Table of Contents Cartoon, James Mills ‘10 Unititled Poem, Stefan Gigliotti ‘09 Art, Ryan Counihan ‘09 Panda Art. Haiku Two, Zack Belinsky “Get Real”, Stefan Gigliotti Art, Ryan Counihan “Myriad”, Zack Belinsky ‘10 Art, Mike Fasano ‘10 Haiku One, Zack Belinsky ‘10 “The Bear is Full”, Philip Posen ‘09 Collage, Mark Dieckman ‘09 “Technophobe”, Matt Wieglas “The Goddess That Swims”, Matt Wieglus Garden, Travis Roberts ‘10 “Il Reparto Jeans”. William Brennan ‘09 Wood Relief, Mark Dieckman ‘09 “The Monkey Inside Us All”, Pat Donnelly ‘09 “Una Lettera Trovata Per Terra”, William Brennan ‘09 Doodles, Stefan Gigliotti ‘09 Haikus, Matt McCullough ‘09 “The Incoherent Poem”, Dan Clark ‘10 Collage. Unknown “The Meadow in the Mo(u)rning”, Zack Belinsky ‘10 “Whistle Rhymes”, Erik Cwik ‘09 “Unforgiveable Treachery”, Tom O’Neill ‘09 “Cul de Sac”, John Drain ‘09 “Untitled”, Dan Kane ‘09 “Untitled 1”. Tom Krulikowski ‘09 “Indian in the Wintry Mist”, William Turner ‘11 “Alone”. Pat Donnelly ‘09 The All Seeing Eye. Ryan Counihan ‘09 Seascape, Travis Roberts ‘10 Untitled, Dan Kane ‘09 Eggs, William Brennan ‘09 “Wondering” “Enjoyment”, Erik Cwik ‘09 “Try Your Best” “The Youth”, Ryan Counihan ‘09 Art Work, Ryan Counihan ‘09
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James Mills ‘10
“A poet’s hope to be Like some valley cheese, local, but prized elsewhere” - W. H. Auden
Stefen Gigliotti ‘09 Untitled 1 A mirror reflects what it sees in the front. It shows everything we are, but no what we want. It shows us the image of our outside physique, But shows nothing on the in or what makes us unique. Blind to the bugs in my stomach and care in my heart. Blind to what makes us end and what makes us start. It doesn’t show the work put into the details. Doesn’t know all the times we won and failed. Doesn’t show all the ups and downs. It doesn’t show that I turned my life around. It gives no recognition to my hurt and struggle. And no appreciation to the problems I’ve juggled. It shows the cloud in the blue but no silver lining. It shows a circle in the sky but no sun that’s shining. Ryan Counihan ‘09
Haiku Two- Zach Belinsky ‘10 Oh, weeping willow How I would lie beneath you If you would let me
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Stefan Gigliotti ‘09 “Get Real” Artificial tears, artificial joys. Artificial sky, artificial poise. Artificial star, artificial moon. Artificial now, artificial soon. Artificial face, artificial eyes. Artificial hello, artificial goodbyes. Artificial lung, artificial breath. Artificial life, artificial death. Artificial scar, artificial blood. Artificial hate, artificial love. Artificial thought, artificial brain. Artificial manic, artificial sane. Artificial one, artificial two. Artificial me, artificial you
Ryan Counihan ‘09
Myriad by Zack Belinsky ‘10 Look… Only a few strands of light rise to the surface That amorphous vision My heart shines through murky water And she strains her eyes to see the bottom Doubt lingers on fallen trees Where intimacy hangs in the air like a noose Swaying… Parted lips fall like raindrops on my face Mystic droplets ripple the surface And my reflection rises like a tiny flame How can the ocean return the moonlight’s favor? We were set adrift and now wash up on sandy shores How can the wind wipe the tears away? But each time I come back to that tired universe Crystalline stars and galaxies stand frozen in time A hazel dome containing silver stretches of life That reach out to me Flawless infinity on white canvas The outer edges pool up with tears
Mike Fasano ‘10
Untitled Haiku One by Zack Belinsky ‘10 Celestial sphere Look down with myriad eyes Can you not see me?
The Bear is Full by Philip Posen ‘09 Three people wandered into a wood, All of them thinking it good, They did not know that there were bears All of them had no cares.
