northern lights

twenty-x

NNoorrtthh HHuunntteerrddoonn AArrtt && LLiitteerraarryy MMaaggaazziinnee

North Hunterdon High School1445 Route 31 SouthAnnandale, NJ 08801

Editors:Alexis Richards

Laura BartramAlex Baro

Isabelle AspinAssistant Editors:

Mason LambornVeronica Stefanchik

Attayah DouglasLayout Editor:Isabelle Aspin

Advisor:Suanne Fetherolf

Artwork Credits:Front Cover: Sam EddinsThis Page: Morgan WolvenBack Cover: Laura Bartram

Table of Contents... Writing

Portrait of a Lover, Alexis Richards 8Tennis Shoes, Becca Bradshaw 8Pinwheels and Tigers, Mason Lamborn 9Disapproving Air, Makenzie Holmsborg 10Summer I Was Seventeen, Nicole Clark 10Memory From a Dream, Becca Bradshaw 11Road Kill, Scott Vander Veen 12Dreams Over the Pipeline, Tommy Iannelli 13Communist Haiku, Alex Baro 13A Night's Tale, Stephen Jaeger 15Dusty Pale Paths, Makenzie Holmsborg 15Rhythm of All, Gen Walter 16The Mechanical Pencil, Kyle Hart 17Forbidden Love, Anonymous 17The Cold Journey, Ryan Pearson 19Silent Soul, Jenn Borowski 20Range Life, Laura Bartram 20Bliss, Serena Mueller 23Captured, Alexis Richards 24Where I'm From, Zoe Papay 25Baby, Alex Baro 26Water, Anya Ford 28We Drive Through a Town, Jonas Serra 31Memoirs, Brooke Mastrogiacomo 31The Ocean in Wintertime, Isabelle Aspin 32Homage to My Eyes, Veronica Stefanchik 34Rain and Heartbeats, Mason Lamborn 34A Man I Know, Alex Baro 37Lesson One, Mary Grace Mangano 38Communist Haiku, Laura Bartram 38Red Tents and Rusty Trailers, Makenzie Holmsborg 40Inspired by “Purity”, Alexis Richards 41Lutece, Laura Bartram 41Assyrian Pool, Mary Grace Mangano 42What Up, Alex Baro 43Tears, Oily Tears, Tommy Ianelli 47Bones Without Marrow, Mason Lamborn 47Recipe for Embarrassment, Veronica Stefanchik 49The Front Door, Nichole Clark 49Bloody Good Fun, Brooke Mastrogiacomo 50Feesh, Isabelle Aspin 50Lost Bird, William Zhang 51Braid, Jordan Siebert 52In the Gallery of Ordinary, Isabelle Novoa 55My Knees, Laura Bartram 55Light Passing Through, Mary Grace Mangano 57Muscles and Demigods, Isabelle Novoa 59Discarding Sadness, Alexis Richards 61Symphony de l'Eau, Makenzie Holmsborg 62Communist Haiku, Laura Bartram 62Metropolis Garden, Michelle Mess 632010, Laura Bartram 64Story of a Still Life, Alexis Richards 64Communist Haiku, Laura Bartram 64

Salad Surprise, Ryan Pearson 65

Eliza, Becca Bradshaw 66Globalization, Laura Bartram 67Water Poem, Michelle Mess 67To a Love Never Meant to Be, William Zhang 68Eyebrowess, Laura Bartram 68Four, William Zhang 69Water Poem, Kyle Hunt 69Anglo Saxon Riddles

Bryan Exawa, Madeleine Desmaris, Caitlin Kennedy, Serena Mueller, Julianna Jarvis 70-72

Paz to Greatness, Laura Bartram 73I Just Woke Up, Isabelle Aspin 74I'm a Bit Bitter, Isabelle Aspin 75Cayman Earring, Sam Falucci 77Haiku, Laura Bartram 78Secret, Kirby Gallagher 80Curiosity, Devyn Aguilar 81The Sun, Samantha Nehlsen 82

...Artwork

Ladder, Cecily Smith 6Vines, Alessandra Young 9Hands, Sam Falucci 11Flowers, Laura Bartram 12Mannequin, Carson Cordaro 14Falls, Chris Murillo 16Ink Experimental, Alexis Richards 18Legsy, Laura Bartram 21Glass and Brick, Ally Brosnan 22Double Pellicule, Sam Fallucci 28Royalty, Ally Brosnan 29Pizza Boxes, Sam Falucci 30Jailhouse Shadows, Judy Peatman 32Necklace, Tina Keslowe 33Unibrow Kids, Tina Keslowe 35Dressing the Tree, Chris Murillo 36Me as My Gradmother, Alexis Richards 36Curlicue, Judy Peatman 39Secret, Laura Bartram 46Flower, Sam Eddins 48Star, Morgan Wolven 51Flower, Lucy Bertocci 52Gate, Taylor Mathues 54Chair, Sam Eddins 56Bricks, Nicole Clark 57Raph, Tina Keslowe 58Street, Lauren Meuer 60Solitude, Isabelle Novoa 63Deez Angels, Sebastian Leslie 70Tree, Nicole Clark 73Lips of Love, Tina Keslowe 74Hand on Knee, Alessandra Young 76Graffiti, Sam Eddins 78Brick, Taylor Mathues 79City of Torpor, Ally Brosnan 80Gemini, Laura Bartram 83Door, Nicole Clark 85

6 7

Advisor’s Note

Editors’ Note

Suanne FetherolfLadder

Cecily Smith

Oh how I wish there were more water and grandparents mixedin with the kittens and nature! Another year has gone by, a year oftalented submissions: some humorous, some serious, and all clearlydisplaying the hard work and skill of my fellow North classmates.Every Thursday (and sometimes Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday andFriday) I am surroundedby an extremely creativeand talented group ofpeople who not only makethe magazine fun andinteresting with theirwit and enthusiasm, butcontribute their ownpieces to be enjoyed andcritiqued.

We continue tobe bribed to work withlollipops and pizza andwe continue to tormenteach other with ourindecisiveness. This magazine is built on our red blood cells andliquid sorrow and perspiration and diet Doctor Pepper and otherliquids. These liquids house the many goldfish that star in a num-ber of poems. We are heathens, nay, birds of the hospitable naturewho pluck the eyes from our prey like berries off a branch of theirsouls.To say the least, We work hard. And our hard work has birthedthis magazine. We are climbing up a ladder with an umbrella dressedas businessmen, and we are reaching towards the completion of thismagazine. We push our right foot out against the nay-sayers and wesay hey hey. This magazine is life.

the EDITORS

My editors are brilliant, enthusiastic, ingenious, imaginative,witty, inspired, incisive, dedicated, outrageous, cerebral, incurablycreative, energetic, madcap, laudable, unsullied, and, yes, by now Ihave resorted to using the Thesaurus— though even an entire dictionaryof first-rate adjectives would fail to adequately describe the superiorqualities of these gifted and devoted editors. I mean, come on, whoelse would work long hours, sustained only by lollipops, the occasionalpizza, and a passionate love of language? Thank you to them and toall of the artistically endowed students who contributed art, photo-graphs, poetry and stories to be enjoyed by the appreciative masses atNorth Hunterdon and beyond. Thank you also to Mr.Berry andMr.Calabrese who passed along so much of the visual art in thesepages. Thank you to Ms. Ryan who censored sparingly. And thank you toall the readers who will climb the ladder of this magazine. Hold tightto your umbrellas as gusts of imagination sweep over you. Keep climb-ing. From the top, you will see beyond the edge of this world intoother worlds, other lives, other minds.

9

Pinwheels and TigersMason Lamborn

Red ten-speed bikes whizzing down the roadI see their imitation pinwheelsThey haven't yet hatched eggs in their basementOr found spider webs beneath their bedsBut everyone takes first steps in miniature shoesAnd build magnificent towers out of blockswith omnidirectional lettersAnd spell out instructions to their burlap tigers andrabbitsLiving only in their mindsCrafting adventures for them

VinesAlessandra Young

Portrait of a LoverAlexis Richards

Your neck,All weighted down with gold,Like a reminder;An anchor of keepsakesUsed,Not to demonstrate wealth,But to convey its absence.Chains and pendantsShouting a love of God,But religion is foreign,And therefore,Unmentioned.It is not ignoranceThat makes him forsake his religion.It is guilt.Shame,for God sees all.

