VIRGE

THE VIRTUAL EDGE FLVS LITERARY MAGAZINE

SPRING 2012

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Adriana Page 54

Aesop Brown Pages 45

Alexander Bak Pages 6, 28

Amber McDonald Pages 17, 50

Ashley Stuart Page 23

Ashley Viera Page 19, 37

Brandon Kirk Pages 14, 58

Brigid Wallace Page 59

Brook Scully Pages 22, 25

Colton Saucier Page 12

Connor Newman Pages 24, 30

Cresonia Hsieh Page 64

David Neiberger Pages 14, 63

De'Mon Lisa Reid Page 10

Dylan Murck Page 42

Dylan Wang Cover, pages 12, 37

Elyna Pages 53, 57, 61

Emily Duffy Pages 11, 29

Hunter Graef Page 43

Jenna Santoro Page 52

Jenny Ruben Page 9

Jeremiah Portlock Page 26

Jessica Wills Page 4

Jie Luo Pages 8, 49

Juliette Carr Page 40

Katelyn Haynes Pages 13, 23, 46

Katharyn King Page 51

Kelsey Gulick Page 20

Lauren Margheim Pages 21, 31

Marcella Ruppert-Gomez Pages 39, 56

Marissa Curtis Pages 5, 48

Marlee Page 18

Michelle Blackledge Pages 36, 65

Mika Pages 44, 53

Nicole Sprecacenere Page 55

Rachel Bates Page 47

Rachel Vickers Page 38

Rachel Wang Pages 26, 39

Rebecca Page 62

Ruth Lewis Pages 27, 34

Samuel Shelley Page 60

Shannon Lumpkin Page 35

Stephany Edwards Page 33

Sydney Kenney Page 28

Tabitha Sebren Page 7, 52, 64

Taylor Husak Pages 32, 40

Trong Duc Bui Page 61

Yael Lilienthal Page 9, 57

COVER ARTWORK – “AROUND THE CORNER.” DYLAN WANG, GRADE 11

SPECIAL THANKS TO JEFF MURPHY AND THE STUDENT ACTIVITIES TEAM FOR THEIR SUPPORT AND ENCOURAGEMENT

STUDENT EDITORS – NICOLE SILLS, SAMANTHA COVILLE, YAEL LILIENTHAL, MADISON ISZLER, ELIANA LOZANO, JESSICA

BROWN, PRISCILLA GONZALEZ DEL REAL, DYLAN SEXTON, DELANEY PESHEK

STAFF ADVISOR – JENNI NEWTON

A Place of Imagination By Jessica Wills, Grade 10

To be in a place of your own imagination is to be in a place that you are safe, happy

A place to call your own

Some place where no one can hurt you, scare you, or threaten you

Sure, it may just be in your head, but having your own happy place is a good thing

One without a happy place is one without happiness

Without happiness, there can be no sadness

Without happiness, there can be no other emotion to even it out

If being in your place of imagination where everything is your way and your way only is a

wrong thing, Then there would be no books to read for our entertainment

There would be no interesting story lines for movies or plays

No music to help us up on our feet when we’ve been knocked down

A place of imagination is good

Having an imagination alone is a good thing

Without creativity, we are nothing but a world of facts and seriousness

No tears of sadness, anger, laughter

No more tears of anything

No colors

No pictures of fun

No fun

No jokes

No drama

Just facts

A plain, simple, boring world

That is why those with an imagination and creativity are recognized

And found important to the world

It is those who give us our happiness

Our freedom of expression

The right to have fun is the right to express our imagination

Your imagination is not only a state of mind

But a state of passion

A place of safety

A place you know you’re welcome

That is why imaginations and creativity are needed in this world

And why they allow us to be free from those who believe in straight facts

No cages, no strings

We are as free as a bird

Inspirations Marissa Curtis, Grade 10

I’ve got a heart full of aspiration

A head with imagination

And hands just waiting for inspiration

I’ve got a mind full and flooding with dreams

A heart ‘bout to break at the seams

And so many thoughts that I could just scream

Bring me my paints and give me any base

Please watch my fingers move with grace

I’ll give you your hopes all wrapped up in lace

If a picture is worth a thousand words

Why are your lips not being heard?

