PDF - North Star Academy

A c k nowl e dge m e nt s
I
t is with great pleasure that the Broad & Central editing team acknowledges the many people
who helped to make this vision a reality. Although we cannot name every contributing force, it
is crucial that we thank the following people due to their overwhelming support:
•Mr. Mann, Ms. Harris, Mr. Chiger, and Ms. Burgess for your leadership and support.
•Mr. McCluskey for your literary guidance and the many hours of advising.
•Mrs. Mann, Mrs. Verrilli, Ms Whitehead, Ms. Mastrocco, and Mr. Taubman for guiding us in our pursuit of mastery in the craft of writing and for guidance in the editing process.
We would like to extend a very sincere thank you to Mr. Taubman for both his guidance
and the many hours of copy-editing with our team.
•Stephen Mendonca for his brilliant graphic designs, our cover art, and for his exceeding willingness to help in the final production of our literary magazine.
T h e B ro a d & C e nt r al Edi t or s i n C hi e f
Jada Anderson.......................................Managing Editor in Chief ............................... Class of 2013
Jessica Debrah.......................................Poetry Editor in Chief .....................................Class of 2014
Sandra Osei-Frimpong.........................P rose Editor in Chief ...................................... Class of 2014
T h e B ro ad & C e nt r al Edi t i ng B oar d
Muata Nkosi............................C lass
Starkwan Bethea.....................C lass
Tiaja Harley............................Class
Sierra Stridiron......................Class
Dianeth Her nandez................Class
of
of
of
of
of
2013
2014
2014
2014
2015
Amir Ballard.................................Class
Charisma Lambert........................Class
Edward Acosta..............................C lass
Camari Singleton..........................Class
Jordon Horton...............................Class
of
of
of
of
of
2013
2014
2014
2015
2015
This literary journal could not have been synthesized if it were not for the dedication and support
of many people who believe in the potential of Broad & Central, particularly those mentioned
on this page. Indeed, because of the many hands lifting us to greatness, a fusion of the creative
voices in our high school community permeates the pages of the literary jour nal you now hold in
your hands. Broad & Central is born of our love of writing and our emphatic belief that the closet
writers and artist in our community must be celebrated and, I would argue, freed. Our mission
rests upon the simple words that drive us: write and be embraced, draw and be celebrated, create
and be remembered. Our mission allows all of the caged birds in our community to use their
voices to sing of truth and beauty. While some may hide behind their bars, not allowing escape
or tasting freedom, we step up and face our bars, open our mouths, and free ourselves with our
songs. Truly, writing is freedom. Hence, on behalf of the editors of Broad and Central, it is my
great pleasure to acknowledge the people who have allowed these walls of our closet artists, our
North Star friends and family, to be demolished. Indeed, these walls have been conquered and in
their stead stand tall the love, beauty, strength, and truth of our voices, our songs.
- Charisma Lambert, 2014
December 15, 2012
‘‘
It is difficult to get the news from poems
yet men die miserably ever y day
for lack of what is found
there.
Dear Community,
”
—William Carlos Williams
Broad & Central creates a haven for our community’s artist and writers to unleash the beauty that
lay dormant around us all. On the vastness of paper, where anything is possible and anything
can be written or drawn, students have the opportunity to illuminate the unseen beauty residing
within. We as a writing community encourage each other to express our innermost thoughts
through unique writing exercises every week. In an attempt to challenge our writing abilities and
hone our creative capacity, we begin every session by using a collection of seemingly disconnected
words and phrases to craft a poem, and we end each session with a collaborative one word poem.
In between these two activities we explore myriad forms of poetic and literary expression in an
attempt to broaden the scope with which we can express ourselves and centralize our ideas on
paper. Broad & Central serves as an oasis for all to explore universal truths, to discover our own
personal truths, and to fill the silence with this truth. Individual expression holds tremendous
potential, and, although one may create art in hopes of untangling his/her own puzzles, art
can influence, motivate, and serve as the catalyst to unraveling the mystery that lies within our
hearts. Through our words, whether explicit, indeterminate, flagrant, or sub-texted, we hope to
inspire verbs within you—to be active over passive.
We ensure you, with total humility, that what falls between these cover pages is the antithesis of
misery: serenity, gratification, beauty. For, when the news and logic are not enough and no longer
provide an explanation for what is felt in the deepest depths of our hearts, Broad & Central serves
as the canvas for which our hearts have been year ning—the canvas on which people can reveal
what the news cannot and unleash the inherent goodness that resides within and all around us.
Art is the innate humanness of woman and man. As human-beings, we sometimes find ourselves
realizing that some complexities do not make sense to us. Trapped in the logic of our world and
lost in the maze of incomprehensible rationality, we use drawing, writing, dancing, photography,
and theatre to express what conventional ways have failed to label and box in. Whether through
the body, pen, imagination, or voice, we try to explain the unexplained in a language that every
human can feel, understand, and embrace, and, in this search, art serves as the testimony for
what we discovered. We hope to prevent people from going through life without ever finding
what it is for which they have been year ning but cannot define with reason and rational thought.
In this magazine, several artists share their testimony and the truth they have discovered from
expression; we hope it serves as the impetus for you to embark on your jour ney to those universal
and personal truths…to what is found there.