Oh, how you wish he was blind.

8

Tennis ShoesBecca Bradshaw

Made to be walked on. What kind of purpose is this?Like the weight of the Earth.Thrust upon my concaving back,even you: small, toddler feet.

Once white. Unspotted. Sturdy.Green abuse now covers my sides,

dirt clings to my face,mud licks my tongue.

Trying to resist,I stay stiff as long as possible.

But you, heavy feet-you eventually manage to break me in.

Time after time...

Step after step.

1110

Memory From a DreamBecca Bradshaw

Pink lips breathe in crisp air.A blink, lasts a moment in time.City of pines, sweet and fragrantBelow, a river glides along the fertile earth

Content on a fallen pineits life leaving small stainson the ivory snowflakespatterned on my sundress

Shining eyes,a smile,a kiss hidden in the corners.Cheeks blush atop high structure.

Curls fall over a worn sweatshirt,blue, like the sweet water.Head resting on a strong shoulder

No need to rush.Linger, and rememberthis memoryfrom a sweet dream.

And I'll find myself there,someday.

Disapproving AirMakenzie Holmsborg

Thick grey smokefilled with lies and immortality

Hot heavy airsinking deep within me

Long summer nights Stars watching the windows

Yellow lightThe house stirs with discontent

Bright summer breezelifting dust from the stale cobble street

connecting our heartsI pass the dark shadows

Molasses soulsticky with deception and betrayal

Thick grey smoke veilssweet corruption

The lonely sunrests against the earth's chest

Dark shadows welcomemy quick feet

Summer I Was SeventeenNicole Clark

When I was seventeenI would beat the sun to the beach.

McMuffins and Red Bullfilled my stomach.

It was too early for trafficbut I was wide awake.

We would claim our spots on the empty beach. The sea gulls were the only soundechoing down the empty boardwalk.

We stayed all dayThe people would come

Their children kicking sand onto our blanketThey would leave but we would stay.

The first ones on last ones offWe left with the sun.

HandsSam Falcucci

1312

Dreams Over the PipelineTommy Iannelli

Strolling out to the hurdling and swirling pipelinehe submerges under the already crumbled fifteen footersnow degraded to powerful thunderclouds diving to shore. At only 18, taking risks is popular,but he is wise enough to see the danger.

While not playing around,he lifeguards, searching the water like a shark,careful not to miss a struggling human.Everyone has someone to go home to,who cares and loves them.His home which was once strong concrete and steelhas cracked and rusted.Leaving him trapped under the rubbleas his parents build two new homes.

Hoping to extinguish the ever burning fire of his fail-urehis voice may be the water.American Idol may spot him like a found sailor oncelost at sea.Standing on top of the singing worldfeeling better than surfing a 50 footer.Leaving his past on the deserted island of his child-hood, he casts sail on a journey with winds swiftly pullinghimso he may never look back.

Road KillScott Vander Veen

I beheld you, reposingupon the edge of the road

let me take a briefrespite, you pleaded. Thick flocks

of flies, inky, buzzing black crows,swarming to form a halo

atop your crest of bone.Velour expanse

of crushed, collapsedthroat. Rough tongue speckledwith swollen buds, protruding

like an outstretched limb.Crystalline lucid orbs fixate.

Flecks of your scarlet lifeare splattered

over your glistening, mattedfur, leaking down your crown of antlers

which were not sufficient protection.And the flies drone on, enticed

by you, carrion.

Flowers Laura Bartram

Communist HaikuAlex Baro

I ask, Rasputin- Hot or hottest man alive

I am sure you know

1514

A Night's TaleStephen Jaeger

The bitter buzz of the fanAs I rest in my bedThe night consumes melike a dark wavesmothering the beachRestlessly I layThe warm breeze of dreamsSlowly penetrates my skinMy cool pillowMy warm sheets,Nicely nestled in a nicheI near sleepCrickets chirpingOutside the windowThe soft moon peeks in.

Dusty Pale PathsMakenzie Holmsborg

Birch trees towering over like silver skyscrapersAngel cake moss sweetening the wild floorHeavy heat pulling back unsatisfying air

Making me gasp for more

Vengeful sun passing over green tentsProtective Maples

Bleaching the vibrant grassWhite light

Lonely Groundhogs veiling themselvesDeep beneath heavy grey stones and rotten leaves

Social birds laugh and cryIn the cover of twigs and branches

Dusty pale pathsDisturbed by my trudging feet

Seem to know me Better than you do.

MannequinCarson Cordaro

1716

The Mechanical PencilKyle Hart

My coal black hearts paint pictures and draws linesFlipped around like a gymnast,By dirty stranger's handsMy long neck strangled by fingers

My heart is smaller each dayAs it slowly wears away,Until gentle fingers redeem,My heart to its former glory

A single arm on which to clingA single head on which to do head-standsAn ability to erase mistakes,Used much to often makes me weak

I soil fingers blackAnd taint marble-white sheetsWith streaks of lonesome grayLike the coal mines do to clean white faces

I am a priest's staffA tool of creation and a sign of wisdomI am also the devil's tridentReady to send havoc out onto the world

Forbidden LoveAnonymous

Could you ever maybe sort of see yourself with me?Or maybe you're the girl with whom I truly want to beUnder current circumstances I can not take your hand

in minereally I hate the way this is but I'm willing to take

my timeTonight I'll be up late waiting for you to sign onnobody makes me wait up this late, or download all

these songseverytime we talk I get this feeling I can't describe

You're so wonderful you really light me up inside

Rhythm of AllGen Walter

Rhythm of all

The ox grazes in the field,

The reeds bend in the creek.

The tortoise moves oh so slowly,

The stream flowing freely.

The frost nips at my nose,

The venom spread too quickly.

My mother hugs me very tightly,

The scalpel glistens in the light.

FallsChris Murillo

1918

The Cold JourneyRyan Pearson

Snow falls in a total white out,Dusk fades into night,A man trudges home holding axe over his shoulder,The snow is nearly waist deep.

Dusk fades into night,Pulling the sleigh behind him, it gets heavier and heavier,The snow is waist deep,Still he is a mile from home.

Pulling the sleigh behind him, it gets heavier and heavier,The snow begins to gather on the wood piled on the sleigh,Still he is a mile from home,Tired and weary he takes a break.

The snow begins to gather on the wood piled on the sleigh,He looks up and sees the snow flakes falling,Tired and weary he takes a break,His beard is covered with a layer of ice and snow.

He looks up and sees the snow flakes falling,A deep cough rumbles from his lungs,His beard is covered with a layer of ice and snow.He wipes his mouth and starts trekking again.

A deep cough rumbles from his lungs,His house comes into view.He wipes his mouth, and starts trekking again,Looking behind all he can see is darkness.

His house comes into view,The smell of warm stew and burning wood starts surrounding him.Looking behind all he can see is darkness,The cold begins to creep on him.

The smell of warm stew and burning wood starts surrounding him.All he can think of is the warmth of his house.The cold begins to creep on him.A dim glow radiates from the windows.

All he can think of is the warmth of his house.The man trudges home holding his axe over his shoulder,A dim glow radiates from the windows.Snows falls in a total white out.

Ink ExperimentalAlexis Richards

2120

LegsyLaura Bartram

Silent SoulJenn Borowski

Hello silent follower.I heard your swirling songs dance from the mighty pines,whispering of mystery. Why speak in such hushed tones?I've been following your trailing voice,devoted to your presence.Can I not join in your fluttering performance?I too long to be free. Moist air clings to my cheek as you silently exhale.Your breath cleanses the Earth until it is free of impu-rities.With hands outstretched,I hope to feel your grasp.Your chilled fingers shroud my figure and we become one.with this comforting bond,I trust you.I confide in you the contents of my being.Only I know your hauntingly beautiful ways.My secrets are safe within your icy soul.Our secrets shared shall not leave the shaddows,forever frozen in time.

Range LifeLaura Bartram

The board with wheels beneath his feetwill melt. He will slide down walls and

bannisters, stomp on the landing.Slower than reality, like a stop-motion

transcription of the beeps & clips &wails he likes to listen to.

Friction shall be none, his batteries will not fade,his face like stone while slipping up

a wall, she swoops her hair to one side the moon high on her forehead

a daisy grows from one corner of her mouth,sheds its petals into his hair

where their seeds will germinate,latch into his follicles,

take holdthe roots rest in grey matter and twist around.

