Storm King Poetry Festival
A Collection of Poems 2017-2018 The Finalists
Š 2017-2018 No works may be copied or reproduced without the express written consent of the individual writer or artist. 1
Introduction The Storm King School’s Second Annual Poetry Festival As we celebrate Storm King School’s Sesquicentennial, we also welcome and celebrate our 2nd annual Poetry Festival. I first want to thank Mr. Peter E. Rowe for being the driving force behind this event. I also want to thank Mr. Freeman and the entire English department for catalyzing and promoting our students to write. And to all of the students on stage from other schools, I also extend that thanks to your teachers and others who inspire you. We want to thank all of the students who submitted poetry this year and last. We ask that you spread the good word about this opportunity so next year we have an even greater response. I want to say a special thanks to our two judges. Our first judge, Robert Milby, is a native of Orange County, NY, and lives in Florida, NY. He has done public readings of his poetry throughout the Hudson Valley, NYC, and beyond for two decades. His most recent book is Victorian House, Ghosts and Gothic Poems, published by Lion Autumn Publishing, NYC 2015). He currently hosts 4 popular Hudson Valley poetry reading-groups. And Robert is the current Poet Laureate of Orange County, NY, through next year.
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Our second judge is Steve Hirsch –he is a Poet, Musician, Cloud Solutions Architect, and former Editor/Publisher of the literary magazine Heaven's Bone. He studied writing at Naropa University in Boulder, CO, where he was a student and apprentice of Allen Ginsberg. He also studied with the poet Robert Kelly at Bard College. In recent years he has been riding his Harley all over the Northeast, studying Buddhism & poetry, and playing Latin and African hand drums as a founding member of the drum circle "Spirithawk". Steve has taught poetry and Buddhism and conducted poetry workshops across the region for more than 25 years. He is the author of Ramapo 500 Affirmations published by Flower Thief Press in 1998. His poems have appeared in many publications. Steve also happens to be a graduate of Storm King School from the class of ‘77. As an English teacher, I have always loved all types of language, drama, prose –fiction and non-fiction, and poetry. Each form requires one to use words precisely. But more than any other, poetry requires us to makes those precise choices around words and images that are dynamic and rich with meaning. In poetry, we have to coax the most out of each phrase or line. Often multiple meanings are required to make a line or a phrase, an image or a sound, work. While poetry can challenge us in the reading or creating it, I have always thought it as the genre that is almost like a playground for the mind and heart. So, please listen closely and enjoy.
Jonathan Lamb Headmaster
Storm King School
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Where I'm From*** Olivia O'Blaney, Storm King School Fifteen Minutes Until Landing*** Isabelle Aronson, Beaver Country Day School Our Four Walls *** Caitlyn Dahnke, Rye Country Day School The Schooling of Love Samuel Hyman, Poughkeepsie Day School Daddy’s Issues Dorothy Walker, Millbrook School Days Like This Zoe Stene, Storm King School Time: A Sonnet Zhuo Niu, South Kent School Kepler Mingjun Xu, South Kent School That Girl Annie Citrine, Kents Hill School My Spirit Rachel Cohen, The Gunnery School Perfectly Perfect Vivian Taylor, Greens Farms Academy The Green Apple Aidan Sweeney, Storm King School The Flower Chinaware Zhiyuan Chen, Storm King School When Schooling Isn't Enough Katrina Rojas, Beaver Country Day School 4
There is this feeling Aaron Swartz, Poughkeepsie Day School The Usual Tiana Vasquez, Storm King School Where I'm From Eliza Doles, Storm King School Pussy Willows Ariel Wen, The Gunnery School Cool Summer Nights Gwendolyn Brown, The Gunnery School Where I Am From Miles Lucas, Storm King School Timeless Tiffany McGhie, Kents Hill School Day By Day� Matthew Montes, New York Military Academy Words Michael Capone, Kents Hill School A Past Life John Gleason, South Kent School Circles Aidan Sweeney, Storm King School The Buttonwood Farm Robert Milby Real Shenpa Granma Steven Hirsch
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Where I Am From*** Olivia O’Blaney Storm King School
