Portal Magazine 2023

portal a literary and artistic magazine

Issue 19

Spring 2023

San Francisco Waldorf High School

© 2023

Staff

Editors

Carmela Saguar

Generosity Samas

Neilah Kessel-Belko

Beecher Moritz-MacAdams

Oscar Hammond

Misha Kleytman

Faculty Advisor

Mary Anne McGill

Front & Back Cover: August (oil painting) by Griffin Engels

Acknowledgments

A special thanks to all SFWHS teachers who inspired students to create and share their literary and artistic work for this issue, especially humanities faculty: Joan Caldarera, and art faculty: Isabel Dow, Tara Layman, Elsa Murray-Lafrenz, and Carla Schaareman. A deep gratitude to Cory Powers who provided vital production support and assistance.

Printed by Murphy Printing

Published annually by San Francisco Waldorf High School

470 West Portal Avenue

San Francisco, CA 94127

sfwaldorf.org

© 2023

Dedicated to Dr. John Burket whose love and care for the San Francisco Waldorf High School campus can be seen and felt in the beauty of our school’s natural spaces.

Thank you for bringing the light and joy of nature, gardening, and beekeeping to our school which will live on long after your departure.

1 In the Redwoods

Jeff Zhou

2 Partial Reproduction of Kehinde Wiley’s Portrait ofAsia-Imani, Gabriella-Esnae, and Kaya Palmer

Haven Frombgen

3 The Gift of Poetry

Aria Ramsinghani

4 The Pond

Megan Spegar

5 Dear Mother Nature

Neilah Kessel-Belko

6 Self-Portrait

Ella Gold Wade

7 I Dream of Deserts

Nika Herrnstadt

9 The Woodlands

Masha Emelianova

Maisy Ballantyne

In the Redwoods

Jeff Zhou

digital photography

Partial

Reproduction of Kehinde Wiley’s

Portrait ofAsia-Imani, Gabriella-Esnae, and Kaya Palmer

Haven Frombgen oil

The Gift of Poetry

Aria Ramsinghani

A child kneels in the dirt, palm outstretched, grasping the vibrant encapsulation of life within a seed. The child plants that seed and stares in wonder as first a shoot then a stem, and finally a plant springs forth. That plant, a living representation of embodied expectation signifies the gratification of life within a single shoot, and, its little plant heart beats yearning to blossom into a flower and open the depths of its soul through verse, to the world.

The Pond

Megan Spegar oil

Dear Mother Nature

Neilah Kessel-Belko

Mama

You raised me

Your delicate hands sculpted me

Your soft embrace held me

When I was in need

You were there to bring me to my feet

You were there to refill my lungs with air

Your deep hips were the valleys I played in

Your safe lakes were the waters I swam in Your strong legs were the crutches I leaned on.

But you are dying

And I don’t know if I can save you

Your once broad shoulders have now wilted

Your once stable bones have now fractured

Your hair has lost its color

And your heartbeat has slowed

I’m sorry, I love you.

Self-Portrait

Ella Gold Wade mixed media

I Dream of Deserts

Nika Herrnstadt

You shimmer like the heat over the desert, In waves.

You glow with the opalescent colors of a bubble, On the verge of popping.

I see you in endless dunes, Stretching through time and space, The higher I fly, The more I can see.

You do not tilt even slightly, As the earth does, You are, As flat as the darkness of space. But you change, Your sands shifting like the air, Invisible. And you are not alive, No, You are more than alive, You are forever in any dimension, Infinite.

But you love me, In the sea of things you are, You are In love with me. I love you too, But not as much As you love me.

Your love is like a burning planet, purple. Your sands hold me, Suffocate me, As I fall into you.

The deeper I go, The deeper you grow.

The Woodlands

Masha Emelianova

scratchboard

The Boat

Julian Miller charcoal

A Tear to The Ocean

Maisy Ballantyne

I shed a tear into the waves

It feels heavy enough

To flood the coasts

To sink ships

To make the next tsunami look like a tidal pool

But to my disappointment, it disappears in the mass

Like a sand grain to the mojave

Like a leaf to the canopy

Like a ray to the sun

It is lost as one.

The Man

Masha Emelianova ripped paper

The Silence We Speak

Hailey Chin

The silence we speak

Bellows like the wind unheard, And holds a withstanding presence

Like my throat when deterred. Silence can irritate the mind, And swallow you whole.

It tugs like a caught bedsheet Or blackens like coal. When silence subsides, After tempestuous damage, We ponder on speaking

The few words we can manage.

The Mountain and the Moon

Yuumi Kakinuma charcoal

Drained

Maia Kohlmann

Where are you?

Will our gazes be cast on the same moon tonight?

Laid out, lonely on rigid rooftops, Humming a desolate tune tonight.

Vision absorbed by the endless galaxy, Only the stars reflect in our eyes tonight.