Angrily in a hurry Off she did scurry Down a path in the middle. As if in a riddle She pulled out a fiddle And played a tune Which attracted two bears And she was eaten.
One was a man, Who sold rugs from Afghan And he took a path to the left. He was tired of selling, Had a mood for smelling, And stooped to pick a rose. A thorn pricked his finger, And the smell of blood did linger, And a bear came and ate him. The second was A maid by trade, And in a fortnight had not been paid.
The third , An airplane pilot, Off in a riot, He ran on path to the right.
Soon it was night, And he in a fright, Began to whimper and cry. He looked to sky, Only wanting to fly, But was eaten by a bear who enjoyed him.
Mark Dieckman ‘09
TECHNOPHOBE by Matt Wielgus ‘10 I always have believed in the Machine Twisting cogs of fate Turning the turbines of progress The beautiful perfection of it all
Self-sufficient in all arts Engines toiling with the slaves of Man The amazing progress is profound He who is metal Stands out as our best The future awaits us We humble servants of nature Our creations create us
THE GODDESS THAT SWIMS Matt Wielgus ‘10 What ever happened to you? There is no feeling left As the former life of ours Surrender itself to oblivion Just us now Floating How? The sound is soothing Just like it used to be I am wondering As I stare into your eyes Of how you enjoyed your life And of your journeys abroad We are close You know I will miss you As you sink Into the watery depths Beloved figurehead Rest well.
Travis Roberts ‘10
IL REPARTO JEANS by Bill Brennan ‘09 —appena finito di piegare tutte quelle paia di jeans ma eccola che li sta rovinado! cosa penserebbe lei se io rovinassi il suo lavoro? il parete intero che c’è voluto tre ore da piegare sta adesso venendo rovinato grazie a questa donna che non si è mai fermata a pensare che magari qualcuna ha lavorato per fare perfetti questi jeans, ehhh, dovrei dirle qualcosa, dovrei dirle di smettere di toccarli, dovrei— « Scusi, mi potrebbe aiutare? » La cliente guardò l’anziana impiegata con gli occhi innocenti. lei sa di aver appena rovinato il mio lavoro ma mi guarda come se sia innocente! ho passato dieci anni qui e sto finalmente diventando stufa dei— « Certo » disse l’impiegata. « Che taglia cerca? » la piu grande! « Cerco la trenquattro ». la trentaquattro! la trentaquattro! sono sicura che tu pensi di essere in forma perfetta! ma quante dietà hai dovuto seguire per mantenere quella cintola piccolissima? « La trentaquattro? » disse l’impiegata. « Ahh, sì, si trova qua ». Lei tolse un paio dei jeans dal parete. Li offrì alla cliente, che rese incerta. prendili! La cliente li prese dall’impiegata.
“We must never forget that art is not a form of propaganda; it is a form of truth” --John F. Kennedy
THE JEANS DEPARTMENT by Guermo Brennan ‘09 —just finished folding all those pairs of jeans but look at her ruining them! what would she think if i ruined all her work? the entire wall that took three hours to fold’s getting ruined now thanks to this woman who never stopped to think that maybe someone worked to make these jeans perfect, ahhh, i should say something to her, i should tell her to stop touching them, i should— “Excuse me. Could you help me?” The customer looked at the old saleswoman with innocent eyes. she knows she just ruined my work but she’s looking at me as if she’s innocent! i’ve spent ten years here and i’m finally becoming sick of— “Sure,” said the saleswoman. “What size are you looking for?” the biggest! “I’m looking for size zero.” zero! zero! i’m sure you think you’re in perfect shape! but how many diets did you have to follow to maintain that tiny little waist? “Zero?” said the saleswoman. “Ahh, yes, they’re over here.” She removed a pair of jeans from the wall. She offered them to the customer, who gave pause.take them! The customer took them from the saleswoman. “Ehhh.” The customer looked at them. “Mmm . . . thanks, but I don’t want them.” you don’t want them? and you didn’t want any of those other pairs that you unfolded! ohhh, i ought to kill you you little— “Have a nice day,” said the old saleswoman.
