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Voices Bristol Eastern High School 2014

Voices - Bristol Eastern High School 2014

Contributors: Jennifer B. Alex B. Emily B. Caroline B. Gabriella C. Isabella C. Mahrang D. Eilanna D. Sophia D. Carly G. Kaitlin G. Marjorie K. Emily K. Marissa P. Kelly Q. Savannah R. Jenna R. Lauren S. Joseph S. Nicole S. Molly S.

Cover Photo by Gabriella C. Faculty Advisor: Ms. Joanne Peluso

Thanks to Project Writeous for the best reason to stay late at

school on Friday afternoons.

Congratulations and best wishes to our graduating poets and

writers from the Class of 2014.


Retribution: An Ode to GTA V

Marissa open the door it's 2am I'm shivering the night is so big and I

am not

open the door I'm going to burn something so let that thing be next to

you

in a plasma screen, there, blood stains have no permanence, you still

haven’t come

out yet I don’t know if you will but I’m here now I need to be let in,

I’ve got a swinging arm and fighting words the night never taught me

how to be

terrible, the bad bads infest us they tell me how to spit at my father

and curse at my mother I’ve grown now I swear I just need you

to open the door Marissa I need you to open the door, today Caesar

falls,

Carthage screams the bad bads are coming for me the night swallows

me,

I’ve never done any wrong did you ever spit at your father did you

ever

look him in the eye in the space between two fingers growing

smaller, smaller, until your fingers break his bones open the door give

me

the controller I need five stars I need the police to chase me down

the pixelated sea to crash into me sirens, sirens all around

I don’t remember what came before the war and I don’t know what

comes after

the night I’m here now Marissa I need you to open the door if you can,

Rome didn’t burn in a day and neither will I but ashes to ashes makes

the air thick,

my eyes burn, I’m not crying I haven’t seen home in a while don’t

look at me just

shoot em down knock em out make them as small as you were be just

be God

claim it all in the name of retribution burn everything five stars,

pixelated sea,

let the bad bads take you. Julius stabs Brutus. Carthage fells Rome. No

one reaps again.

take me take me take me take me in open the door

- Mahrang D.

First place winner, 2014 Academic Bowl


A Substantial Concern

(If I wrote celibate on my right arm It would queerly look like it read sober Onlookers—agape; relatives—alarmed Do they know when he shook me, I shook her?) He shook me, I shook her—we all shook trees Together. Streams together until there Was nothing but apples and fish to eat We ate until we starved in condemned air So they claimed me Addict, ergo, Monster Still…still…still there must be a reason why I mistake the saints of the creed—sober? Of course I am!—with “sin”. Yes, I declined, Prostrated, obligated confession. “Dear Father, forgive me for I have sinned” Still…still…still he blessed me, graced my forehead Good Father; His son he had forgiven And I learned then there is no stronger love Than that between a father and his son

- Isabella C. National Scholastic Writing Contest Award Winner

From Apollo: I Shall Call Her Betulla A glass misshapen in my eye—blind man! I have become less than myself in truth She seems to me a fellow immortal For only then could my vision make sense; (I see what cannot be realistic) My fair lady cannot be fairer than Lovely Venus and her impish cherubs And if I laid but a finger on her— This girl so elusive and volatile— Ah! but to touch her! to sink into flesh! She would burn, she would flake, ignite fiercely As destructive as birch, more fragile than Laurel, swifter than that reticent nymph Destroyed by eternal hunger of my Own accord; but what would it then matter? She would wade through the river of Charon And I would salvage her, her champion, The victorious variation of Orpheus, my fallible counterpart And this little birch shall be mine until The fall of Olympus, or until there Sprouts a fairer flora, a fir perhaps

- Isabella C. National Scholastic Writing Contest Award Winner


Fall Fall Fall

Creating pumpkin art leaves stripped off trees Naked as ancient statues lacking life Scent of fresh cider caught in the down wind The dead piles up losing and gaining weight Red calloused hands battled flaming brown mass Grinning orange faces staring and mocking Birds pestering brainless silent scarecrows Watching people from afar giving thanks Surplus of food, feasting, some famine And in the end we welcome the first snow.