Blaring music, from cars driving by, Muffling our secret cries tonight. Trickling tears, taste salty upon lips, As our withering souls slowly die tonight.

The Man and the Deer

Grace Wofsy charcoal

See the Stars

Hailey Chin

Every night the stars blinding, shining, always there coat the sky abovea vast speckled canvas.

Bright, moving swiftly, the rapid comets traverse the galaxy where once lay constellations, clear as day. Connect the dots they fade, only a glimpse left behind-and then

caught out of the corner of my eye scattered yet idle amongst the empty void of nothingness a shadow with faint figure.

Every night, blinding, shining, merely there the morning awakens night disappears.

The Young Woman

Jade Duncan-Gould oil

If I Tell Them, Will They Understand?

Skylar Henderson

If I tell them,

Will they understand?

Why I smile

To give others the happiness

You once gave me.

Why my gleaming eyes

Reflect yours

Which glistened in the summer sun.

Will they understand - that I live because you cannot.

Sunset

Aurora Chernis oil

We Named Him Theodore

Hazel Haskovec

We glide soundlessly across the water, small ripples emanating from where our now-still oars last touched it. I look past her shoulder to the distorted reflection of trees on the glassy surface of the lake. As I dip my fingers in to disrupt the illusory mirror I hear an indignant hum, and a bullet flies toward my face. I pull back, and he does too, all eyes all blue as he holds there in the air. I look away to her face of surprise, and he’s already buzzed off. I have offended him, I think. Our hushed voices are the only sound until a harsh hum returns along with its source, the same cerulean dragonfly. His ears must be burning if he has them, we’ve been talking about him. Maybe that’s why he has returned, or maybe we’ve baffled him. We ungraceful creatures shouldn’t be here when the sun has only just kissed the treetops and the lake’s still swathed in mist. Can one baffle a dragonfly? Whatever the case, he noticed us, and came back to our canoe after each looping lap across the lake. As the notion of time passing licks softly at our feet we propel ourselves with paddles, and he follows. There is a long pause while we coast as he floats, hesitates, and decisively shoots off, a blue bullet, then a speck, then nothing at all. The lake has a hum to it now that I never noticed before. Just another hum in the orchestra of early morning.

Cloudy Night

Generosity Samas

colored pencil

Blossoms in the Night

Beecher Moritz-MacAdams

The dandelions look to me, bat their white eyes and yellow lashes. They ask me will you go home tonight? The sun is long set and my sister, too tired, falls asleep on an open book. Still I wait for the flowers’ second bloom whiter under the moon. I lie here waiting for my wishes.

Into a Dream

Griffin Engels mixed media

The Old Man

Yuumi Kakinuma white charcoal

Atop the Broadway Tunnel

Ella Gold Wade

My grandfather is eighty-one years older than I am, but we have always been very close. His apartment represents who he is. In the cracking lead paint and splintering floorboards I do not see the frail, deaf, ninety-eight-year-old but the many iterations of one individual over the course of a century. The wavy overused bookshelves, numerous copies of his own novels (especially illegal and foreign misprints), photos of beloved family members and long-dead literary adversaries, stacks of newspapers, vibrant Haitian paintings, corkboards covered with ancient Soviet telegrams, and one giant spider plant all represent the man in his fullness. The spider plant appears out of place, green and lively in a sea of dust and yellowed pages. But it remains the only living resident, aside from my grandfather, a small colony of mice, and the mold growing on the food he hoards.

There is a shift I feel when I drive across Van Ness Street, and up the hill. His home sits above the Broadway tunnel, walk a block north and you are greeted by a postcard of Alcatraz emerging between condominiums, or look west at any gap between streets as fog coming through the Golden Gate begins to smother you. My mother and I usually find an open parking spot one hill away near a small park surrounded by a colony of Julia Morgan houses. We walk down the steep hill, until the ground flattens, the houses turn back into apartment buildings, and the front garden sculptures turn into municipally planted sidewalk trees. The ground flattens into a plateau as we turn east. My grandfather’s building is one house past the plateau, at the breaking point before the gradient takes hold.

After walking a tenth of the way down the hill, I am greeted by the building. It blends into the sky, the vibrant blue it once was only peaking through the grey of dust and age. The majority of windows facing the street are adorned by plants and art deco lamps. But near the top of the building is my grandfather’s window, covered with moth-bitten gray fabric and crowded with political signs from decades-old local elections. There is no elevator, only steep gray stairs leading up to my grandfather’s house.

