Calliope's Gold 2015

Calliope’s Gold Volume XVII 2014-2015

Calliope’s Gold Volume XVII 2014-2015

Cover art created by Alysson Wittmeyer

From the Editors In Greek mythology, Calliope was the Muse of epic poetry. She was frequently invoked, particularly by poets who called on her for inspiration.

Editorial Staff Zainab Abbasi Rose Aubery Frankie Bisconti Helen Borchart Sophie Borchart Amelia Deering Maisy Feeley Sharene Gould Dulabaum Annabelle Heisley

Erin Hughes Emma May Olivia Oberdorf Stephanie Pierson Henry Stone Sarah Summers Maggie Veltri Alysson Wittmeyer

Faculty Advisor Stephanie Merrill Thanks to Jamie Lau for her work on layout.

Contents Ode to Bones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7

Helen Borchart The Crimson and Coffee. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

Maggie Veltri Wolves. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .10

Rose Aubery Sticking True to Yourself. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .12

Andrew Wilson For the Gamers. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .13

Nicholas Kathrein A Death Sonnet. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15

Cassie Kemmler Oxymoron. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .16

Mustafa Alimumal Zhao. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .17

Kenny Woltz 4 A.M. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

Annabelle Heisley Ode to Chamonix. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .19

Stephanie Pierson Falling Stardust. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22

Danielle Mastricola A Midnight Visitor. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 23

Yicheng “Eason� Rong Wholly of the Air. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .24

Cassie Kemmler Consider the Coat Hanger. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .25

Annabelle Heisley Pirate Reformer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

Rose Aubery Selective Blindness. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .27

Ali Georgescu Work Life. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 28

Gannon Cottone Ode to the Car. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29

Harmon Handa Dissolving into the Oak. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .31

Erin Hughes Metamorphosis of Beauty. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32

Nadine Kademoglou

This Day Will Never Come to Pass. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .33

Ali Georgescu For the Taxi Driver. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35

Amelia Deering For the Sojourners. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37

Stephanie Pierson My Name. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

Nicholas Kathrein Growing into Childhood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42

Xiaoya Zhu Tomorrow. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .43

Yue “Fred” Zhao Ode to the Needle. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .45

Henry Stone What Do Women Want? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .47

Cassie Kemmler Who Am I? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .48

Sophia Shapiro On Lightning and Water. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50

Maisy Feeley Where You Will Find Me. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .51

Sophie Borchart Looking Ahead. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

Amelia Deering Sea-gulf. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .55

Alysson Wittmeyer How to Bring Back What’s Dead. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .57

Mustafa Alimumal Brassy Bone. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59

Helen Borchart In Our Next Lives. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .60

Xiaoya Zhu Children of the Devil. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .62

Rose Aubery Ode to Campfires. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65

Daniel Basa Vision Quest. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67

Tano Xayasarn Palace. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .69

Kz Plamondon

Ode to Bones You are the snowy mountain and chiseler of my face the wicker basket of my hands the crocodile moat to my marble castle back.

You are the bend in the river to my knee the gleaming moon beneath skin’s lunar eclipse.

Your pristine intricacy as gossamer as dove’s wings your unyielding strength of Grecian forests with knotted twigs as fingers and gnarled root legs.

One day, I know your river will run dry our wicker basket broken the dove’s wing shattered and the Grecian forest set ablaze.

Your limestone seeds will be planted never to decay.

Smudges of me left on earth like coal on white lace.

Time scrubs those stains but you will keep the gory halves of me.

Life only gave me the splendor the luxury of being whole with you.

-Helen Borchart 7

The Crimson and Coffee Wait to never be chosen.

Turn 16 they hope.

Live on the street they pray.

Not to be traded for one more day.

Claudette Colvin refused to give up her seat to the too-light complected: the blue-eyed mutant devils who didn’t respect her.

We are the ink that give blank pages meaning.

She grows on powder and sex every day.

Painted violet and crimson after being taken away.