2322

BlissSerena Mueller

If you could bottle bliss... It'd be running out-side in the middle of July on a cool evening... Whenit's raining. Actually no. Not raining, thunderstorm-ing. A pair of ratty old shorts and mismatched teewould do just fine; no one's watching. But no shoes.Definitely no shoes... You'd just go outside, and run.Run until you reach the empty street corner, where thestreet light flickers, casting a honey golden glow overthe desolate road. It's past 10; not even rowdy party-ing teens and their gaudy obnoxious cars and sound sys-tems dare disturb the pure euphoria of the rain. No,the rain is everything now. It is sight, it is sound,it is smell, it is touch, it is taste, it is God. Itcontrols you. Possesses you. And once you've run tothat trustily fickle lamp, every day casting a droningyet inviting sheen on the quiet neighborhood, you stop.Just stare into the heavens, letting God drip puresweetness on your thirsty skin. Your skin laps it uplike a dehydrated dog, slurp, slurp, slurp. And Godgrants your parched body more. More, more rain. And yousmile. And... and then you walk back to your open door,but slowly, nostalgically, as if those forty secondshad actually been an apocalyptic milennia.

And now Rain's control over you loosens slightly,the vice grip slackened just enough for you to embraceyour senses. This soundtrack of pleasure rolls seam-lessly through your ears, lodging itself smoothlybetween your ears and in the back of your brain, like adiaphanous silk scarf threaded loosely through yourears.

You playfully thump the solid ground, making adelightful tap/thump/splish noise with your seeminglydainty feet, a sound that harmoniously links with theeffervescent sprinkle of the pearl-sized droplets plum-meting toward awaiting Mother Earth. Your lightly cal-loused feet embrace the black tar, it being as smoothas the best Swiss milk chocolate yet as supportive andfirm as your dear parents. And oh the smell. No couturefragrance could be as refreshingly sweet and earth inone brisk wiff, the musk of the hot moist earthenveloped in the clean twinkle of the cool evening airand droplets. And as your naked feet slowly pad along,you just slowly savor this bite of utopia, this first,

Glass and BrickAlly Brosnan

2524

Where I'm FromZoe Papay

Where I'm from,Machines dug up my back yard,Destroying the place where I palm red crab applesto the 'over-sized rats with hooves'.

Where mi padre and I rolled boulders of snow,Creating a man named Frosty,A place where I'd swing as high as my dreams,With my Nana behind me pushing.

But that magical kingdom was transformed into a house sideocean,A pool that was demanded by my mother,Who was always tanning under the sun.

I'm from the back of a galloping horse,Who never once let me fall those four long feet to theground,Mainly because I'd fill up my jean pockets with tastyorange treats.

I'm from the house that should've been a zoo,Stuffed with millions of animals, both real and plush.The fridge in that zoo was covered in my earlier master-pieces,And the place where cars should have slept,Turned into a sports lover’s dreamland,Footballs, baseballs, soccer balls galorespilling out every time we opened the door.But sadly now that house is only one of my two castles.

Where I'm from my parents rarely ever saw eye to eye,My mother's were decked out in make-up that hid her trueage,While my dad's, which I inherited, where protected by athin glass frame.

When the tree branch holding them together finally snapped,I decided to grow along the side of the easy-going sun,Who I'm almost a small female copy of,For I share his love of sports, his smile, and outlook onlife,He'd always tell me to do my best, instead of her "you cando better."

I am from a place that was once straight sailing,Until a tidal wave came and knocked me over,But I landed on my feet,And I'm still walking towards the sun.

or last, slice of filet mignon covered in a creamybutter sauce, or a spoonful of a decadent triplechocolate cake, smothered oh so slightly in a vanillacaramel creme. This delicious bliss, this addictingbliss, this pure bliss.

well, it is just that.

CapturedAlexis Richards

Burning holes in my chestHis gaze is like a tumulusAcid -filled sieve.An hour glass open at one endTo be poured slowlyOnto unwilling skin.It is a body in the freezerMaking organs into blocks of ice,But warm, So warm.Like the arousal of a dreamAll filled with daisies and hopeUntil spiders come crawlingAnd shooting webs of silk Into your eyes.Dressed in blackHe glides into your dreamsLike a ghost or vampire or zombieOr some such mythical beastThat mortals fall in love with.A woman's heart is so pliable;It is no supriseThat he has captured manyAnd kept them hostage,Like a room full of dovesWith clipped wingsAnd lonely eyes.His heartA hawk who preys On the unsuspecting doves.Nails gone and wings clipped,How can they run away?

But her mother isn't there and she does not use

27

BabyAlex Baro

It's late in September. The girls still weartheir summer dresses and the boys still wear theirshorts but it's one of those days with the breeze thatisn't just cool but ominous and all the naked shins andthighs shiver with gooseflesh. The girls will put theirdresses away in a week or so but the boys will go onwearing their shorts until their socks start fillingwith snow, and even then they'll wait a week beforethey put them away for good.

The weather brings the girl into her bedroom. Sheenters in a series of very small, very calculated, verybrisk footsteps that look very efficient but are actual-ly significantly more exhausting than her usual gait.She circles the room purposefully, disturbing the vari-ous piles of lace and satin and silk and cotton withher big toe and taking note of which ones turn intosweaters and which ones do not. She stops at a blackv-neck affair and pulls it over her birdcage ribcage andthe white bodice of her white dress. Thus satisfiedshe sits on the edge of her bed. Shoulders back. Backstraight. For a moment she looks very much like achina doll, with hair the color of dandelions and skinthe color of lilies and cheeks flushed with flares ofpoinsettia and eyes wide and green and ripe like apples,lined too heavily and a bit foolishly in black. Herface always carries a look of slight shock or embarrass-ment or both, as though her personal space is constantlyimpinged upon by an invisible but tenacious suitor. Hername is Eve and today she failed her driving test.

A ways down the hallway her brother, only tenyears old, is singing in the shower. He is singing thetuneless wordless half song that everyone hums whenthey're alone. With a streak of uncharacteristic cruel-ty she calls to him and tells him to cut it out. Hedoes not hear and does not do so but she doesn’t callagain. Eve takes a handful of bedspread in each fistand groans a frustrated and whiny and juvenile groanthat makes her hate herself. Then she groans again inshame for her previous groan but she still feels child-ish so she stops groaning and sits very straight, think-ing that she must look very composed.

'Use your words,' she hears her mother saying.'Count to ten, baby.'

26

her words and she does not count to ten because sheisn't a baby, even though she failed her drivingtest and had to pull over on her way home becauseshe was crying like one. She had cried because itis her birthday and she is eighteen today and shestill can't go to the grocery store or school oranywhere else by herself. And it hit her all atonce that she doesn't even want to drive or have alicense, but instead wants someone to pull heraround the world in a wagon, but she is eighteen.

Like a child. Like a silly little girl.It is cold now and she goes to close the win-

dow, thinking that soon the sunburns on her shoul-ders will fade and she will lose the color in hercheeks and her skin will turn dry and it will befall and then winter. She goes to close the window,but in her girlish clumsiness she knocks over theashtray on her bedside table. She hadn't had thetime to empty it that morning so she had topped itoff with potpourri, but now all the ash is in herwhite lace lap and ruining her dress.

"Oh," says Eve, staring as though she can undothe mistake through power of will. She stares ather ruined dress and then the skin of her naked legsand how it isn't smooth anymore, but covered withscratches and bruises and gray marks from oldscratches and bruises that she doesn't remember get-ting. Her legs are like this and so is the rest ofher body and she is only just barely eighteen. Andwith her tongue feeling hot and smoky and heavy inher mouth she thinks in effect, without articulat-ing, that someday her whole body will be coveredwith these marks and she won't even know how she gotthat way.

Her brother, only ten years old, stops singingin the shower all of a sudden and Eve wishes that hewould start again but he does not. And shutting hereyes to block out the ash on her dress and marks onher legs she draws her knees up to her chest andsits like that. Like a baby. Like a silly littlegirl.