To reach my grandfather’s floor we pass simple doors, welcome mats, and maybe an Amazon package or two. I never memorized my grandfather’s floor number because his landing lets everyone know exactly who lives there. The door is decorated. Blue paint interrupted by his old Haitian press name tag, a yellow Sticky Note reading “NOTA BENA,” and picture of himself looking confused, annotated in Sharpie with the words “knock loud, faulty ears.” I never knock, knowing that he couldn’t hear me even if I tried. On the rare occasion that he is not expecting us, so as not to startle him, we call him. He only has a landline, but its presence is known throughout the neighborhood. The phone is specific, one of those medical-looking phones designed specifically for the hard of hearing. Even with the modifications, the volume is turned up as high as humanly possible, causing the ringing to broadcast out onto the street. But the door is always unlocked, and so I usually walk straight in. Past the first pile of books, past his office, through the curated hallway of family photos, Haitian paintings, and a large poster from the funeral of a Hell’s Angel. At the end of the hallway is the living room. He is always sitting in the same rocking chair, next to the glass door that leads to the decaying suggestion of a deck. He is always sitting right there, with the afternoon sun coming in through the opposite window

casting a warm glow on the dust-covered books and the stack of every New York Times and San Francisco Chronicle issued since our last visit.

I always sit in the same seat, facing him. Every conversation, story, and argument we have has taken place from this exact perspective. In between us sits a coffee table, adorned with a painting of a pencil and a piece of paper. The painting is hyper-realistic, prompting firsttime guests to reach for the pencil, only to find traces of paint and dust on their fingertips. At some point during the visit, when my mom and grandfather begin to argue over his collections of newspapers, old food, or books, I walk into my grandfather’s office. The shelves have bent under the weight of books, and new volumes have been stuffed horizontally wherever a gap appears. When I was younger I would play with the typewriter, pudgy little fingers diligently stabbing one key at a time, producing one error-riddled sentence per visit. Recently, my mother and I have taken turns talking to my grandfather while the other person raids his closet for vintage t-shirts and Banana Republic button downs.

Sometimes I feel guilty about spending some of my limited time at my grandfather’s apartment away from him. But I often feel even closer to him after flipping through his record collection, or meeting him as a younger man through the introductions he wrote in historical accounts of Bohemia in San Francisco or New York or Paris. This place, his home, does not exist only as the physical objects in it, but rather as a story. In the collections of paintings, telegrams, stolen heaps of complimentary salt packets, records, books, newspapers, and fraying shirts, I see a century’s worth of a soul’s extrapolation into the physical world.

I try not to think about what will happen to this place in the future, because any changes it undergoes will quite literally happen over my grandfather’s dead body, and so for me it exists only in the present and the past. I love this place.

Untitled

Hailey Chin

white charcoal

I Walk in Darkness

Carmela Saguar

I never saw myself to be someone who walks in beauty

I am not the moon or the stars in the night

I look at this world full of light and think how I am just tired and tranquil like the night

I move slowly like a soft breeze, Like a shadow in the dark

Harmonious with the darkness

Who hasn’t felt much and is still soft with an open heart.

The Rose

Lilianna Roman veil painting

What is Life?

Aria Ramsinghani

Cradle me in your arms, mama

Hold me tight and let me slumber

Let me put my ear to your breast and listen to your heartBeat of the world

Thumping the reverberating Dum, dum, dum

Of your life. Let me lace my fingers through Your braids and paint

Pictures in their divots

Let me ease your worry, mama

Sing to me mama.

Sing with the rhythm of your heart

Sing to the dum, dum, dum

Sing of your life, mama

Sing me to sleep.

Self-Portrait

Elizabeth Dewar-Kudsi mixed media

Letter to My Dear Daughter

Neilah Kessel-Belko

I want to tell you dear daughter, That you will be safe, That you will be happy, That you will be heard.

I yearn to tell you dear daughter, That all your troubles will fall away, That you will be loved, That your world will be different. But dear daughter, I cannot promise you these

For my life was filled with pain

For my life was filled with sorrow

For my life was filled with protests. Dear daughter I would sell the world to make your life better

But through heartache I learned resilience

Through abandonment I learned strength

Through loss I lived.

So no dear daughter

I take it back

I wish you to live Fully

With everything that comes with it

Dear daughter

I will always protect you

But you will soar alone.

Nightscape

Riley Freeman charcoal

Bay At Night

Beecher Moritz-MacAdams

The bridge is laughing, our hands reaching its breath outside. We can taste sharp metal on its tongue; feel sea and fog combine against its back.

Its cold heartbeat circulates the heat of your car. We are pulled closer

To the chest, Begged to hear life in the concrete.

Your lips crack, “Turn it up!”

We share love for always wind, Always louder and faster, So I spin the volume forward.

Your wheels follow my hand Pushing roars out of the ocean below.

How amusing

To see us speed,

To whip hair

To clinch eyes.

With my head still out in the whispers, Your hands pull back to 10 and 2.

We slow with the closed-window cars, Breathless in every inch of skin.

The Waterfall

Ella Gold Wade oil

First Rain

Nika Herrnstadt

The parched earth pleads with the sky But like a man shallow with dehydration, Your pores clog, And the world is filled with water. And everything is lost. I lost you in the flood of first rains, You who lived through death unscathed.

I lost you to water, To the desert, To the sky.

