PAW Print Bloom

VERMONT ACADEMY ppresents resents

a spring edition

PAW PRINT

POETRY ART WRITING

ADVISOR EDITOR

Whitney Barrett Khiem Nguyen

Junior Editors

Rhema Nabasa, Andy Darcy

Sub Editor

Maya Carbone

COVER PAGE:

Fleur de royale by Khiem Nguyen

Volume 7 ISSUE 5

TABLE OF CONTENTS

WE MADE IT!-THE DAFFODILS by: AMY RAAB

WE MADE IT!-THE CROCUS by: AMY RAAB

THE TRAIN by: SUKI LAMBERT

UNTITLED by: HAZEL BARRERAS

UNTITLED by: AMY RAAB

UNTITLED by: AMY RAAB

AVE MARIA by: SOFIA BIANCONI

AVE MARIA by: SOFIA BIANCONI

UNTITLED by: AMY RAAB

BIRTH & DEATH by: IRIS PUCHALIK

GONNA B LATE TODAY by: BRYCE BOYD-TUCKER

GASPUMP by: MASON EVANS

TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE SUN by: ANDY DARCY

MOON OUT by: ANDY DARCY

TOTALITY by: RAYMOND FENG

SUNSHINE by: MASON EVANS

A RONDO FOR THE MANDOLIN by: ASPER DONATH

IMPROVISING B MAJOR by: LUKE PENNELL

37

LEGO STORY by: RICO PUTNAM-POULIOT

THE ETERNAL NIGHT by: RAYMOND FENG

STAR GAZE by: RAYMOND FENG

EAST ON ROUTE 136 by: PETAR VUJICIC

INDIAN WELLS TENNIS TOURNAMENT, CA by: PETAR VUJICIC

GIDEON AND HIS ONE MILLION INSECTS by: COLE ALLEN

PROJ LINUS FLOWER BLANKET by: ANA HERNANDEZ

THE BIRD WENT NORTH FOR WINTER by: ANA HERNANDEZ

NOON by: KHIEM NGUYEN

CÀ PHÊ CHấM BI by: KHIEM NGUYEN

TO FAIL TO APPEAR by: KHIEM NGUYEN

THE HOUSE A THE CASTLE HILL (for my father-) by: DR. ZACCARA BEFORE TOTALITY by: KHIEM NGUYEN

FRIDAY AT 8-07 AM by: LUKE PENNELL

THE WILLOW by: SHAINA GERALD

SPRING BREEZE BY: ALVARO VEGA MARTIN

YELLOW OCHRE AND VIOLET by: LISA MCNEALUS

JADE AND PRUSSIAN BLUE by: LISA MCNEALUS

WE MADE IT!-THE DAFFODILS

By: Amy Raab

WE MADE IT!-THE CROCUS

By: Amy Raab

THE TRAIN

By: Suki Lambert

I love The Train, but not because of you. Not anymore.

You gave The Train a Story, a meaning, made it a symbol of something bigger.

I loved that Story. It made me feel powerful and important, as if I could be as powerful or important as you.

But you are not a good person.

You hurt so many people, and betrayed more than that. Including me.

You are not a good person.

So now I stand on the platform, waiting for the Next Train to lead me on to a new Story.

UNITITEL

By: Hazel Barreras

UNITITEL

By: Amy Raab

UNITITEL

By: Amy Raab

AVE MARIA

By: Sofia Bianconi

AVE MARIA

By: Sofia Bianconi

UNITITEL

By: Amy Raab

BIRTH & DEATH

By: Iris Puchalik

GONNA B LATE TODAY

By: Bryce Boyd Tucker

Excuse 32

Hey Mrs. Barrett i thought I’d let you know in advance

I will not be at class tomorrow (today as in Monday)

Excuse 144

Got braces tightened so I have to eat smoothies for breakfast which is making me late today.

I will be there once I’m done.

Excuse 212

Gonna be late to school had to check a check engine light

Excuse 428

Kitchen clock is like 10 minutes behind I thought I was leaving early today.