2928

WaterAnya Ford

In the upper shower of the house tower,While waiting for the water to warm up a little,I'm feeling, as I lean my head towards the ceiling,Like a silk sash smoothly flowing down me, soothingme,But I hear the rain drops around me pounding on thethirsty ground,Like small cannon balls falling out of the cloudy grayskies, Crashing and splashing as they shatter all over theshower's bare floor,Fearing that they will get near me, With excruciating pounding and ringing in my ears,I glide the sliding glass door open,And run away from the battlefield of explosions.Suddenly I hear the shattering falling pieces meltinto sad soft tears,As I turn the wet glistening handle to off.

Double PelliculeSam Falcucci

RoyaltyAlly Brosnan

30 31

We Drive Through a TownJonas Serra

We drive through a townThe bad side of townLike a nightmare, sin is lurking everywhere.Sirens tingling my skin.

We pull up to a red lightThat seems to illuminate this block.There is a tap, tap, on the window.A little boy laughs, weapon in hand.

I roll down the windowGlance at him, and tell him he still has a chance,Tell him I can take him awayFrom this place.

Everything stops.Like a pendulum his mindset swings,The whole ride home he doesn't say a word.

Memoirs Brooke Mastrogiacomo

I sit in the tall sweeps of grassand ponder

while the wind whistlesthrough the strands of my hair.

I bury myself inside my sweatshirtIt's my only protection from the world

Like a small, frightened hareI am vulnerable.

From this great wound.The wound which tore my heart

Out of my chestAnd into the palm

Of his hand.

Pizza BoxesSam Falcucci

3332

NecklaceTina Keslowe

The Ocean in WintertimeIsabelle Aspin

A heartbeat in the sand where the feather lays,the shell's arched back like a mountain range, val-ley, peaka cold borderand a skylinepolkadots meshing and pulling themselvesfrom a home where the bird nests in a the crook of a waveand into the backgroundan inanimate identity crisis of minor importancebut to the chalice full of nothingbut to the vacant rants of the desertand the cartoonish fruit of the treethat sheds itself in a mirror image of its shadow andshadows of animalswithout representation except a contrasting outlineand eyes painted on by some god in the form of aseven year oldwith no opinion on the oceanor feathers tickling armpitsor oystersunless the pearl looks like a pig

Jailhouse ShadowsJudy Peatman

3534

Unibrow KidsTina Keslowe

Homage to My EyesVeronica Stefanchik

These eyes are wide, As big as the shining sun.They move with such ease,Like a swan,sometimes they are intimidatingAlways seeming to push away.

These eyes are always warm, loving, kind. Always accepting and never rejecting,for they do not judge but only welcome.

These eyes are how I see,the world around me,unconnected and lost,Like a snail in a tortoise shell,Sees life,So cold and shallow.

These eyes see the truth from the lies,the genuine from the unreal,they see the imperfections as a way to be unique.

These eyes are precious,for they are my eyes,and alone they are mine,to hold.

Rain and HeartbeatsMason Lamborn

When I hear rainlike heartbeats

Rasping like old lungsFalling like beads of sweat

Then I will run from my houseAnd bask in the millions of jewels,

Falling from the sky

3736

A Man I KnowAlex Baro

there's a man i knowfrom 55 Cancriwhere July paints its sleepy calligraphyon sweating bushes and stretching treeswhere i sip lemonade and jasmine teaand a man i know burns himself in effigyin those early hours of the morning

i got lost in 55 Cancrithat morning i rememberi smoothed honey into my hairand smeared my eyelids with Jezebel's kohli had hoped to be HelenThaïs at leasti know it though,i'm not Salome but a schoolgirlless femme fatal than fatalist fillelost in those silvering hoursof 55 Cancri

there's a man i knowfrom 55 Cancrihe doesn't sleep but sleepwalksI think, to paint his name on my eyelidswhile i spend my visions on Cypriotsand stranger still,on coffee and Cheerioswith this man i knowfrom 55 Cancri

i got lost in 55 Cancriwhere July shades its apocryphain charcoal and pathologiesnumerologies and biologiesand bald patch phrenologyand men that burn themselves in effigywhere the schoolgirl writes in lipstick graffitithe name of the manfrom 55 Cancrilovers when fought are fighters tooin 55 Cancri

Dressing the TreeChris Murillo

Me as My GrandmotherAlexis Richards

3938

CurlicueJudy Peatman

Lesson OneMary Grace Mangano

The ultimate femme fatalesips coffee from a porcelain cupon Saturday in sunshineLanguid choices laid like clothcrisp and cunning design.She knows herself and sensuous mind.A broken heart, oncecleaved by words and lipsstraziare, cardiac stenosisA woman of breasts and hipsthat tell a talenot unlike her frayedand favoriteBarnes and Noble Classic versionof Pride and PrejudiceFierce love and independence, undone andunwon.With pencil marksand underliningcomunicazione e amiciziaacross decades and doorstepsbecause Elizabeth Bennetis a better friendthan those tormentorswho sip Heinekenfrom Solo cups.

Communist HaikuLaura Bartram

Rasputin, you fox.I think I could poison you,

the way they couldn't.

4140

Inspired by "Purity"Alexis Richards

I wish I couldgently tear bits of my body apart,Piece by piece,ankles and thighs and elbowslaid out on a velvet bedspreadin a closed roomwith curtains drawn.I become shywhen I am exposed,when I lack flesh,and a comforting layer of fat. But this stripping away, this exposure is necessary;it will make the pain cease.When I regain confidence,I will gather the pieces of my bodyfrom the comforterand will stitch them back together.I will use thick black thread,and a needle meant for denim,and will knead the doughof my flesh and bones,and piece them together.I will be whole,and I will return to my comforter of velvet,and lie there. The texture of the velvetlike skin against mine, I will remove my clothes,and enjoy it.

Red Tents and Rusty TrailersMakenzie Holmsborg

The hot pale ground burned my legsThe sharp peddles hammered at my soul

The elephant whined in the distanceThe child whined like the elephant

The flies murmured in my earTaunting the failures whispering the decision

The boy stared at his feetHis beloved hat sank over his gray eyes

The heat rays flew from the dirtWith screams of escape and success

When the days were long and my hair was shortThe red tents held fantasies and intrigue for a boy

I held my mother’s handLeading me to the wooden bench

Like a lion leads the childWith wide eyes and sticky fingers

My dreams skipped in my mind like the dancers on thestage

The gymnasts swung, the trapeze artist balancedI observed each move and carved it into my mind

As if the clowns riding by would snatch them away

Sitting in the dust, my eyes on my son

I squinted into the sun

LutèceLaura Bartram

All day, like lip balmThe ancient name for Paris

has been on my lips.Today, when we're reminded of

hourglass humidity. Watch her hairfrizz!

Musky pollen coats my glass porchtablelike a jaundiced skin in the 11th

arrondissement.Eighty-six in April?

What UpAlex Baro

So there was this girl and she was texting thisboy who probably had a crush on her because he saidthat he liked her yoga pants but he hadn’t replied toher last message yet and she was starting to think thatmaybe the flames of passion were beginning to cool. Ithad been two minutes. She just wanted to know ‘whatup’. Had she been too forward? She had intentionallyomitted punctuation to stress that her inquiry was casu-al, but maybe texting him first was uncouth withinitself. There was the possibility that it was busy,but she thought it unlikely. Her monthly horoscope hadpromised her undying love, and with only two weeks leftin September she didn’t have any time to waste.

The girl was sitting on the edge of her bed,straightening her hair with much distress. The sound ofher strands sizzling into submission had the same sooth-ing effect as the melancholy strains of a solitary vio-lin. She waited. It had almost been four minutes. Inher anxiety, she knocked the hot iron against her earand swore creatively for several seconds. Her haircould go to hell and her yoga pants and Vidal Monsoonor whatever and her fourth period math teacher becauseit was all her stupid fault for seating her next toNick Marshall where she could see the bleached tips ofhis hair glow like a halo under the fluorescent light-ing. And her ears, they could go to hell too. Theyalways got in the way.