“Every artist was first an amateur” - Ralph Waldo Emerson
Mark Dieckman ‘09
Pat Donnelly ‘09 The Monkey Inside Us All A monkey swings from tree to tree, He can almost touch the sky. One day he hopes to just break free, To leave the trees and fly. Of this dream, the other monkeys heard And told him to his face, “A monkey fly? Why, that’s absurd! You’ll never leave this place!”
But if he tried, the monkey knew, He could do what they could not. So he practiced as much as the birds that flew, Until his dreams he caught. One day the monkey flew away, Leaving the world in dismay.
UNA LETTERA TROVATA PER TERRA by Bill Brennan ‘09 Signor Scomprensibilone: Le scrivo per dirle che ho deciso di lasciare il lavoro. Dopo aver passato quarantatre anni in questo negozio, me ne sono finalmente stancata. Infatti, è stata Lei che mi abbia fatto pensare di lasciare. Quando è venuta qui dieci anni fa, sapevo che sarebbe un problema. Al nostro primo incontro, quando ci siamo dati le mani, mi ha detto, “Piacere”—però alla sua faccia mancava la convinzione. Proprio dopo di conoscermi, ha cominciato a darmi le ordine: “Pieghi quelle camicie—quindici minuti!” e “Pulisci il bidone”—senza dire “per favore,” senza darmi del Lei. Lo sa che sono invecchiata cinquant’anni piu di Lei? Ma eccomi che io ti dia del Lei! Che disgrazia! Sì, sto lasciando questo lavoro e questo negozio, ma adesso che lo sto scrivendo, mi accorgo di stare lasciando anche te. Adesso che non sono piu coperta da te posso dire di essere libera, di essere veramente spensierata! Non ho una famiglia da badere. Non ho nessun amico da venire a trovare. Tutti sono morti. Tutto ciò che ho è il mio lavoro—e ora lo lascio. Ho ottantadue anni ma mi ha colpito la vitalità! —Sra. A. M. A LETTER FOUND ON THE GROUND by Guermo Brennan ‘09 Mr. Scomprensibilone: I’m writing to you to tell you that I’ve decided to quit. After spending forty-three years in this store, I’ve finally gotten sick of it. In fact, it was you who made me think of quitting. When you came here ten years ago, I knew you’d be a problem. The first time we met— when we shook hands—you said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” But your face lacked conviction. Just after meeting me, you started to give me orders: “Fold that table of shirts— fifteen minutes!” and “Clean the trashcan”—without saying “please,” without speaking politely. Do you know that I’m fifty years older than you? Listen to me, talking to you so formally! What a disgrace. Yes, I’m leaving this job and this store, but now that I’m writing it out, I’m realizing that— most of all—I’m leaving you. Now that I am no longer covered by you, I can say that I’m liberated, that I’m carefree. I don’t have a family to care for. I don’t have any friends to visit. They’re all dead. All I have is my work—and now I’m leaving it. I’m eighty-two years old, and I feel shocked by life! —Mrs. A. M.
Stefan Gigliotti
Haikus by Matthew Mc Cullough
Peaceful and quiet Mountains valleys with a cloud Walkers on the hill Deep jealous shorebird Fuming plowmen lingering Marveling mermaid Turning wisdom runs Flowers fall but a spice turns, Chrildren clash prayers
[If this poem does not make sense as a whole, it’s because the verses don’t relate to one another]
The Incoherent Poem by Dan Clark ‘10 There are times when I see things, and I’m not sure what they are. But that’s fine, your brain believes what you want it to believe. When you’re with the one you love, isn’t the silence one of the sweetest noises you’ve ever heard? When you’re in a crowd of people But you don’t know any of them. And you feel misplaced and on your own. You feel like you should speak, But you can’t draw up the courage. When you finally do, no one seems to hear you. We’re all listening, you just think we aren’t. But its ok, everyone’s like that. The wolves are trying to catch me. How about that time before you wake up, When you’re half dreaming, and half awake. You usually don’t remember it. Probably because you don’t know if it’s real or not. I hope it is. When you ignore me I feel invisible. Maybe we need a connection to our beginnings. Remember our childhood. Or maybe we need to remember the earlier times. Do you enjoy life’s simple pleasures? Maybe we should let our demons take over for a while. It could be fun. You never know. We are ruled by an indifferent moon and an apathetic sun. They don’t care about us, why should we care about them? Time should make no difference to us. But it makes all the difference.