Gonna be late this ones on me

GASPUMP

By: Mason Evans

TOTAL ECLIPSE OF THE SUN

By: Andy Darcy

MOON OUT

By: Andy Darcy

TOTALITY

By: Yuliang Feng

SUNSHINE

By: Mason Evans

A RONDO FOR THE MANDOLIN

By: Asper Donath

IMPROVISING B MAJOR

By: Luke Pennell

LEGO STORY

By: Rico Putnam-Pouliot

Sometimes

The average Lego set contains 1,500 pieces. It also contains an instruction booklet, its glossy paper is filled with easy steps to make the project whole and if you forget something you can go back and fix it. Every piece has its place and is necessary regardless of how insignificant it seems. It all fits together neatly and results in a flawless final project. Sometimes I miss when everything connected together and I recognized that it was all necessary and important. When I look back into my past, there are moments I wish I could have tuned into more. When I could have memorized every wrinkle and line on somebody's face or the way the air smelled that day. Somemoments, when I look back on them I can remember every minute detail and reflect on the way they impacted me and how I grew from them, however there are many more that I took for granted.

I still remember the way that the deep blue fabric felt when my parents sat me down and told me that my grandparents would be living with us. I remember seeing ads on Youtube talking about Alzheimer's and that with a donation of just five dollars could be all that's needed to save countless lives. When I think about that moment I remember feeling lost. I didn't know what was going to happen, but I knew that everything would change. It is the little things, the routines that have emerged, that stick with me. When I go home every day I’m greeted by his voice. On good days it's followed by my name and on the bad days the name of his childhood friend and that's who I’ll be for that day.

Before he began declining he was the most intelligent put together person I knew. There were birthdays and Christmases, shared moments I will always remember and I knew they were special. There was also a late afternoon walk where the air was clean and warm. We talked not as a grandfather and grandson, but as two people talking about mistakes and stupid teenage moments. I don't particularly enjoy the blanket of mosquitoes that descends on me the moment I step into the shade or dagger shaped rocks under my feet. I decided to go and complained and in the moment it was just a generic conversation. Reflecting on that, I wish we walked for hours. I could have memorized his words and the way he laughed when I talked about my cheesy valentine I made for my elementary school crush. Our time together was the perfect mix of deep conversations and talking about nothing. The looks we would share when something funny happened before we burst into laughter. If I had an instruction manual to look into the future I would have recorded the way his laugh sounded and memorized the way he squinted his eyes when he smiled. Every birthday after everyone left and the wrapping paper was neatly folded and put away he would stay and help me put together my presents. When I got a massive Lego pirate ship on my fifth birthday, instead of reading the booklet and putting it together he sat next to me and read me the instructions. As enraged as my tiny five year old self was, I finished it.

I loved legos because I had the comfort of knowing exactly what to do and how it would end up. It never went perfectly, I always connected the wrong piece and had to go back or was missing a piece. No matter how horribly it went wrong I could always look at the booklet and know how to fix it.

When I was told about the diagnosis I couldn't fathom the reason why it was him who had to have it. I couldn't campaign to find a clinical trial or order a pill to make it stop no matter how hard I wished or how mad I was at the universe my hands were tied. I questioned whether it was just some cosmic flip of the coin. After the sadness passed I was consumed by a deep rage, a rage at scientists for not working harder at the world for doing this to our family. There is no step by step booklet on how to lose the person you look up to most and how to vwatch them lose themselves. I knew I would lose him but I didn't know part of that was losing the outlook I had on everything. I just wanted something or someone to know what was next. I spent nights being held hostage by my bed. The sheets felt suffocating all I could focus on why did this have to happen, why him, why our family I couldn't find any reason. Order was comforting as a child, the legos, even the little white bricks that found mundane. Back then something terrible meant a scraped knee or gross dinner. In life there's some things that when you think about them you know that it will change you and this was one of them. Every moment goes by so fast. Instead of focusing on how to do things “the right way ” I’m focusing on how to cherish every moment, not just the birthdays and sunsets but the brief hellos between classes and the way the kitchen smells in the morning. Weekends filled equally with pizza rolls and late night drives are no longer shadowed by the fear of saying something to make me sound interesting are now spent in the moment truly living in the moment regardless of how important it seems. Instead of spending our time together mourning who he was, I truly live in the moment. Building pirate ships and castles was hard, things in life are hard and uncomfortable. In some moments they are boring, something to be forgotten and lost in time.

There is no how to booklet for life, there is just growing and learning and doing better. There isn't a way to see the final outcome and in some situations there is simply no way to understand why or how but being helpless and angry can turn into cherishing every simple moment,opportunity and celebration.