Distraught, she considered her options. If hecontinued to ignore her she would ignore him in returnfor a waiting period of four days, so he would knowthat she really didn’t care like at all what he didwith his idiot cellphone and idiot life and she waslike, busy with stuff and wasn’t going to wait arounduntil he decided to care about ‘what up’ with herbecause he probably only liked her for her yoga pantsanyway but he wasn’t the only one that liked her yogapants and she knew that Mike from Social Studies wasinto her because he borrowed a pencil from her yesterdayso she would start lending him all the pencils he want-ed, and pens too, and then Nick ‘Can Go to Hell’Marshall would realize what it was that they had andwonder why she wasn’t lending him writing utensils any-more and he would realize that it was her that he lovedand he would take her to see the new Nicolas Sparks

4342

Assyrian PoolMary Grace Mangano

Shadow me over the surfacelong and whisperylike smoky steam

the breath of cappuccinos.Blurry now because

the dragonfly disturbed itwith his chrome wings.

I wish I had wings.Toes grip the edge, flex and point

arms ascending, bendingsending their message skyward.

Like one solitary triangleindicating heaven

shadow me on the waterthick condensed air with

sunscreen and lemonsthe coil in my feet springing

ready for liftoffbody like an arrow.

But waitthe moment in the air

humidity in my hairI see me

shadow me across the waveschanging now

in this new spacean inch from underneath

Rush rush rushover my head

I am transformedmy heart has spreadto swallow my soul

that water of silky dreamsI am a mermaid here

a siren in this sphereof cool and quiet and strange

where shadow me lies abovewinking through the glass

down at mea sea dove

Halloween to Diwali to the class mom’s long-awaiteddivorce. On the one hand, she would probably be morecompatible with an Aries, but Scorpio boys were thehottest. If it turned out that he was a Virgo, thiscould never work.

Twenty minutes. Something was burning. Her moth-er couldn’t cook worth anything. She wrinkled her noseand sprayed some Febreeze. She peeled off her sweat-shirt. “Mom, turn the air conditioning on.”She coughed.

“Honey?”“Mom! I don't smoke!”“…are you sure?”“Oh my God, yes!” She rolled her eyes with much

emphasis. She was sweating a little.She sat in deep thought, her heart threatening to

burst through her chest like a jackhammer through a birdcage. Was he a Virgo? Could it be so? Why was shesweating so much? Was she having a hot flash? Was thestress of his cruel rejection causing her to undergomenopause prematurely? Was he actually a Virgo? Was sheeven a true Leo? Would it be possible to alter noless than the very fiber of her being to appeal more tothis boy’s Scorpio sensibilities, if those were, infact, the sensibilities that he possessed? But what ifhe was a Virgo? Could she really, truly love him theway the last page of the September issue of People had,in its ultimate wisdom, prophesied she would? Was hermother attempting to make pork chops again? Was severeoverheating and shortness of breath indicative of panic,or of heartbreak? Could it be? Was he a Virgo? Hehad to be, or was there a fluke in his Scorpian systemthat caused him to be so utterly repulsed by herbreathing and blood-streaming that he could not bringhimself to vomit a reply to such a simple question?Would her own true love really be so cruel to her? AtSeptember fifteenth, would there be enough time to finda cuter boy to have passionate hissing arguments withbetween classes? Surely it wasn’t possible, and shewould be destined to spend the rest of middle school,or maybe even the rest of her natural life, alone andembittered. Would she die withered by solitude afterspending her last moments recalling in anguish how once,many years ago a boy in her math class had commented sosweetly on her yoga pants?

Or would she die by way of the flames that werecurrently gorging themselves on her slightly excessive

4544

movie at the Pohatcong movie theater. She went overher plan several times until she noticed her flat ironslowly eating into her sheets and also that she wascrying.

She decided to call for help.Danger Jill, as she was called, was a high school

student of indeterminate grade level, aged anywherebetween fifteen and thirty five. She carried a genuinevinyl book bag. Danger Jill knew pretty much everythingthere was to know about stuff, but no one knew much ofanything about Danger Jill. There was a rumor that shehad been engaged once, or pre-engaged twice at least.

The girl dialed the number and waited, brushingcharred cotton fibers off her bed. Danger Jill alwaysanswered on the third ring.

“What up,” said Danger Jill.“I’m texting this boy and I think he likes me

because he said he liked my yoga pants but he hasn’ttexted me back yet so I don’t know what to do,” saidthe girl.

“What’s his zodiac sign?”“He’s a Scorpio. I mean I think he is.” “And you’re a Leo?” Danger Jill coughed. Her

heavy breathing indicated that she was thinking in greatdepth. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s good maybe.”

“Oh,” said the girl.“Well, listen, I’m driving Marty to the court-

house. Call me later.”“Okay.” She wondered briefly who Marty was.

Danger Jill had a handful of friends whose court dateswere always interrupting their phone calls.

“Yeah.” Danger Jill hung up.Five minutes.“Honey, are you smoking in your room?” the girl’s

mother called from downstairs.“No, mom.”She chewed her nails.Seven minutes.

This had gone too far.“Honey?”“Yeah, mom.”“Please don’t smoke in your bedroom.”“I'm not, mom.”Was he a Scorpio? How could she be sure? Her

only clue was the vague memory of his mother bringingcupcakes to school at the cusp of winter, but elementaryschool cupcakes could be celebrating anything from

Tears, Oily TearsTommy Ianelli

Dripping downLike rain off a windowTo crash helplessly to the groundand then absorbed.Smeared black by mascaraThe octopus's ink draws attentionaway from your sapphire blue iris.

So helplessI stand near,your name I can't even recall.I sense your heart slowingas it's about to fall apart,crushed by somethingmysterious to me,but so very real to you.

The stream will soon be dammedby a calming friend,and will flowonward with youin my thoughts.

Bones Without MarrowMason Lamborn

My fingers are wound aboutPerfect straight bonesMy compound fractures

Bring joy to some facesAnd pain to mine

My cold burnsFrom a hot poker

That has retired to coals of amberMy restrained eye looking only to the bright abyss

Bones like birdsHollow without marrow

Emaciated facesPressed to the window

Breathe, fogging the windowsMy gums expand and allow my teeth to fall from their

sockets

47

number of throw pillows?She shrieked and leapt from her bed less like a

gazelle and more like an injured goat. The fire alarmechoed through the house like church bells.

“Honey I know you’re smoking in there!”She took a step back, but as she lowered her foot

she was challenged by her hairdryer, which she hadthoughtlessly cast on the floor earlier. Of course, shehad not anticipated that her flat iron, which had alwaysbeen a friend to her, would create a boiling inferno ofher bedroom.

She lost her balance and buckled. In her futileattempt to catch her balance, her cellphone flew fromher fingers, and landed conveniently in the exact bulls-eye where the flames had eaten their way to her mat-tress.

She choked.This was heartbreak.And as the buttons that had so often penned her

deepest thoughts began to melt, she swore that she sawthe words ‘What up’ appear briefly on the screen beforeit combusted.

Ten minutes.

46

Secret Laura Bartram

Recipe for EmbarrassmentVeronica Stefanchik

Crawling out of a little hole,Beginning a whole new chapter,Thrown in the shark tank,A little tiny goldfish.

I climb steep mountains,Trying to keep my balance,While the weight of the world,Is on my shoulders,I keep a steady pace,Until hands are pushed towards me,Papers go flying,Feet become unhooked,Tumbling back, doing a 360,The world is scattered acrossThe dusty floor as feet scurry,Like ants in a pack,I crawl on my hands and knees,Trying to collect all I can,Thrashing it here and there.

It suddenly becomes silent,Picking up the world again,Rushing to make it,For the Lion is waiting.

The Front DoorNicole Clark

I will lock you out or if I so pleaseLet you in

You punch my side and wave at my open eyesMy hinges scream like a child in distress

You ignore meYou forget me

Leave me open and uselessI don't let you in and you curse in my face

Hitting me and trying to break my handI keep you warm

I keep you dry and you never thank meI am the heart of your house

4948

FlowerSam Eddins

5150

Lost BirdWilliam Zhang

Seek the world, lost bird, for thine proper nest.Take heart in the trees, see pack after pack.Find your own, so you may finally rest.

Attack the sun, forever shining west,Icarus, fly high, courage never lack.Seek the world, lost bird for thine proper nest.

Dodge those merciless waves, crest after crest.Lurking deep, gliding smooth, whirling past, black.Find your own so you may finally rest.

Duck under Gaia's shawl, straight to her chest.Through Hade's Tartarus, but don't look back!Seek the world, lost bird, for thine proper nest.

Weave into the steel jungles, your last test.Scamper left, crawl right; no room in the crack.Find your own so you may finally rest.