“Let each man exercise the art he knows� - Aristophanes
The Meadow in Mo(u)rning by Zack Belinsky ‘10 Veil of heaven falls soft in morn’ Through air thick as watery depths Settl’ing in dim moonlight forlorn As sediment in ocean’s bed Clothing the flats in garbs unworn And giving life to words unsaid With fog as thick as moonlight thin She hushes nighttime’s subtle sounds Now light and shadow rise akin And pooling up in dewy downs Dance out of body and within The mem’ries that shine in their gowns Shadows drifting on the vapor Take blurry form in sunken eyes Then fleeing ‘fore I can savor The beauty of their nascent guise They thrive in night’s dying favor Then retreat to the daytime nigh Oh weary sky, oh weary me Returning unto Gaia’s breast With silver wisps as far to see Glow bright within her aspect blest Oh weary sight, oh weary thee Lie dear in Eden’s arms to rest As she walks through the sunken way The horizon is thus beset With the new sun’s uncanny rays In the wake of her pirouette And all who live to see this day Take refuge in her silhouette
Whistle Rhymes by Erik Cwik ‘09 To be back in the ancient times Where jolly men worked to whistle rhymes. I surely there would break my back With pounds of crops inside my sack. Then sit at home beside the fire Whilst my dear lady plucked her lyre. It is then that I would have to be sure That after death there must be more. Those day were not as romantic as it may seem And those who lived then could only dream Of days to come and eternal rest Where they would be held against God’s breast Unforgivable Treachery by Tom O’Neil ‘09 It was a frigid and ominous day, Meeting her on top of the snowy hill, She, facing the other way, As I remembered our time by the mill. Quickly, she turned and stabbed my heart. As I looked down, spying gushing blood, Regretting giving her my love’s key, Crashing to the ground and eating mud. Falling, I weakly asked her, “Why?”
Cul-de-sac by John Drain ‘09
As I stood on the corner of the cul-de-sac the memories of my childhood came rushing back to me. I had lived on this cul-de-sac for five years and it was there where I had experienced the happiest times of my otherwise mundane and lonely youth. However these years are now tinged with sadness and regret as I recall the abruptness with which I was ripped from my cul-de-sac. But overall it was good. Perhaps it was right to leave before the happy ignorance of youth was replaced by the sullen awareness of adolescence, or perhaps it was not. My mind is often in two over whether it was detrimental or beneficial in my development to have had to leave such a utopian sanctuary (in my mind). Whether it was better to leave before I realized it wasn’t my special slice of the neighborhood, just a small part of the world outside and everything that came with it; or to have stayed and experience that revelation, to experience it but to have remained grounded in an environment I had implicit trust it. I am still divided, yet I have accepted it has done both good and bad in my life. And the fact remains that my memories of the cul-de-sac are as an oasis. An oasis where youthful idealism triumphed over parental pragmatism, where neighbors never hollered at you to stop the game or quiet down, and where happiness always pummeled sadness.
We moved to the house on the cul-de-sac when I was in first grade, around
Christmastime. And we means my mother, my father and my sister who is about five years my junior. We moved because of my father, who after two years of living off a severance package landed a job at a sports radio company in the Midwest. My first impression of my new environment was cold. The previous three years were spent in the
southern portion of the country, so when I walked out of the airport the frigid winter wind that slapped me in the face offered a rather harsh welcome. However after the initial unpleasant experience, I grew to enjoy the liberating cold of the north much more than the oppressive heat of the south. I adapted to my new environment rather quickly, we had only lived in Atlanta for about three years, I was ages four, five and six; and I hardly remember anything about the place except for the murky, snake infested swap in the middle of the neighborhood. The nostalgia that held me back in the second move was not present in the first. I was still a shy, reserved kid, but I was not preoccupied with pining for a lost paradise never to be regained
I was in a position where I had to make the best of the situation and did not know of any other option. The house was one of four located on the cul-de-sac, the second one on the right. The house was built of red brick, with five windows running across the second floor, and two on the first. The windows had white frames complimented by black shutters that matched the black front door. The house had a white, one-car garage with a slanted driveway leading away from it. The house had a large tree (I don’t know what species; I wasn’t much of a botanist at twelve), whose branches hung in front of the door and living room windows. My mom loved the shade it provided the living room, my dad hated the fact that it depreciated the value of the home. I didn’t care about either of those things. The house was on the cul-de-sac; a short, narrow strip of pavement dull in color yet dignified in presence. That was enough for me.