- Jenna R.

Winter Winds Inside my mind is cold as the wind blows; frozen rivers run still cutting across the desolate valley where sun did glow. Sad snowmen stand alone as flurries toss on a lake frozen solid stands a hut, inside a man sits drowning in his loss singing silent songs of misery but none are heard choked by the dead of winter always aware frozen still with eyes shut. Storms rage and the wood begins to splinter blown away he stands on the shaky ground head gone faster than the fastest sprinter. Circles take shape from him all around into the water he falls, lost in sound.

- Carly G.

- Eilanna D.


- Eilanna D.

Rusted Rain falls on to my bare feet and touches my skin like the fragile wings of a monarch butterfly I can hear the gentle pitter patter of the droplets hitting the rusted roof of the barn that seems years and miles behind me The barn where I would spend days on end with my father along the tall grass and yellow daffodils that would grow In the doorway Every day after my mother packed her bags for a better place, my father would come a little later to the barn and smelling a little more of whiskey and despair of hot August days It’s the barn where the daffodils stopped growing in October and never came back in the spring and the only thing that grew in the doorway anymore were half dead weeds that fed on the hatred they had for the man who smelled like whiskey and failure And now all I take with me is a wet suitcase filled with pictures torn at their corners and a rusted Rolex I stole from my father

- Lauren S.


Strict Sessions

Set the speed and internalize the beat; The metronome will guide you through your work, As long as you are willing to repeat Your lines ‘til you play with no effort. How long can you spend on a single phrase That only gets one moment of glory? How little can you breathe before your face Turns dark purple your lungs a worse story? To all of the neighbors listening in, There is nothing that they can do but wait, For the beat will only cease its clicking When you’ve finished your task, however late. Chances are you won’t be done tomorrow, Or ever. Trying is the way you’ll know.

- Caroline B.

- Joseph S.


I ran through the pages

I ran through the pages, leaving the world Silver clothed knights stood there in gallant honor Where girls in damask dresses danced and twirled Sat on the throne was Old King O’Connor. Page after page and word after word: alone Secluded from pointless reality Sheltered by fiction until I am grown. Novels are a protecting entity. Morals are bestowed from the ancient lore It is stories that assist us in life. While some think reading is a pointless chore, For me, it is an escape from hard strife.

Open the pages to find sweet relief It is a way to avoid hurt and grief.

- Emily K.

- Sophia D. First Place, Project Writeous Photography


Sinfonia Del Demone

The music box itself was a very beautiful antique. Its body was

a sleek black, and blood- red rose petals drifted down the sides of the

box, with silver impressions that swirled across the front, landing in an

almost perfect arch near the corners of the box. A thin silver crank

jutted out from the side. Etched in gold on the lid were the words

Demone Dentro. Evangeline hadn’t the slightest idea what it meant,

not that she had bothered to anyways. The music box belonged to her

grandmother, a souvenir from her trip to Italy many years ago. With

her recent passing, it was now in Evangeline’s possession. The box

had always fascinated Evangeline, for many reasons. Sometimes when

she held it, she could almost swear that it was alive, radiant and

pulsating. And sometimes, if she was silent, and held her ear close to

the box, she thought she could hear a voice murmuring. It was

hypnotizing, and she felt drawn to it, feeling the pull to open the box.

But her grandmother had always been stringent about it, and told her

three simple rules to oblige by, no matter the circumstance.

1. Never open the box.

2. Never wind up the box.

3. Never ever make a wish while the music is playing.

Evangeline had always followed these outlandish rules, fearing

what her grandmother’s consequences might have been. But since she

was no longer around, Evangeline couldn’t resist the desire. One by

one, she slowly broke every single rule her grandmother had put forth.

At night, she took the music box from the attic, and crept down into

her bedroom. She sat down on the floor, her back pressed against the

bed as she gazed down curiously at the music box. Evangeline reached

forward, opened up the lid, and then slowly cranked up the handle.