I lost you to a flood so biblical, so I cry: I never even got to say goodbye.

The Crow in Winter

Saniyah Mager ink

Village in Winter

Caroline Denmark

The crisp cold air plays with the villagers, Sliding on the crunchy ice.

The clouds, a heavy blanket that traps the cold

Brittle trees sway in the dry wind.

Long-haired horses clip-clop along slippery ice

“Extra! Extra!” shouts a little boy.

People huddle, little bundles of warmth

Like small fires built up, stick by stick.

Sturdy brick buildings create pale shadows

Everyone thinks their own thoughts in this village in winter.

The Roman Ruins

Divi Newton oil

Mineral Mornings

Nika Herrnstadt

This early morning dawned, clear, bright, and fair, The fog-like crystals seep through heavy air, And chills the skies of colors gray and dark As sunlight darkens, shadowing the park. I wait till moonlight clears the sapphire sky, And calms the murky, dusty, diamond cry.

Self-Portrait

Evan Lee

graphite pencil

Silence

Cyrus Chambers

Have you ever heard complete silence?

A sound that erases everything into quiet

So soft you can hear the sun shining

Your heart beating

A beetle finding

His way across a log

Drowning in your own thoughts

Gasping for breath

For something to fill the void

Of empty nothingness

The Mountains

Aria Ramsinghani colored pencil

A Poem for Dida

Cyrus Chambers

I’ve traveled to India seven times in my life

To visit my great-grandmother

Until the end of her life

Scorching heat created vivid memories of Boiling weather, playing together

In a make-shift inflatable pool

In the courtyard, keeping us cool

Pouring water on the street

So walking barefoot wouldn’t burn our feet

Going to the playground

The metal slides were too hot to go down Showers with buckets of cold water

No running water

Boiling the tap water before we drank

The unclean water

Halfway across the world

Jet lag from the timing

Pillow fights with my sisters

At three in the morning

We were little kids back then

Playing games of Parcheesi

You’d let us win

And every morning when the Subziwalla

Came up the block, you’d go outside, Dida

To have a little talk, and

Choose the veggies for the day

So you could come inside and make

Another home-cooked meal for us

Another original meal for us

Some of the best food I’ve ever tasted

Came out of your steaming kitchen

The sweets you made were most appealing

You’d peel our tangerines for us

Sitting at the table, you somehow had the patience

To uncover each wedge until all the white stuff was gone

‘Cause that’s how we liked it best

Every day you went upstairs

And prayed to god without fail

Until in old age

You lost the ability to climb the stairs

Time went by so fast

I remember the day

My mom got on a plane

To go to your cremation

I took the little things for granted

Now they’re gone, and suddenly

They mean the world

The Golden Rose

Aasia Williams

veil painting

The Man with the Hat

William Sue white charcoal

He is Poems

Skylar Henderson

Here is a man, praying, facing east. There are men praying, facing east. The sae pose, the same stature, Clothes, Expression, The same field. This man is there for for you to acknowledge, To know, To appreciate. He is not there for you to study, To change, To manipulate. He lives on his own, Giving his life, Given to him by his creator, His own meaning. He sits alone in the field.

You may say they all look the same, But look closely: His face, Their faces, Are each their own.

Untitled

Logan Weening

veil painting

In the Moment

Maia Kohlmann

Take me back to the light, Back to the endless, warmth of horizons.

Away from the blur of deception, Sinking, holding me down.

Away from the deafening silence of melancholy.

Striving for, The freedom of rising up and flying, Release.

The Sailboat

Jimmy Leonard oil

What is a Poem?

Rena Yamamoto words, in series a formula of feeling every syllable a song combinations of creations a moment of life black and white and on paper like a foggy mirror poems reflect shadows of a world but a shape drawn on the surface reveals the real form of its viewer who almost stays obstructed.

The Whale

Saniyah Mager ink

Ignition

Misha Kleytman

I write about not knowing what to write And then, BOOM!

An explosion, the roots of a special something, an intriguing spice The gaseous formless form of creation, Ignited by the spark of an idea.

It’s deafening, only a ringing in my head, Ahhhhhhhhhh, slowly turning into tangible mumbles. Might as well write them down.

Underwater Girl Boss

Maya Wong white ink

Through an Apartment Window

Maisy Ballantyne

It must have been a rushed morning, says the mug half-full of now cold coffee.

She’s always busy with work, says the wilted houseplant on the window sill.

She wants to free herself from repetitive daily life, says the muddy hiking boots resting by the front door, and the compass hanging from the coat hook.

Her hair is always matted with ocean salt and full of twigs, says the comb, missing a considerable number of teeth.

She lives for memories, says the pictures plastering the walls, depicting the smiles of old friends, mountain tops conquered, and cities explored.

She thrives for adventure, they say.

