyah Madyun

Last Straw Jayne May-Stein

Negatif Abigail Maynard

Liquid Sun Lindsay McParlane

Sequence Alexis Royall

Absentee

Lily Schwartz

Watch Me, I’ll Jump Down These

Steps

Anita Trimbur

Excerpt from “ Buoyancy” Cole Weber

Eat Pray Love 2: Still Eatin’

Behind Us Jeremy Beer

The day behind us the night ahead, we walk the sands until we’re dead.

Dark sky above us beside is the tide.

Our hands held together, along we will glide.

Darkness takes over, it’s nearly time to go.

Let’s head on back to the place we call home.

Beyond Our Limit Shakeria Carter

I see you staring at me, lost like the ocean’s wind silence intertwining with your love umbilical babies stuck to you and me because we aren’t one, we pretend telegrams connecting us between earth’s shining ways forested in my mind you invade my circling presence you’re admiring to look at but dangerous to love tongues keep us near, a dreamer’s soul maybe this doesn’t make sense but you are darling, my darling wink at me, let me know that you care maybe you don’t your tonsils are visible, screaming toward me at me through me you are lost like me.

We search for a lover’s spirit lies spill on my heart you don’t attempt to clean them, cover them instead because that’s what counts, what matters the visible a spark of glam or love or affection. We’re gone.

Balloon.

An Ideal Reader Mayah El-Dehaibi

She will be perpetually forgetting her raincoat, flung over a chair in her bedroom under a moth-eaten

poncho.

In the bleary-eyed morning, tossing her pride-and-joy dread

locks, she will stride through the park, swinging her dirty tote bag on a strong shoulder, her thumb hooked into the

strap.

A stained paintbrush poking out from the top of her bag, the glasses she never remembers to wear, an unfinished knitting project slithering around my book, that she borrowed from a friend.

She’ll add it to her collection of stolen novels in some remote corner of her apartment next to some other ripening books where it will sit and seldom be opened because the pages don’t smell good yet.

Stagnant Tyler Hudson

An unreachable distance crawls behind me. It is the scalding water on my left thumb.

It is in the color of her forehead— clean, nonexistent, not a color.

It is in the windows—the eyes of empty campgrounds still stinging with her footprints—wet without rain.

Its blue clicks are thrown in gear, channeled into a shuffling unit, a thrum of weak legs churning the air of heavy silence, the ghost of a gale that rises from the places where my body is bruised and interrupted.

Beautiful Daze Drew Lee

Tomorrow is a new beginning. New paths will be explored, revealing the lost spirits of our umbilical pasts. We no longer want to hold on anymore, but instead want to free ourselves from the imaginary telegrams in our circling minds. Time is running out, only leaving us with fear and reality at the tips of our naĂŻve tongues. Hiding will cause us to lose solidity along this incessant road.

You see the worry in my weary face and you wink at me, reassuring that things will one day become clear. I want to ask questions, but my words just hang onto my tonsils, causing me to choke. I don’t want this to be the end of our serial bond. You and I both know that nothing in this world can fix what has happened.

Your smile ignites an epiphany, I know now that we are growing apart.

Our hands and our hearts and our souls are becoming limitless balloons, flying further away with only air and broken promises between us.

A Self Portrait

Jonathan Lee

Jonathan Lee sleeps in an endlessly decadent paradise.

Jonathan Lee is New Orleans.

He loves ugliness, swims in it, laughs and weeps with the unholy people of this earth.

Jonathan Lee stumbles through ancient carpeted tenements, trying to escape and simultaneously create meaning of the tattered scriptures of our lives.

Jonathan Lee remembers when he used to lose himself in the community gardens of youth and sprawl out like a Brazilian slum, and knows that these days he simply drifts through a dreadful business casual half-consciousness.

Jonathan Lee is omnipotent; with a wave of his hand he derives angels from sand and monuments from ashes.

Jonathan Lee must give up his brooding esotericism for a squalid misrepresentation of hip-hop culture, filled with the spontaneity that fueled the wild inception of the universe.

Jonathan Lee has hope like a rotted fruit with its seeds in the ground, dreaming of fruitness.

He stumbles witlessly through riverbanks, tosses his trappings in the flowing consciousness and grieves effortlessly, crashes into the soil with sorrow and ecstasy. He longs for the war-ravished inglorious oblivion of revolution. He feels like a refugee of stupidity, vulnerable to its luring grasp.

Jonathan Lee rejects the post-modern wasteland and this is his downfall.

Jonathan Lee signed a treaty with the sages and henceforth spends his nights chasing shades in the dark, longing for his breath to mingle with hers and pink clouds to surround them like cemeteries, but she vanishes, and so Jonathan sulks away, and loses himself under the blankets of night.

Last Straw

Zakiyyah Madyun The click, snap, scratch and the turn of a hat His hat, Grazing the sides of his skull like silk, Worn and loyal since who knows how many years ago, It shows his patience.

But he, like his hat and his velvety smooth sound that slides

over vocal cords Swims through the oxygen towards you, So you can swallow his words like a soft drink.

He tells you to take a chance.

You’ve heard of his kind in storybooks.

He passed each house on your block like a travelling sales

man, Offering up incandescent, indescribable opportunities, Strain your will to the breaking point in order to resist.

Oh, you’ve heard of his kind before.

But not like this, not in the flesh.

Scratch that, there’s no flesh at all, Just the subhuman grind of chalky bone on chalky bone, Raspy riddles escaping from the depths of his mysterious interior.

He falters, that’s when you know it’s the last straw.

His patience doesn’t stretch anymore.

The youthful charm he glided into town on has blown away Like summer wind in February, It is no longer.

No more, And not at all.

He has withered away with your childhood, He has seeped into the floorboards, His bones hum with the quick buzz of insect wings, And other various things that have taken solace inside him.

Whether they also hum with a soul that never quite

Negatif

Jayne May-Stein Fan churns the air, interrupts morning silence Bleary eyes, wishing to close but already open Weak legs, wishing to rest but already moving Always watching, never stopping The color of her forehead, not a color I remember it from yesterday Scalding water on my left thumb It’s clean, nonexistent.

The morning air like camp in June The windows, wet without rain Blue clicks are thrown in gear They murmur secrets to me The thrum of the stuck-fast bus doors tell me I’m not ready yet The places where my skin bruised Are questioned by grandma next to me

Liquid Sun Abbie Maynard

I wait, bathing in the bittersweet of the slow, steady ticking time bomb.

My knuckles flash white as I ball my hands into tight fists.

Living off of old excuses you’ve used thousands and thousands of times.

Yet I stand, heart on my sleeve, thoughts tattooed on my forehead, available for your personal amusement, use it as you will.

Stare up at the blazing sun, asking, “What more do you want?”

Expecting no reply, but still wanting an answer.

So I settle for the warmth of the liquid sun on my naked arms and legs, feel it radiate through strands of my knotted hair, falling down my back.

Sequence

Lindsay McParlane Later than the evening, night hums a sadistic tune.

I see eyes in the crevices, like secrets caught in mahogany.

The grass speaks with a whisper, laughs with a crack of mud.

Legs become wind, fingers twist knots.

Lakes with moments growing equally undisturbed, I am learning to appreciate safety.

But it was sold for a game of dominoes.

Now a ship rests miles below us, sleeping.

I guess I’ll just have to take the train instead.

Absentee Alexis Royall

I could picture her on that stiff hospital mattress, wanting to twist and turn to get comfortable, but not being able because of weak bones from lying in bed all day.

She would look sullen and tired—extremely tired—and I’d wish she would just die already. I’d feel bad for wanting it, but I wouldn’t be happy until she was gone. I could picture our last moments together. I could see our hands loosely grasping one another’s and I could hear the heart monitor beeping slowly. I wouldn’t know what to do except say “I’m sorry,” and she would smile that genuine smile of hers that I always wished I had and I would only manage my lousiest restaurant smile. I would stare into her wild gray eyes and start to melt, and she would see my cold blue eyes and start to freeze. And just like that, the heart monitor would become one long, uncomfortable hum and I would let her hand go.

The nurse would come in and I would suddenly remember thirty thousand things I wanted to say to her before she was gone, and it would be too late.

Watch Me, I’ll Jump Down These Steps Lily Schwartz

This is like waking up and my bad dream didn’t erase from my teary eyes yet.

I am so sick, so tired so drained. Stop telling me thunderstorms won’t hurt you cause my heart aches and my mind burns when lightning’s electrifying colors scream through my window like a broken hanger in the sky but this time I skip four steps and this time I land and I don’t call that art.

It is terror.

It hurts most when I dream of calling my mother but wake up alone and with a dry throat.

Excerpt from “ Buoyancy�

Anita Trimbur

Apolline is crisp and passing and an autumn, and tells Ellis that if she is to blame for his chronic demises, then he should have never let her in. She sips tea, and rests her heel on the spotless coffee table. He knows.

There is a beauty about her, a summer beauty, but it is an inhospitable beauty, a scathing beauty. Her eyes are green, are blue, are amber, and she is willowy, she is strong, she is fragile, and Ellis is ugly. He sits on the couch and tries to choke himself to sleep, but Apolline is a devastating presence. She laughs while Ellis tries to wish her away, until he realizes that he cannot wish away himself.