A resurgence of aggression now fosters an obsession over the colors of our skin but we are never giving in.

We are the ink that give blank pages meaning.

Insidious media pours toxic chemicals of hate consumed by masses.

We eat it up every day.

Slang against coffee-grained skin and the ones we call fags and the mentally unstable while we do all that we are able to pretend like they’re able to break out of this.

8

When will we rise over the bile and blood on our hands, above the odor of bodies that pile up in our land?

When will we fight for the children traded?

Sex trafficking abated by our lack of concern.

We are the ink that give blank pages meaning.

-Maggie Veltri

9

Wolves They call every night.

The darkest hours of life are their most prosperous.

Grass loses its flavor.

Oxygen leaves the air.

Howls are already coming closer.

With growing intensity and excitement they surround.

The whites of two eyes match the moon.

Their howls are replaced with sickening silence.

The sun begins to rise.

-Rose Aubery

10

-Erin Hughes

11

Sticking True to Yourself I wanted to voice my appreciation for the bumper stickers who have so much freedom in their messaging; so many are available to the public, a widespread collection of opinions the opportunity to display personal beliefs instead of imprisoning your perspective.

I love the way that bumper stickers are willing to embody conflicting feelings to bond with a grimy bar of fixed chrome gripping the vehicle becoming one.

They always travel as a unit; nothing could eradicate this relationship.

And they remain susceptible to criticism, representing an individual outlook.

That’s why I want to say something impressive like: Our opinions define who we are.

Your thoughts distinguish you from others separating you from the public viewpoint.

Embrace your unique position.

Cling to your inner passion.

You are free.

Deflect any pressure to change.

-Andrew Wilson

12

For the Gamers Tonight I want to say something wonderful for the Gamers who have so much faith in their hands and eyes working like the most well-oiled machines performing together in flawless tandem by sight and touch making magic happen.

Right in front of them figures dance across a wall of light, and the beautiful thing about it is all their doing creating life and light.

Despite its artificiality they make it seem genuine, a whole new body for the mind to step into and, as always they cross freely between these worlds just as spirits roaming the earth and Heavens.

I’ve always wanted to say, What is it like to be able to bridge the gap between two worlds, nothing alike but becoming one?

We have to learn to trust our minds like that, knowing that they are willing to come back after discovering astonishing new worlds.

You’d think they’d never fancy leaving, but they dutifully cross back over the bridge and return to their host.

As the dancing lights go out, the hands fall to their sides the eyes find new focus, and the Gamer’s job is done.

-Nicholas Kathrein

13

-Erin Hughes

14

A Death Sonnet Do not mark my name on marble stone Or drown a wooden box in salty tears.

A prison cell encaging forgotten bones Meeting only mildew year after year.

Do not read off words too often spoken.

Not everything happens for a reason Or leave nothing but a cliched token.

For from eulogy comes life in but a season.

Burn me in the fossils of ashen coal And return the weeping to the willows.

Pour me into a forgotten rabbit hole, And grant a baby’s breath to grow.

For if death can bring but a single leaf What is there against such a magnificent thief?

-Cassie Kemmler

15

Oxymoron If you want peace you must prepare for war.

A phrase that seemingly makes no sense like the corrupt begging through penance.

The world is filled with contradictions. What for?

That something can be as closed as an open door And that there is nothing as inviting as a shut fence.

A task that I struggle with as much as a boring chore To write a sonnet that is both original and a classic.

Shakespearean or Petrarchan, I truly do not know.

Should I limit my topics to those of history?

And should my tone be charming or sarcastic?

Do I write of love or a daring battle with a foe?

Of a sheep roaring at a lion with such authenticity?

This oxymoron remains but a mystery.

-Mustafa Alimumal

16

Zhao He sat and tapped on his phone.

The pop-up rewards brought him much joy.

Even though he was in class, he felt alone.

It was like he was in his own little world with this toy.

His stomach dropped and his eyes were filled with fear: You could tell he felt as if life was in slow motion.

He had dropped something that to him was very dear.