Woman with Flower

Riley Freeman ink

A Fruit Bowl of Thoughts

Generosity Samas

a poem is a fruit bowl of thoughts nothing that can only be taught it must come from you and if not, use inspiration and give it a shot nothing to lose, only to feel the privacy of your pen on paper the ink welcomes you, and begs to be real. poetry is vulnerable you can speak what others want, and loud but to speak your own thoughts and truly be proud will encourage a whole new vulnerable crowd.

A Portrait of Jimmy Leonard

Evan Lee oil

My Mind is a Missile

Luca Goldthorpe

My mind is weathered and OLD

Like a rusted and forgotten MISSILE Launched from its BASE

Into the sky, not knowing whether it MAY Ever reach its goal. With time, my mind has BECOME

Larger and knowledgeable, like a NATIONAL Treasure. It’s puzzling to me how an old mind, like an HISTORIC Artifact, grows in value and becomes its own LANDMARK.

The Tiger

Yuumi Kakinuma white ink

Captivity

Misha Kleytman

The gorilla lives in a cage in a zoo

Does he remember when his ancestors were free?

Free to roam the jungle and do whatever?

Or does he think that the cage around it

And the humans who pass by and stare at it

Are the whole world?

Does he think that it’s always been this way?

Does he know of humanity’s conquest just beyond the walls of the zoo?

Does he know of the humid, beating heart of the jungle

From which he was taken?

The penguin in the enclosure next to the gorilla

It will only ever know of artificial snow and cold

And not the ice-covered landscapes that his kind slid on

Before he was captured

But they aren’t mad or sad

They have the whole world at their fingertips

As far as they know

If all I knew was a cage

I would be pretty happy too

Because I would know not better nor worse

But the tiger, shipped straight from the jungle

He claws at the bars and roars because he knows the truth.

I see it in his eyes.

The Girl with Green Eyes

Neilah Kessel-Belko pastel

Stones to Throw

Athina Chernis

When the sounds stop being cars it’s amazing what you’ll hear sounds of the stars the music of the spheres.

When you listen to me what do you hear my quiet voice? Or the words I say clear?

When I walk home the wind whistles in the trees the breeze alone is enough for me.

Do you think I can’t hear the things you say to another’s ears?

Do you think I don’t feel the stones you throw?

Oh, I do, you just don’t know.

The Flower

Gaia Trabuco-Greco ink

A Slice Clarity Samas

It was a tough week. Processing big emotions had me easily distracted at my very high-attention needing job. I was scheduled to take a quick 30 so I sat down, behind a broken-down tractor, secluded on soft green weeds under a tin roof structure. The piece of wood I was whittling was admittedly too small and suddenly the wood fell through my grip and my knuckle was now in line with my very sharp blade. Now what’s left is a sizable scar, coincidentally, in the shape of a heart.

The Woman

Billie Staller ripped paper

I Understand My Loss Carmela Saguar

I see you in my reflection, two and and still consumed by innocence When she told you you cried like an adult

Even though you didn’t understand what you had lost “Can we just get a ladder and go get him?”

You would say with rose-colored glasses

You didn’t understand what you had lost “He’s gone.”

He can’t come back and soon we will all be dressed in black

But do you remember the day after he left when you were followed by that blue dragonfly, and could finally laugh, That was the part of him he left. His impression, The dragonfly effect.

You’ll blow on every dandelion you see, hoping, wishing, dreaming

He is just in the sky, so high and you can go get him, but you can’t, He’s gone.

I understand my loss.

Cotton Nostalgia

Griffin Engels acrylic

What Happened to Childhood?

Aria Ramsinghani

What happened to childhood, Mama? Where did the magnifying glass go? The one through which everything was pink, purple, and tinted with the urge for adventure, go? What happened to the brownie points gained for having a bedtime past 8:30? What happened to time, what happened to rainboots, overalls in the form of rain pants, mudballs, hikes, warm snacks, and bedtime stories? What happened to irresponsibility, simple pleasures, and the fear of matches? What happened to childhood, Mama? Did it slip down the slide at the playground and get covered in fall leaves and raked away with the season? Or, did it fall off the bike with me when I rode it down the hill for the first time without training wheels? Where did it go, Mama, where did it go, because I want it back. I want to hold it in my hands like a sticky mudball, I want to savor it in my mouth like a piece of chocolate, and I want to cry over it like scraped knees during summer, because I want nothing more than to just be, engulfed in the safety of childhood. Where is it, Mama? Bring it back like you bring back everything.

At Dusk

Lana Wong

white charcoal

Compostable

Beecher Moritz-MacAdams “A motorcycle accident” Is false advertising, a Polyester lie, A burying alive.

I won’t let them put you in A plastic coffin.

I will lay you down. Let the wind sweep Dust

Over your lived in skin.

The earth knows You were returned through a deer; Knows you smoked a pipe. They know you (& me) live for stars.

Adult while still a child, Feeling closest to the wind, You kissed deer, then dirt.

I will not let them bury you alive.