I first noticed the simple grandeur of the cul-de-sac that spring. The snow had
melted and the temperature was warm enough so I could put my hockey net at the end of the cul-de-sac. The net was flimsy with nylon netting and plastic goal posts that gave out every time the puck hit them. The cul-de-sac’s smooth pavement was perfect for I met my best friend: Nick.
Shortly after we moved, a woman from up the street came to our house to welcome us to the neighborhood. She was short, stout but possessed a pleasant nature and also, as I later found out, a rapier wit. Her son Nick was a tall, pale, gangly kid who was is the same grade as me but attended the local public school; I went to the local Catholic school. He saw my net and asked me if I wanted to play a bit. I agreed and he went back to his house to get his skates and stick as our mothers went into the house to chat. Playing hockey with Nick was a rather incendiary event. It always ended with us either screaming at each other or us trying to beat the hell out of the other, or both. In one instance I called time-out as Nick was on a breakaway. Apparently it is unfair to do that in a game of street hockey, and Nick told me so in a rather callous and insult-laden way. A long, loud, loud argument ensued and we swore to never play with each other again. But we always played, and when we matured enough to tolerate the other a strong, genuine friendship developed. One that has withstood time and distance, we were roommates in college and he was the best man at my wedding. When the hockey goal wasn’t up on the cul-de-sac the basketball hoop was. It usually stood in between the waist high bushes that lined the right side of the driveway, but the slanted driveway was no place to play a fair game of basketball. So I would put the hockey net in the garage and roll the hoop down to the end of the cul-de-sac. It was because of playing basketball on the cul-de-sac that I got my first kiss. I was playing a game of one-on-one with a girl from school. We were both twelve. Catherine was cute, feisty and the first girl I wasn’t nervous talking to. She was the first girl in our grade to get a training bra, and many of my daydreams in math class consisted of imagining what was under it. She was taller than me but her barbs at my lack of me but her barbs at my lack of vertical fortun summer and fall. Nothing made us feel better than pelting our friends with hardened balls of ice for six hours straight.
The cul-de-sac also proved its reliability to provide for us in winter. After every snowstorm the town had snow ploughs run through the streets of our neighborhood. Normally they would just push the snow onto the sidewalk, but with the cul-de-sac all the snow ended up being pushed to the end; which resulted in a majestic snow fort, the presence of which fueled our winter land fantasies for hours on end. Each weekend day or snow day was spent in the following manner: A group of kids would gather at my cul-de-sac, which always had a better pile than Nick’s cul-de-sac for some reason, and we would pick sides. Once the sides were picked we then flipped a coin to see which team fought from the snow fort and which team had to resort to guerrilla warfare. The rest of e didn’t bother me in the slightest. We were instantly attracted to each other, and we competed in everything. One day we were playing basketball on the cul-de-sac and we decided to make things a bit more interesting. I bet her that if I win, I would get to kiss her; she bet me that if she won I would have to run around the neighborhood for ten minutes screaming at the top of my lungs. There was a drain at the end of the cul-de-sac a few feet in front of the hoop. The game was tied and Catherine beat me around the edge, about to go up for the winning hoop and damn me to ten minutes of abject shame and humiliation. But the cul-de-sac saved me; the ball hit the lip of the drain and bounced out on to my lawn. I scored the next play. Being. a woman of her word, Catherine led me
behind the tree in my front yard and we kissed.