I am from the invisible bedroom From Tate’s Chocolate Chip Cookies and La Marca Prosecco I am from the house that you walk by and think” wow the people who live there must be so happy,” I am from the Plumeria plant, that reminds my parents of their younger years. I’m from late nights in Manhattan and a temper as fierce as a burning fire. From Ben Gazzara and Georgio O’Blaney I’m from the overachievers and actors From “Stop being so dramatic and “You’re an O’Blaney I’m from “Get up it’s Sunday, we are going to be late”, I’m from the quiet Deutschland streets Morning coffee and steaming plates of spaghetti From the immigration of my grandmother from Germany, to the U.S The years my dad spent at the academy to become an actor but ending up owning a company instead. The darkness of the basement in which my ruined pictures rest. These are the footsteps that I must continue making. Never stopping Moving onwards-
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Fifteen Minutes Until Landing*** Isabelle Aronson Beaver Country Day School
When the lights finally turn out on the plane, and Benadryl pours over the thorny stubs where there used to be roses, is when I feel it the most in my stomach. Most of the time, I forget how his mouth tasted like pills but five hours of turbulence and off-brand coca cola was enough for it to come back up my throat, and assure me that he was still gripping my arm. I had seen the dirt under his fingernails but they were still painted neon orange, his voice sickly sweet honey dripping onto my bare stomach, my lips turning to iodine as I muttered “not right now” and he pretended that he hadn’t heard me. I think I had a misunderstanding of what it meant to surrender because no matter how many times I washed my hands, I reached a point where the softness of my skin turned to friction, almost as if my innocence was a labyrinth and I could no longer see where I started, just warnings from my mother and unused golden wrappers glistening in the moonlight above Los Angeles. I thought that if I reached far enough I could fly from the balcony, but just as my fingertips touched the Hollywood sign, I realized it was too late because the sun was rising now and the light somehow felt darker.
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Our Four Walls: ***
Caitlyn Dahnke Rye Country Day School We are the generation of Selfies Celebrities Mental illnesses Self-absorbed children and bullying But within these four walls we are just two people Who share a bond only broken by five words, I Want To Break Up. The five words we would never say because the one syllable word was enough to hold us together for years. But the four walls couldn't protect me every day. The generation of selfies celebrities mental illnesses self-absorbed children and bullying seeped into my skin running me ragged day and night trying to find an escape from the reality that threatened us. The generation of selfies celebrities mental illnesses self-absorbed children and bullying surrounded me five days a week while our four walls surrounded me four hours a week. Mental illnesses creeped in the backyard, Glaring at me through the glass The self-absorption my friends were plagued with left me alone in the harsh storm known as high school.
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I pushed you out and you never pulled me in, I took comfort in being alone but that comfort turned to chaos and tears became oceans in my hands The five words hung above my head Four hours with you turned into 3 every 2 weeks Our 1 syllable word couldnĂt hold us together for 2 more weeks. A 3-hour facetime And 4 texts later Those 5 words seemed impossible to ignore Turns out four walls werenĂt enough to keep us together The generation of selfies celebrities mental illnesses self-absorbed children and bullying consumed me, My outlook on life was altered My optimism was stolen, My confidence was absent Our four walls crumbled against the storm to those five words that seemed impossible to say because a one syllable word was supposed to be enough to protect us from The generation of selfies celebrities mental illnesses self-absorbed children and bullying.
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The Schooling of Love
Samuel Hyman Poughkeepsie Day School
Time takes love as weeds take flowers, Sublunary thorns, that grow robust, Envelop the eyes, turn sight dour, Molder the spirit, deceiving man’s lust. Every tick of his clock brings him to earth, Ingrained institution teaches difference Between decanter waist and bulky girth, Takes body over mind with no inference. The shepherd preaches, “colors of nature!” Just as the poet, with wonderful word. But the child, whose mind prays pure, Crushes on a girl, a love undeterred.
Time takes love as weeds take flowers, Steadfast termites turn mind sour. Knowledge seduces but heart it abates, For only the child can love actuate.
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Daddy’s Issues
Dorothy Walker Millbrook School
“Daddy’s got issues.”