His face resembled a man falling into the ocean.

His phone was cracked all over its face.

I had never seen him in such sorrow.

He had to get to the repair store, out of this place.

It was my phone he asked to borrow.

You could tell to his phone he was addicted.

Will this lead to a generation of the convicted?

-Kenny Woltz

17

4 A.M. I used to think it was cute when the small kitten would curl up on my chest and fall asleep to the sound of my heartbeat.

Six months later I curse myself for giving her so many treats as I struggle to breathe under the weight of her fat ass.

-Annabelle Heisley

18

Ode to Chamonix Buried in the Alps of France a quaint town with a not-so-quaint notoriety.

Acoustic echoes fill ears of skiers, backpackers, those seeking adventure.

Cobblestones stuck together hold up sore feet of those who wander but are not lost.

Sweeping mountains, rolling streets, winding trails trap all happiness in and illuminate lives.

Sounds of laughter and friendship and sisterhood along with brotherhood compose a love song unique to Chamonix.

-Stephanie Pierson

19

-Nadine Kademoglou

20

Cut-up Poem

The seven poems that follow are cut-up poems. The cut-up or collage is a form that has been used by many experimental writers of the past century (and, of course, by many visual artists). The cut-up poem is produced by a technique that permits the poet to suspend logical thought and allows the writer to concentrate on the music of words and phrases “borrowed� from multiple disparate sources.

In our cut-up poems, we borrowed phrases from such sources as old newspapers, catalogs, magazines, recipe books, maps, and literature books. The task was to work not toward meaning, but toward intriguing combinations of words and phrases and a playful assemblage of sounds resulting in a language that defies the ordinary and trends to the magical. Surprisingly - like a dream - some sense creeps into the juxtaposition of language of the unconscious than to logical meaning.

As you read these poems, disengage from your linear mind and allow the evocative imagery created in these cutup poems to take you to new places.

21

Falling Stardust a cut-up poem

How pretty Ophelia was--you hold your breath-a nylon-Lycra blend of slenderness and fab florals.

She possessed a good brain; no talent for domestic duties but collects $169,000 elegantly appointed kitchens and two-bedroom condos.

Headlines: sexploitations and sex with strangers Chanel, Calvin Klein, and Dolce & Gabbana permanently icon stardust collection gambling winnings Well life’s vulgar.

Love or career?

I gather that is why she lept and fell from grace.

Shades of the dead went away Eh bien, mon ami--Drop the pistol!-Her captor was standing with both hands above his head.

If I can dial 911, get the police.

The IRS will be happy like a star from a more elegant area.

Only miss Violet-lost on losing tickets.

-Danielle Mastricola

22

A Midnight Visitor a cut-up poem

I can see you smiling.

When my eyes adjusted to the crystal light a woman stood next to me.

She looked at me, and nodded (Husband? Baby? The son of a coach? Nancy Pelosi?)

I couldn’t sleep The situation became urgent, code orange.

Are we friends?

I guess so she said.

I smiled a sweet saintly smile: Follow your heart.

When the apocalypse comes, there will be no wind, only heat.

I wavered a bit, and the magic was back: We danced so hard the sky fell and rolled down the hill I want to share my future.

Perhaps I should give up everything.

She looked up.

Professor, can we discuss my grade?

-Yicheng “Eason” Rong

23

Wholly of the Air a cut-up poem

She is not the Mona Lisa in G Major, but a funny vehicle for the human experience beyond the evident relish of paradoxical impulses and madcap beach frolics.

An art more shadow than statue, a revelation in atmospherics, trilling notes for the ineffable slipping into wings to follow a spark on the wind.

Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty. The immortal Dying Swan.

That same Fitzgerald story, its appealing jumble of belief, doesn’t make her feel as safe as the Unfinished symphony.

It’s the art of those who didn’t make it, a dark humor.

There is no existence of Odette’s virgin prince, only a comic rendering of smoke on the horizon both exalted and human: contentedly earthbound in a series of sure, arching lifts.