Eat Pray Love 2: Still Eatin’ Cole Weber

Trucks blare horns like a mariachi band and on occasion

play a novelty cover of an American pop song.

My neighbors are taken back to sleep by televisions’

fluorescent blue late night talk show riff-raff and worship the host in their

dreams.

Imagine Jay Leno at a loveseat Golgotha.

Tired, I stay up to catch the anniversary of a comet, falling to earth.

I am in a quiet room and I realize I am struggling to keep my eyes open.

As the comet flies overhead, I look into its stupefying beauty.

I am nothing but paper, dampened.

I pray fifty nights for new distractions and a soothing in my

muscles.

I sleep for forty-nine nights and never dream.

Outside I can hear nothing but trucks.

I find myself coming back to the familiar things.

Level One

TABLE OF CONTENTS Anne Amundson

Youth Symphony

Ra’naa Billingsley

Avalon Mackenzie Bruce

Grandfather

Madeline Colker

After We Left the Car Taylor Fife

La Playa Brenna Gallagher

Seaside Hannah Harkness

Antisocialism Jessica Ignasky

Wind Lover Taylor Johnson

Tiny House Jazmyne Kenney

Tears I’ve Never Seen Alexis Payne

No More Time For Music

Donovan Petri

Bus Cuts Drew Praskovich

In the Eye of the Storm

Maia Rosenfeld

Grandfather Stove Madeline Smith

I am Not Who I am Not Mollie March-Steinman

Wingless Azje Walters

Insidious

April Yoder

Matriarch

Youth Symphony Anne Amundson

Their instruments sitting on their laps, the musicians holding them just the way we were taught.

Each of them in a crisp white shirt.

The first violinist wearing a frillier white shirt.

They sit with their backs flat against the chair backs, just how they were told to.

They have just finished tuning their instruments, but I know that it was just for show.

They pre-tuned their violin/viola/cello/bass backstage before they came out, in a perfect line, just the way they had to.

The conductor, a young man, lifts his arms, signals for them to raise their music-makers.

The violinists and the one violist wedge the chinrest between their head and their shoulder, the celloists and the one upright bassist wait, staying still until the held instruments take up their bows.

They gently, quietly as they can, place the bows on the strings.

The conductor hits the very first note. Down, side, up, side,

down. The music- a 1-2-3 1-2-3, 1-2-3. A waltz from the Nutcracker.

Their hands move back and forth, back and forth, almost all right on beat. Their pinkies right on the white dot in the middle of the frog, three fingers falling right on the white tap that winds around the tiny little necks.

Avalon

Ra’naa Billingsley Island of paradise, sweet rays topple upon me.

This is the most serene place, the home of the sea.

Sounds cradle and comfort and lull me to slumber.

The mixture of my whole surroundings tugs me under.

Youth is about, couldn’t slap off the smiles of glee, giggling, chomping, and savoring salt-water taffy.

The soul frustration is transporting through

the never-ending over-warmed brown salt.

Never mind, kurplumed to the back of my mind,

no worries, no issues, no faults, My past is no longer, no matter arguments, violence, anger, or fights.

Sole thing in my mind, in three hours time, the tale I’ll share when day

sleeps to night.

Solar doctor has prescribed me non-stop abundance conscience is no more So many glorious attractions

“Hey, look up and watch the gulls of the sea shore” The aqua’s refreshing, enhances my senses.

It’s a dream world of perfect and picket white fences

I’m dunked, kurplunked, though I’m delivered back to shore!

Life, love, serene, and happiness yet more, more, and more.

Buried in a blanket of tan sugar, I’m trapped!

Slowly rising a sand goddess, quite laborious, time for nap.

Light-years away, though visual here on Earth minifireballs burn.

Remaining no longer will soon become somber

though when sun awakes we’ll return.

Grandfather Kenzie Bruce

Your wrinkled face stares me down across the floor to where I play, slamming wood against metal for the pleasure of the sounds.

You stop your playing, walk straight at me, I halt, anticipating what was to come.

You set your own sound instrument, your coronet, on the counter and kneel down beside me.

Your flannel shirt brushes my minuet face. The smell of you rushes at me, musky and old.

You smile once, relax it tells me with no words.

You pick up a spoon off the counter top and begin to slam it against the pan along with me.

You laugh just as I do, maniacally and soft, so happy.

You are trying to teach my miniature mind all the tricks to a little song you knew, “Lush Life.”

You told me it was by John Coltrane, a king of jazz, and that everyone should learn to play a little jazz even if it is on pots and pans.

You made up the words

singing husky, alive, a tale of your hometown.

You sing to me of Jazz playing on the streets outside your home, where men roam the streets in top hats, down Whiley Avenue.

You remind me of the snow still falling outside, and I stop the pounding as you embrace me.

You were my grandfather, my grandpa Ben, I loved to play Jazz with you till the very end.

After We Left the Car Madeline Colker

And we could see the scuffle of prints in the dirt, feel the solid swell of power that lingered in the air.

It was pasted to the thick trees as forever as the hush of wind through whispering leaves and I could sense the raw energy, my dad could—he looked at me, his mouth opened— no words came out— but I don’t think my brothers could, they just shivered and buttoned up their jackets, for snow had begun to depart from the sky, leaving a fine intricate mist on the ground almost like lace.

My heart swelled— the carcass on the ground looked like the rabbit in our yard but this one was mangled and its eyes didn’t close, and the blood on the ground was soon covered by snow.

So we turned around and walked back to the car.

It had waited for us on the snaking road, and I noticed that as we left our footprints didn’t leave a mark in the ground.

The car warmed our bodies with artificial heat and my father turned on the engine and we drove away.

We didn’t belong there, he muttered.

My brothers asked, Then why were we there?

La Playa

“La Playa” is Spanish for “The Beach” Taylor Fife We can see the brown and pepper-black specks resting near the smooth, rocky coasts of our home.

When the liquid pushes the white foam bubbles into the sand and past the tips of our grain-filled toenails.

We can see where the waters never end and where the ripples rise and fall and where a high sun meets a low, cooling blue.

We can see the waters open and close while the gulls sing songs of our love, our tranquility, our harmony.

We can see.

Seaside

Brenna Gallagher My body rests on the giant rock.

The groves imprint my palms.

The dazzling beams of orange light pulse against my arms, shoulders, and fingertips.

The echo of the crash upon the shore plays a score in my head.

An entire world rests above my body full of comets and constellations.

A metallic taste dances on my tongue and a rough smell burns my nose, but it is not a painful burn.

My hair flies behind me, the cape of a superhero saving a city.

The wind whispers in my ear, telling a tale of a forgotten site.

Hundreds of wood crystal grains slip through my fingers.

Air catches them and they ride the wind, traveling far, far away.

A ball of angry fire falls behind the sea turning water orange.

A white goddess rises and takes his place, her craters glowing graciously.

The fingertips of the night trace along my eyelids, jaw, and cheekbones.

My irises glow against the liquid darkness.

Soon, the score plays it’s final note and the world above my head fades from a midnight blue to pitch black, where the comets and constellations hide.

Antisocialism Hannah Harkness

Look up, while your happy bubble is shattered to pieces.

While the universe vomits, your personal world, up into anti-space.

I hope you live through every excruciating moment of your digestion, and watch, as your intestines are spilled through the Milky Way, and all over its four hundred billion stars.

I hope you spend eternity alone.

In some cupboard of a home, all by yourself, I hope you get admitted into a hospital, from some fatal animal scratch wound,

that you received tending to some semi-feral— rabies infested cat, that you found meowing at your door.

I hope that your only company for eternity, are those cats, and maybe, the occasional rodent, that they kill, and drag to you for your late dinner.

I hope that your later life will consist of broken promises, and thick glasses, I hope that you will spend your Sundays watching the inconsistent news stories, and holding some dozens of kittens the palm of your hand.

I hope you find yourself

a drug addict/alcoholic to relate to, before it’s too late for you, and you’re already gone, its already too late.

I wish you the best, honestly I do, I hope that you can overcome your loneliness, and jump into the depth, of antisocialism, just loose your self.

Loosen up, and join the mass of the emotionally distressed, you just need the mental disorientation‌ Let the music calm your mind, and plug the headphones straight into your heart, absorb.

Let the information flow deep inside of you, enter the crowd, electronically disconnect, let the muscles in your gut, decide what you do decide where you go, decide what will happen, to you in the long run.

Let the bullet fly freely, let the daisies grow, wherever they want to let what happens, happen, and let what doesn’t go.

Enter the world of the non-existent, let your hair down, hypothetically speaking, and let your hundreds of dirty cats, roam the unfamiliar land, that is the top of your coffin.

Wind Lover Jessica Ignasky

Your arms are the wind, maybe that’s why I don’t quite feel them when you wrap them around me.

Your head is the water swaying back and forth in the cool breeze.

I never did quite figure you out.

The way you move so quick, sometimes I can’t catch up.

Your body is a rock, so immobile so solid and hard to change, hard to argue with, hard to love.