THE ETERNAL NIGHT

By: Yuliang Feng

STAR GAZE

By: Yuliang Feng

EAST ON ROUTE 136

By: Petar Vujicic

“from the Death Valley National Park towards the Eastern Sierras”

INDIAN WELLS TENNIS TOURNAMENT, CA

By: Petar Vujicic

GIDEON AND HIS ONE MILLION INSECTS

By: Cole Allen

Nestled in a quaint village surrounded by lush forests and rolling hills, there lived a young boy named Gideon. Gideon was a spirited lad, full of curiosity and mischief. One sunny afternoon, as Gideon roamed the forest in search of adventure, he stumbled upon a clearing where the old wizard resided. Impressed by Gideon's fearlessness and pure heart, (and simply bored of how quiet it was in town) the wizard gifted him a slender, shimmering stick adorned with intricate runes, an artifact of immense magical power. "This, young Gideon," the wizard declared, "is a wand of great significance. With it, you possess the ability to turn your imagination into reality. But heed my warning, young one. Magic comes with responsibility. Use it wisely."

Excited and eager to test his newfound power, Gideon dashed back to the village, waving the magic stick in the air. At first, Gideon's adventures with the magic stick were harmless and innocent. He would conjure colorful butterflies to dance around the children or summon playful rabbits to entertain the villagers. But as time passed, Gideon's mischievous nature grew, and he began to use the wand to deal with those who annoyed or angered him. Whenever someone teased him or scolded him, Gideon would point the magic stick at them, muttering ancient incantations under his breath. In an instant, the person would transform into a buzzing fly, a pesky mosquito, or a darting dragonfly, much to Gideon's delight.

The villagers soon learned to tread lightly around Gideon, fearing the wrath of his magical stick. But their fear turned to resentment, and whispers of discontent began to spread throughout the village. Unaware of the brewing animosity, Gideon continued his antics, oblivious to the hurt he caused eventually turning a million people into tiny winged creatures. One fateful evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and shadows crept over the village, all one million insects Gideon had transformed began to converge. Buzzing and fluttering, they gathered in a swirling cloud, their tiny forms pulsating with determination. Driven by a shared desire for revenge, the insects plotted their retribution against the boy who had wronged them. With synchronized precision, they swooped down upon Gideon during his walk home from school, lifting him high into the air on a whirlwind of wings. Terrified and helpless, Gideon thrashed and cried out for mercy, but his pleas fell on deaf ears. Enraged, Gideon began pointing his wand in every direction trying his hardest to wish away all the insects, but for every hundred he took out, a thousand more filled their place. Higher and higher the insects carried him until the village below resembled a mere speck on the earth…

And then, with a collective chorus of buzzing wings, the insects let go…

Gideon plummeted towards the ground, his heart pounding in his chest as the wind rushed past him. But just as he prepared to use his wand to escape, the magic stick slipped from his grasp, tumbling through the air and disappearing into the darkness below.

As Gideon fell, he realized the folly of his actions and the pain he had inflicted upon others. With a newfound humility, he vowed to mend his ways and seek forgiveness from those he had wronged. Unfortunately for Gideon, he had no time to put his vows into action as the rough and rigidly rocky ground caught up to him and he splattered into a million pieces on impact, each piece representing one poor soul who was now forever trapped in the body of an insect.

PROJ LINUS FLOWER BLANKET

By: Ana Hernandez

THE BIRD WENT NORTH FOR WINTER

By: Ana Hernandez

NOON

By: Khiem Nguyen

CÀ PHÊ CHấM BI

By: Khiem Nguyen

In Vietnamese culture, brewing coffee is an art form that requires great patience and practice. My grandfather taught me how to meticulously balance the coarseness of the coffee grounds, the water-to-coffee ratio, and the steeping time. The rich aroma and the bold flavors that slowly unfold demonstrate the value of unhurried effort.

When I was four, I got to join my parents’ weekly tradition of going to the cafe on Saturday mornings. On our way there, I couldn’t sit still on the motorbike. I remember thinking I was becoming a man, old and mature enough to have my first cup of coffee. I’d heard so much about the power of the cafe and from all the drama series I’d seen, I knew it was where people would go to:

catch up with friends, complain and gossip, relax and release stress, use the free wifi, be productive

It is the hub for connectivity.

The moment we walked through the front door, we were hit with the alluring coffee smell. The barista’s counter was in the right corner straight across and in between were sets of tables and chairs.