I would say when I was younger. People thought it was just harmless Because I would always wear that smile That covered the anguish. But I’m no longer younger And I still say “Father’s got issues.” Everyone continues to think it is painless, But this man is toxic And I’m slowly losing air. “Lucky I can’t get into my gun case or else I would use it.” The tears run down as he remarks these words Because my father has issues, But no one seems to believe me. Days go by without hearing a word from him, But this time is different. I open his apartment door To find the corpse of the man I once loved, Laying there lifeless. I drop to my knees, In a pool of his cold crimson red blood Settled on the floor. No amount of tears I cry will ever make things better. Daddy had issues And I wish could have helped him, But I no longer have a father And he no longer has issues.
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Days Like This
Zoe Stene Storm King School
days like this drops of water on the window sills reminds me of the backseat of her Ford Expedition when the gap within me fills with laughter with her voice on the way to Goshen even though this is not the right emotion. The rain is supposed to feel sad. and I suppose now I do now that you’ve sold the car you’ve had since I was two. The wind’s strength today is strange for Cornwall she murmurs memories of past hurricanes: playing uno in the dim light surrounded by family and a scented candle’s flames. now: in the corner of the kitchen I sit quietly with a glass of water finding a friend in the green uno table we still own rarely used falling apart wondering how we ended up alone.
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Time: A Sonnet Zhuo Niu South Kent School
Time is one of the most important things, Kiss is the only way to stop a lapse in time; Reading is the only way to travel in time; Music is the only way to escape time; Writing is the only way to feel time; Breathing is the only way to release time. Everyone in this world works based on their time zone, People around you might seem to go ahead of you, Some people might seem to be behind you, But everyone is running their own race and time. Life is about waiting for the time to act, All you need to do is relax and wait, The word “late” should not be in your dictionary; The word “early” should not be in your dictionary; You are on time; destiny is set up for you.
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Kepler
Mingjun Xu South Kent School Oh Kepler, you are a famous astronomer, But why don’t you want to be a teacher? You always look at the sky, But no one can know, what is in your mind. When you were young, you always got the sickness When you grew up, nobody listened in your classes. You use your life to explore the universe And your best friend is a telescope. Maybe you are very smart Maybe the starry sky is a kind of art We always see you study happily You are a bright comet in the sky of history.
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That Girl
Annie Citrine Kents Hill School That girl who is surprisingly short Who has thick brown hair that can’t make up its mind if it wants to be curly or straight With a bland resting face, never quite knowing what the true emotions behind it And bright blue eyes That girl who is surprisingly short That girl who wears thousands of rings covering every finger Each unique, representing a memory And thousands of bracelets Brilliant vibrant colors, spicing up a once bland and lonely wrist That girl who wears thousands of weird jewelry that one would associate as “hippie” That girl who is funny but laughs at her own jokes That girl who is a far left liberal And is never afraid to voice opinions when it comes to politics That girl who is super easy-going but stubborn at the same time That girl who is funny but laughs at her own jokes That girl who is a little too obsessed with nature That girl who loves the woods as their second home And mountains is their therapy That girl who hugs the trees That girl who is a little too obsessed with nature That girl who is always around but never around That girl who you think is a day student but isn’t That girl who hibernates even before snow blankets the frozen ground A pessimist in the snowy cold winters and an optimist in the blooming muddy springs That girl who is always around but never around 15
My Spirit
Rachel Cohen The Gunnery School My spirit is ancient She is delicate, yet strong Burdened by the weight of a thousand years of heartbreak, yet her step is light as a feather She has deep crow’s eyes and a compassionate smile, yet her eyes know no scarcity of tears Her body is dense and graceful; it has been nurtured She is sapphic and boasts the violets springing from her arms with deep pride She is in love with life; how she has not yet been corrupted into being a cynic after all these years, I do not know. Her hands cradle my pumping heart Ba bum Ba bum Ba bum As my plasmatic, galactic blood drips down her hands She quite literally holds my lifeblood. Sometimes she squeezes too hard I have to remind her that my heart is not a stress ball She laughs I tell her I understand the kind of stress she is under I tell her that I wish I could be more like her And she places the beating vessel back into my chest gently And grabs my hands firmly She tells me that I am like her I am her Just because she is clouded by my trauma and judgement and pain Does not mean that she is not there at all We simply need to brush off the repression together And she guides my hand to place on my heart And I am full. I am full of hope and joy Of purity and love. And I see that she is right. So we start uncovering her together. 16
Perfectly Perfect Vivian Taylor Greens Farms Academy Equivalent Emotions, thoughts, surprise, On my day of birth. Tears, Happy and Surprised Yet perfected. My white swaddle blanket and pink tassel atop my head Perfectly square. Equivalent Faces, clothes, thoughts, On graduation day. Tears, Happy and Sad Yet perfected The white dresses and boutonnières Perfectly cubed. Equivalent Faces, thoughts, emotions, On my wedding day. Tears, Happy and excited Yet perfected. The single white dress and boutonnières Perfectly perfect. 17
Green Apple
Aidan Sweeney Storm King School Great pleasure is Brought From the sweet crunch of the ďŹ rst Crisp green apple.