Treetops

Jeff Zhou

digital photography

Grappling with the Soul

Dmitri Gaudreau

I step back onto the mat and my soul finds me again. A shot and a sprawl and now I am crushed on the ground, And I must call upon my soul to free me from this dreaded place. A pause and a breath, a quick thought and I carry on. To my feet I return and again engage. This shot succeeds and I claim control. My soul again knows no bounds and I know my soul. Once more I am thrown to the mat and have lost control; But now and forever, I know my soul.

Woman with Cigarette

Maia Kohlmann colored pencil

The Kitchen

Generosity Samas

her eyes are full of diamonds piercing through my steel demeanor from across the table the wet moon drips his glow on my speckled skin

kombucha smells of vinegar, my nose is a fox for tracking down the scent. hunger is a friend of mine and oh, how my stomach turns I cannot move I am buried in my chair.

Orange Flowers

Beecher Moritz-MacAdams pastel

I am the Fire

Hazel Haskovec

I am the smoke that corrupts your lungs And the heat that draws you closer

You blame me for your burns, but it is you Who should know not to play with fire

You call me evil, but I am light and When I leave you are left in the dark

You blame me for your suffering, but I only take when I’m fed Why do you feed me so?

I was here before you, but You are the reason I burn so hot You keep stoking the fire Why won’t you go out?

It was peaceful before you, but He Took that from me

Now I will take your peace until mine is returned

Untitled Riley Freeman charcoal

I am a Woman

Neilah Kessel-Belko

Does my speech arouse anger?

Well I sure hope it does

I can feel you now

All muttering with buzz

Does my body attract attention?

Yes.

But not for your eyes

We must stop this

Before another woman dies

Does my tone offend you

For not being sweet

I don’t need you

I support myself on my own two feet

Because my body bleeds with life

I am not equal to your knife

You may cut

You may maim

But I will never walk in shame

Because I do not live up to your ideals

Does not mean I am lesser than

It just means you’re a man

It means I’m a woman

And anything I want to do

I can

The Pink Rose

Maia Kohlmann colored pencil

If a Vibrant Red Rose

Luca Goldthorpe

If a vibrant red rose and a warm rainfall Described the landscape of our relation, The rose has wilted and crumbled to dust And the rainfall has become an acidic storm.

If the wine glass, always topped off, Was the symbol of our joy, Now it remains neglected and empty Cracked and dusty - a distant memory.

If the picture frame

I gave you after years of love Was a representation of our bond, Now its picture is torn, dividing us forever.

Instead of you, dancing in those shoes, I see them worn by a ghost

A ghost that preys on my fond memories of you, Leaving a bitter aftertaste which you don’t taste in turn.

The Green Woman

Caroline Denmark colored pencil

The Children

RJ Reilly Johnson

What do you do?

She smiles at you.

What do you do if she lifts up your arms, And asks you to dance with the stars. She spins and sings, finally able to forget The worries worn on her shoulders.

Finally able to ignore the stress

You’ve caused her.

What do you do?

When he looks at you, The moon glimmering in his eyes. Holding back tears with That forced stern look you’ve given him Since birth.

They sit together. Sharing their pain. Unknowingly. Sharing this world, Breathing the same air. They laugh together.

Together…

They stare at the sky.

The Lily

Billie Staller charcoal

True Acts of Kindness

Meya Janelle Redmond

If there’s one thing the world could use more of, it’s definitely kindness. In a world that often seems consumed by hatred and negativity, it’s important to remember the power of kindness. Just a few small acts can often make someone’s day, and it’s always worth taking the time to be kind. From a young age, my parents always taught me The Golden Rule; do unto others as you would have them do unto you. I was told to be nice and respectful to everyone even if they were rude to me. I often wondered, though, why I would be expected to be nice to someone even if they were unkind. I learned the reason when I was older: being nice to someone when they don’t treat you the same, shows that you are the bigger person and that’s where true acts of kindness come in.

In today’s busy world, it’s easy to get caught up in our own lives and forget about others. But taking the time to perform acts of kindness, no matter how small, can really make a difference in the world. Not only will people appreciate it, but you’ll also likely feel good about yourself. In the Waldorf Senior Orientation Week, the senior class spent a day engaging in true acts of kindness. We handed out flowers to strangers on the street, created posters with messages of appreciation and showed them to drivers as they drove by, and wrote kind messages on Post-It Notes for students, faculty and staff and placed them around the school. At the beginning of the day, I wasn’t excited about participating in these activities. I thought it was going to be boring but I was proven wrong. By the end of the day, I felt inspired and energized. I realized that acts of kindness create a ripple effect of positivity in one’s community.