Are the lines between us really that blurred?

I colored your worlds all full of rainbows

Right now, that seems so long ago

‘Cause all of those worlds have lost their bright glow

But now it is my turn, hear what I say

Since my pictures just can’t convey

I’m tired of painting for your displays

For once can I please have something for me?

You’re not the only one with dreams

My drawings represent all that I’ve seen

Please do not take my words out of context

Don’t take offense at what is next

I just seem to keep making you perplexed

For what you may think it is, isn’t real

I’m just describing what I feel

Sit down and let me explain this ideal

My thoughts are my drawings

My words are my paintings

And all of my dreams are my inspiration

“Monarch.” Alexander Bak, Grade 8

“Paradise.” Tabitha Sebren, Grade 12

“Bob Marley.” Jie Luo, Grade 11

Wishes that shine,

No other can compare.

So uniquely divine,

A whiff of fresh air.

Her tender words and hugs,

Her beauty clear as day.

Her words a contagious drug,

Puts your tears at bay.

Many selfless deeds,

Always helping others.

Fulfilling everyone’s needs,

My special Fairy Godmother.

“Rainbow in the Water.” Yael Lilienthal, Grade 11

By Jenny Ruben, Grade 11

“Se

agu

ll R

em

ak

e.”

De

'Mo

n L

isa

Re

id,

Gra

de

8

“Beach of Crayons.” Emily Duffy, Grade 10

The Desk, the Raven,

and the Child’s Place By Colton Saucier, Grade 12

“Why is a Raven like a Writing Desk?”

Such a peculiar question to ask;

For riddles that come with no answer

Seem no cause for your mind to tax.

Yet what if it is this nonsense,

This stuff of child’s games,

That deciphers the basis of knowledge

The torch with wisdom’s flame.

“How so?”

“Can God make a rock,” they say,

“That he Himself cannot move”

Another answerless puzzle!

To which you feel it is a trick.

Yet what if the answer, in fact,

Was looking you right in the face?

This cannot be found in some inquest,

But is kept in the Child’s Place.

“How so?”

“He is not God if He can be bound”

This fact is accepted as true,

Yet can something be made by Creator

That unmakes the Creator’s due?

So you see it’s the rhyme with no answer;

Those are the riddles to read.

So how is the desk like the raven?

Well why don’t you tell me?

“The Gate.” Dylan Wang, Grade 11

“Ice Cat.” Katelyn Haynes, Grade 6

The Man with Red Hair By David Neiberger, Grade 10

My name is Andrew. I had just started my

sophomore year in college when I met him. He was a

man who changed lives, sometimes for the better,

sometimes for the worse...

It was a rainy winter day in Cincinnati. I had just run

out of milk and needed to pick up a gallon. I had just

stepped outside of the store when I bumped into him,

which caused him to spill his grocery bag.

“Oh! I am so sorry, sir,” I said. “Let me help you!”

“Oh, there’s no need,” he said in a thick British accent as we picked up his groceries. “Although if you’re not

pressed for time, could you help me carry these to my apartment? It’s just a block down the street past the

European market.”

“Uh...sure,” I said. “I think I can spare some time.”

I tried to look at his face but he had the collar up on the overcoat he was wearing and with the rain I could only

make out his red hair. It wasn’t a natural shade of red. It was more electric in color than ordinary red hair.

We reached his apartment after a torrential five minute walk in the rain. I was completely soaked. He opened

the door to reveal a peculiar sight. His apartment was like any other but scattered everywhere were books.

There were not just a few books. There were dozens of them on the counter, on the coffee table, on the kitchen

table, on the floor, everywhere!

“I hope you don’t mind the mess,” he said disappearing into the kitchen behind a stack of books. “I haven’t

had time to clean up lately. As you might guess, I’ve been reading.”