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The Flower Chinaware Zhiyuan Chen Storm King School so many people obsessed with the ower porcelain ware full ďŹ lled with Chinese history above the old desk
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When Schooling Isn’t Enough Katrina Rojas Beaver Country Day School
When I think of education, I think about How there are mothers mourning the deaths of their children, How it has been reassured that our lives are at risk, How even when there isn’t a shooting, I walk around with a target on my head, How I didn’t know how to withstand a pressure like this. The pressure of feeling like I’d disappoint my mom. The pressure of being successful in a country that doesn’t understand me, or in a school where only 10 percent of the girls look just like me. Maybe if I too was well-spoken and fair skinned, i’d be Seen for more than just Black and Latina. I’d look smart too. But the odds of being successful aren’t always about being smart, In this country it just seems that way. It seems that we are only taught to pass the class, rarely learning how to find our passions. It seems like we are surviving and not living. I wish this air was thick enough to catch bullets, as if the skies have grown tired of red rivers. I don’t want to worry about SATs or How one day I too could be shot in my seat. Though, I wonder still if my legs will make it. If maybe my debts will outrun me. ‘Cuz God knows tuition is another setback. This system is rigged more often than not. I was raised Latina I speak English and Spanish, I’m still learning to overcome the effects of my stutter when I read aloud I throw myself into a lake full of sharks. Long words with rows of teeth, waiting to attack my tongue and they gnaw at the pronunciations of the words that I try to speak. I stuttered effortlessly, and staggered through the sentences like I was swimming with one arm. 20
I’m like a flower whose pedicel becomes weak to the touch, like i don’t want to bloom just yet. I’m like a bird who always gets caught in the wind, and so, I feel hatred toward classes that I don’t really excel in. But a teacher once told me “hold on to your pen tightly and don’t let the world squelch your voice, ever. You deserve to be heard.” So when I think of schooling, I think about How students lives are so crucial, How we hold the future in our hands, How easily it can be taken from us, How these hands were made to create, As did our mothers. For the voices that are quiet, There are hands for you Somewhere Over the hills that trip you up Over the doubts that cave you in Over the walls that keep you trapped There is light where there is darkness There is growth where there is pain Learning to be successful shouldn’t just be about schooling because I learned how to forgive and I thank my father for that. I learned how to be kind and I thank my mother for that. I learned the value of family and I thank my brothers for that. If schooling taught me anything, it is that education should be about learning to love myself, and the person I want to be. It should be me learning to write better. It should be me learning to be better.
It should be us trying to live better, together. 21
There is this feeling...