The kiss was wet, clumsy, awkward; I didn’t know where to put my hands. It
was over soon enough though, and Catharine and I agreed to play many more games that ended exactly like that. I was ripped from the cul-de-sac shortly thereafter. My dad got a new job as an executive at a small cable company in the Northeast. I was hurt, he said we were staying in Shermer at least until I graduated junior high school. My dad was turning into that girlfriend who cheats on you once, tells you that she’ll never do
it again, but then you catch here with Bill from accounting in your bed. And even then you keep trusting her knowing that you shouldn’t. Our new house was on a cul-de-sac too, but it wasn’t the same. This new cul-de-sac was wider, less exclusive. It let more of the world in, it no longer belonged to just my friends and I, it belonged to the rest of the neighborhood too. Maybe it was some way of some divine being signaling to me through the new cul-de-sac that it was time to broaden my view of the world. But I did that soon enough without it. What I needed in the cul-desac was a place of refuge from authoritarian teachers and ill-tempered parents. The new culde-sac offered no such refuge; there were no trees, and therefore no privacy. Also, this new cul-de-sac held the name “Bellamy Lane”. A weak, spineless replacement for the grandeur and gravity conveyed by “Manor Drive”, the name designated for my old residence. But maybe I would have thought Bellamy to be strong if Manor had been Bellamy, and maybe I would have also thought Manor to be weak if Bellamy had been Manor. These are the insignificant, trivial scenarios I play in my head when thinking about the move. My wish is to one day have no emotion for or against the new cul-de-sac, to just accept it as part of my life and accept it. Yet now as I stand at that corner looking at the cul-de-sac, I come to the conclusion that the cul-de-sac was a childhood memory that serves to represent an ideal in my head of what one’s youth should be like. It wasn’t as idyllic or perfect in reality as it was in my mind, but nothing ever is. Yet it remains something I can strive to provide for my unborn son. But maybe it’ll just fulfill me. I’m twenty-seven now, but I still long for the days spent on the cul-de-sac, and it’s for that reason that my wife and I are about to look at my old house. The cul-de-sac looks smaller now, but to my son it will feel like an expansive concrete plain, on which to fulfill all of his boyhood dreams. And every day I’ll be able to wake up, look out of my bedroom window at the cul-de-sac below, and remember mine
“Art is born of the observation and investigation of nature” - Cicero Untitled by Dane Kane ‘09 Trees fly by in no particular order They possess the right to be random The hills roll on as they please They embody freedom But I am stuck on this fixed path I am trapped in this metal box lined with leather interior A box in the front tells me what I need to know Or what it wants me to know The aggressive fly by apparently this is a race Then why do some move slow? Is the journey all that matters? The journey thus far has managed to send a chill up my neck The queue of metal boxes has that affect That waiting is all life is Waiting for the elevator Waiting for the train; the bus Waiting for a phone call You almost hope it never comes so that you can just move on with your life Waiting for the next level of whatever School; Employment; Rank; It doesn’t matter The next level becomes all that matters You forget yourself
“““WeeWe don
Untitled 1 Tom Krulikowski ‘09 My obsessive paranoia has invaded my everyday life. I am the lone audience as my anxiety is unleashed behind my eyes. I am unable to intervene. I am handcuffed by my paralysis, strapped to a chair. I hear the voice of the world calling out to me. I try to respond, let it know I’m still here. But I am silent, my mouth motionless. Forced to face this intrusion alone. I have to struggle to fight off my enemy. Breathing heavily, I finally coerce it to retreat. This is my new life No matter how hard I try to rationalize this reality, I still live in fear Of what will cause the next siege Of what causes my panic attack.
“We do not write because we want to; we write because we have to” - W. Somerset Maugham
Indian in the Wintry Mist William Turner ‘11 Times you’ve been trapped in cages of your own making, bars wrought from twisting opal fog. Times it’s been, weeks perhaps, that the sun will not rise and stays instead, low, subdued, in its own cage on the horizon. And in this time, your time is not your own - you spend most of it in a sleeping bag piled with blankets, hiding your flesh from vast clutching fingers of ice and of wind. Times it’s been that the fingers spread over the earth, a pale slow-moving wildfire, impatiently pushing life ahead of them. This time’s the time for vague memories of once-warmth on now goose pimpled skin. This time’s the time for velvet dark stage curtains perpetually half-drawn across the frail glue and cardboard contraption that you call your world.
Pat Donnelly ‘09 Alone The feeling starts when you’re alone. Your insides tighten like a stone. A pitch-black storm that comes too fast, Of memories from your past. Her silk brown hair and chestnut eyes, Have brought about your demise. You long to hold her like you had, When all was good and none was bad. You revisit trails where you once tread. Again she creeps inside your head.
When sleep, your only friend, won’t come, You know that something must be done. In the dead of night you leave your room, And welcome your impending doom. You throw some pills into a cup, Mixed with rum and 7-Up. You hit the floor and seize and shake, Alas, your only life, you take. Alone, you lie there, cold and dead. All thoughts of her seep out your head.