“I see...” I said apprehensively as I sat his groceries down on the kitchen table next to a stack of books. “And

what do you read? Do you have a particular genre that you like?”

“Well,” he began as he put some of his groceries in the fridge. “I like all different kinds of books, but the ones

I read most frequently are books on grammar and pronunciation. I guess I’m sort of a linguist. I study

languages and can speak several different languages fluently.”

“Oh...” I said mindlessly as I browsed over each stack of books.

“You know,” said the man coming out of the kitchen with two cans of soda. He had shed his overcoat to reveal

a very nice looking tuxedo with a red tie. “You’ve helped me so much today, and I don’t even know your

name.”

“It’s Andrew,” I said accepting the soda. “Andrew Ryles.”

“Ah... lovely name, Andrew,” he said opening his can of soda with a loud click. He took a sip. “Your name’s a

variant of the name, Andreas, which means ‘warrior’ or ‘man’ in Greek. Very nice name.”

“Blu

e B

ay.”

Bra

nd

on K

irk,

Gra

de

7

“Hmm,” I said. I swallowed another gulp of soda. “All I know is that it was my grandpa’s name. My dad and

mom named me after him.”

“Cool,” he said. He sat his soda on a stack of books. He shed the coat of his tuxedo. “I’m going to throw my

tuxedo coat towards the coat hanger over there and it will land perfectly on it.”

I chuckled in disbelief. “Yeah right...”

“Watch,” he said with a smile. He turned towards the coat hanger and threw the tuxedo coat. It flew threw the

air and landed flawlessly on the coat hanger.

I was surprised to say the least.

“Well, I guess I was wrong,” I said impressed by his feat of skill.

“I said I would do it,” he said nonchalantly. “So I had to do it.”

I was confused by his statement. It seemed to have a double meaning.

“What do you mean by ‘You had to do it’,” I asked.

He didn’t answer. He just looked away as if I had never asked him a question. Then he turned back to me.

“Andrew,” he said. “Would you be willing to have dinner with me?”

I thought about it for a moment. I didn’t have much money and wouldn’t pass up a free meal. Also, I wanted

to find out more about this mysterious man.

“Sure,” I said with a smile. “By the way, what’s your name?”

He smiled a devilish smile. That was the first time I got a good look at his face. He looked to be in his early

30’s and had electric red hair that was straight and short. His eyes were also red but it was a soft red. His eyes

looked soft and welcoming, not evil or forbidding.

“Zavad,” he said. “My name is Zavad.”

After about thirty minutes of preparation, Zavad set before me a bowl of delicious pasta with tangy tomato

sauce and meatballs. Then after another trip to his kitchen, Zavad set out another bowl but this one was filled

with fresh salad. He then served himself and sat down.

“So I bet you were a little confused by the whole coat thing...” he said.

I swallowed a bit of spaghetti. “Uh...just a bit...” I said trying to not sound suspicious.

“Well,” he said. “You were more confused by what I said afterwards.”

I was silent.

“I see,” he said. “Well, I’ll tell you why I was able to pull it off.”

He stopped. He grabbed a crouton and threw it in his mouth.

“Why,” I asked prompting him.

“Because I said I would,” he said. “Whatever I say will happen. Practically speaking of course.”

I was confused.

“Andrew,” he said. “You will receive a check in the mail tomorrow. You’ll always remember me but will

never find me.”

After some more explaining, I understood his gift but not what he had said until the day after. The next day, I

found a check in the mail that for $20,000. I went to tell him but I couldn’t find him…

“New

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The Streets Be Swept By Marlee Head, Grade 6