Aaron Swartz Poughkeepsie Day School There’s this feeling in my chest, and I don’t know what to make of it. It burns like the fire arcing from the dollar lighter I bought one midnight day when the lack of light in my life simply became too much. It twists and turns like the steam twining from the bathroom mirror where I scrawl mad messages in languages secret but to me. It freezes like my blood when something impossibly foreseen really happens, and I did not do enough to stop it because I doubted myself and believed in you. It echoes like the ringing of the ambulance sirens in my ears, because they are sirens, singing a song of death and pulling you closer, away from us. It aches like getting punched in the stomach, when you know you’ve done wrong and deserve every single blow. It stabs like the pain I know I caused you, because I didn’t know what this feeling was then and I still don’t know what it is now and I’m so sorry that I made you feel what I am feeling now because it hurts so good that you never want it to stop but you can’t imagine that it will ever end. It rises in my throat like vomit, higher and higher, choking me, but instead of my half eaten breakfast a tidal wave of words pours out, jumbled and confused and in dire need of a firm hand and a marshalled mind to make sense of them, a mind that they will not find here because the one that made them is still tortured by a feeling that can’t be described and can’t be ignored. Maybe that’s because I’ve lived with this feeling my whole life, and I only see it now because I’ve forgotten that once, a very long time ago, that feeling was mine.
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The Usual
Tiana Vazquez Storm King School Vending machines buzz with an electric cool, Their blue hue intrudes on the warm, dusty light of Village. I grab the last Boylan’s Creme, golden and sweet, The perfect drink for the oncoming meal. The cashier lazily slouches on the counter, I order my usual, a slice with extra cheese I take my seat in the corner by the window, listening to the “drip, drip” of the broken air conditioning. I wonder once again if the dusty peppers in the window are real, If they’ll ever use them to make a plastic veggie pizza pie. Patiently I wait for my beloved cheesy slice, Rocking back and forth in my wobbly wooden chair Children in the dining area squeal like little pigs, Parents try to tame them with slimy slices from the piping hot tray. The register dings with the recognition of cash, As yet another pie is ordered and taken away. The drizzling raindrops slide down the giant window As the OPEN sign winks at me and resumes red solidarity. Footsteps approach and the smell of crust fills my nose A bored employee slides my pizza in front of me. “ Have a nice day,” she added dryly before sulking off. Finally, my slice has arrived! Gorgeous, golden brown crust with cheese still melting The oil still sizzling from its time in the oven. Still too hot to grab, I use my plate to lift it. Unable to control myself, I take my first savory bite. My tastebuds dance and cry all at once! Burnt by the heat, but still, the taste is too irresistible to care. I enjoy each and every bite to the fullest extent, As I sit alone in the corner at Village Pizzeria.
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Where I’m From
Eliza Doles Storm King School I’m from Creaky Floorboards From Eggos and Ajax I’m from the green grass in the backyard ( soft, wet, ridden with holes from my dogs boundless energy) I’m from Dandelions The kind that becomes a nuisance after all the seeds have flown away I’m from box-made brownies and loud voices From Maria Socorro Vazquez and Harley Ernest Doles I’m from the Class Clowns and History Buffs From “Get good grades!” and “ Whose day is it to take the dog out?” I’m from “ Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your lord and savior?” and the time spent at teen camp studying god I’m from Manhattan and Guayama, Bagels with Lox, Chicken and Rice From the shoes my grandfather didn’t have until he was 15 The open heart surgery my grandmother had to save her life The attic where photo albums, old cradles, and documents are stored Mementos holding the memories of past events, begging to see the light Once more I’m from those pages 14 years old Still growing
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Pussy Willows
Ariel Wen The Gunnery School Buds lifted up their heads and ora’s eyes are open. This warm beauty had come, made my pumping heart swollen. Lively senses in the atmosphere, they melt down all the fears. Water cheers with the crystal sky, saying goodbye to the past years. And I can see those dozy pussy willows, Who mark the spring cutely, obviously enjoyed their pillows. Grey and blue and red and pink, I count them out without blink. But they will disappear shortly, since I know, No spring and winter, my hometown shows.