-Cassie Kemmler

24

Consider the Coat Hanger a cut-up poem

I reserve my empathy for the women stuck in the controversy of choice.

Their actions draw paradoxical boos from politicians who operate on greed, narcissism and violence.

The Church makes pronouncements about how we should behave.

Why, then, does it make light about the unacceptable toll that their children’s bullying takes on women already facing a cascade of criticism?

The Gospel states: Blessed are the peacemakers.

There is no peace for these women, only feelings of fear and betrayal.

Where they used to see Jesus, now they just see red.

-Annabelle Heisley

25

Pirate Reformer a cut-up poem

I saw for myself the ambitions captain of the hook people: bored with the drudgery, sluggish at best with the maze of restrictions, sought the Isle of Youth to soar to heights and widths, but the charms of Devil’s Hole lead to the captain’s concomitant destruction.

The ramshackle chronicle concludes with no tales brazenly promoted.

It will be a long day when I go the captain thinks.

And I saw for myself the head on its broken neck desperately trying to pierce the flat calm.

But reform is too small a change to last, so all remained silent.

-Rose Aubery

26

Selective Blindness a cut-up poem

The light of the mind is red; booze and beauty don’t mix.

I was never lucky, but the magazines went crazy for it, the tone of their echo growing deeper.

Sometimes it’s like a stranger aiming a gun at you; an intimate tempest.

Lots of people roll their eyes-people want to read about the mafia.

They like the live-stream action “Sop up the grime,” they say, “no melancholy, no tears.”

Look at religion: Mormons, idiots, mammas, and boys, pink from head to toe scrubbed clean of all sorts of sinful things.

What’s not to love?

A beautiful diversion.

I walked through life like a zombie-just under the legal limit; that slow codeine drip seeped through my pores minus the visual stigma.

-Ali Georgescu

27

Work Life

a cut-up poem

Obsessive attention to obtain our exposure Lagging behind, looked against No real road to victory Take me out of the quality game.

I’ve been shoe-horned into this low-rider, pampering them when they’re stuck.

Just as I was passing they instructed me on what side to loom.

My past is as long as Italy’s boot partially torn and out of reach; I will outstrip the new.

Pouring out of the pickle injector, Frontier markets hang drapes of silence.

Companies developing populations at retirement cause no frenzy.

I now have a system to fight.

28

-Gannon Cottone

Ode to the Car Every morning you wait, car, outside in the bitter cold rain scorching heat you never let me down.

Your seat warmers a sensation I never knew.

I ask whether one day an idiot hits us and then perhaps we will be one at last.

-Harmon Handa

29

-Andrew Wilson

30

Dissolving into the Oak Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. -Willa Cather, from My Antonia Willa Cather’s words about the beauty of happiness has resonated with me throughout my life. All of the characters in My Antonia share a similar enchantment with the prairie which stays with them for the rest of their lives. Even as some characters grow older and leave the prairie, their connection to the landscape remains unwaveringly strong.

Growing up in the middle of cornfields is not what most people think of when I tell them that I am from “outside of Chicago.” I happily associate myself with the farmlands of the state and am content to stay in the rural atmosphere that I call home. This has proved valuable to me, as I am able to tie my education to nature in a way that I don’t think everyone can.

If you’re not paying attention, it’s easy to get lost as you head west away from the city. There is no distinct line between the suburbs and the rural outlying areas; it’s more of a blurred edge that merges the two together. When placed in either of the two extremes, however, it feels like an entirely separate world. When I come home, I mostly see how small I am compared to the vast expanse of nature. I live closer to the natural world and the elements than most people in northern Illinois, and I come in contact with the beauty of it every day. My education in schcool strengthens the bond I have with my environment, and allows me to see my surroundings in a different light. By reading novels like My Antonia and by studying calculus or mathematical physics, I am able to fluidly go from one extreme to the other, much like the blurred edge that separates the city and the cornfields. This multidimensional approach to everyday life is what has pushed me to pursue studies that interest me, like agriculture and wildlife, but also to appreciate the subjects that matter to others.