Music softly began to play, releasing a chilling melody. Yet

Evangeline was captivated, pulled into listening for every hypnotic

beat. Suddenly, the room dropped in temperature, and Evangeline

could see her breath. Gooseflesh raised up on her skin, and she rubbed

her arms, shuddering. A dark grey fog began to creep up the inside of

the box and dripped over the sides. It sprawled outwards, covering

every inch of the wooden floor. The music stopped abruptly, and as it

did, a darker shroud of mist shot up from the box, and piled up in front

of Evangeline. To her astonishment, the black mist began to

materialize into…a human.

A boy wearing dark attire was suddenly crouched before her,

and she jumped back. His black clothes looked like something out of

the Victorian era, and Evangeline couldn’t help but wonder if the

clothing was authentic. Was she dreaming? Maybe she had fallen


asleep while listening to the creepy music, and now she was having

one of those really strange dreams that made no sense at all. The boy

furrowed his eyebrows, chewing on the inside of his cheek, seeming to

be contemplating something. Then, seeming to come to a decision, he

stretched, and spoke.

“Thank you for releasing me,” he said as he stood, bowing his

head in an elegant manner. His hair was black, like that of a Raven’s.

His eyes were so dark, Evangeline couldn’t tell where his pupils ended

and his irises began. She found herself almost too stunned to speak as

she stared at the ethereal being in front of her.

“What shall I do for you?” he asked. Evangeline blinked.

“Um…What?” This was way beyond anything she had

expected to happen once she turned the music box. After a moment,

she realized he was still expecting her to answer him. What did she

want? There wasn’t much she’d been wanting, aside from the

occasional craving for chocolate. Unable to think of anything else, she

decided to go with that. She shrugged.

“Chocolate cake.”

His eyes widened, and then he raised an eyebrow. The look he

had on his face told her that no one had ever asked for a cake.

“That’s it? You want…cake?” He drew it out, the word

seeming almost foreign on his tongue.

“Uh…yeah, I want cake. The very best chocolate.” He nodded

slowly, finally coming to terms with her requests. As the black mist

shrouded his lanky figure, Evangeline thought of something.

“Wait! Shouldn’t I -I don’t know- pay you back or

something?”

He grinned wickedly as the mist receded back into the box,

which shut.

“I’ll come back for that later,” he said.

* * *

When Evangeline awoke the next morning with the music box

lying next to her pillow, she wondered if she really had been dreaming.

But when she walked out into the kitchen, she found a tier cake coated

in chocolate sitting on the table. A piece had been cut for her already,

and her mouth watered as she saw the chocolate inside, with what

looked like hot fudge in the middle spilling over the sides. She sat at

the table and dug into the cake. Heaven. The cake was moist, and the

fudge slightly bitter, which blended well with the sweetness of the


hidden chocolate chips. He had kept his word; this was the best cake

she had ever tasted. After she finished off the slice, she went to her

room, briefly wondering what he’d possibly want in return. As she sat

on her bed, a memory abruptly resurfaced, flashing through her mind.

Evangeline was younger, and she sat with her grandmother on

the bed, holding the music box in her small hands.

“Grandma, what does this mean?” she asked, pointing toward

the writing on the box.

“It says Demon Inside.”

Evangeline laughed. “Demons aren’t real, Grandma.”

Her grandmother shook her head and pointed at her. “It’s all

right if you don’t believe in them, just don’t go asking for anything if

one comes knocking.”

Evangeline tilted her head to the side. “Why?”

“Because the only thing a demon ever wants in return, is your

soul.”

Evangeline paled as she was brought out of her memory, fear

sinking low into the pit of her stomach. Suddenly, the black mist crept

out of the box and materialized. The boy was grinning, and his eyes

slowly went from black to a deep dark red.

- Gabriella C.

- Alex B.