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Cool Summer Nights Gwendolyn Brown The Gunnery School
Longing for cool summer nights Where the frogs sang to an audience of stars My trampoline helped us reach new heights When we would've settled with Mars Fireflies adorned the air They danced to our 80’s pop I miss living without a care But summer always comes to a stop You’ll awaken to worlds of cold Mornings where you won’t get out of bed Longing for the sun’s light so gold But finding a world dead Soon you will wake up to humidity’s cling And you’ll rediscover the summer’s swing
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Where I’m From
Miles Lucas Storm King School I am from dad’s bedside radio From LEGO and magnet tiles I am from the apartment where the ceilings are so high I can jump as high as I want on the bed I am from the ficus tree in the living room that died before I could outgrow it I’m from waiting to open my presents and bright blue eyes and blond hair From Grammy and Grampy and their beautiful estate I’m from the Saturday trips to fairway with dad and Starbucks after From being shorter than everyone else and taking shots every night I’m from getting on the Subway at 96th and getting off at 79th every weekday morning I’m from visiting my family in England every summer, baked beans on toast, and vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce From the Frankfurt book fair where mom and dad first met
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Timeless
Tiffany McGhie Kents Hill School
Is my life already planned out somewhere Living in the moment is a facade
I cannot grasp time. It’s slipping out of my grips Though, it was never there. I am planning something that has already past. There is no present just a future and a past And it will repeat. I was just watching Icarly I am 18. I was just asking my mother to take me to Chuck E Cheese’s I’m going to college. I used to eat bottle pops I drink coffee. I just took my training wheels off my bike I can legally drive. I am constantly wasting time I am timeless It crawls when I want it to run It’s sprinting when I want it to walk I continue to waste something so precious, even though I’m aware Everything is a memory It will repeat. I cannot grasp time. I will have a kid that will have their first steps, A reflection of my first steps. They will have training wheels. They will drink coffee. They will drive. They will birth a new version of the same story. Time is of the essence and does what it wants. I cannot grasp time. 28
Day By Day, Winter by Winter Matthew Montes New York Military Academy
Living with as a son of a dead king, And now lone wolf sees his pack fall. Fall from how high they were on the mountains to the dirt while I stay clean; Keep myself fierce and sharp, shut off from pleasure to avenge my true father . I am shut from my love not because she is to far, but so close letting her into my pain would ruin Innocence that is too beautiful to see turn. I am not lone wolf in revenge not for hate I am not lone wolf for greed. I am not lone wolf in the ignorance of my mother's lusty needs for the false king I am the black wolf who commits vengeance to kill traitor against pack. A black wolf who is silent in night and lurks in shadows but is the reason no soul lingers for long. A Black wolf who’s see’s the Plot against his noble life A life that will never choose his own benefit above his peoples honor As that wolf I protect my kin and jungle by silent strength and subtle love To stay pure for I Hamlet must commit impossible. The black wolf must die for his honor. Die for country Die does the Black wolf.
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Words
Michael Capone Kents Hill School
Flowing like winds through thatched groves Trickling currents down trees, evergreen They exploit others expertly, Individually: standing in their interiors
Tracked, trumped by torque and thrust Thumped into their cages Compellingly trapped into fear, Unable to escape through the throat
To begin listening gingerly: A skill possessed, able to create simply Keys unlocking prison doors Where yours are stored
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A Past Life John Gleason
South Kent School
The murky fog surrounded me until I felt stranded. The cars clustered, dunking in and out of puddles, splashing the water around. Looking around on a cobbled step I sat down right next to a deserted ice cream shop. My hands trembled and I unfolded a wrapper of green gum as I waited for my taxi to arrive. The flavor didn't last long; nothing satisfies me. Continuing to look around I chucked my gum onto the pavement It landed in the pothole on the sidewalk. Glancing at my watch I thought about how I used to write newspapers. I would drink coffee, looking outside my deck, gazing at the floating colors. Looking across the street at the market I would buy croissants in bulk. Chipped buttery flakes shined throughout the tiled floor and continued to build up Drips of coffee still permeated my carpet. Whenever I would write; I used one specific feather. Like an addiction; its form enraptured me every time it touched the page. Staining each grain of paper with thin blue blood. I gazed out the tinted window of the car. Peering out the window for any sort of entertainment. And became suddenly enchanted in your every move. I followed your body; not your eyes As we raced over the speed limit. Trying to get nowhere faster 31