In the middle of the fields that surround our farm stands a single oak. During the day the large tree shelters some of the crop from the sweltering Illinois sun. The solitary oak is a rare sight; most of the trees that line the crops were cut down to make way for more fields. The tree breathes and creaks with each powerful gust that cuts and swills over the land but remains tall and steady. Standing underneath this peaceful oak is where I take time to absorb my surroundings and step away from the fast-paced way of life. For me there is no better way to describe these brief moments than simply “dissolving into something complete and great.”

31 -Erin Hughes

Metamorphosis of Beauty My real name is Un-Cracked Painting, every one of my parents’ brushstrokes perfectly blending unearthing creating their masterpiece.

So many expectations so little canvas.

Blossoming from years past ever coming Winter keeping the frozen lavender hidden never to know the thawing sun.

As they say, rivers do not freeze so long as they don’t slow and refuse the chill from their wave.

I am now the Ever Flowing Creek.

Slowing just enough to learn my way over the stones, through the twists and the turns but never stopping.

Soon I will not be the water, but rather Glimmering City Lights, my reflections bouncing dancing on the soft currents.

But all locks have their keys.

All birds their nests, all hearts their secrets.

Through shimmers of life I will always be Soft Southern Breeze sifting through the Virginia pine tickling whispering comforting while family sips of sweet tea: The warmth to battle the raw the gentle to battle the lurid.

-Nadine Kademoglou 32

This Day Will Never Come to Pass When I arrive in dreams of mine A boy extends his gated hand.

I walk with him along the line Between two falsely equal lands.

My head turns towards the leftward sun Behind the film of lethal gas.

A world abandoning its young Abusive children come to pass.

But to my right no loss is left A promised land known will not last.

With solid ground and air bereft My earth my home is burning fast.

But whilst we think we can make do There is no hope for worlds anew.

-Ali Georgescu

33

-Alysson Wittmeyer

34

For the Taxi Driver On my way to wherever I’m going far away from wherever I’ve been I stop to say something personal to the person getting me there.

If you told me your name I’ve forgotten it.

I certainly didn’t say mine, but amid the low rumblings of the engine I feel we’re connected somehow.

You meander all over the city from one strange place to the next.

You don’t make small talk or ask questions simply a messenger, never a man.

The passengers are interchangeable.

None more unique than the last.

To them you’re just another face to you they’re just another stop.

But sometimes when the day is grey and the city sleeps you dare to dream: Maybe we’re more than just shadows moving with the sun crossing then separating completely alone Maybe we’re strings of spider webs making connections each one’s path unique Maybe each person’s thoughts and feelings and memories are just as powerful as mine and just as meaningful as mine and maybe they are who they are because of their connections with the people they meet 35

We have to think of people that way each unique each their own And we have to remember how we affect people their thoughts and feelings and emotions even after we’re gone as one of their connections in the giant web.

-Amelia Deering

36

For the Sojourners Today I want to say something wonderful for the sojourners who have so much faith in their feet, so much faith in the leather binding their toes, so much faith in the wrinkled papers leading them through the western pines.

Trails of sunflowers praising the skies, the open fields offering infinite paths leading to summits and valleys instead of city streets and sidewalks.

I love the way that sojourners are willing to step into the abyss that Mother Nature has provided us with, to raise their arms and welcome the unknown.

Breathing in the galaxies, breathing in life.

The safe return of their moving legs is not guaranteed, but a soul content from within, however, is.

And if they return, they are returning having grown as tall as the mountains they climbed.

That’s why I want to say something remarkable like: We are the universe We are the wildflowers swaying softly beneath the sun, soaking up that which allows us to grow.

We are the symphony of crickets performing under the stage lights we call stars.

We are the spruce and the sycamore, providing a place for spirits to temporarily surrender to the cruel world formed by us, and to fall back into the simple and healing world formed by Him. 37

We have to learn to trust our instincts.