You’re curious to know about, When she’s home and when she’s out. Who she’s with and what she does, Where she’s been and how it was. One quick call would end your pain, To hear her voice and return sane. But you know she won’t pick up the phone, When she sees the number is your own She’ll let it ring for hours instead. Again she creeps inside your head. And all at once it’s very clear: She’s moved on and you’re still here. You hurl your phone at your bookshelf. It shatters, not unlike yourself. You punch at a wall, it cracks in two. Your knuckles turn red and black and blue. But nothing can distract enough, She’s on your mind, he grip is tough. So you pray for sleep upon your bed. Again she creeps inside your head.
Ryan Counihan ‘09
Travis Roberts ‘10
Dan Kane ‘09 I know nothing of love For every time my heart holds its breath and leaps It is only being smothered by the incessant undulations that give the allusion of love In your sleep they will flip your mind and perceptions like a boat And like a panic stricken sailor, You will flail in the water missing your chance at recovery Now you chase the impossible Like a search for Eldorado Your entire being is obsessed with settling the internal storm Or rather replacing it with a happy sunshine That leaves you elated no matter what reality brings But abandoning your journey is the only elixir But after drinking its contents you will feel weak; dishearten; Alone. Either your city of gold has already been discovered And although it still radiates a welcoming feel It will never be yours and you, never its
William Brennan ‘09
Or perhaps you have waited on its outskirts waiting for the page to beacon your entrance No squire comes; No trumpets sound The lost city stays true to its name It becomes lost once again You, waiting for it to move closer to you Cities can not move Only the adventure can take the final steps Only the adventure steps Only the adventurer moves Pizzaro failed, you failed The City fades away, it hates waiting
Wondering by Erik Cwik ‘09 I used to sit and think all day ‘bout what would happen when I turned to clay. Would I see dark or would I see light? I used to ponder with all of my might. But it is only now I see and cry Those days of worry hath passed me by And now I’m closer then ever before To being locked behind the eternal door.
“A poet more than thirty years old is simply an overgrown child” - H. L. Mencken
Enjoyment by Erik Cwik ‘09 If on your way you find the truth Please keep it to yourself. For I cannot enjoy my youth Knowing there’s nothing else
Try Your Best by Ryan Counihan ‘09 What Beauty I see each and every day From the moon to the stars, from day to night Such beauty is shown each and every way We pander in the beauty of each sight Follow the road of lives ever changing Follow God’s will and he will repay thee Life is filled with change and rearranging Live and love, love and live accordingly We have one chance to do our very best Being rapacious will do us no good Live and love and remember we are blessed Take life by the horns and live as Christ would This life is so beautiful and precious Praise the lord, for he has truly blessed us
The Youth by Ryan Counihan ‘09 These days are bright, these days are oh so right Raillery amongst friends, enjoying life Lying supine, on a beautiful night Enjoying the music heard from the fife Children playing in the fields happily Shows us the beauty of life and dreams My path in life, I’d rather not foresee For my future I know is bright and gleams I have a plethora of time and friends In adolescence, my time I will spend Hoping that none of this will ever end Growing old seems to be the common trend I live in the now and spend my time well With my friends, having fun, everything’s swell
Ryan Counihan ‘09
Co-editors: John Drain ‘09 and Tom Krulikowski ‘09 Contributing Editors: William Brennan ‘09, Matt Carmody ‘09, Erik Cwik ‘09, Pat Donnelly ‘09, Roy Kaiser ‘ 09, Dan Kane ‘09, Xavier Loftus ‘09, Matt McCullough ‘09, Pete O’Donnell ‘09, Phil Posen ‘09 Contributors: Zack Belinsky ‘10, William Brennan ‘09, Dan Clark ‘10, Ryan Counihan’09, Erik Cwik ‘09, Mark Dieckman ‘10, Pat Donnelly ‘09, John Drain ‘09, Mike Fasano ‘10, Stefan Gigliotti ‘09, Dan Kane ‘09, Tom Kulikowski ‘09, Matthew McCullough ‘09, James Mills ‘10, Tom O’Neill ‘09, Phil Posen ‘09, Travis Roberts ‘10, Willian Turner ‘11, Matthew Wielglus ‘10 Moderator: Mr. Dennis Bloh