Sometimes you are the snow, so quiet I can’t hear anything at all, emotionless.

Then you are a hurricane, so strong and angry and mad at me and I don’t know what to do here…

You are the wind, lover.

You make sure I can’t catch you.

And when I do, you always feel so cold.

Tiny Houses Taylor Johnson

I’ve never caught tiny houses on fire.

Leaving behind wrinkles of the wall, floating in the air like dust— or stars.

I never forgot Georgia.

I’ve never been completely relaxed eyes fixed on my dream catcher, my mind white and empty.

Like a ghost.

Tears I’ve Never Seen Jazmyne Kenney

I have never seen my mother cry, but I have heard her sobs through paper-thin walls and I imagined her long brown arms wrapped around her waist holding herself together, her hand covering her mouth trying to muffle the sound.

I could never think of a reason why my mother would cry.

Her smiles were always wide, and her laughs were always long.

I wished that I could comfort her.

But I never knew how to wrap my arms around someone and speak to them, in a soothing voice as smooth as butter.

No More Time for Music Alexis Payne

One foot in front of the other, she doesn’t look down for anyone. Her eyes look off in the distance, looking for something or someone. Smile for the camera, Myrna, but her gaze wanders and wonders and worries. She walks straight ahead like her mama taught her and smiles at no one, but when she opens her mouth to sing it’s like the whole world is lifted off her shoulders. She snaps to the rhythm, she hums to the beat, she taps her foot beneath her long black skirt, she almost smiles. Almost. For a moment, the rest of the world disappears, and it is just her with Jesse Nash, Al Williams, and someone named Adams all on sax. For a moment, it is only music. Not overdue rent money or bad news or great grandchildren’s writing assignments for English class. But dreams are just fleeting images of what could be, like that smile on her face, or the twinkle in her eye, a mirage. Reality comes rushing back faster than the song can finish and life speeds up like a train on tracks.

She walks one foot in front of the other and doesn’t look down for anyone. But she’s not cocky or arrogant. She just knows. She commands the attention in every room she enters. She sits and stands tall and composed. Taking each moment as it comes, she doesn’t wait a second for anyone else to swoop down and steal her dream.

She didn’t die in the music with Jesse Nash and Al Williams playing behind her on sax. Didn’t die singing blues and jazz, tapping her feet beneath long black skirts and almost smiling. She died barely making the rent, barely feeding the kids, barely, barely, barely. And when you live like that, there’s no more time for music.

Bus Cuts Donovan Petri

Asked hymn Protection of the mosque Lost metal strands In iron horses guts The galloping galloop of the wheels And little bumpy street potholes That makes the beast jump Iron and cold in hard liquor Resting heads on the glass skin Talking parasites in the belly of steel Dreadful dunes of dinning debris Loading and unloading in the stomach Acid People Littering and spacing out In the muscles The iron horse cries The iron horses loss A steep slab of metal with lungs Melted into a pile of mercury liquid Gasping for monoxide in the air While white headed kings laugh The brain of the horse Coughing up blood Riding the horse to blue Points on a map On the side of the tracks Where it vomits The iron horse cries The iron horse cries

In the Eye of the Storm Drew Praskovich

The electric jagged scars you branded upon my heart sting, like that eel we saw last night when Poseidon’s fury flurried on my shores like crystals falling from the eyes of angels, crashing into the stone-washed rocks we once called our home, destroying the memories we created together.

You told me our feet would remain sketched into the sand for eternity, but slowly they are fading away.

Forever and ever?

Is that really what you planned on?

Because in reality, you knew this was only going to be a midsummer’s night dream of ghosts that haunt the bay and iridescent fish that remind you of my eyes, blue like the water we waded in.

Which has now turned black from all of your tricks and deception.

You reeled me in like a creature from the depths.

But now, I finally see you’re letting me go.

You have weaved your web for too long

and it’s ready to snap.

Did you hear the weather forecast?

There is a hurricane warning tonight.

Grandfather Stove Maia Rosenfeld

You sit humbly between the sparkling oven and high-tech microwave, a nineteenth-century fire truck in the midst of our kitchen.

The house smells of fresh paint, but you, crimson stove, smell of memories.

You reminisce about when Mr. Dalzell lived upstairs, and you were used for more than storing plastic bags and old lunchboxes.

Gas leaks from your burners, but you remain vibrant and polished, ruby red.

Holes where copper knobs and silver handles are missing line your face, kind grandfather, stories of times past trickling from those pomegranate lips.

An endless fever swallows you whole, staining your cheeks scarlet.

Wouldn’t that space be better used for a brand new dishwasher?

No, you must stay.

You are part of this household, this family, even if you can’t make us blueberry pancakes on Sunday mornings anymore.

I am who I am not Matty Smith

I am not a raindrop that shatters when I hit the cold pavement.

I am no child, lost or without hope, I am not the smaller hand you think you hold.

I am loyal, I am strong, I am soilder in a battle.

I am not the free spirit imprisoned in a dusty jar.

I am not a brown-eyed babe.

I am not a rich, helpless, high squealing, short shorts, tighttopped, bikini-wearing, lipstick chick.

I am not a perfectionist.

I am not my hair.

I am not my shoes.

I am not my weight, height, or size.

I am not my ancestors, I am my own.

I am not the song bird trapped behind restricting iron bars.

I am not a high heeled, make up wearing, light eating, dainty daisy.

I am who I am.

I am not a shadow bound to earthly desires.

I am not a leaf simply blown away by harsh bitter winds.

I am not what the world wants me to be.

I am not the sweat on your brow you wipe away.

I am not a mall-going, glitter-gossip-girl, giggling as boys pass.

I am not my skin.

I am not the some curvy clichĂŠ girl concerned about keeping my clique.

I am not a blank page.

I am who I set out to be My lips aren’t pursed, my arms unfolded, my ankles uncrossed, and my hands unclasped.

I yell out amen to the preacher and hum hallelujah.

I swallow oceans of grief, my back slightly bent, not with age but with experience.

My thoughts are never a stop sign, halting or ceasing.

I was never a girly girl, Barbie-doll-lover, dress-up-player, jewelry-wearing, pop-star singing, out-there wild child.

I am not a follower, I swim up stream.

I am not a finger pointing critical judge.

I am a girl with daily darkness clouding her mind, a mere child with a subtle grasp on a thin ray of light.

I am more than what I am not.

I am broken, but finding lost pieces.

Wingless

Mollie March-Steinman The angel sleeps on a cotton boll filled with enough ignorance that the seeds don’t poke through.

She decides what to dream about beforehand.

You think she’s pretty antiseptic, but truth is her mouth’s just numb from the Novocain.

I want to Sharpie little eyes on her hollow head.

Make it permanent.

Why is she faceless?

Maybe her mind’s so empty there’s nothing for eyes to reflect.

Maybe she got mauled by a bear. Maybe God doesn’t like her much.

Maybe he only gives faces to people who believe in him.

You think she would.

She’s an angel, after all.

She hides secrets in her apricot wings.

Her golden tiara is made of defiance.

She ties a bow around her neck and claims it’s for breast cancer awareness, but really she just likes pink.

She grades life on a curve,

never really taking it seriously, only in it for the flying lessons.

A price tag clings to her halo by a few elastic threads.

She never imagined it could break. She never knew she would fall.

Insidious Azje Walters

It entered through Hell’s portal and tainted my soul.

Its mouth, its toxin words, stains my ears.

It slithers through my mind whispering pure hatred.

Sending its black venom through my veins and feeding on my insecurities.

Its cold heart is made of steel and caged behind its stone ribs But I stand there, fearlessly, staring into the gateway of its wicked soul as it stares back at me trapped inside the cracked mirror before me.

And the only way

to release it for my weak, shuddering body is to extract the key from my heart.

Matriarch April Yoder

Six sets of eyes look deep into the lens, but only yours have lines sprouting from the corners where smiles creased your skin.

A cluster of tiny, tangled limbs are gathered in your gentle hands.

I’ve always known your face.

You’ve always been there, tucked away in a decrepit book along with your kids and their kids and me.

But the wrinkles curling up from your lips are new, your elegant eyes are fresh and crisp as if they’ve just been opened.

You are pristine; your hair pulled immaculately behind your head, your blouse white and gleaming.

I wonder if you knew that you were lovely.

I wonder if I would have let you know.

I wonder if you knew that my mother wept when you died and that I didn’t feel a thing except pity.

I watched her cry for the first time— I watched her shoulders shudder, and her fingers tremble as they reached up to shield her eyes— and I couldn’t comfort her with reassuring words

because you were foreign.

I wonder if I could have known you, and if I had, if I would have cried, too.

Grade Eight

TABLE OF CONTENTS Ahmir Allen

Flying and the View of Icarus Madison Custer

Oil Spill Clara Dregalla

Icarus Samantha Eppinger

The Painter’s Wife Tyra Jamison

Jazz Poem Dighan Kelly

Lilies Isacc Monroe

Jazz Iesha Olatunjii

Collage Poem Curran O’Neill

Quiet Eden Petri

The Swaying of a Swing

Jacob Richards

The Originals Shayla Salamacha

Taking Measure Emily Schwager

Little Boy Boxer

Flying and the View of Icarus Ahmir Allen

Original Poem in Response to: Brueghel’s Landscape With the Fall of Icarus I soar and drift.