We have to learn to follow the footprints of those who dare to venture off the beaten path and live the life we all were destined to live.

We have to drink from the stupefying cup of reality and wake ourselves up to the world we were meant to enjoy.

-Stephanie Pierson

38

-Nataly Perez

39

My Name My real name is Modern Day Zombie watching the flashing lights in front of me never having a thought of my own.

Yesterday my name was the same, drool crawling down my lower lip as my mind crawled from my body.

My name once was the Brightest Bulb full of life and light.

Now I sit here, lightless, letting life go by.

Secretly, somewhere I know I still have that name.

Somehow I have to be plugged back in, and the light will shine again.

But today, my name remains Socketless Bulb filament burned out devoid of light.

Tomorrow will be no different until somebody screws me back into place.

-Nicholas Kathrein

40

-Alysson Wittmeyer

41

Growing into Childhood

I never understood how I actually grew up.

I came from a Chinese family with busy working parents. I was used to sitting on a stool right by the door, saying goodbye to my nanny, and waiting for my parents to come home. Soon I couldn’t fit on a stool anymore, so I sat on the sofa and watched the 4 o’clock kid’s show and waited.

Later the sofa turned into a desk and a chair, and I had homework to do. My days went by just like that, and before I knew it, I was already saying goodbye to my parents at Pudong International Airport. It was 12:30 p.m. August 3rd, 2011, and in two hours a giant aircraft was going to take me across the earth to somewhere on the distant continent called Chicago. I was 15 years old then.

For years the adults around me had been telling me that I acted all grown up. It didn’t seem like I needed anybody to tell me what to do. I could manage my life just fine all by myself - or so it seemed to them. But actually I didn’t know what “grown up” was supposed to feel like. As an old friend pointed out to me a long time ago, it is because I didn’t have anything to grow into. And he was right. I am a child without a childhood, so how would I know what growing up should feel like? No matter how mature other people think I am, I still thought of myself as the same girl sitting on a stool by the door, a little scared because it was getting dark.

This summer my life-long dream of going to Disneyland came true.

Both of my parents took time off from their demanding jobs and came to visit me. It was the best two days of my life. We went to Disneyland. We rode on practically every ride including the Teacups, the Choo-Choo Train, and all the other rides that I was considered too old for. We stood in long lines that my dad never used to have the patience for. We ate as many Mickey-shaped ice cream bars and donuts as I wanted to, not worrying about stomach aches or calories. I got balloons. For those two days I was the princess. Everything I didn’t get to do as a child, I did in those two days. On the last day in Disneyland, we stood in front of Cinderella’s castle amongst thousands of exhausted parents, sleepy children, and couples in love and saw the fireworks show. The world was suddenly quiet. Colorful fireworks bloomed in the sky. It was so beautiful, it made me want to cry. I just stood there in silence and watched the ten minute fireworks show and enjoyed the last of the best day of my life.

Then I quietly untied the string attached to my wrist and let my balloon go.

As the balloon broke free and flew into the California night, the little girl on a stool who was chained to my heart unchained herself and walked out of my life. She was finally free now that she got the childhood she had longed for all those years.

I haven’t seen her since.

-Xiaoya Zhu

42

Tomorrow What went with me yesterday

can be witnessed no more; What worries me today

are the whiles when I feel woebegone.

For miles and miles

the wild geese fly in autumn wind.

The geese my eyes follow;

my heart filled with sorrow.

My ambition is high,

although it is deep inside I will unseal my fate,

then fly far away.

In the endless sky,

the moon I will grasp and the sun I will seize.

Cut running water with a sword,

the water faster flows; Drink wine to drown my sorrow,

the sorrow heavier grows.

Oh! Life is such unsatisfactory

and despairing in this human world, Tomorrow I would rather

drift down the river restfully with a flat boat.

-Yue “Fred� Zhao

43

-Michael Knight

44

Ode to the Needle Quietly you create you patch you fix you piece together you reunite you do not conform you fit where desired.

With a gleam of your slender body you ensnare an image a scene into an exhibition of beauty.