A A lone figure stood at the end of a long cobbled street. Fine silver mist rose from the cobblestones and spiraled into the air, clinging to every surface and clouding the clear sky. The figure was motionless, as though savoring every second of the quiet predawn. Then, as though it caused her great pain, she began to walk down the quiescent lane. The girl was clad in a thin, ragged cloak and a threadbare dress that hung off her starved frame like a sack from a scarecrow. She was armed with nothing but a wooden push broom, not an expected accessory for a young girl. It was clear from a single glance that this shabby maiden was a street sweeper, the least of all slaves. As the dirty damsel plodded along the artery, her unkempt head hung down, lank, unclean hair hiding her grotesquely thin face. She was shamed to be who she was, and yet her grueling ordeal was a necessary one. Without a street sweeper, there would be no Town of Ladia. As the weak fingers of dawn succeeded the horizon, the girl began to push her broom, thus sweeping the alley that was cluttered with rubbish. Even as the sun strengthened, even after many had eaten their meal and begun their daily toils, the young maiden swept. Each street, each alley, no matter the importance or status of use was swept thoroughly for no pay whatsoever. The only solace the girl would receive throughout the day was this: whatever she found that she liked among the trash and dust on the roads she may keep. She often bought her meager meals with whatever money she could salvage from the cobbled streets. Ah, it was a shabby way to live, and the wild madam knew it to be so. On the street side at night, she pondered each route of escape – all were cut off from her. So thus is the life of the young street sweeper.

Poem #2

By Ashley Viera, Grade 12

As I reached the sixth month

Horrible news arose The pain hit my heart

Because of it And every bone In my body hurt

There is nothing like Losing a loved one

But losing your own is Just about unbearable

I would sit and cry All day and night

I did not eat Nor did I sleep For I was not

At peace

I blamed myself For I was in denial Till the day I made

My decision Now I am in peace

And where I Should be

“In the Ice.” Kelsey Gulick, Grade 9

A Tribute To Her Death By Lauren Margheim, Grade 10

Music is healing to the heart, my broken heart.

I position my hands and start to play.

I don’t know exactly how; my fingers seem to rule themselves.

They fly across the board at their own pace, playing the game of music.

Guided by emotion, they sway across the keys.

Somehow I find my voice and begin to sing.

“Deep in the meadow, under the willow

A bed of grass, a soft green pillow

Lay down your head, and close your sleepy eyes

And when again they open, the sun will rise.”

I think of the girl and my fingers respond;

The sweet melancholy melody, a tribute to her death.

She was so young, not even thirteen.

The sudden abruptness, the shock of her departure;

Slow-falling tears wash away the walls put up.

“Here it’s safe, here it’s warm

Here the daisies guard you from every harm

Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true

Here is the place where I love you.”

I said I wasn’t going to cry.

It’s just a story, not even real.

But the characters are so tangible and I became attached.

In my mind, the girl was so beautiful

All those flowers surrounding her while she sleeps

Weaving through her long brown hair

Resting in her cold hands

Scattered across her precious body

Their sweet scent masks the smell of death

As if trying in vain to keep it at bay.

“Deep in the meadow, hidden far away

A cloak of leaves, a moonbeam ray

Forget your woes and let your troubles lay

And when again it’s morning, they’ll wash away.”

Tears find their way back to my eyes.

They fall down my face with a soft, “Goodbye....”

The images play through my mind again, and it’s like I’m there.

I’m the one singing to her.

“Here it’s safe, here it’s warm

Here the daisies guard you from every harm

Here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true

Here is the place where I love you.”

(Song from The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins.)

The Last Family Night

By Brook Scully, Grade 12

All in an instant, his sweet, innocent exterior shifted to that of a fiery demon.

Nothing but the sound of his own heart and breath filled his mind, and nothing but the sight of

his own clenched fists distracted him from the cold world outside.

“How could you,” Lucas finally managed to shout. How? How could she? How could she allow

this? How?

An icy gust of flaked air slithered across the floor and the door slammed shut. He was

home. Lucas’s father was home to join his wife in another pointless night of playing house.

That man, he was just as guilty as her! How could they? Wasn’t he enough? Did they not love

him? They were his family. They were his parents. They were the ones he was supposed to be

able to trust.

Without another word, the seven-year-old boy broke down and cried in his mother’s forced

embrace.

Replaced.

His mother was pregnant with a little girl. Her due date was in four months.