Mom ordered me my first-ever cup of Vietnamese coffee.

The server brought out a “phin”, a drip filtering coarsely ground coffee beans sitting on top of a polka-dotted glass. I stared at the glass, spectating as each black drop of coffee fell into the stiff thick bed of condensed milk. The brewing process is long and tedious, five minutes had never felt more like an eternity. Every coffee droplet's deliberate descent built up my anticipation. I removed the phin.

Appreciating the magnificent separation of coffee and milk due to their different consistencies, Submerging the coffee spoon and gently stirring, Observing the elegant burnt umber swirls of roasted coffee blending into the ivory-white canvas.

The bitter, intense earthy coffee flavor combined with the creamy sweetness of the condensed milk. A harmonious balance of bitter and smooth velvet.

No wait has ever felt more rewarding.

Like the ritual of coffee, educational and career success are highly valued in Vietnamese culture and require the same level of mastery. These cultural practices make up an enormous part of who I am. They are daily life experiences that I can’t stray away from. As a child, constantly being compared to other kids in the neighborhood and bearing the burden of being the perfect son in order to please my parents led me to fixate on my flaws and insecurities, and it made me afraid of judgment.

But, even if this generational pressure is suffocating the masses, it also strengthens our minds and capabilities.

Each time I make coffee the practice empowers me to understand that each drop of coffee represents a culmination of careful cultivation and attentive dedication. I imagine that like me, each drop despises being watched but still chooses to plunge into the cup. Perhaps they are scared, and deep down they also fear judgment, but they don’t let it stop them from achieving their goal of reaching the soft pillow of condensed milk. It was in the meditation on this sensory experience that I discovered the profound connection between the art of brewing coffee and the pursuit of excellence in all aspects of life. From brewing and enjoying a coffee, I have begun to introduce the same mindset to doing everything with meticulous attention and patience. Thinking of myself as a drop of coffee, I am better able to open my eyes to new possibilities. I open my hands for bigger grasps, and I pay less attention to what people think and to pleasing others. I have begun to pay more attention to what I want and consider how to use what I have learned.

TO FAIL TO APPEAR

By: Khiem Nguyen

BEFORE TOTALITY

By: Khiem Nguyen

THE HOUSE A THE CASTLE HILL (for my father-)

By: Dr. Zaccara

I run up the stairs

Real now beneath my feet I am home.

Fingers glide up the mahogany banister Tease around the corner rail Grasp the doorknob and turn.

What bright beacon awaits confirmation Beyond that door?

Yet this house built of memory, Rests on suspension cables, Floats in the fog

Between worlds.

Poised on a bluff

Far out at the edge of sea and harbor, At night it becomes a moving, swaying thing

All creaks and cracks as foundations release

And what is stable lifts offHere there is a wanting, deep and eternal, As the bell clangs in the distance:

“I have been here before.”

Cradled in a room of honeyed beams, Scrollwork, cornices, carvings,

The architectural vision of those consumed by sea. Hovering between land and water

At a portal for those who dare, The sound of seagulls Whispers the siren call, And my bed slips out on a wave Into the night -

I cannot see the moon or stars But feel the steady rocking of the sea, The low, hushed lapping of quiet Leaving land.

In the outstretched field of night, The call and response of bell and horn Dwells contrapuntal in the gloam.

In a distant sea, A beacon from the lighthouse, Flashes in the night, spills onto the wooden floor. Morse code of a man ’ s last breath Before the crash came, And all that he was plunged into the storm-

The lights flash through the fog, Insistent in their finality: I – Love – You They proclaimed while the sea opened its mouth And one lone woman watched from shore. Minot Light beats that message still, As the punishing waves chip at rock, Attempting a fatality of erosion That no heart will allow.

In this Newport dream, I run up the stairs again Yet they have fallen in and the house has been unmooredI know each step by instinct, Staircases and rooms dissolving into dunes even as I ascendI reach for the sunroom with its luminescent eye over the ocean, Where I know that you wait, And my piano shines black and blinding. But I cannot reach that space And the walls cave and crumble, As I hold these sheets of sand.

FRIDAY AT 8-07 AM

By: Luke Pennell

SPRING BREEZE

By: Alvaro Vega Martin

THE WILLOW

By: Shaina Gerald

YELLOW OCHRE AND VIOLET

By: LISA MCNEALUS

JADE AND PRUSSIAN BLUE

By: LISA MCNEALUS