Shoot

I remember your first day of school, holding your hand as we walked through the doors. I remember the Christmases spent, my proof that you can’t be what they say you are. You can’t be a monster. I read all of the books, before you were born I was worrying about your death, but I never thought to worry about you breathing. I wish I could say that I hate you, but I can’t bring myself to add another lie to a life of them. And all I ever taste are the children’s names on my lips, but all I ever see is you. They ask me why I couldn’t see, how I didn’t know this was coming, maybe I was just too busy remembering the “I love you’s” to realize that maybe they would not last forever. The monsters were something you begged me to check your closet for. Not something I created. And now, even as the pictures on my walls light up my television screen, and the reporters are giving each bullet you shot a home, I want nothing more than to hold you, to tell you that it was just a bad dream. Because I can’t help the fact that you were my beginning, and my end. There is no forgetting, there is no “new normal” because “normal” said goodbye long before you did. Child, tell me,

when you held the gun to their faces, were you trying to shoot away the thought of me? Did you hear my screams, just like the ones you would fall asleep to every night? Did you mistake my tears for regret? Darling, the only regret I have is not loving you more. And now, I am standing over your grave, when you should be standing over mine. And now, I will never be able to tell you “I love you” without flinching. And as much as I’ve wandered and wondered, I will never stop asking myself, If bad things only come to good people, what happened to you?

- Savannah R. First place winner, Project Writeous Contest


The green strands

The green strands like hay,

Green growing life, Growing with help, Or not growing at all. Not talking, not complaining- Laying or standing just to be stepped on Stepped on fast and hard Stepped on the living, stepped on the dead The stepper turns the green to brown: A lighter shade of death The death can’t speak, but speak through showing Showing the stepper the brown death of stepping.

- Kaitlin G.

Daily Life in Taiji

They roam through the deep ocean blue, playfully chasing each other through its deep dark depths. Mothers watch contently as their children play, relishing in the peace that they live in. But then, the horrific sound of metal poles clashing and banging together resonate towards them, And they frantically flee, panicked and frightened, away from the sound barrier, That threatens to entomb them in a watery grave. But little do they know, what they are headed for, is so much worse than the sound wall. Suddenly, Mothers are ripped away from their young, and a net blockades their only escape. They can hear the alarmed cries as the adults are herded into a smaller sectioned off area, And then, the cries go from being panicked, to terrified. At first, there is only fear, and then there is pain, as they are stabbed and stabbed and stabbed,

- Gabriella C.

Viciously with long metal hooks from men in fishing boats who regard it as nothing more than a task. They desperately try to escape, and the children can do nothing but listen, Listen to their family being slaughtered in cold blood, only a short distance away. One makes it over the net, but as it comes back up for air and goes down again, it never resurfaces. The pretty, serene blue water of the little cove, slowly turns to a deep red, Stained with the blood of all the dolphins that were being brutally murdered. The young are now orphaned, and sold off to the highest bidder, Forever having to succumb to being put through tasks they were never made to do. How can one little town have such a horrific secret? The saddest thing is, this will happen again tomorrow, and the day after that, Continuing on for months, just like it does every year. But worst of all, hardly anything is being done about it. As this continues to go on, what will happen to the Dolphins? Will they realize too late the severity of their actions? Or will they not care, and only stop when there aren’t any Dolphins left?

- Gabriella C. Second place winner, Project Writeous contest


Praying Mantis

Two people are coddling each other in such a way that would inspire married

people to blush.

On the window pane, there is a small figure watching them, knocking, the

silhouette of a gangly thing holding kitchen knives.

You can see the serrated edges and you can hear them scratching in such a way

that you can call it “unison”: one knock following another, a synchronization of

shark teeth on glass.

Upon closer inspection, you see that it is a praying mantis, green as can be, it’s

large faceted eyes watching the two people.

It is just one figure, and from the linearity of its mouth, you know it is a female,

but wonder, as it is springtime, where the male might be.

Then, as if hearing you, the praying one lifts her head to reveal a small knife-

arm hanging from her mouth, and you know what has happened; you address

the praying one:

“Is it cannibalism or devotion?

You loved him so much that you devoured him, kept the head for last.

Does he even bleed?

Are you,

A wife no longer a wife,

Content for a sacrifice that I find so secular that I wish to rename you, o,

praying one?

Do you confide in the black spider—the one with the scarlet marking on her

back?

Do you both go to the clergyman in reconciliation? But then again, how can he

forgive you when you still have the head saved?”

The green one doesn’t respond, as she is only an animal.

The wonders and horrors of nature conflict so much I fear there’s a mother and

a father; that it’s all just green—just nature—an internal conflict solely based on

a decaying marital status.