Your simplicity catches many a gaze with humble shine.

Yet how easily you are lost, surrounded by yellow straws forever misplaced regardless of your glinting luster.

A timid few searches but none with hope, as your point petrifies nerves.

You are perpetually surrounded only by subordinates.

However, you will more likely be lost amongst those of your kind, dimmed by the collective shine.

Now you waste wishing you could only become a single straw of hay.

-Henry Stone

45

-Stephanie Pierson

46

What Do Women Want?

I want black high heels.

I want the heel to be thin and brittle.

I want them five inches tall. I want to wear them until my heels drip scarlet on the concrete.

I want to walk them down the street past the flower shop and its dumpster full of wilted roses with rolling edges.

Past the red and white checkered diner lined with flies and a fluorescent glow.

Past the candy store filled with caramel swirls and smiles for a penny.

I want to walk like I’m the only one who has ever seen the world from this angle, perched high on towering stilts.

I want them to confirm your fears about a strong-willed woman, to show you how little I care about your pot-holed pavements and cracked basketball courts.

-Cassie Kemmler

47

Who Am I? My real name is Cotton Candy Glitter, but do not be mistaken by my provisional murky temperaments.

Yesterday my name was Charleston Southern Belle strolling through tranquil boulevards observing a small community united in countless ways.

I have almost buried her intonation in the swift paced metropolis routine.

Today my name is Tenacious Lion as I have an everlasting appetite to be invincible and to devour my fears from the past.

Tomorrow my name will be Dough Puncher rolling a colorful tray of pastries designing an unforgettable experience leaving a delectable taste that will soothe the cravings.

Secretly I know my name is Cherry Blossom forever vivacious yet serene like a child dreaming about her existence in Candy World; passive but on Cloud Nine about the endless bliss such a place can be.

-Sophia Shapiro

48

-Carolyn Ginder

49

On Lightning and Water My real name is Heat Lightning.

A distant flash of warning: the storm is moving close.

The lack of sound makes me seem harmless.

My electricity is underestimated.

Yesterday my name was Woven Eyes.

Threads of experience can block positive outlook.

Some deny that you are your past, but it’s spun me into who I am.

I am no longer blind.

Today my name is Match Stick.

The smallest spark and I’ll set you ablaze as I unwillingly destroy myself.

The brightest flames die fast.

Tomorrow my name will be Savage Earth with rivers of adrenaline, a temper of volcanoes, and the force of a tidal wave-see how quickly I can turn?

Secretly my name is Burnt Heart.

Giving away all of myself in attempt to complete others is a useless act; only they can make themselves whole.

I’ve been left empty and cold.

It hasn’t always been this way.

My name once was Running Water.

Thriving in a world of organized chaos, I managed to slip through my own fingers.

Maybe one day I will return.

-Maisy Feeley

50

Where You Will Find Me I come from California, but do I really?

For many could soak up their days as they soak in the sun, but I am not one.

I come from brainwashing starting at age four; unknowingly freedom deprived.

I come from snowy walks and hide-and-seek.

I come from the tapping of your fingers and the cold air as you open the door.

I come from the creaks in your old stairs, the smirk pasted on your lips, and the pain in your eyes.

-Sophie Borchart

51

Looking Ahead My real name is Forward Progress looking not just to tomorrow but to next week and next month and next year.

I was once Wanderer never planting roots floating through the wind.

After many years I landed but I was Clumsy Child tripping over words falling into new experiences.

Today my name is Big Plans dreaming of the future drawing blueprints for a life.

Tomorrow I’ll be Moving On packing up shop jumping back into the breeze but secretly I’m Quiet Thinker pondering, reflecting, contemplating all that Forward Progress and those Big Plans so that maybe someday they’ll come true.

-Amelia Deering

52

-Laura Masnato

53

-Catherine Palmer

54

Sea-gulf Gushing through the gullied hillside onto the gulping ravine, the rampant and raging the river charges to the sea.