Alone, spiraling, yearning for a guest.But no one joins your lonely dance, next track.Seek the world, lost bird, for thine proper nest.Find your own so you may finally rest.

StarMorgan Wolven

Bloody Good FunBrooke Mastrogiacomo

Screams and laughter echoedthroughout the backyard

Jumping, splashing, screaming, singingThen came the dare.

Mustering all my courage, I plunged deepInto the unknown.

Up swung my legs only to be blocked By the gleaming dagger

Of broken glass in the bushes.

The paintwisted and contorted

My face.The shock

swept all feeling awayAll that was left

Was the bloodFlowing from the gaping,

Red abyssThat was now my foot.

FeeshIsabelle Aspin

There is no such thing as pure white,we learned this the only way you can.

It's just sandy caulk,turning glowing by a flick of light,

That's where the cat sleepsThat's where the goldfish burbles out

His novel, dictating to hisreflection.

Young birds smack their headsDarkly oozing from their puny

Bird nostrils.They can sing out a nasally note at

Which the windows vibrateAnd his gills flap and shiver along with them

To the click click click ofHis brain to his Microsoft Word

DocumentHe can see his bowl quite clearly

And he won't be making that mistake again.

53

Time moves on I feel memories tied to places.Walking past them I can see my old self there.And to make progress I must go in the right direction.Still there making the way clear for me.

Walking past them I can see my old self there.I brandish a ring a sign of a bond, to a princess.Still there making the way clear for me.Bu the ring makes other approach more slowly.

I brandish a ring a sign of a bond, to a princess.The one my thoughts have been chasing.But the ring makes other approach more slowly.Why does she run from me when I wish to find her?

The one my thoughts have been chasing.Running after her, whilst she flees from me.Passing barriers that once would stop me.But then her knight comes and flies her away from meagain.

Passing barriers that once would stop me.Until the knights comes to save her.And so I must continue to find out, and try again.And finally defeat him.

Until the knight comes to save her.I make a move practice time and time again.And finally defeat him.At last I have my princess.

I make a move practice time and time again.Begging me to leave her alone, unfound.At last I have my princess.Angered at my insistence she turns brighter than the sunand explodes.

Begging me to leave her alone, unfound.And sit down and think about what was done.Angered at my insistence she turns brighter than the sunand explodesLost I look up and see nothing complete in the sky.

Braid(The introspective journey of a man named Tim)Jordan Seibert

Lost I look up and see nothing complete in the sky.Confused I walk back home and flick on the lights.And sit down and think about what was done.And read a book.

Confused I walk back home and flick on the lights.Slowly collected pieces and placing events.And read a book.I try to look at what was done and what will be.

Slowly collected pieces and placing events.I pause and stop time and dwell on the moment of thepast.I try to look at what was done and what will be.Repeating events until they are perfect.

I pause and stop time and dwell on the moment of thepast.Time moves on I feel memories tied to places.Repeating events until they are perfect.And to make progress I must go in the right direction.

52

FlowerLucy Bertocci

5554

In the Gallery of OrdinaryIsabelle Novoa

is me and me and meup for display allneat and packed away next toa smooth white sign with glossy knifecorners perfectly describingthis fine specimen of

Or-di-na-ry-

but as i squintand read the bright bleach sign i'mshocked to discoverthat though her eyes are quite likemine its wrong wrong wrong and she's

too talltoo paletoo elbows & knees

and her chin is too pointy tobe anything like me, so i spin on my heel and marchout the door andknow i'm in the Gallery of Ordinarynomore.

My KneesLaura Bartram

These knobby sisters, fraternal twinsone is freckled, the other forever engraved

with a question mark.Scarred & stuffed with the resulting tissue,

they still move, they bend,into pliés, twist when the time's rightthe caps wobble, like they wish to be

pulled off, and nothing is good for themexcept only to be wrapped,

in jeans,or kneesocks,in bandaids.

GateTaylor Mathues

5756

Light Passing ThroughMary Grace Mangano

Strike one, strike twonot out, but instay here a little longerif you can bear.Mumbling, bumbling thoughwithout detectionlike a solid mystery.But I'm right here, you know.I'm not hidingjust glidingbythese halls, these wallseach day.I sit, I peer, I hearsame movementsendless talk. In and outof mind and timesame old tepid walk.I'm not a novel,I'm a danceso stop judging this coverand sway with me.

BricksNicole Clark

ChairSam Eddins

Muscles and DemigodsIsabelle Novoa

"I have the most excellent idea."I stared at the idiot that had just shoved his

way to the register, all six foot ten obnoxious muscleof him. Golden curls crowned his face and twisted overhis arrogant olive eyes staring widely at the dumbfound-ed cashier. His enormous arms bulged from the grey t-shirt sleeves and made the cotton look like fresh span-dex. His fingers were unnaturally manicured for a man,especially one of his shockingly large stature, and theytapped the black counter erratically adding a quiet,neary inaudible rhythm to the blasting music. I clearedmy throat, but Abercrombie's pumping bass drowned outthe sound.

"Most excellent," he repeated, leaning over thedesk. I cleared my throat again, louder, coughing intomy fist. All in all, the cough wasn't completely fakedas the store's potent cologne had filled my nostrils andwas fogging my brain. I cleared my head and stomped myfoot, catching the cashier's dull brown eyes with aknife-like glare. He squirmed under my gaze.

"Right, you're kind of interrupting, dude," hesaid. "I'm in the middle of a transaction here."

I smiled triumphantly and handed him my last item-a navy t-shirt with white lettering- and glanced at thehulk of a man who still stood way too close to me. Imean, his trunk-like arm was rubbing against my leftshoulder, completely violating my personal space, butpersonal space was clearly not a concept he was familiarwith.

"But you simply must hear me," the interruptersaid, leaning so close to the cashier now that theirnoses were nearly touching.

The pale, stick of a teenager in charge of theregister shrunk back. "Uh..."

"Look," I said, poking his rock hard arm with myforefinger. "You have to get on line like everyone elseand wait your turn."

He seemed to notice me for the first time and metmy cutting gaze. I remembered just how small I wasthen. The top of my head barely reached his broadshoulders, but I ignored that knowledge and focused onhis emerald eyes instead.

If he hadn't just cut me in line I might havefound his sun-bronzed skin and strapped body attractive,

5958

RaphTina Keslowe

61

but his blank gaze was like a family of crickets in anawkward silence. Clearly he'd recieved one too many con-cussions from high school football. Or two. Or four.

"Perhaps you can help me," he said and pointed tothe wall across from the front doors, where a largeposter depicted shirtless boys in low cut jeans insmooth shades of gray. "I was born to save the Earthfrom those hideous creatures. I must pose for thisstore."

I nearly went slack-jawed, but resisted theimpulse and stared instead. "Excuse me?"

He grabbed the bottom left corner of his t-shirtwith his right hand and literally ripped it off, throw-ing the shreds to the floor. Every eye in the storefollowed him and he stepped before the poster and flexedhis muscles.

"Like this," he said, striking a pose. "Or this."Another pose.

Not a single voice whispered through the screamingtechno. For a long beat, I couldn't tear my eyes offthe shirtless mound of muscle intently making a fool ofhimself in front of everyone until I finally turned backto the cashier. "Just ring me up."

60

Discarding SadnessAlexis Richards

If I could pull you up through my esophagous,past my tonsils and molarsand uvula and gums,I would set you on a plate.A great serving dishthat has been windexedand shined so you canbat eyelashes at your reflection.I would leave you there in abandonment,neglectfor my own forsaken childin a dumpster of mirror and clean chemical scent.I would resist the urge to wallow with youuntil the platter drowns us both with the depth of our tears,and I would leave.An extended vacationuntil I forgetthe curve of your hipsand the shape of your face.The way you cling to me,your mother,and lace your small fingersthrough the muscles of my back.I might use pliers to get you out.I would have to,you see,for this parasitic love,this unconditional wantwear upon me,as you thrust deeperand deeper into the hollows of my bones.