And if the praying one can’t even be forgiven, where will I go?

- Isabella C. Second place winner, 2014 Academic Bowl


- Sophia D.

Hands

I’ve never looked at your hands.

I was always too caught up in your face, imagining it so close to mine

I could taste your breath


I was too busy thinking about your voice, your soft secrets sending

shivers down my spine,


But I know they craft prose that teleport you two thousand miles

And every word, every joke, every line those hands bring to life adds a

branch to the fire of hate that burns in my chest for you,

This fire sends a cloud of smoke to my eyes, forcing out boiling tears,

It consumes my sanity, and burns my confidence to ashes,

She will never love those hands the way I do.

I wish you saw that.

I still can’t comprehend

How you could share them with someone else.


I know that for my own sake I shouldn’t,

But one day my obsession will finally possess me

And the only thought in my mind will be those hands running down

my sides,

Resting on the small of my back, pulling me into you,

Filling my head with your cool cologne and sweet sweat

And I’ll take those hands in mine and feel the static electricity

From the feet I’ve been dragging since those hands first wrapped their

fingers around me.

- Marissa P.


Fishing (Villanelle) Papa and I went fishing at the pond Whatever we’d catch, we had not a clue He pulled the string taut, as tight as our bond Of the quack-quacking ducks, we were quite fond Hoping to catch anything but the flu Papa and I went fishing at the pond The smart little fish, they could not be conned Preserving patience, we would not be blue He pulled the string taut, as tight as our bond Some slippery, shiny scales, they all donned There were geese galore, we told them to shoo Papa and I went fishing at the pond Rain started to fall, we did not respond I had a rain jacket; he had one too He pulled the string taut, as tight as our bond I said I caught one a foot long, or beyond He kept the secret, for it was not true Papa and I went fishing at the pond, He pulled the string taut, as tight as our bond

- Emily B.

Tarzant

I am an ant. I live my life, day by day, Dreading the first day of spring, When the people start mowing their lawns. They don’t understand. I like the tall grass. I love swinging from the blades of green forest Pretending to be Tarzant. They always have to ruin my fun, Cutting down my playground. I trick them by hiding in my ant hill. Until they’re gone And then when they leave and it is safe, I become Tarzant again, Who has no fear of being killed By that evil machine. I climb the tallest tree I can find, And sit there, happy to have made it through another day. Another ant crawls up beside me, And I look at her and say “Me, Tarzant. You, Jane.”

- Emily B.


Waves

Rolling, crashing, angry, joyous, lovely, sweet—

the sea is me, my name, the description of my being.

When waves crash and thunder thrash and rocks are swallowed by fury—you

will know my name.

When waves whisper calm thoughts to a sun gleaming against a sky like

diamonds—you will know my name.

When the wind howls and spews water into millions of directions, no steady

current, uneven and unsure—you will know my name.

When water rushes to kiss your toes on the shore, and you feel invincible,

happy, relieved—you will look out to miles of ocean, and you will know my

name.

It is difficult to put name to something that is always changing, something that

ultimately leads to more than one place.

When you awaken to a gray sky, a bitter sea, a damp mood, a sullen

everything—you will know my name.

You will know it when the storm clears and a rainbow takes its place,

glimmering pastel hues along the ripples of the sea. And when you see this,

won’t you keep it in your memory? Won’t you cherish it? It is certain that

violent storms will return, will always be lurking under the surface—watching,

waiting to strike. Never forget this memory of me, for sad but true, I will not

always be this way. I, a tidal wave, will constantly move, never at a standstill.

And even when I am someday six feet under, I will be looking down from a

thousand feet above.

Remember my name for what it is worth; for ALL it is worth.

-Molly S.


As Virtue is to Sin

As temperance is to gluttony, So is chastity to lust And kindness is to envy. “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.” This human race is in need of clarity Before the highest does what he must. Because pride is to humility While sloth is to diligence And greed is to charity. Care in the heart has taken up absence Because it is known that wrath’s opposite patience.

- Jennifer B.

- Joseph S.