True acts of kindness are those that are done without any expec -

tation of something in return. They are done simply to brighten someone’s day, or make their life a little bit easier. There are countless acts of kindness which are carried out every day, all over the world. Sometimes, these acts go unnoticed and unappreciated. However, even the smallest act of kindness can make a difference to someone’s life. Simply telling someone their outfit is nice or that you like their hair may seem small but can definitely have an impact. When I was younger, I used to like different things about people but was too shy to tell them. I was always eager to tell people but never had the courage. I now realize that saying something, not only may make them happy, but it also makes me happy. Also, acts of kindness can inspire others to be kind. In this way, kindness can spread like wildfire.

Kindness is one of the most important qualities that we as human beings can possess. It is what allows us to show compassion and understanding towards others, and it is something which can be used to make a real difference in the world. Acts of kindness are also completely free to give. Anyone can be kind, regardless of their circumstance. Whether you are rich or poor, young or old, it doesn’t matter. I think everyone should have a day to show true acts of kindness. It is guaranteed that you will feel better at the end of the day and you might inspire others, too. Expressing kindness to someone can make a big difference in your life and theirs. One act at a time, we can make the world a better place.

A Poem is a Song

Lauren Lum

A sad boy

Sits, And reads you

And you reach out

And cup his cheek

With your cold hands

You reach out

To the tired widow

Who raised two Generations

And you stroke her hair

Close her eyes

With her gentle fingers

Your soft lips

Rocking her back

To when she could walk, When she could run.

You are a song

Your words, The melody. Their feelings, The harmony.

The Crows

Micah Gowe ink

Morning Song

Dmitri Gaudreau

I wait for day to break, The calm winds of a new day rush in the hills, As waves break upon the sands of the shore. The first lights peek out over the sea.

I see now why birds offer such lovely song, This new morning gives all cause to rejoice, And to cry out in song.

I now arise and go by my own way, I wander sleepy village streets, Just as life begins to stir.

Ah! Another bird, singing by a window sill. This one cries for fresh baked breads from the nearby farm.

The birds love the mornings. And the mornings love the birds.

A Spring Bouquet

Jackson Belanger

watercolor

A Geologist’s Study

Orla Pelka

The wind whistles through the shattered windows

Their glass lays on the floor, The room is disheveled and messy

Like a dust storm had swept through

Forcing someone to leave in a rush, A coffee cup knocked over half-empty

Its contents spilled on an old yellowed book Staining its pages, blurring the words, A pair of hiking boots

Their creases and folds worn down from many adventures Rest in the corner, A flashlight still on, lies next to a crystal

Its beam illuminating the sharp edges of the sharp crystal form, On a desk stands a photo of two young girls

Next to it lies a half-eaten orange, the juice leaving a sticky residue on the wood

All left behind in a rush forgotten.

The Black Crow

Sam Kite ink

In the Chambers

Henry Hanlon

In the chambers bright and cold, The men all speak and write of gold. Above the herd sit morning larks, And to their words the still birds hark. They talk until the day grows old, Debating all that’s bought and sold. And as the men talk through the dark, Like hammered steel, their words like sparks. Their vigor flames, their prose more bold, And the birds cannot but behold, For stinging words have left their mark, The young man’s face is seething, stark. By only wrath is he controlled. And from his coat, a knife he’ll hold.

The Turtle

Saniyah Mager

scratchboard

My Pond

Greta Spitz

Pennies green brown and shiny line the pond floor:

Koi fish swim, glowing bronze and white.

Symphonies of bullfrogs and choruses of toads roar, A turtle settles itself on the rock, shifting until it’s just right. The only footprints near the pond are my own; It will stay that way until I am gone.

All the cattails, lily pads and flowers I have grown, The fish I have fed and I have planted the lawn. My hand appears from my pocket, just as it does every morning, And a new penny adds to the pile:

With my wish made, my heart is left soaring.

I leave my pond until once more, the sky turns golden in color.

The Storm

Audrey Hoffsis

scratchboard

Nothing Ever Goes as Planned

Henry Hanlon

Nothing ever goes as planned. In this wooded niche above the stream, These useless words in hand, Have done little.

I feel inside me growing still, words that might delight. And as my paper finds the quill, None of them feel right. The wind sings in my ear, I wish I could just forget That path she brought me on. What terrible sorrow it is to remember. How could I ever understand? Maybe tomorrow. Nothing ever goes as planned.

Young Woman with Flowers

Grace Lipson oil

The Written Word

Dmitri Gaudreau

What makes one human?

Is it the storing of grain or the breaking of bread? This can’t be so.

Even the bear puts food away for the winter, Even the birds eat of our bread.

So once again -

What makes us human?

The word, the pen, the language, The art of humanity is the word.

The birds have their nests, The bear has its cave, But none are so great as the word. Without the word we would surely die.

The word in the poem, The word in the song

Whatever the word, it makes us human.

Jeff Zhou

digital photography

Death of a Star

Rena Yamamoto

The stars are strewn across the sky, Yet one has disappeared, I saw her, only nights agoShe’s been dead so many years. Her lights been off, And will to live No longer of this world.