The ocean swells beneath me.

I can see it all.

I can see the darkest blues and the brightest glimmers throughout the entire sea. I can see the peasants lying in the alleyways and I can see the kings, hiding in their castles made of stone, leaning back against their thrones.

I can see the man, returning home from a hard day of work trailing behind his weary ox.

Below him the shepherd tends to the sheep, so close to the rocky shore.

Those mindless sheep.

In the water, the brilliant, ever-expanding blue, a ship sails from the coast. An epic, not unlike mine, is being written for these men.

And just as well, for the men in the cages, in the dungeons.

They cry home, and yearn for the light outside,

and yearn for the light outside, the sound of the waves drowns their ears.

I stare at the ground and I think of my Father, who will be joining me soon and we will fly up, into the heavens.

The clouds will be at our feet and we will run through them, and we will become free.

And then I hear a drip.

Through the wind and the cracking of the waves below and the burning of the fire within the sun above, I hear a drip.

I hear more drips. I go insane because I can’t stop hearing drips.

They can’t be from the ground.

I’m too far up.

I’ll go higher.

I’ll go so high that all I’ll be able to hear is the sound of the fires burning on top of the sun’s surface.

Below me, I hear a man.

My Father. I hear him. Shouting my name.

He sounds so distressed,

so concerned.

But I look down, ready to reassure him.

And I see my wings. My beautiful wings.

The wax which was once caked between my feathers has melted.

It has dripped to the water.

And soon I am dripping from the sky.

I cut through the air.

I barely have time to tell my Father how afraid I am.

I barely have time before I sink into the water.

The darkest blues crawl around me.

The brightest glimmers become distant memories.

Oil Spill Madi Custer

In Response to Oil Spill by Nell Hendricks What if oil started pouring out of that power outlet? that ceiling tile? that space under the door?

Some would call the stain aesthetically pleasing, “That shade of brown is so nice! It goes with the tiles.

It’s the perfect color, sort of a rustic, burnt umber color.”

Others would blame oil rigs.

“Look at the numbers,” they’d say.

“130 million gallons of oil in the gulf in three months.

11 BP workers killed.

397.7 million dollars worth of oil spilled.”

Others would tell you to look at the animals, look at the animals covered in oil.

“They’re dying,” they’d say.

“464 sea turtles and 60 dolphins, dead.

And that’s only how many washed up.”

And the rest of society would stand up, brush themselves off and fuss about the mess on their shoes.

Icarus

Clara Dregalla The wax melts, smoldering as it slides down my skin, leaving deep, burned rivers.

The once snowy white feathers are thick clots, sticky and scalding.

My wings are worthless now.

I am the sacrifice, the ritual of slaughtering angels ablaze, falling into the ocean’s jaws to appease the storms.

My skin, popping with blisters, sizzles as I hit the water.

The Painter’s Wife Sam Eppinger

Do you understand the darkness of this corner?

Do you see the miniscule void of empty color, empty feelings, empty promises?

Black, because you thought it would be just another job.

Painted before idealist eyes, transform a pond of slime, algae; to be invaded by pink fluff from the mind.

Where beauty is drawn from dismal gray water uninhabited since the Romans.

Painted into a brushstroke veil, blue swallowed by purple swallowed by black. A ghostly transfusion of reality and wisps of wishing.

You wanted to show me how your mind fell into this painting.

Into this serene world of perfection where only surrealists can go.

Where I can’t go since I am reality, cold and empty.

You drew the pink after.

After our fight.

After I went mad with neglect,

with jealously of your painting.

Your painting was outshining my poems, my poems made from realism and truth.

Where pink clouds from the dawn of the morning don’t find themselves next to the black in an empty pond that actually holds no lilies no veil into a perfect world no color except for the murk of black and green.

Not the lily green that you painted, the green you see. It is the green of broken promises to be cared for.

It is my green from my pond.

Green and Black.

Empty shades of black.

You painted pink as you, black as me.

On opposing sides.

Not blending, mixing, compromising.

You are near the top.

Close to heaven, where angels whisper mankind’s secrets into your ear and move your hand for you, painting, while you converse with the great minds of our past and future.

The empty look you get when you hear the secrets of the world is no stranger to me. It looks like the look you used to give me, the day before our wedding.

It’s the look that made my heart vaporize from the love you held for me.

But how could you love the small black corner. It’s painted out of habit or pity, with no real meaning, just an afterthought of strokes.

Can’t you see how it’s an intruder on your water lilies?

See how it’s already forgotten by you?

See how there is barely room for me in your mind?

Jazz Poem Tyra Jamison

You want to hear about some bass that lives in our heart?

Or how the genre became a perfected art?

Maybe I should glorify rhythm and blues?

A beat that transcends your colors and my hues?

Perhaps we could sing about the beginning, or the end,

any others?

Born from the tinkering of a piano, and the plucking of a bass,

the chord of a vocalist, and the ballooning trumpeter’s face, is what they think is so layered,

but it’s really quite simple.

When you take the rhythm of a pulse,

an exhalation of the soul, let the voices sing,

and place it in a dilapidated humanity, you find a unity.

The type of harmony that makes you forget the world, and lets us dance into childlike bliss.

So stop sulking, put your head up,

so we can see the world from up high.

Lilies

Dighan Kelly In response to Waterlilies by Claude Monet.

A song hums in my head.

Yet I don’t quite know its tune.

All I can hear is music’s instrument, whose name I do not know. A girl singing. I know her in my mind’s depth, but cannot recall her singing lullaby of pure rhythms and notes.

Words who don’t make sense.

She sings of a place, a place I do not know, will never know.

Earth, she calls it.

She says tall, green, leafy plants are there.

Plants I do not know, will never know.

Trees, she calls them.

Water there is clear, naturally, blissfully clear, and cool, even under a summery sun, which bathes the world in loving heat and calm light.

My favorite part, her chorus, is about floating flowers, round leaves

and pale, freshly opened globes of fragrance that I do not know, but I want to.

Lilies, she calls them.

Jazz

Isaac Monroe Trains chug a chug a chug along twisting through barren cliffs, making soul and screaming metal.

Raindrops turn to brass and doo-wop on the rooftop, you twist and shout and sing and love along with it.

Upright bass puts onomonopia to shame, nothing compares with its thundering boing.

A triumphant gospel of horns rattle the bones of the world.

Earth’s vital organs punctured bleeding out a salty snare.

Musical notes beat your eardrums with socks full of quarters.

Collage Poem Iesha Olatunjii

Nazi Zombies watch me, as I sit under sunlight.

Only wishing to have wings, a tater tot a rasin a bowl of spaghetti and a pretzel Rocketman appears from the golden chambers on a Greek black horse His name Ray Brian They say hes made of glass I sprayed him with windex.

He screamed: Fire!

Clocks!

Fire! Again And Fish!

And then passed out.

It became dark My cats teeth sinking into my skin hurt!

Stalker shushi appeared with a clear blue bloody balloon shaped as a dolphin, Ms. Murray ran down the street yelling “If you please!�

Chewing on crushed ice.

Runing from a broken possessed hamster.

Quiet

Curran O’neill She listens to Velvet Underground you see it’s written on ‘er crown ya’ she’s breakin’ every law it’s crackin’ on ‘er skull she got a scar above ‘er knee from hoppin’ fence with me.

She sways me slowly— touchin’ her hair every minute in fear it’s a di-sas-ter.

I tell ‘er not to worry but she pains me poorly.

She screams and throws her bag contents overflowing drowning in candy and lipstick stains she tries to cover it up with the sweet things.

Her lipstick, a Halloween mask.

A necklace pins me to the ground-ground.

Frozen idol she wishes to be real so she can feel safe.

Her music stuck on repeat I fall asleep to the sound of Velvet Underground.

The Swaying of a Swing Eden Petri

Sometimes, I pass that old pink house I used to live in, the one that sat on the slanted green hill, and I stare at the swing set, rusted and old. Then I remember that day, the day when I was betrayed by a friend—lied to, stabbed in the back. And I remember how I felt, standing at his front door, with our friendship balled up in the palm of my hand.

Summer 2007.

We were sitting in my living room, or rather, I was sitting and he was standing. Tyler was looking around the room, his brown eyes going from the velvet red sofa that took up the entire back wall of the room, to the TV directly across the room, which had been switched to off. “Do you wanna watch TV?” He asks. He’s wearing tan khaki shorts that run a little past his knees, and a red T-shirt that’s a few sizes to big. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and he has small beads of sweat running down his dark skin. I’m sprawled out on the floor, my feet leveled on the coach. I think hard, or rather, try to think hard about the question. But in all honesty, I don’t really want to hang out with Tyler. I mean, I’m not trying to sound mean, but when someone knocks on your door everyday asking to play with you, you have to get tired of them sooner or later. We usually have fun together, but today I just wasn’t feeling it.

Fall 2006.