Tornado

Swirling through the innocence an unending rotation of suffering Mistakes dragged deep down into Pandora’s Box.

her life was like shards of jagged glass (once a priceless sculpture) slammed into anyone who dared to approach. the Destruction. those who run away in fear are wise. because the beauty is trapped too deep.

beneath the shattered pieces of heart thrown all in a heap beneath the painted face of the softest porcelain

Beware Beware

- Kelly Q.


Living Day Lights

Oh little spider, why do continue,

Creating webs of silk and lace satin?

To watch and wonder what mess will imbue?

Stop! The wind, the sand, the prey shall flatten!

Us young are malleable, wait to fill,

And fill we do in ways we did not plot,

Cram and bundle yet it is not our will,

Scrape away infection pending distraught.

Our metal cools and turns to copper rust,

Until we are slight red flecks in green eyes,

We become the wind and the copper dust,

Disturbing your precious webs in disguise.

I ask, grow wings and fly away to flights,

They exclaim our webs the living day lights!

- Marjorie K.

Sunlight splashes on the newly greened leaves

Sunlight splashes on the newly greened leaves

Like droplets of water on sun-kissed skin

In a meadow lost to the world

Stands I in beautifully quiet bliss

A noise proclaims my attention one day

And on the edge of sight a dark shape forms

Curvy and peaceful a rose in his hand

Illusive as happy days in the rain

He dances on spring’s edge away from me

Days pass as I near his every move

So elegant as the seasons themselves

The warmer the days the closer he gets

The longer the days the clearer his shape

And when the earth tilts most towards the sun

I see him true and he is my heaven

He is a newly blooming spring flower

He is the breeze my aching heart floats on

And tucked under light’s blanket we embrace

Moving and twirling and laughing so free

We fall to the grass and lay side by side

And in my hand he places the red rose.

- Carly G.


- Alex B. Honorable Mention, Project Writeous Contest

A Letter of Retribution from the Town Crier to the King

Gossip is an unlikely companion, but a companion nonetheless to those with unhinged lips. And though it has not escaped mine own, here I write to you, my lord, through hand and not through mouth: I am but a pinkie, sir, a digit of dexterity. Many a people find that I will soon be gone, yet useless as I may be, I do serve For etiquette For nobility. And the streets will be empty without the cacophonies of scrolls I am able to regurgitate from my lungs— They will not know of the world without me! They will sit, like sinks full of mud and slime, impenetrable and dilapidated, ignorant and indifferent to the vain attempts of progress.

My putrescent people! Why have you been permitted to ponder your own principles and purpose? I cannot help but remember when I was happier, when I had no followers If I painted a circle around my heart, I considered everyone to have shot straight because no one released an arrow at all. But if I painted a circle encapsulating my whole body—a De Vinci mannequin They pierced me, the lot of them. Sadducees, Pharisees, high priests—I can list them all as if every one had their own upside-down crucifix. But alas, there is always the last, an end, a death. And your majesty, Presently, I have yet to recall your time of weakness, a chip in your shined heel. To whom does your knee bend? Your own that perches upon thy golden throne, whose detached mouth spews flamboyant nonsense, decrees of injustice? Or the fountain who flows, consistent and true, steadfast and unwavering, from one well to another? I live to serve, sir, and you repay me with dismissal. In these final days, where it is inevitable to mull over stale epiphanies like seeds in a strainer. I cannot help but imagine a world where we all look down and aim low for the toes of centipedes and the roots of oaks. What if we all sprawled onto our bellies and disregarded the wings of birds? Flight would forever be impervious, settled in the branches just as my words have drifted to the bottom of a black marble vase. It has occurred to me, sire, that kingdoms are nothing more than upside-down caverns, inverted into the air, And heaven is within my core, rendering spires useless. Therefore, you persecute me, Impaled.

- Isabella C.