Her funeral, her mourners - few A galaxy so far.

Her face a dimly glowing hue, And cheeks a purpley dull.

But I, the Earth, and Pluto watch Her spirit vanish - like a breath And space continued onAfter her centuries old death.

Untitled

Oscar Hammond

It is a late night by the fireplace

Thousands of small embers burn brightly

As the light bounces around the room

My cat rests by my side

Its stomach wide towards the inviting fire

He makes loud purring noises

“Purrr, purrr” -

From the deepest depths of his being

Calm, warm and loving.

Index

Maisy Ballantyne (10th)

A Tear to the Ocean 11 Through an Apartment Window 59

Jackson Belanger (12th)

A Spring Bouquet 94

Cyrus Chambers (10th)

A Poem for Dida 47 Silence 45

Athina Chernis (10th)

Stones to Throw 67

Aurora Chernis (12th)

Sunset 20

Hailey Chin (10th)

See the Stars 17

The Silence We Speak 13 Untitled 30

Caroline Denmark (9th)

The Green Woman 86 Village in Winter 41

Jade Duncan-Gould (12th)

The Young Woman 18

Masha Emelianova (9th)

The Man 12

The Woodlands 9

Griffin Engels (12th)

August 2

Cotton Nostalgia 72 Into a Dream 24

Love 25

Riley Freeman (9th)

Nightscape 36

Untitled 82 Woman with Flower 60

Haven Frombgen (12th)

Partial Reproduction of Kehinde Wiley’s Portrait of Asia-Imani, Gabriella-Esnae, and Kaya Palmer 2

Dmitri Gaudreau (10th)

Grappling with the Soul 77 Morning Song 93 The Written Word 103

Luca Goldthorpe (10th)

If a Vibrant Red Rose 85 My Mind is a Missile 63

Micah Gowe (9th)

The Crows 92

Oscar Hammond (10th)

Untitled 107

Henry Hanlon (10th)

In the Chambers 97 Nothing Ever Goes as Planned 101

Hazel Haskovec (12th)

I am the Fire 81 We Named Him Theodore 21

Skylar Henderson (10th)

He is Poems 51 If I Tell Them, Will They Understand? 19

Nika Herrnstadt (10th)

First Rain 39

I Dream of Deserts 7 Mineral Mornings 43

Audrey Hoffsis (9th) The Storm 100

RJ Reilly Johnson (10th)

The Children 87

Yuumi Kakinuma (9th)

The Mountain and the Moon 14

The Old Man 26

The Tiger 64

Neilah Kessel-Belko (10th)

Dear Mother Nature 5

I am a Woman 83

Letter to My Dear Daughter 35

The Girl with Green Eyes 66

Sam Kite (9th)

The Black Crow 96

Misha Kleytman (10th)

Captivity 65 Ignition 57

Maia Kohlmann (10th)

Drained 15

In the Moment 53

The Pink Rose 84

Woman with Cigarette 78

Evan Lee (12th)

A Portrait of Jimmy Leonard 62

Self-Portrait 44

Jimmy Leonard (12th)

The Sailboat 54

Grace Lipson (12th)

Young Woman with Flowers 102

Saniyah Mager (9th)

The Crow in Winter 40

The Fox 106

The Turtle 98

The Whale 56

Julian Miller (9th)

The Boat 10

Beecher Moritz-MacAdams (10th)

Bay at Night 37

Blossoms in the Night 23

Compostable 75

Orange Flowers 80

Divi Newton (12th)

The Roman Ruins 42

Orla Pelka (10th)

A Geologist’s Study 95

Aria Ramsinghani (10th)

The Gift of Poetry 3

The Mountains 46

What Happened to Childhood? 73 What is Life? 33

Meya Janelle Redmond (12th)

True Acts of Kindness 89

Lilianna Roman (11th)

The Rose 32

Carmela Saguar (10th)

I Understand My Loss 71

I Walk in Darkness 31

Clarity Samas (12th)

A Slice 69

Generosity Samas (10th)

A Fruit Bowl of Thoughts 61

Cloudy Night 22

The Kitchen 79

Megan Spegar (12th)

The Pond 4

Greta Spitz (10th)

My Pond 99

Billie Staller (9th)

The Lily 88

The Woman 70

William Sue (9th)

The Man with the Hat 50

Gaia Trabuco-Greco (9th)

The Flower 68

Ella Gold Wade (12th)

Atop the Broadway Tunnel 27

Self-Portrait 6

The Waterfall 38

Logan Weening (11th)

Untitled 52

Aasia Williams (11th)

The Golden Rose 49

Grace Wofsy (9th)

The Man and the Deer 16

Lana Wong (9th)

At Dusk 74

Maya Wong (9th)

Underwater Girl Boss 58

Rena Yamamoto (10th)

Death of a Star 105

What is a Poem? 55

Jeff Zhou (12th)

In the Redwoods 1

Treetops 76

Untitled 104