I sat on the swing, twirling and un-twirling myself. It was a chilly day, and I was bored. Donovan refused to play with me, being he’d have rather stayed inside and sat on the couch.

“Donovan’s so mean!” I spoke aloud.

“I’m sure playing with me is ten times better then watching Jimmy Neutron all day while eating junk food.” I sighed.

“Whatever. I’ll have more fun without him.” I was staring at the ground, my feet twisting in the dirt, when I noticed a shadow in front of me. I looked up to see Tyler, my friendly neighbor.

“Hi Tyler.” I said, still aggravated about my older brother.

“Hi. Do you wanna play?” I smiled,

“Sure!” He sat down on the swing next to me. I got up, to stretch. Tired of sitting on the swing. He stayed seated. I looked at my yard, at the spot where I’d buried my hamster Hamtaro the past year. Then to the little garden, where the tomatoes used to grow. Not anymore, don’t ask me why. I walked over to the beginning of the swing set, where the slide was. I began to walk up it, thinking of possible games we could play. My arms extended at my sides. I get to the top, and stand on the bar that separated the slide from the space ship, as me and my brother called it. I wasn’t sure what it was really called, but we would often pretend we were astronauts and use it to fly to outer space, thus forth spaceship just kinda stuck. I stepped onto the space ship, and once I was balanced (for it was a swinging attachment) then stepped onto the bar that separated the space ship from the swings. Tyler was watching me. He stood up, as I made my way to the swings. The first swing was rather low

compared to the bar I was standing on. I tried to step down, but lost my footing and ended up falling. Tyler laughed,

“It’s like an obstacle course!” He said, and I smiled, getting an idea.

“Yeah! We should pretend we’re super gymnasts and go through the obstacle course. The first one through wins!”

“Okay!” He said excitedly, as he walked up the slide.

“Okay, so first we should come up with the course.“ He nodded.

“We start by climbing up the slide…“ he began, as he did so.

“Then we walk onto the spaceship.“ I said, as he nodded his head, and stepped onto the ship.

“Then we have to get to the bar, and step onto the swing,“ He said, watching his footing as of not to fall like I did. Once he does this, he waits for me to say what happens next.

“Then we have to spin on the swings for 10 seconds!“ I say, as he does so.

“Then we should have to get on the monkey bar and hang upside down for five seconds,“ He says as he hangs. I nod, and smile, as we move on with the plans.

“Okay, and after that we have to step onto the umbrella station, and sway back and forth pretending we’re surfers.“

He steps onto it, and sways,

“Gnarly Dude” he says in his best surfer dude accent.

I laugh at his failed attempt.

“Then you’ll have to step onto the table thing and spin around it twice,“ He does so,

“And then jump off with a grand finale stance!“ He jumps off, landing with his hands on his hips, and his head held high. I laugh,

“Yeah! Okay, so let’s start!“ We went through the entire thing, falling many times. Where we’d just get back up, and start again, hoping to win. We also tried to sabotage each other. If he was standing on the first swing, about to go to the second, I would push him, making him lose his balance and fall off. We would constantly laugh at the other persons misfortune. By the end of the day, it was dinner time, and I had to go inside. Tyler and I said good-bye, as we agreed on calling our new master-game Obstacle course.

The small memory slowly faded out, as I was brought back to the present. I smiled at the remembrance of our fun times together. But it didn’t change my mind. I still didn’t want to play with him.

“Not really,” I reply.

He crosses his arms, switching his weight from one foot to the other. I figure if I bore him enough, he’ll soon tire of me and go home to play with his younger siblings. His eyes slowly drift over to the door, but something else catches his eye. I see him looking at the ground. I lower my glance, to see what exactly he’s staring at. I notice my red gameboy

advance, which is charging on the floor. I pick my eyes back up, to try to meet his glance, but he has moved them back to the door. At the time, I didn’t think much of it.

“Do you wanna go outside?” he asks hopeful. I sit up, balancing my weight on my arms, as a memory floods my mind.

Spring 2005.

I was sitting cross-legged on the bottom bunk of my bunkbed, the pink Disney princess comforter pushed to the edge.

I was playing with my stuffed animals, moving them around, and giving them all different voices so I could recognize who was speaking. Then, my brother entered the room, his brown hair all static-like.

“Tyler’s here.” He says, as he exits. I stand up, and run out of my room, [well actually mine and my brothers being that we share] to the front door, where Tyler stands. He has his hands stuffed in the pockets of his black shorts. He has on a white T-shirt.

“Wanna play?” He asks somewhat casual. I nod my head, smiling as I throw on my sneakers. We jump down the four light blue steps, the paint slightly peeling, and run over to the swing set. We each sit down on a swing, and slowly sway back and forth, listening to the quiet creaking of the rusted chains. We’re silent, as I dig my sneakers into the dirt.

“Wanna play obstacle course?” I ponder the thought, then decide that I’ve somewhat come to tire of the game.

“Not really…” We keep swaying. We don’t make eye

contact as we think. Then, an idea simultaneously springs into my mind.

“Stay right here!” I say as I run inside, and into my room. I pick up piles and piles of stuffed animals, and drag them outside. Tyler stays seated on the swing, looking at them as if they were aliens. Once I’ve brought out the last of my stuffed animals, I sit on the grass, worn out.

“So…Now what?” Tyler asks, walking over to me.

“I…don’t know.” I admit. We sit like that for a while, thinking of what we could do.

“Wait…I have an idea!” I yell, standing up. Tyler follows me, as I pick up a monkey and place it on the monkey bar. He smiles, finally understanding.

“A zoo!” He yells. I smile, nodding.

“Oh yeah.” Time flies as we fix our zoo, moving animals, until we’re finally done. We laughed at our creation, watching the cars that drove by slow down and stare. Soon, we spring up, and become zoo-keepers, going after runaways and putting them back in their rightful spots.

“Go get the horse, he’s gotten out of his pen!” Tyler would yell at me, deepening his voice to give the appearance of being older than he really was. I would yell back

“Aye, but you get the kangaroo, mate!” Using a terrible Australian accent, that would often stray to a British.

Soon, Tyler’s younger brother arrived in the yard.

“Tyler, mom wants you home.” Tyler would sigh, wav ing good bye to me. .And they’d walk back together, and I’d tear down the zoo, excited to play again the next day.

I am once again brought to the present, smiling at the memory. “hmm…” I ponder the thought of going outside. Now this didn’t sound like such a terrible idea. Especially being that the wonderful summer season of playing outside, going swimming, and no school was slowly coming to an end. I get up, walking past the library, in which my mother has her many books split upon four over-flowing bookshelves. I walk straight to the window, and stand upon my tippy toes, so my small 7-year-old body can see. I look over at my yard, brown patches of grass shaded by the rest of the green. I look at the swing set that my grandma his given us last summer, the bright green paint that was peeling. I move my gaze over to the long road in which I see my mother, walking home from work. “Momma!” I yell, running past Tyler to the closed door.

His eyes follow my every move, his mouth hung open as if he were about to say something, but I interrupt;

“I’ll be right back! Stay here.” I tell him, as I dart up the street. My feet make pitter patter noises as I run. I see my mom smile as I approach her.

“Hey sweetie,” she greets in her soft gentle tone.

“How was work?” I ask, ready to hear any excitement that might have happened.

“Fine,” she says, “How was your day?”

“Fine,” I say, imitating my mother. She holds my hand, and our hands sway back and forth as we walk. We finally enter the grassy green slant of a yard, in which my light pink house rests upon. I look up, to see the door wide open. I thought I had closed it? I let go of my mother’s hand, and jump up the four steps to the door, and enter my home.

“Tyler?” I say.

“Tyler’s here?” My mother asks, placing her bags down on the green chair sitting by the door.

“Well he was.” I say, rather confused at why Tyler left.

I scan the room, looking to see if perhaps he was hiding, as a means to scare me. Until suddenly, my eyes rest upon the place in which my gameboy was sitting as a matter of 3 minutes ago. Left in its place is the long wire of the charger.

“Hey mom, uhh…I think I’m gonna go play outside.” I said, my voice shaking.

“Okay,” she replies from the kitchen, her voice disguised by the plastic bags she was moving around. I hurriedly throw my sneakers on, running out the door, and down the wooden steps. I run past my un-even yard, past the green and white swing set in which I had many childhood memories, and into the alley in which Tyler’s house was located.

I straightened myself up, breathing heavily, either from my fear, or the fact that I had just run what my little feet would have thought to be a mile, yet truthfully was just a few yards.

I knock on the door, the warmth of the sun hiding behind many tree’s and houses making it feel like fall has

come, when truthfully I still had about 4 weeks. Tyler opens the door, and stands there, his hands in his pockets. I ready myself,

“di…did you take…my gameboy?” I stutter, looking down at the ground and avoiding eye contact.

“Nope. Why?” He says.

“Oh…well it was sitting on the floor when I left…and now it’s gone,” I reply. I hear his younger siblings in the other room, screaming at each other.

“Well I have to go. See you later.” He says simply, slamming the door in my face.