StreetLauren Meuer

Metropolis GardenMichelle Mess

I want a garden as big as a city,As if held with skyscrapers of daffodils

Capturing light let a seed ofLife plant itself in its rich soil

And hummingbirdsSuck the nectar from my vast lily plaza and

I will hear the beat of their wings soft buzzing from neighbor bees echo-

in through alleys of orchidsSmell the air let it

entertain your nostrils questionthe presence of weeds for

They do not exist death cantell how hard life was to maintain

in such a vivacious bedlet nothing that possesses beauty be shy you must

let it blossom for people to watch

6362

SolitudeIsabelle Novoa

Symphony de l'EauMakenzie Holmsborg

The copper pipes tink with discomfort.The emptiness echoes around the bends and corners.Something is going to happen.

The familiar rush fills the vacant channel, Gushing seamlessly to its escape.

The waterfall hits the cool sink basin with a gentleslosh.It gurgles and whirls,Fighting to the drain.

Miniscule droplets fly and flee to freedomThey holler in triumph with dynamic hoots and howls

The water sings its song loudlyA melody of rushes and hushesThe occasional clash of cymbals and rattles of maracas

The deep gulping drum takes the stage The symphony continues

With the last clap of the tambourine,And simple strum of the acoustic guitarThe elaborate song ends

The small silver triangle is hit,ting, ting, ting.

Communist HaikuLaura Bartram

Comrades, brothers, dudes --your burlap clothes cover the

laborers i love

Salad SurpriseRyan Pearson

I'm at Bread World and am ordering a salad. I'mso pumped for this salad. I've been craving one allday. So I decide to come here and get one. The waitresscomes over to me.

"Hi, how are you doing?" the waitress asks." Well, and yourself?" I reply. "Good, is there something I can get for you?""Yes, I will have a water and chicken Caesar salad

and a water please.""Water and caesar salad, sure thing.""Thank you."With a smile the waitress walks away writing my

order on her pad. A few minutes later she returns withmy water and some bread. I try to eat as little of thebread as I can because I don't want to be full when mysalad gets here.

After about ten minutes of waiting my salad final-ly arrives. As soon as it touches the table I begin toeat. But when I get about six or seven bites in I seethese little black things running around my plate. Ifreak out. I pick one up to look at. I realize thatthey are little bugs.

I start gagging and throwing up. People around mestart throwing up from the sight of my vomit. I'm sodisgusted with what I have just eaten. I grab my platethat still has part of the bug salad left on it, and myvomit and head straight for the kitchen. The wait stafftries to stop me, but I push through them.

I kick the kitchen door open and walk up to thesalad chef and throw my plate at him. He flips out andcharges at me. Being a wrestler I easily take him down,but we get into a tussle. Fists are being thrown andblood starts pouring out of cuts on our faces.

People try to separate us but can't. For aboutfive minutes the two of us go at it. The other chefstry to pull me off my punch then and leave the two ofus to duke it out. Finally the police come and break usup. The two of us look so gross. We have black eyes,cuts on our faces with blood dripping and vomit allover us.

I walk out of Bread World in hand cuffs escortedby the cops. I want to press charges against them but Iknow that if I do they'll press charges against me.Right now I don't want to have a criminal record.

6564

2010Laura Bartram

Ten years ago tonight,I was six & asleep.You were five & asleep.Two kids awash in a disarrayof 2000 eyeglasses.Ten years and we have grown up,And out. Out, to our big ears,or big that premeditated this tonight-My eyes, looking at you listen to mewith big ears and bigger eyes.

Story of a Still LifeAlexis Richards

Clicking clocks with faces turned awaylike so many mothers

and fathersand sad little husbands.

These fools you look up to, then down at

as you realize sympathy has left you, with the last of their love.

Instead of a rope, a shoelace,

covered with tiny dinosuarsthat the boy who keeps you up at night

suggests will rule the world. He tricks you with his honesty,

like truth can never matchthe depth of his lies.

His hand and forearms are the gifts he gives,tokens of his truth,

reminders of his lies.Then the pain sears

as hands and armsare tourniquets

around your slender neck.

Communist HaikuLaura Bartram

My red-yellow soulthinks, what's your national bird?Vlad Lenin with wings.

67

That day was such a bad day. My salad I was look-ing forward to eat turned into a giant mess. About twoweeks later I drive past that same Bread World and Isee it is closed due to unhealthy cooking conditions.All I think about are those bugs in my salad. I stillhaven't been able to go eat at a restaurant because Iam scared over those bugs in my food. So from now onwhenever I want a salad or any other food I make itmyself.

ElizaBecca Bradshaw

Brown shoes beat down the high prairie grass,laying down a new path, for you.

Tight smiles and weary eyes,fear of the coming snow

and blustering winds of the journey.

But while our feet drag, our bonnets shade us from the heat of the sun

and somethingsomething is echoing

carry on.

Across monsters of mountains, rivers wait like cold serpents

taking under those who don't have the faiththat keeps me going,

for you.

Among the burdens on our shoulders,between the gun shots,

we danceduring the nights

The hope of Zion, pushes our carts

when we feel like our poor feetcan not take another step.

Together, we journey for thousands,and I carry on, for you.

66

GlobalizationLaura Bartram

The gold buttons migrate, likeI'm the opposite pole for precious metals and just rightfor pink newsprint...The pool deepens. Pens, lipbalm dip their tired feet inthe pepto slush, wishing they'd be happy forever,happy to write all day. Not only A, B, C, D, E. All 26,or all noneor happy to just slick up against the lips that ask forthem.Oh, I will wish for this same thing, to boldly be thissleepy scrappersmashing steel water bottles into Pizas, whose earphonesbuzz from the radiationof exploding pen barrels. There's trench warfare inmy big red bag, MIA-Pows still to be found. Profoundlysmashed.Sublimely, supinely it all ultimately goes-me, a sliver of paper, the bottom of this bottle.But from far off we're all round, complete likewe eat our own tails.Flat on my back I arch around the worldlike a slice of jet around a pearl....Stay sleepy, stay moony.Like a tentacle encircling a beet....Stay inky, stay ruddy.

Water PoemMichelle Mess

The sun's beauty is buried behind slates of gray.Droplets dart down from heavy leaves

Tenderly sprinkling my skin,The thick air envelopes me in moisture

As I toss rocks in a puddle that quickly accumulateswater

The river is running rapidly,Carrying stray twigs and branches down stream

The water trickles against slippery rocks,Tickling my ears

Creating tranquility all around

Soft splashes from panicked frogsEcho throughout the deep forest

While outstretched arms from towering treesGraciously gather rain.

69

To a Love Never Meant to BeWilliam Zhang

I walk along my lonely street,till suddenly I see

another path crossing, where I meeta wanderer like.

Together we rundown the endless

lanes that softly humwith ghostly bliss,

when we come upon another turn,crossing the Styx. I fly, and fall.

cruel Phrygian gates, my soul to spurn,enclosed my heart with an iron wall.

We stopped; our eyes caught;she went; I tried to follow

but found that my routewas barred by some strange sorrow:

For she was not the first to've beenon my yellow stained road to nowhere;

She was the one I hadn't seen,because she and I were never there.

EyebrowessLaura Bartram

Hey eyebrows, don't feel so cocky.Have you seen mine?

To a face reader, we'd seem the same.Glasses, topped off with caterpillars.

I knew you liked what I likedbuds, kitten, cairns

the uniting power of nouns, of- cheekbones, eyelashes, plural beautifuls

I only loved you because you seemed like the type toleave your wallet in El Segundo.

68

FourWilliam Zhang

Upon the clouds, you fly aboveto distant lands away from me.Unveiled, your face; no one will see.A single death from lack of love.

Two birds in flight, their song too nearfor you to hear; for me to makeagainst your ears, to softly wake.Now twice, I die, my fate too clear.

Another day, another woe.Through seas of sand, I seek your lightUnknown that it is in plain sight.The third is lost in ebb and flow.

A chime, a roar, the eagle dives,wise eyes gaze true, made plain my soul.Your heart, my mind, beats in control.Oh four, the last, so sweet arrives.

Water PoemKyle Hunt

Warm water trickling down my backWashing away my anxietiesThe sounds seem to take over my bodySoft pitter-patterHitting the marble floor

The droplets of water are like diamondsRaining from the skyAs I am enveloped in their glistening gazeHot steam stumbles over the steps of the showerIt seems to fill the room like a ghost

The steam enters the room like an armyAll wearing capes of whiteA civil war breaking outAs the pools of steam clash weapons in an attempt toescape.