The boy’s father sat beside the two and held his arms open. “Come here, Lucas,” he sighed out,

all the life seeming to drain from his face. Lucas rejected the hug and moved away from both of

his betrayers. He ran upstairs to his room and locked the door instead.

The action seemed normal enough. A young boy, distraught, retreats to his room. All would be

well in the morning, right?

Wrong.

The sun rose, casting a dark orange glow over the neighborhood as the fire had during

the previous night. Where once a happy family slept in peace, where once everything was quiet,

there now stood a black heap of ash and filth.

There were no survivors.

All that remained was a fear of revenge from the fire that had extinguished the lives of his

family.

All that was left was left for dead.

Bluer Eyes By Ashley Stuart, Grade 10

Sitting in a chair next to her bedside, holding her cold lifeless hand. A white sheet covers the rest of her limp body. Sitting in this tiny hospital room was the last thing I ever wanted to do. I never knew that this morning was the last time I’d ever see Amanda’s smiling face before she went to

work. She left me behind forever. Just by holding her hand, I could feel the life drained out of her, that one single bullet had taken away. Nurses came in with the look of sorrow on their faces. They could feel the depressing tension I was giving off. I knew that they had come to take her body to the morgue. Squeezing her hand one last time, a single tear fell down my cheek. My eyes could not get any bluer than this. I knew this was the time I had to let her go. Before they took her, I whispered goodbye in her ear, and pressed a single kiss on her hand. Goodbye forever my love, Amanda Lee.

“Heaven Above.” Katelyn Haynes, Grade 6

“The Face.” Connor Newman, Grade 8

“Alex Potseluev.” Brook Scully, Grade 12

Slave of Darkness

Jeremiah Portlock, Grade 10

“Out of Junk.” Rachel Wang, Grade 9

Far from the slaves of darkness,

But grasp together for your labor is not in vain.

For your works of love and toil, its true beauty will be

conspicuous amid the dust and grey twilight.

Like a star, its truth will gleam eternally.

Let not your burdened hearts

be oppressed by mockery, for

the sweet seasons must change.

Remembered Today

Have we remembered today? Have we thought, pondered,

Do we pray For the men and women,

So far away, Who risk their lives each day?

In oppressive heat and scorching sun,

they fight day by day. And from their goal they never stray.

“What is that goal?” you ask. Well let me tell you now,

To save a country and a people, from those who mean it evil.

They offer their lives,

They give their all, They serve with strength and pride.

They leave family, Friends and loved ones dear,

to serve our country, Far and near.

And yet some say, “In vain They serve, and home

They must return.”

Then, we said we'd never forget, But now, is that still true?

Have we forgotten The people that were lost?

And the lives forever changed?

This, my friends, Is why they serve o'er the world today,

So let us ne'er forget, that for our soldiers, We must pray.

Have you remembered today?

In loving memory of all those lost on 9-11, and since then in the war on terror.

Ruth Lewis, Grade 11

I turned the corner to my neighborhood,

Admiring the butter-dipped clouds, sitting on the pink horizon.

Pink, like the soft interior of the conch shell that sings me to sleep,

Or the strawberry yogurt Daddy and I used to eat for breakfast.

Eyes flashing to the driveway, I caught sight of his rusty red pick-up truck waiting.

The cracked glass of the windshield, of which he insisted need no replacement, stared at me.

My heart fluttered for just the pat of a hummingbird’s wing,

Until I realized that rusty red pick-up trucks

Cannot simply buy plane tickets and leave.

I turned the key to the door,

The door that needed fixing but would never receive it,

And was greeted only by the screams of the lonely floor panels.

Rusty Red

By Sydney Kenney, Grade 11

“Old

Ch

evy Truck.” A

lexand

er B

ak, Grad

e 8

“Inside the Towers.” Emily Duffy, Grade 10

“An Eye for You.” Connor Newman, Grade 8

Nostalgic Rain By Lauren Margheim, Grade 10

The memories flood into my mind

As I pass that special place.

The good times we had to leave behind,

And every look on every face.

I remember the laughs we shared

As you spun those priceless fables.