Circles
Aidan Sweeney Storm King School Take a look around We’re all caught up in circles Every day we’re bound, To circles And every day’s the same We’re all stuck in a game But who are we to blame, For circles? Cuz everyone and everything Is all tied up on strings and rings Too caught up on the pretty things To see circles So here we spin, and here we stay It seems to me, we’re born this way Spinnin around everyday, In circles I’ll do anything, whatever it takes, Spend all my paper on mindless breaks, I’ve been running away, but there’s no escape from circles Cuz everyone and everything Is all tied up on strings and rings Too caught up on the pretty things To see circles So here we spin, and here we stay It seems to be, we’re born this way Spinnin around everyday, In circles
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The Buttonwood Farm -Robert Milby April 30, 2014
The Buttonwood Farm, leaning into ruin. Where an elderly woman once swept the long driveway, only a decade ago, now curtains are pulled by an angry wind from an open window on the darkened second floor. Early Spring, Hawk atop the barn. Geese in the shrinking pond, floating above its dark enigma. Starlings in the feral field. Crow lectures from the lichen-grown rooftop—his talons tap the tin, like a maestro at his music stand. Abandoned farms are bird sanctuaries. The farmhouse is a museum of lost memories; mice and squirrels, unwelcome squatters, are chased at night, as moonlight illumines ghost farmers, born before electricity feeds. Abandoned farms are wildlife sanctuaries. Leafless trees and ice-crowned gables, slept through a winter of wild disposition. No passerby recognized that once a working farm breathed and grew crops, tended cows, and tapped Maples. Abandoned farms are tree sanctuaries. Now under April’s Seed Moon, a new tale of work emerges. Ghosts have invited birds to tenant the farm, and this haven, where Daffodils worship quiet Sunrise, has a rhythm of private poetry, unknown to the busy village, wherein a volume of local history sits unattended in a tiny library. A photo of a handsome couple—members of the long-extinct dairy farm sit forever in a boat on the pond. The young master’s tophat; his smart frock coat, Victorian neckcloth and beard. He stares through the centuries—his light eyes pierce. A lovely mistress sits with parasol; long dress of intricate design, round face—dark tresses. She too is young, betrothed or married, sweetheart or sister—it is unknown, for they are lost to bones and forgotten cemetery; windvoice whispers through tired Sycamores. Abandoned farms are ghost sanctuaries.
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Real Shenpa Granma Steven Hirsch
"There are Rubins in the raindrops" she said "someone puts on the lights and goes out of the house and leaves me alone." Wants wrinkle cream for 100 yr old face shows broad phony smile to strangers but not a one for her daughter whom she did not like and it was mutual. Self-absorbed with her looks and with money she never found anything funny about spending even for Ensure to keep her from wasting away — She'll be the wealthiest skeleton at her own funeral as they say. Ironic that mom was the one who took care of her at the end — A final trip for pastrami and knishes at the Mill Basin Deli in Brooklyn and to see her sister Phyllis whom she also could not stand and now her legs themselves won't allow the same. Two absent sons coddled as darlings but as uncaring as self-absorbed, as concerned with #1 or with who gets the couch when she goes. Only attachment to the familiar remains the price difference on a can of peaches between Waldbaums and Key Foods.
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Throwing hospice out onto the street she cannot read intent or fine print or faces maintains kosher and eats no meat to ease the silver-red ravage of psoriasis yet absent-mindedly ate salami and cheese at the holidays right off the tray— No one dare tell her. Left leg leaking through the compression sock onto the floor in a puddle she wipes all day long with a rubber clog on washrag — 1/2 her weight since last year yet heart strong as a bull eating only salad and Entenmanns Chocolate Chip Pound Cake. Holding fast to her last shreds of identity won't take her meds, throws them around the kitchen "for what!?" "1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9 pills — I won't take em!" Who can argue with an old woman who has lived through 7 wars the depression, a century of disappointment; her dusty violin in the corner memories in the bow threads, the sheep gut strings the unavoidable passing of all things. Before she died in Bellevue after 2 weeks no food or water a foot in both worlds, of two minds, shallow breath starts and stops she spoke aloud to her dead aunt Esther, then told me in dreamtime "I'm saying my farewells ... if you need me you can find me in-between the raindrops... I will be more fearless next time"
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This is a collection of poems from the 2nd Annual Storm King Poetry Festival. Celebrate the selected verse of these poets and award winners.