A Sunday Night Greatness will never spew forth from my mouth, like water out of a wild geyser. It will never come out as poetry, for which my final breath will hold on to, The humming that comes from my throat is loud and obscene to my twine like vocal chords, Trouble spreads like cancer in the lymph nodes, And my frail body shall never resist. I will never be the one to address, I shall only ever listen to it, I will never be the protagonist, of even my own illicit story, For it in me is common seven ways, and distributed out family thin, The music and notes go to the victor, and the perseverance to the witness, The greatness forever to the oldest, and the understanding to the youngest. What to the medium man I dare say, only dust and greater shadows than I, I who am the Achilles heel of minds, and most pathetic of bodies and bones, No, no, no, the one who wakes and waits, Singing songs on the veranda it is, The one with vast amounts of price receipts All back to the deliverance army, Stomping the souls of their dead boots severe, all the spirits they possess lay wasted, beneath them in the ground of hope and fear, Crying out in a thrilling humming voice, too high to be heard with our human ears. And we all have those mundane human ears.

- Marjorie K.

- Sophia D.

Anything I Dream I Dare It’s a long way, nowhere near perfect This path I travel But all I know is it’s worth it I ask myself if it’s worth the hassle But I’d rather lose than give up the fight To finally reach the legendary castle I try and try with all my might It’s just a hill not golden hair That I must climb to win this fight He looks at me, a penetrating stare, But he doesn’t know that I’m fearless And anything I dream I dare. One thing is true I must confess, I am no dainty, royal princess.

- Jenna Rodjenski


Atlas

It seems he is half cloud and half ground, Burdened by both, alleviated by none, And crowns commanded asked him to reach for the stars, Stretch, stretch, stretch, Until he pulled out his arms and ripped his veins so, Spread so thin until he was tattered in two, For muscles to shred and stomachs to explode, Lift your arms and straighten them out so, Bend your knees and shoot right up until you grab hold of greatness, And he was tricked had agreed As time passed he asked for less more, Ignorantly not prideful, he was given asked for more, For the earthlings were happy with their state And the clouds were happy too, So he was forced asked for more… “Make me taller, make me bigger, Grab holes in my body, place them on my head, Take my toes and glue them to my eyebrows, Unwrap my intestines and string them up on my shoulders, Swiss cheese and Jenga blocks scoop me out, To make me expand, Make me superior, make me soaring, Until my feet have betrayed me and I can barely stand.” His muscles you see had not begun to atrophy, His back had still been straight, His arms low high and spirit soaring low like fog, So many pencils of black and white concreting grey, He did not see the strength in his legs begin to tear grow, His bones begin to break thicken. He held on to bricks and stones, Of your his passion, Held for dear life, And when it came time to jump, There was nothing everything left in him, And he, defeated absolutely, sank to dirt in hourglasses of time… Each drop of sand another vein to pop fortify.

He didn’t make it decided not to make it to the stars, He only did make it to the clouds, And in vain hope he thought the clouds could hold his burden for a while, But see they had just recently cried out their mass, And were wispy light little things of air and water not strong enough to hold their his houses and pebbles Just clouded enough to block show the stars From ridiculing encouraging him. “Look there at Atlas and his magnitude great Struggle!” “My life for my uncertain future, My arms for stretching as you, Please, please, please for you” Today he lets go keeps hold of the stars Knowing he who waits will see black eyes, And know it is in them that he will irrevocably never rise.

- Marjorie K.


- Eilanna D.

“Who is that?”

There was a day when you forgot my name.

I looked at you and then began to cry.

I knew Alzheimer’s was the one to blame.

I wish all this had just been one large lie.

My heart began to melt just like a candle.

The tears came down my face just like a flood.

This was something that I could not handle.

I thought my heart had just been thrown in mud.

That day always replays inside my head.

I thought you would never remember me.

The thought of you sinking into that bed,

It looked like you had drifted off to sea.

I always think of when you turned to me,

Put out your finger and said, “Who is she?”

- Nicole S.


- Gabriella C.

My Apologies

I will light a candle for you, And know that I never said a word, Ever knowing what words to say. I will hold its flame on my cheeks, For keeping quiet in your time of need, Ever knowing I deserve the flame. I will press my palms, And rewrite psalms, For the apple and the eye, Ever will you know it happened. And as I fell asleep, And spoke normally to you, Ever knowing that death had left its mark on your clothes, I share with you my condolences, Ever never making up for the loss you have endured. Ever will you know now, That had it not been I, She may have lived a second longer, For you to say goodbye.

- Marjorie K.

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