I remember the ones for which I cared

As nostalgia creeps in, leaving me unstable.

No, wait! Why dwell on the sad?

The sky cries, but I don’t have to.

I treasure my friendships, and I’m glad

For sincere comrades, some old, some new.

And even though sometimes the memories bring pain,

I’ll never forget when we ran in that nostalgic rain.

“Still Life.” Taylor Husak, Grade 12

SCARLET WOMAN

Do you love her? Do you need her? Or do you love the way she lays when you see her? Don't you see right through her scarlet veil? Or are my words to no avail? She’s a dragon in disguise, Pulling you right into her castle. She’s a bad dream in the night, That you’d go back to anyway. The white knight’s come to save us all But you’re stuck in its trance He’ll send her to her final fall But she’s still taking married men He’s our savior We’ll make him king Till she comes to take us in the night We don't need her Can’t even see her But you’re running back to that scarlet veil again She’s a dragon in disguise, Pulling you right into her castle. She’s a bad dream in the night, That you’d go back to anyway.

The white knight’s come to save us all But you’re stuck in its trance He’ll send her to her final fall But she’s still taking married men We’ll see man’s blood fall on her lips Breathing scarlet fires on all of this Our shining white knight will come again To set fire to the rain Won’t you join us? Liar, liar Cheater, cheater Seducing to the soul So much power Evil deceiver Too much for comfort, don't you know?

“ S H E ’ S A D R A G O N I N D I S G U I S E . . . ”

She’s a dragon in disguise, Pulling you right into her castle. She’s a bad dream in the night, That you’d go back to anyway. The white knight’s come to save us all But you’re stuck in its trance He’ll send her to her final fall But she’s still taking married men, Still beckoning to us.

“Enchanted Forest.” Ruth Lewis, Grade 11

The Princess and the Cobbler

Shannon Lumpkin, Grade 12

Like so many stories, this one starts a long time ago in a faraway land. More specifically a city, and in the center of the city was a palace. This palace housed, as so many palaces do, a princess, who was quite transfixed by a small house outside the palace walls where a young cobbler boy climbed atop his roof every morning to watch the sunrise hit the auriferous palace. The princess went out on her balcony each morning to pretend that the cobbler was hers and that he could love her like he loved the sunrise. She dreamed of his past, his present, what he was like—she hoped he was nice—and how he would treat his child as yet unconceived. One evening, as the city slept, the princess snapped, tore, and ripped apart every one of her shoes. Every golden-threaded slipper tossed upon Shoe Detritus Mountain gave rise to the princess’s childish felicity. “Father,” she announced the next day. “I need a cobbler; one with nimble young fingers that can twist every thread to the fineness of silkworms’ thread. One who can tell me what the palace looks like against the sunrise.” Now, the king was not one to disappoint his daughter so one by one he called the cobblers of the land to ask them what the palace looked like against the sunrise. Cobbler after cobbler came with stories that put raconteurs to shame but the princess’s cobbler never showed. One night, the princess donned a raggedy old cloak and set out over the palace walls to find the young cobbler’s house. One firm knock and a second with an uncertain fist alerted the dreamy-eyed pauper to the cloaked stranger and he offered her shelter from the night. “Tell me,” the princess began, shrouded in the shop’s shadows. “You are a cobbler, are you not? Have you been to the palace?” With unhappy eyes the boy responded that he had not. “I want to, but I’ve been terribly busy,” he said as his fingers twisted about thread. “And besides, I do not know how the sunrise looks when it hits the palace.” “But are you not the boy who climbs atop his roof each morning to look at it?” “I must confess, the palace does not interest me. You see, when the sky begins to mix with pink and yellow, the princess, rosy with fresh sleep, steps out onto her balcony and the sun illuminates her so clearly that I allow myself to dream foolish dreams. I dream of her, her thoughts, her life. I could not tell you how the palace looks under the sunrise, but I could tell you of the princess’s unrivaled beauty.” Like so many stories, this one ends happily. The princess brought the boy to the palace to be her personal cobbler, and soon after, with the king’s jubilant permission, the princess and the cobbler married under the soft glow of the sunrise.