And there I stood, for what felt like an eternity, the facts hitting me in the face like a speedball. Tyler was not the person I thought he was. He wasn’t the nice, fun, awesome kid I had played with just the other day, the one who helped me make

a zoo out of my stuffed animals. The one who played on the swing set with me when my brother didn’t want to, in fact, now, standing there, I didn’t know who he was.

I stand there for a couple minutes, staring at his front door, the chipped dark brown paint that was peeling away, to reveal an ugly shade of black. Thinking about it, it reminded me a lot of Tyler. On the outside, he was nice, considerate, but in actuality, he wasn’t what he appeared to be. I stay standing there, thinking, but I guess it’s because I can’t

move. I feel stuck. All I could think about were the times I spent with him, when we’d play outside. But now that was over, and it was never going to happen again.

Once I was able to collect myself, I turned around, and walked away. And the good thing is I’m proud of myself, because I never went back.

And I didn’t get my gameboy back, but I’m okay with that. And I did tell my mom. She went over to his house to speak with his parents. I guess they ended up having a little disagreement, because she came back angry, and without gameboy. But after that, I decided I wasn’t going to play with Tyler anymore. He lied to me, and I didn’t think he was friend worthy. That’s when I began to look at my friends, deeper then eye level.

And today, it really takes a lot for me to be able to open up enough to trust someone. They need to be able to prove to me that I can trust them, and they won’t stab me in the back like Tyler did.

Before I moved out of that old pink house with the slanted green yard, and after Tyler betrayed me, I remember him climbing those four blue steps, with the chipped paint and knocking on my door.

Fall 2007

I sat on the couch cross-legged, watching cartoons.

Donovan was laying next to me, taking up more then half of the couch. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. Dono

van didn’t stir.

“I guess I’ll get it.” I said without enthusiasm. My brother still didn’t move. I sighed, getting up. I opened the door, not surprised at all that it was Tyler.

“Yes?” I asked him, somewhat irritated. This wasn’t the first time he’s knocked on my door since the day he stole my gameboy.

“Can I play on your swing set?” He’s gotten out of the habit of asking me to play with him. I rolled my eyes.

“Sure, whatever.” I closed the door, and walked back to the couch. I listened to his footsteps as they descended, walking down the four blue steps. Then it was quiet. I walked over to the window, as a slow creaking caught my attention. I moved the blinds back just enough for me to see him, sitting alone, swaying back and forth on the swing.

The Originals Jacob Richards

Green, briny tails of electricity snake around shadowy corners, in winding paths of uncertainties.

Striped, iridescent claws tear through the tell-tale times, of life.

Shadows dance at the speed of light.

Wings flapping, swimming through a sunless sky with waves of clouds rolling ‘round the mountains.

Reflections squirm and move about as their partners, the originals, the projected light, just sit, and blind the senses.

And in the background, the soft hum: safety.

Pungent with the scent of vision where light meets darkness.

Taking Measure Shayla Salamacha

The light runs towards me, losing its grip on the ocean.

The highway of a light beam shining on Saturn’s rings.

It finds a new way and turns around.

Luminescent waves of beams shine onto the dark rich world of space.

Reacting above the normal sound.

We all can come to see the bodies on which the light lays and speaks through invisible sound.

There will never be another world where all things come to take their measure.

Little Boy Boxer

A poem based on Teenie Harris’s photo: Little Boy Boxer Emily Schwager An almost invisible tear runs down his face.

A feeble smile rests on his lips, and his eyes hold an innocent, pleading gaze.

But he is not bruised, nor bleeding from a fight.

The tiny boy sits in the ring, looking no older than seven.

With boxing gloves far larger than his head, shirtless, ribs showing, and shoeless feet displaying huge multicolored striped socks.

The fight is lost inside of him as he prepares to battle another.

He clutches onto the rope, reluctant to let go, reluctant to fight.

He is tired, tired of struggling.

Grade Seven

TABLE OF CONTENTS Zainab Adisa

Seasons Lily Buchanan

I Like the Bird Leah Deflitch

All That’s Left Elsa Eckenrode

star gazing Zada Fels

Tear Drops Arwen Kozak

Forgotten Russell Little

Solitary Victims

Clare McGowan

Nighttime Scandal Ruthanne Pilarski

Nowhere Rebecca Stanton

Walking Taylor Szczepaniuk

Hush, Hush

Karolin Velliste

Invincible

Seasons Zainab Adisa

The slightly gentle breeze passes through autumn’s newly changed trees and leaves tints of red, brown, dark green, and orangish red.

The sweet smells of pumpkin pie and apple cider fill the air with an everlasting aroma.

As I lay down on the tough grass, its spikes brush against my arm.

I look up at the sky and stare into the purplish horizon.

Before I know it, it’s a new season.

The snow falls gently to the ground from the soft clouds that resemble pillows.

Cold, sharp, rigid-edged icicles form on the edges of houses.

Everyone sprinkles salt on the ground and shovels piles of snow into corners.

Students come home from school and leave their tracks in the snow, in a hurry to get to the warmth of their homes.

People talk to one another, their breaths create a fog around them.

After a long wait, Spring has finally come.

Deer and rabbits awake from hibernation.

The tulips start to bloom again, and the sun peaks out behind the clouds.

A few occasional rainstorms beat down on the pavemented ground.

The dirt is rich and fertile.

Pollen spreads from

House to house Neighborhood to neighborhood town to town.

It’s that time of the year when the sun comes out and the air conditioner comes on.

Time to take a dip in the pool or just relax on the sandy beach All the kids scream “schools out” at that final bell.

We say goodbye to our parents and we’re on our way to summer camp.

I Like the Bird Lily Buchanan

I like the bird landing on a pine branch that could not withstand the weight of my hand, yet when it lands, the tree barely makes a response, the branch moving an infinitesimal amount before righting.

If I could be as light as that, could fly like that the rush of the wind and the air underneath and around me. And I would soar with my feet in the white foam of a breaking wave and fly along with the wild horses and the truckers and nest in the very top of the tallest tree.

But I am not there, but here, confined to the earth, watching.

Watching the birds fly .

That feather drops out and falls, back and forth and back and forth and flutters to the ground, downy ,soft and grey as it touches skin.

I like the bird as it calls out, slow and mournful, and in return a long ,piercing, screech comes from another tree, and then a chorus starts, a twitter or a coo or a warble -all harmonizing while in complete discord.

I like the bird as it flies with others in a V formation or a chaotic shifting mass; I like the bird when it sits on a wire and when the bird slowly builds its nest piece by piece; I like the bird as it chirps or calls or sings a never before heard melody; I like the bird.

All That’s Left Leah DeFlitch

Remember the lopsided sidewalks smudged fingerprints hands pressed against windows I-love-you hearts?

The sun doesn’t shine that undiscovered yellow anymore.

Not since you’ve gone.

Now all that’s left is azure sky concealing broken promises, reminders that will never be filled written on hands, on mail, on windows: I love you, too.

All that’s left is a moving box that nobody even looks at anymore it is bursting with you, from all sides I don’t look either.

Because all that’s left, salvaged by sporadic hideaways and coverings,

is a suffocating of what really matters to those who leave without goodbyes.

star gazing elsa eckenrode

holding the stars had never been so hard. without you, my hands just sort of touch the sky and miss; but only slightly. i thought you’d be proud of me. and you know how you always told me if you concentrate enough, the night isn’t a lonely black that scares me, but a deep blue, my favorite shade of blue, a soothing blue that projected itself for you and me. just you and me. i smile when i think of you, and i bet that you like that. you weren’t the type of person who wanted to see me in pain, yet you always managed to see when i hurt and i guess i liked that about you. i remember when you took me out to the country. we boarded the train, not really sure of our destination. you shared your headphones and pointed at a shooting star, told me to make the wish because

you wanted me to. i still go star gazing, and i still try to listen to the crickets but sometimes i just need some silence, so i can recollect my moonlit memories of you.

Tear drops Zada Fels

Leaves are crystallized with frost And that country road is icy.

The dirt is frozen here.

The air smells like cold, too, and makes my nose red, Cheeks rosy, And eyes wander.

The ground is bare.

Ice and leaves and dead bugs and snow are Compacted into one layer.

Mushy grounds Are for boots getting stuck In the wet ice, And my feet would slowly freeze.

Until they thaw.

Sweet birds will sing you to sleep on the porch in the spring.

And so I wait.

It is peaceful and everlasting, Warm scents carry on the back of the wind, Cool tree bark and seas of Chrysanthemums that Sway to a music, Unseen, Unheard, But recognized.

Forgotten Arwen Kozak

There is a pleasure near your life.

It hides in whirlpools spinning in a blueberry sea a shimmering swirl always right out of reach.

Sharp edged leaves in a deep forest of green always pricking until you have the time, which you never do, to look on the under side the soft side, the pleasure side.

It hides in sweet honey droplets from a silver spoon into a bitter nothingness.

In a trail of ants twisting and turning across the sidewalk like a forgotten parade.

It hides In V’s of birds that fly past you’re window.

It’s there.

It hides.

In the dust that foams around your footsteps those forgotten footsteps you use to kick the rocks ahead

It’s there.