Salt waves have worn down the weary rocks who guard the gaping mouth of the gulf.

Come closer calls the cunning siren waves.

The brine leaves brackish water stains on the bold rock-guards.

Stand firm, stay strong, hold fast to your solid ground!

The river runs into the ready mouth of the sea, the sweet water swiftly stirs into the salt.

They become one body a pulsing blue-black heart that beats to the rhythm of the rising red-blood sun.

-Alysson Wittmeyer

55

-Austin Rayman

56

How to Bring Back What’s Dead Pray for it.

Beg for it to come back.

Dig up the dirt around it filled with memories of pain and happiness.

Continually open your mind then mourn from the mountains to the trenches.

Remember for a week or a month returning with flowers.

Lay them down.

Shed a tear To keep the spirit alive.

-Mustafa Alimumal

57

-Carolyn Ginder

58

Brassy Bone My real name is Brassy Bone spine soldered into a cast work and fingers fit into a music box ribs taped and fitted.

This is how I am joined.

Yesterday my name was Regretful Mile a veer off the trail the voice in the air magnifying the storm that was yet to come a troop of mournful ants keeping vigil along my way.

With a pitying smile they continue to march.

Today I am Forgotten Song the cloudy melody and foggy words a song we never really knew one we think we remember knowing when what we only truly understand is how we never unraveled the melodic cataclysm undoing and doing.

One day I will be Flowers After Fire heir to the span of disaster the regeneration.

A bit of insight and afterglow remains not accessible through light and words but through grass, light, and shadows.

-Helen Borchart

59

In Our Next Lives Things will be different.

No one will be able to see or talk or breathe.

The world will be like the bottom of the ocean, and we will swim around like fish.

The idea of beauty will not be introduced.

While back here girls are still eating leaves of lettuce and drinking iced water.

But in our next lives when we swim into each other we won’t apologize or argue or stare.

We’ll silently swim away.

-Xiaoya Zhu

60

-Erin Hughes

61

Children of the Devil Mankind has made multitudinous errors.

“The Almighty Architect arranged us.

We are His blessed much-loved beautiful beings.”

These blessed-ones create a world of bleak bitterness.

Flaying flesh has been a recent fancy.

Among the grotesque god-damned “chosen” gluttons A seed of truth strives upward toward the sun.

We are no disciples of some divine deity.

We are a massive mess of mass Unyielding, unforgiving Devil bone-houses.

-Rose Aubery

62

-Kaitlyn Woltz

63

-Alysson Wittmeyer

64

Ode to Campfires When we were young they told us you were dangerous that you would hurt anything around you that you tore people’s lives apart.

But we know that isn’t true.

You brought us together.

Many people--strangers--bonded in your presence.

At first we started out with nothing.

With one spark it all started.

We resented the bitter cold of the night.

But soon we couldn’t even imagine a time without your warmth just sitting and enjoying the moment.

Blissful and content.

But in the back of our minds we all knew that it wouldn’t last.

That you could not burn forever.

This moment would end like all good things.

We seem to have forgotten that.

We sat under the stars warmed by the fading heat of our last few moments together.

The last night of our journey we dreaded the moment that the flames would sputter out and we would have to face the bitter cold of the night once more with only the glow of a dying ember to remind us of the warmth we just felt.

Of the spark that started it all the spark we can only dream of as we all part ways and the distance grows.

As we disappear into the night we try so hard to keep your glow alive.

-Daniel Basa 65

-Alysson Wittmeyer

66

Vision Quest We forged our friend-ship in the fields.

Below the banks we befriended, beside the shells the shore on which we sat.

Up then we ran around the river’s ridge.

She gave a snicker as the sun started to set.

Later, on the land we laid looking for peace past the pebbles in the sky.

The sweet scent of swishers in the air as I awaken from a strange vision, but back to the beginning I blow.

-Tano Xayasarn

67

Palace If doors are slammed, stop looking through them, let your eyes glance around the room

to a window and climb your way out.

-Kz Plamondon

68

-Erin Hughes

69