71

Bryan Ezawa

As do the storm clouds quiver In anticipation or shuddersWith fiery fury; I am the mirrorOf the flames of the soul; the Roman goddessOf the rainbow, from which my cores are named,Draws out the soul, cutting the spiritFrom the limbs, leaving a death-mist behind.In sorrow and anger, blood-bonds burrowOver my pearly surface. Gold-paymentIs placed on me for safe passage, as fareTo cross the dreaded current, as fare To cross the dreaded current, within Tartarus.I wander without traveling. When you feel slighted,Take me for another. Don’t irritate me,I swell in a crimson rush. Can a truth-seeker call meby name?

70

Madeleine Desmaris

With a boxy frame, I stand alone.I may steal your dreams and motivation,still you prefer being in my arms.

While your heart beats full of youthYou played around me more than any otherAnd dug out hidden and long lost treasures,I was your rainy day jungle-gym.

After a long day, you look upon meOverjoyed to be offered such a stress-rest.

I will comfort you cozily without comment.

In primetime you share me with your loved onesAs you see into the electric world window.

The hearth heat at hand chastensThe day's chills and warms my worn upholstery.

Caitlin Kennedy

On the pinnacle of powerI sit among spawns and siblingsWeave the woes of the worldInto the lives of the living.Speaker of the elementsMy voice booms with powerCommanding the universe to my will

Conquered by the source of creationSpared by the stone of deceptionDestiny nurtured meRevenge festered within meFate would soon claim the overlordAnd he would free the fears from within

For I am not a stone. Say who I am.Deez Angels

Sebastian Leslie

Anglo-Saxon Riddles...

73

Paz to GreatnessLaura Bartram

The pony has refracted through the playing fieldto that rainbow tube, held down by fingers & spoon.Rolling, ceaselessly caught in mid roll, half roll,measure its conniptions in golden radiansmark them with a droplet of bluememorize them, because at two,regardless of how long it took you to washyour hands of cranberry-hand sanitizer goo,no matter how long you lingered around the spirals ofblue, green, aquamarine,there will be a fifty point quiz.there will be breathy, angry sighsbouncing off the walls insuch overwhelming volumeyou will think they are migratory,pestered away by a rotundfiend with hair like a tidal wavecurling into foamy peaks

TreeNicole Clark

Riddles continued...

Serena Mueller

These eggshell stones, a score per child(Though several scores for Spielberg's shark),Are stacked in rows that crush grainUpon its fateful entrance into foraminaOf soft pink flesh. Crunch.Nosferatu is but a pale life-houseWithout these prizes. A winged-pixieTrades quarters for the aged pebbles,Hardened by atomic number twenty.Rich men boast ivory gems.While poor men have but a few dingy rocks.One can only have thirty-two,So try not to toss them:They won't come back.

Julianna Jarvis

To those without cultured knowledge,I am a lone angel wing, drifted

From the heavens, a dorsal fin floating in air.My body twists in geometic fashion,

As I am descended from Hermes' singing sculpture.Apollo's followers read my lines

To extract my tune, an angelic whisper.I stand boldly, yet subtly as a witness

At celebrations and dirges alike.My presence is hidden by a bass-bringer;

My brother of banging overwhelms me.A soothing melody emits from my heart,

Diusguising the pain when he pulls my hair.

Strand by strand, I bald. As my goldLeaves weather, they turn to dust,And hands tickle my wooden trunk.

For he who knows not my curves, the bulk

Of my body burdens his small frame.

Quickly, recall my name, beforeI am forgotten among antiquated art.

...Do you know the answers?

72

7574

I'm a Bit BitterIsabelle Aspin

You cannot see, But her cheeks and arms

Are speckledLike robin's eggs tilting in tall tall spruce.

Or chipped nail polish on the bedspreadYou both ignore the crack, sprouting ivy and flowers.

Staring with a sloth expression at the yellowing ceilingEyes wide, like a younger beast

Heaped with strawberries In their blue sky baskets

Kitten stretched on the stoop we say,"tell life to stop calling me,

I don't want to talk."But life has your address,

And he lived there onceAnd built train tracks in the cellar

Weaving in and out of little treesRound like florets of broccoli

but fake and dark and prickly to the touch.The mail box is fat

And you love your checks,Printed with puppydogs and fruit baskets

Perhaps I could say,Dip them in glue

coat them in flour and papier mache.There is a new child,Barking and sleeping

At the foot of your bed.

Lips of LoveTina Keslowe

I Just Woke UpIsabelle Aspin

gross runes on the soymilk boxspilling morning on the duvet coverwe are living in a converging wave and a galaxypulling toward a center of cornflakesdharma and shoes that can fake anything[even the elusive slipper niche]a cloud's divorce or a funeral for achewed up spit out dog toy in the grass

you are not what you thought every dayfor the last ten yearsnot a hero for a pulling weeds inthe microscopic half grass, half ground-berry gar-denand you can't save strawberry milk cowsgive up

you can't stop the world'smezmerizing cereal box slinky onthe staircase to heaven[or bed in reality]set with a squirt of toothpasteby a divine hand that smells like orange juice

7776

Cayman EarringSam Falcucci

last summer, under the glare of god's good stars, idropped an earring into the ocean. it was my mother’ssilver hoop that she had given me to wear on our lastdinner in the sweet air of the island. she told me ilook pretty when i wear hoop earrings and i remembershining at the chance of my mother recognizing myundetectable beauty.

i was bent over the wood sea-beaten railing watchingthe tarpon jump out of the water to catch a break ofbread. there were dozens of them and their silveryslick bodies rippled through the cerulean salt waterand danced across the moonlight through stripes ofyellow glow. they fascinated me, the entire group ofthem, how they'd slash around for one bite and thencome back for more. they always came back for more.

when i brushed my ear with the slightest force, theearring slipped right out of my ear and down down downinto the clearest of waters and settled into the com-

fortable pocket of a sea rock. my manuevers were toodelayed and my fingers came to my open mouth empty.the earring was settled so nicely on the rock; like anartifact that had sunk down with the ship. i watchedit as it glimmered and glowed with the tarpon and howit looked like it belonged and shall never be dis-turbed.

I like to imagine that it is still there in rust andsalt and light of the fish. it breathes the island andthe waters that wave around it. and that the warmththe sun has shed on it is locked in so tightly and hasbecome of the earring. i like to imagine i will see itwhen i go back, resting in the pocket of rock and wheni do, i will toss a piece of bread to the shimmeringangels of the sea and watch them turn under the sun. iwill rest on the railing and see the earring's silversmile. i will open my ears to its stories.

Hand on KneeAlessandra Young

7978

BrickTaylor Mathues

HaikuLaura Bartram

Pink pass- putrid &pathological escapesI have three hundred.

GraffitiSam Eddins

8180

CuriosityDevyn Aguilar

Like an unknown train in the distance,I ask myself,"Where did he go?"The mysterious question simmersBut the answer remains unknown.

But then I turn back the clock,Memories flood through me.I think of all the times beforeAnd realize,He went nowhere.

He was never there to begin with.A figure to look up to,Blown away in the wretched stormOf emotion.Fear and hate.

But now I have replacedSomething I've never really known.

Communist HaikuLaura Bartram

In Red, in our hearts!being equal is so great!

but gulags are not.

SecretKirby Gallagher

I want to give you my heart.As if it were a heart

Able to be given. Let yourWarmth soothe my soul,

And fill my heartWith the hope of us.

Let my scars fade into you, andYour bruises fade to me.

Let the stars danceIn the sky, lighting

The way to eachOther's minds. Let the

Birds sing for us; questionsAbout us never spoken of.

And they can tell about us all along.

City of TorporAlly Brosnan

83

The SunSamantha Nehlsen

The sun disappearsbehind the cloudsthe sound of watersoon becomes evidentas the raindropsbegin to trickle downthe window panethe splattering sound against the window sillsounds like footsteps on the roofthe clouds are washing awaytheir tearsgiving the plants and flowersa nice little drinkthe sound so peacefulit puts me in a tranceI curl up in bedall cozy and warmdrifting into a deep sleepI continue to watch the rainfalling downas I imagine a sailboat setting off to seaThe rain begins HeavierLouderThe clash against the windowThe sky's darkerThe ocean waves riseSooner or laterthe sun will riseand morning will comeThe rain will disappearAnd the clouds will be gone

82

GeminiLaura Bartram

DoorNicole Clark

85