In the purring cat sitting on your lap and its sweet rosy paws.

The tissue that you dropped that landed with a delicate ease.

In meaningless scribbles on the back of school work.

There in the blueberry sea you can find pleasure.

You’re not forgotten yet.

Solitary Victim Russell Little

Crawling at the mercy of life, struck by mortality, your soul, plastered on a wall of tremulous disappointment.

Aggravation seeps within you.

Depression hits you like a hot bullet and you can’t breathe.

You’re stifled.

Your sadness stains churches.

You just stand in pixilation, hitting on a broken cigarette, uncared for, spit on.

Fairness you don’t know of.

Of time that yields to still.

Enough to grip in fists of wind on the short breath of your smothered ambition.

Your opinion, shrouded by squandered lethargy.

You’re alone.

Solitary.

Nighttime Scandal Clare McGowan

She lurks around in the dark of night, searching for something to eat.

She is dressed in a dusty red-brown coat, and a black ringed tail.

She masks her face in a dark disguise as she hunts for remnants of food in a musty garbage can.

Her paws grip something soft and she half retreats into a nearby gravel driveway.

A half eaten sandwich, is the perfect first victim.

It’s toasty crust borders the flimsy slab of bread. as she nibbles on it, marking the outline of her sharp teeth.

Suddenly, the hushed creak of a door’s hinges echos in her ears.

The humans are coming, hide yourself!

Without a thought, she unhanded her sandwich and let her instincts lead her

to the underneath of motionless car.

All at once, light rains down, but the underside of the car stays dark.

Her furry body stays still, and inanimate as she plots of her escape route.

Massive feet stiffly tip-toe into her view. The feet are covered with dirty white socks that have a faded yellow stripe by the toe. They creep slowly, and silently.

Adrenaline pumps in her blood, but she does not move.

The tip of a metal bat barely connects to the ground and horror consumes her thoughts.

Finally, after too many seconds of the pain of stillness she scrambles.

Making bee-line through the scene she glances back, and sees the feet are connected to an old man who screams as he runs towards her, “Stupid Raccoon!�

Nowhere

Ruthanne Pilarski Fire shoots from the tops of buildings, as planes drop bombs from the blackened sky.

No one can see the future, though we all look.

It’s covered, hidden by a curtain of smoke.

No one can see the past, though we all look.

It’s painted over with blood.

My brother and I lay on the ground.

The ground covered in ash.

We lay beside our mother’s body.

There is no future to hope for.

There is no past to remember.

I press my mother’s bloody dress against my cheek.

I hear my brother crying.

I grab his hand.

His hand caked with mud.

But I say nothing.

There is nothing to say.

I fall asleep to the sight of flames engulfing my home.

I fall asleep to the sound of screaming.

But I stay.

Because there is nowhere to go.

There is no future to hope for.

There is no past to remember.

-War

Walking

Rebecca Stanton I’m walking walking down the street I like the way the mist settles on the neatly paved road and how my fingers drag across the wire mesh fence making a steady rhythmic drumming now numb from the wire my fingers pick up a stone I throw it it skips down the sidewalk I pull up the hood on my hoodie I like the way it cradles my chilled cheeks and the way my fingers intertwine with the draw strings perfectly I like my hoodie all together I shift the weight of my book bag and stare down at my Uggs they comfort my aching feet I like that my destination has almost been reached I’m not sure if I like that.

Hush, Hush Taylor Szczepaniuk

The sweet cool breeze swept over the soft cool grass. The grasses swayed back and forth to the sweep of the wind.

The sun rained down on the grassy hill, baking it to a crisp.

The smell of nature arose in the air. The sweet smell of manure came from the mulch surrounding the tall trees. The grasped smell of pollen sprung into the air, it came from the wild daisies on the edge of the forest.

I lay there with my eyes closed baking in the streaming rich sun. Listening to the wind ruffle the grass under me. The smell of nature clouded my nose, while I thought about the thin pillows in the bright blue sky. Then came a buzzing noise, I listened to what the sound might be. It sounded like a dragonfly but it could have been something else. There was a long bang, which came from the silky sky. I looked into the sky to see dark rain clouds. Thinking there might be a thunderstorm it left my brain. There was a ruffled noise behind the bush next to me. Out walked a puppy, I said to it, “Where are your owners little pup?� It ran off ignoring everything I had said. Oh well, life will go on the same.

Invincible Karolin Velliste

We strolled through the forest unseen step for step and invincible.

We pricked up our ears, we listened for the crunching of fresh snow or the snap of a frozen twig or the rustle of a stiff fern.

We slipped quietly around a tree, through the frosted undergrowth, under an overhanging branch.

We tensed, side by side, waiting for the signs of danger.

None.

A blue jay shrilled across from the other side of the wood and it sang of the soft warmth from the sun, of the clear water, of the stillness of the forest.

We relaxed, and lifted a leg both at the same time to get moving once more.

We stopped by the icy lake still watery but freezing from the sigh of winter.

We dipped a hoof each into the liquid ice.

Ripples danced out across the surface as our feet merged with the water.

We bent our necks slowly down from their proud positions, down to sniff the lake, down like a submission to the great vastness of nature.

We scented the freshness of frost mingling with the water,

and with a sigh of satisfaction we drank.

We drank and the wetness slid down our throats clear as crystal.

We paused and turned our heads toward each other gazing amber eyes into amber eyes.

We touched tips of noses, warm with love, passing the connection from a doe to her beloved fawn.

Grade Six

TABLE OF CONTENTS Ryan Andrews

Where I’m From

Nia Arrington

Colors of the Rainbow

Maisha Baton-Stawson

Lessons

Weston Custer

Star Showers

Eva Dregalla

WAR

Suhail Gharaibeh

Sunshine in Jordan

Jessica Kunkel

My World

Caroline Molin

The Wonders of My World

Bridgette O’Neil

This is ME

Ciara Sing

Missing

Tahlia Smith

Where I’m From

Savannah Staab

Man Made

Isabella Victoria

Pondering LIfe

Isaac Winograd

I Can Write With You

Aurora Wise

Bone

Where I’m From Ryan Andrews

I’m from the sweet smell of barbeque, the Kraft Honey Barbeque.

I am from the woods.

The wet, muddy, and dirty, sappy trees.

I’m from the yelping and screaming of toddlers.

The little, sticky brats, running around, and pulling my hair.

I am from the Velveeta smell of Shells’n’Cheese, the water-less noodles in a cup with processed cheese.

I’m from the honey ham, the big, juicy, honey-smoked and simmered ham, delectable!

I am from the Fox’s Pizza place with orange value-time pop, the round, cheesy pizza, mixed with sugar water.

I’m from the “What did you just say to me?”

The “Oh no you didn’t’s!!!”

I am from the what’s, and the when’s?

The who’s how’s and where’s!

I’m from the turkey on Thanksgiving, the gravy saturated turkey.

I am from the vision of families on holidays, the horrible cousins, and the bad bro’s.

I’m from the sound of the song Happy Birthday, the over-joyed time when you open presents.

I am from the fish fry Fridays, the food on cheap plates, in old churches.

I’m from the cabinets in the basement.

My secret hiding place.

I am from The Voice, the T.V. show where Cee Lo pets his cat.

Colors of the Rainbow Nia Arrington

Colors from the rainbow May resemble the colors of our skin Day by day people are classified By their race With a color But why does it matter The color of our skin What matters the most is what’s inside We’ve all had the privilege to come on this earth So why does it matter not one color is better People say it everyday it doesn’t matter Who is going to be the one to change the world?

Hatred is strong here In this crazy mixed up world But there is a reason you are here you belong here Colors mixed up to create names you’ve never heard Like summer solstice and Awesome It doesn’t matter which of your hues The mixture of colors is beautiful in my eyes So is the creation of the colors Not one better than the other

Lessons Maisha Baton

On a calm, cool average February day in Downtown Pittsburgh the average thing; flowers blooming, crime running, people staring at the inhuman actions and unusual looks.

One of the many things looked down upon in society’s torn up mind.

In the midst of it all an innocent little rock, no older then 205 years old.

It was semi sparkly, in more of a subtle way.

A mix between Snooki on a Saturday night and Elizabeth Hassleback gives me the chills.

It has a very nice look but you don’t really know if the personality is the same.

For all we know, the rock’s personality could be as beautiful as dog poop.

Funny how nature teaches us stuff when it doesn’t physically talk.

That’s the art of a true secret.

Then its neighbor without a name calls out to me and says, “Hello! I may look very ugly, but on the inside I’m beautiful” It was the truth.

On the outside it was cracked, clawed, chewed and broken an old gray even a little smelly…

Like a certain smell.

Even though it had its flaws, it was split in the middle and it

Star Showers Weston Custer

Can we all soar through the stars?

Can we all feel the meteors stream and the light spray across our face as we dive into an arc of color?

The planets spin like tops in an erratic, waltz changing every minute.

Can we all dance through the nebulae swimming in the stars of oil and water letting the nova wash over us?

We all dream and it floats through our subconscious spiraling, collapsing, sparking but then it sees the phantom limb.

Like oil and water is the dream and the reality.