“Magic In Her Eyes.” Michelle Blackledge, Grade 9

As I see from below

I envision how my life Would have been with

Cries, laughs and tantrums That every child acquires

As I would have reached adolescence and adulthood

I wave my childhood goodbye and appear On the road to

Maturity and prosperity

As I would have reached my older ages I use a stool to walk

I enjoy my grandchildren and Watch them grow

I envision my grandchildren with children

And a life of their own But of course that would

Only be if I were alive

Poem #1

By Ashley Viera, Grade 12

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ins

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ang

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1

“New Life.” Rachel Vickers, Grade 10

Facing the Dark By Marcella Ruppert-Gomez, Grade 7

Every day is one of a kind and full of New surprises behind every corner

That is why when something Dark happens

Dark like a night without stars or moon I will get back up and

The next day wake up with a Smile lighting up my face

For it is a new day Full of possibilities

And I will face them with A smile and a pure heart.

“Reflected Beauty.” Rachel Wang, Grade 9

Tolerance

Juliette Carr, Grade 8

Am I to be treated with disdain,

By the color on my face?

Am I to be forced through all this pain,

Just because of my race?

I had a simple dream

I can tell you aren’t too keen

To hear these words.

But I will continue

And this is my wish

To be treated with virtue.

“Sel

f-Po

rtra

it.”

Tay

lor

Hu

sak,

Gra

de

12

And are my children to be taught?

While others are sold on the street?

To be bought,

In order to eat?

How can I look in the mirror

When the answer is so much clearer.

Am I to lie?

To justify?

To get through life?

Without holding a knife

To my very throat?

In every word I have ever wrote

I poured out my soul.

And everyone has heard.

Yet do they listen?

Am I to thrive?

While others hold on to dear life

With all their might?

What is a life to live

If people cannot forgive?

We must move on

Stop living in a con.

Remember, no matter black or white

Peasant or knight

We have no right

To be slave nor master.

But live today, equally.

For we are all family

You are my brother,

My sister,

My lover,

Who cares the color on our face

Just focus on this race...

The race of life.

“Boom.” Dylan Murck, Grade 7

“Sonic!” Hunter Graef, Grade 7

One day in language arts

I had to write a poem

I did not know what to write

So I was very solemn

I tried and tried and tried again

But nothing came to mind

After a couple minutes

I just gave up and resigned

But then that is it

I said with all my might

I will write a poem

About nothing to write

By Mika, Grade 7

“Bamboo Regular.” Aesop Brown, Grade 11

“Golden Gate.” Katelyn Haynes, Grade 6

“Beach Dock.” Rachel Bates, Grade 11

Words Can Do So Much

Marissa Curtis, Grade 10

Who knew words could do so much

They have the power to tear down

Who knew words could do so much

They can lift you up off the ground

Who knew words could do so much

They can heal a broken heart

Who knew words could do so much

They can tear two people apart

Who knew words could do so much

Make all injuries forgotten

Who knew words could do so much

Make a good kid turn rotten

Who knew words could do so much

They can separate best friends

Who knew words could do so much

Start the process all again

Words can hurt and make you bleed

You never know where words will lead

Break you, make you who you are

Forever left with battle scars

Careful what you say

You don’t know whom it will affect

Who knew words could do so much

They cause more harm than you’d expect

“Kid Cudi.” Jie Luo, Grade 11

“Kitchen Scene.” Amber McDonald, Grade 6

Joy By Katharyn King, Grade 7

Joy is hot pink

It sounds unique like the laughter of best friends

It tastes like your favorite sugary dessert

It smells like a beautiful flower on a bright spring morning

Joy feels like being on a waterslide whose twists and turns

only get more and more fun to ride

“Sunset 4.0.” Tabitha Sebren, Grade 12

“Sunset.” Jenna Santoro, Grade 8

Rhymes By Mika, Grade 7

My mom says “Try not to rhyme”

But without no rhyme

It is a crime

Rhyming is fun

It’s filled with joy

But sometimes it may annoy

But what’s a poem with no rhyme?