WAR

Eva Dregalla Three bug-like creatures huddle around themselves, squirming clutching bombs, inching along the ground, dragging blood through the streets.

You wouldn’t think that crayons and paper such innocence could be used to show dying people and bombs and pillars of fire.

How simple it is to personify “war” through the understanding eyes of a five year old.

And gunshots and explosives and screams and cries for help can’t be muffled under your pillow and mommy told them it would be okay.

Agent Orange turned his brother’s toes green and they curled up into goat horns.

Sunshine in Jordan Suhail Gharaibeh

Grandmother is a large flat pan and a red hot hand smart as a whip Grandmother is sweet with the girls spits words with the boys and venom with the uncles if they don’t eat their veggies Grandmother is hot sunshine maybe a parasol if she’s feeling dapper Grandmother Is tabouli and falafel sandwiches and sometimes hommade hummus.

When it’s time for tea, and there is no sugar left we just might break out the love

My World Jessica Kunkel

My world is the dry smuggle of August on a warm make shift Friday, the creepy catacomb of the present, and the silent zipper of neon green.

My world is the loud froth of my heart, the tiny flutter of my imagination, the enormous spiral of dismay, and a frightened cicada in a Monday rain.

My world is the happy crackle of puppy whispers, and the lost honeysuckle of Belgian waffles.

The Wonders of My World Caroline Molin

Walk up to the raining fountain feel the gentle breeze of its rain.

See floods of its river falling.

Hear flowing lines of hope.

Smelling aqua mist in the winter tasting damp air in the spring it’s a wonder of my world one wonder of my world.

Walk up to the changing banner feel nothing; what’s there to feel?

See the Blue Man Group and Billy Eliot.

Hear Eight Days a Week by the Beatles.

Smelling the soil that’s on the ground behind me.

Tasting; ew; why would I lick a concrete pole?

It’s a wonder of my world.

Two wonders of my world.

Walk up to the yellow bridges.

Feel the metal of the railings on the side.

See the water from the side of the river.

Hear cars, people and buses passing by.

Smelling the dirty water in the river.

Tasting the taste of air above…. um… bridges.

It’s a wonder of my world.

Three wonders of my world.

Walk up to the busy streets feel the metal poles on the city corners see the cars speeding into the distance.

Hear the honking of angry old men and young teenage drivers.Smelling gasoline and pollution.

Tasting evil smoke of evil vehicles.

It’s a wonder of my world.

Four wonders of my world.

Walk up to the park near the river.

Feel the smooth coating all over those black tables and chairs.

See the berry bushes and big trees scattered hear birds chirping and wind rushing through the tree branches.

Smelling flowers and natural nature.

Tasting sky here on the ground.

It’s a wonder of my world five wonders of my world.

Walk up to the Market Square feel the concrete on the ground.

See the people passing by and pointing.

Hear them yell, “Hey, look at the little kids!”

Smelling cigarettes and littered garbage.

Tasting tastes of the world around it’s a wonder of my world six wonders of my world.

Walk up to the CAPA building feel the glass on the window see the people at the metal detectors hear the buzz of a failed attempt.

Smelling chalk dust and dusty lost sweaters tasting the CAPA air it’s a wonder of my world seven wonders of my world What’s left is an untold story of the wonders I haven’t walked.

But Steel city is still a wonder of my world.

This is ME Bridgette O’Neil

I am from gooey Bic White Out, from an expensive stained glass jar of Crayola markers and packaged boxes of slick, black Office Max pens.

I am from the disgusting scum beneath my pink and black Etnie shoes.

(Gummy, icky, it squeaks when I walk.)

I am from the maroon poison berry tree; the fumes of my clammy white dishwasher whose Clorox bleach stains I remember, as if I were little.

I’m from Hubba Bubba and Breyer’s, from green Christmas pines and rainbow Easter eggs.

I’m from the picky eaters and the everything gobblers, from Be loud! and Quiet down!

I’m from grandma’s signature poppy seed cake with a hint of something secret and the whole recipe I can say myself.

I’m from swirly blue Jupiter and bouncy purple Uranus. from pickled greens and sweet iced tea. from the dogs my grandfather lost to the heavens, and the junk food loving heart my father has towards McDonald’s Sesame Seed Big Mac’s.

Under my skin is a revolving cycle spilling out red blotches of love, a dream of long forgotten ones to disappear when I awake.

I am from the whole world—

born on the growing stem of a rare chrysanthia flower— falling as a clear droplet to reach solid ground.

Missing Ciara Sing

Missing Walking down a dark cold hall searching the glossy floors and walls.

Looking seeking the missing, To find what can never be found.

Missing A hopeless feeling in my heart, my soul.

I feel like I can’t go on with my life.

The emptiness and the sorrow.

I’m stuck with a big hole.

Missing The taste of bitterness, it’s sour and unnatural.

Why can’t everything be found, like the cure for cancer.

But I guess if nothing was missing there will be no fun in life.

Where I’m From Tahlia Smith

I am from Pepsi in my Sippy cup, making me jump off the walls…literally.

I am from, “Story time! Gather around,” as we all shout and get excited.

I am from, “Oh she’s that one girl with the curly hair, but too dark to be white, but too light to be black.”

I am from, the discrimination and racism of Clarion, PA. I am from large meals, consisting of mashed potatoes, broccoli, corn, ham, turkey, and Roxanne’s homemade noodles with gravy.

I am from, great cooking, filling you to the very tip-top of the single hair that stands alone on the of your head.

I am from, the loud laughters and loud conversations as I just sit in the corner and color.

I am from 3 helpings of mashed potatoes, with gravy and butter sprinkled all around.

I am from, the big hugs and kisses, that leave your face with kissy marks all over.

I am from, “KARAOKE NIGHT AT GRAM’S,” and, “Let’s play American Idol! You be Paula and I’ll be

Randy and you’ll be Simon.”

I am from, “Your Mom!” and laughter on the bus, that practically makes your ears bleed.

I am from Laci, with the golden blonde hair, covered with chocolate brown hair dye.

And Trey, who never sticks around long enough for me to get a perfect image of him.

I am from mud pies, and trampolines, “No that’s not eatable,” and, “Do not touch that!”

I am from the blue slide park, and brush burns on my scrawny tan feet.

I am from the loneliness of just Mom and I, together all the time.

So much that we fight every second of the day.

But deep down inside we love each other.

I am from “Can I have this?” and, “Can I have that?”

“NO!”

Man Made Savannah Staab

You think, I wasn’t a beautiful place.

You think, that I am a nothing.

You think, that I am just that place chosen by man because they thought I was ugly.

You think, I was a wasteland.

You think, that I am not alive.

But what if I told you, you are wrong.

I was a place with trees and life, but now, I’m just a mud puddle.

I have this thing pressed against my shoulders, making me exposed.

These things that weigh a ton, roll over my face, and more mud comes to the sight.

Scrap metal, and rusty tubes.

All dumped on me, getting wet by the river’s continuous waves.

And that river, can’t even be pure when I am just another man made thing.

Pondering Life Isabella Victoria

I lay here with the backdrop of my life painted in connecting polygons behind me.

I glance up and see what variety of colors my life has brought me, why is most of it dark and dreary?

I read pretending that I can’t hear the worried voice of my mother, in the distance.

The uneven bricks I lay on are puncturing my already broken heart.

My glasses, too big for curly haired head, but too small for the thoughts brewing inside.

As the man in a suit takes the picture he says This captures it all!

I can hear the excitement in his voice, but it doesn’t capture it all, only the outside, not the story.

Later the image appears, standing out in color against the black and white explanations.

Why does it need an explanation?

Why can’t l--it--go anonymous?

It stereotypes me as an outcast,

not playing, like the other joyful children.

All because, I’m just thinking, just pondering, just pondering life.

I Can Write With You Isaac Winograd

I can write with the love from my family.

I can write with the moon’s dark side.

I can write with the blood from a broken nose.

I can write with the P-I-T-T in PITT. I can write with dog fur.

I can write with toenail clippings.

I can write with the power of a dream that just changed a life.

I can write with a lion’s heart.

I can write with life and death.

I can write with the pain inflicted by betrayed loved ones.

I can write with the loss of a close friend, a supporter.

I am evil, and I am nice.

I write with your happiest memories or your saddest moments.

I take your feelings, good or bad, and write with them.

Your feelings are my words.

I can write with you.

Bone

Aurora Wise The elder ebony, a cracked, crackling reminder of what’s to come, what’s been dragged and beaten to a pulp, yet fights and is reprieved.

No child left behind.

Spared are the ones who have self-restraint.

A source of entertainment for the children and the devil.

The innocence smiles in the shape of a frown.

A trail of blood, darker than Technicolor, splattered across the ripples of the cold leering bear trap.

The bait is the grin, The scream is the chuckle.

What do you spy with your little eye?

Something marbled red and black.

Is it our soccer ball?

Not exactly.

The base limb searches for a worthy predecessor but it takes time for the gore to be washed away.

Takes time for the empty cartilage to put on the mask And play neighborhood creeper.

“Would you like some candy, kids?”

That cyanide candy, Gets em’ every time.