It’s just a bunch of words that waste your time

Poems with rhymes are WAY more fun

And poems without rhymes, we should shun

“Fa

ded

Glo

ry.”

Elyn

a, G

rad

e 11

“Petals.” Adriana, Grade 7

Spring Forward By Nicole Sprecacenere, Grade 8

Where the wind may blow, who’s to know

As the days pass by, with a faded cry.

The birds will sing, sweet melodies in spring

As they weave a cozy nest, for their eggs to rest.

Flowers and bees, bring me to my knees With their brilliant ways, that fill the days.

It seems so free, through the eyes of me

As I sit and wonder, about all still hidden under.

When the rays of the sun, join the rain in fun I look up high, to the rainbow in the sky.

I feel the wind, against my skin

Weaving across the meadows, before it stops to doze.

God is the creator, and nothing could be greater For this pleasure that I’ve found, comes not from the ground.

“Leaf and Flower.” Marcella Ruppert-Gomez, Grade 7

The sun tries to shine

A puffy grey cloud

Prevents

Its radiant beam The darkness, obscure,

And luminous stars

Somehow

Reside together

Truth is like a bee

A honey coated stinger

From which people flee

Yael Lilienthal, Grade 11

“Keep Your Head Up” Elyna , Grade 11

“Oce

an

Bre

eze

.” B

ran

do

n K

irk

, G

rad

e 7

“S

um

me

r G

rove

.” B

ran

do

n K

irk

, G

rad

e 7

The Sleeping Sun

Brigid Wallace, Grade 8

I walked along a summer beach Where waves washed up on the shore They reached to me and kissed my feet And kept on coming back for more I sat down on a metal chair And watched the sun go down Her rays spread wide She yawned and sighed As she lay upon the ocean bare She was a tired sun And went down fast Her beauty was great But did not last

She pulled a blanket of brilliant blue With shades of violet that cast a dew The stars, her night lights Started glimmering here and there Soon she was asleep It was quiet everywhere All watched the ending in great awe As the moon went up and took its place So slept the sun With quiet grace Good night to each and everyone Until again we see the sun

“Her Beauty was great, but did not last . . .”

“Rooster.” Samuel Shelley, Grade 6

Did God create you from the cosmic dust?

Your gaze is a poison, your smile a sin,

Your silhouette, a creation of lust.

But the crucial things are under your skin.

I have ventured to fantasize with you,

But your appearance maintains me awake.

I’m a lost ship and you came to rescue,

Waiting you, I wreck in the same mistake.

You are the source of my inspiration.

This is the sonnet that I never wrote

I want you to know, you are the reason,

Reason of why I am your anecdote.

These words are a written taste of my love,

And you’re the drug I’ll never be tired of.

Love Coma Trong Duc Bui,

Grade 9

“Simplicity.” Elyna, Grade 11

Black and White Rose Rebecca, Grade 9

Fire Rose Rebecca, Grade 9

“A Flower from the Rain.” David Neiberger, Grade 10

Cresonia Hsieh, Grade 11

I’m waiting, waiting anxiously for you Because people like you are too far and too few

My eyes are wide open, along with my heart But the distance between, keeps us apart.

Though I’d swim across rivers, and conquer the seas

And trek over valleys, mountains, and ravines I’m merely too afraid of being naïve,

Because we might not make it, no matter what I believe.

For the miles between us are too much and too many And every doubtful comment I receive, seems like a plenty

And it’s for these reasons that I always begin to doubt But luckily you’re always there, to turn my doubts about.

See, for every distress, doubt, or difficulty I face

I can always count you to surely eradicate. ‘Cause with you, I just know that we’ll always pull through

And it’s for all these reasons and more that I’ll keep waiting, waiting for you.

“Nature’s Reflection.” Tabitha Sebren, Grade 12

“She Knows All My Secrets.” Michelle Blackledge, Grade 9