In the profound solidarity of the pen,
Jada Anderson
Managing Editor-in-Chief
Sandra Osei-Frimpong
Prose Editor-in-Chief
Jessica Debrah
Poetry Editor-in-Chief
Tabl e of C ont e nt s
Cover Page................................................S tephen Mendonca.............................................................i
Accreditation Page...................................C harisma Lambert............................................................i i
Letter from the Editors...........................Jada Anderson.................................................................ii i
Sandra Osei-Frimpong
Jessica Debrah
Table of Contents....................................Broad & Central Team. ............................................... iv - v
POET R Y
Poetr y........................................................Cover Page........................................................................1
Gone...........................................................E bony Felton....................................................................2
Icing on the Cake........................................Muata Nkosi......................................................................2
Colors of Reality........................................Tiaja Harley......................................................................3
Inheritance Mother.....................................Amir Ballard .....................................................................4
Description of the Unknown.......................Jordan Horton...................................................................5
Altitude Sickness........................................Shaquan Nelson.................................................................5
Morning Breeze.........................................Jada Anderson................................................................... 6
Windows....................................................Ms. Herbert.......................................................................6
What We Are..............................................Jada Anderson................................................................... 7
The Feather’s Melody,
The Moon’s Symphony................................Starkwan Bethea...............................................................8
Nameless Rainfall.................................. Ebony Felton....................................................................9
Song...........................................................S ean A. Smart, Jr..............................................................9
Is Life Worth Living..................................A kira Caruth...................................................................1 0
Awakened...................................................S andra Osei-Frimpong ...................................................1 0
The Argument of Contingenc y...................Sierra Stridiron ......... ......................................................11
IT, HERE, HIM, or THEM......................Jessica Debrah.................................................................12
But why, for what......................................Charisma Lambert..........................................................13
Precious Jewel...........................................Amir Ballard...................................................................13
Who am I...................................................Adeyemi Oseni................................................................14
Legato/Staccato.........................................Mr. Taubman..................................................................14 Passing Cemeteries.....................................Mr. McCluskey................................................................13
Her Beauty (Sonnet II)...............................E dward Acosta................................................................15
Lightning in a Bottle.................................Ms. Herbert ....................................................................16
Tabl e of C ont e nt s
The Inanimate............................................Jessica Debrah ..................................................................1 6
Mommy’s Home..........................................Jessica Debrah ..................................................................17
The Spawn of Humanity.......................... Kiesha Khayyam ...............................................................17
Wednesday..................................................T iaja Harley......................................................................18
Watching the Problems Go By....................Paris Murray.....................................................................19
Sermon.......................................................M s. Mastrocco .................................................................19
I’m Just Saying..........................................Joi-Breanna Derrick.........................................................20
P ROS E
ARTiculate (Cover Page)............................D ianeth Her nandez......................................................... ..21
Gambatte....................................................Annabel Bryant ................................................................ .22
Checkmate...................................................Samira Lipsey................................................................. ...23
Leaving Home............................................Imani Johnson .................................................................. .24
The Secret Garden......................................Jada Anderson................................................................ ...25
Truth Be Told............................................Charisma Lambert ............................................................ 26
Good Enough............................................. Jessica Debrah .............................................................. 27-30
VI S U A L A RT
Picture Perfect (Cover Page).......................D ianeth Her nandez......................................................... ..31
Cloud Nine.................................................Jordan Horton.................................................................. .32
Tree of LIfe...............................................Amir Ballard...................................................................... 33
Dream Seeker..............................................Deja’h Smith..................................................................... .34
Grey Matter................................................Dianeth Her nandez...................................................... .....35
End of the Road......................................... Amir Ballard...................................................................... 36
Temporal Order..........................................Jordan Horton...................................................................37
1
POETRY
By: Dianeth Hernandez
2
GONE
By: Ebony Felton
Somewhere stranded with all the rest of my things:
pride left on a lighter,
brighter,
clearer side—
Blink,
to only visualize
the clearer belongings
left in my path
and a companion
with the rest of his effects—
As for my things,
they are left in my fading trail
with the old lingering flesh of me,
seen, but now
gone.
ICING ON T H E C A K E
By: Muata Nkosi
Seventeen bughattis, sixteen iPhones,
fifteen warm beanies, fourteen brand new homes,
thirteen bright snapbacks, twelve burgers to dine,
eleven kit-kats, ten bottles of wine,
nine smooth gold Kobe Zooms, eight silk V-necks,
seven moon trips, six o’s typed on all checks,
five planes for work days, four wives to make lays,
three songs with millions of plays, two chains sway,
one birthday full of material toys—
No humans around to share in your joy,
monsters stay for their material gain,
but you act the same, so how can you blame?
So live long and prosper with those you love,
and cherish Earthly Gods when you’re not above.
3
C OL OR S O F REALI T Y
By: Tiaja Harley
I love my life red—
red like blood, love,
heart, and pain.
All these aspects are in life
and I’m loving all the
different elements life offers.
Like silver love
or black letters on white paper.
Like pink lips
or the letters in your name
in a name that became
my ever ything—
white teeth,
red head,
chocolate sweet,
describe my red.
But red does not know
that it is the
color of reality,
which fades into a pinkness
of nothing.
Red does not love—
Red only hates—
this brings pain to my heart
since my love
flowed through my blood.
4
I N H ERI TANCE MOTHE R
By: Amir Ballard
It is a little known fact
that the greatest men,
the greatest women,
the greatest people,
whoever walked across the face of the earth
were unknown to their own families.
I learned sixteen years after my birth
in the laughter and the pain of the memories that drifted in the room of my house
in the dark voices that cast shadows against the lights of knowledge
my Uncle Rodney, called the “Rock Star”
who could kee p two of my Aunts in the same room without anyone the wiser.
I learned about the strong great-grandmother who so much resembled her daughter
whose tongue was sharp enough to kee p a live tiger at bay.
I heard of how my Grandma’s sisters all had Chinese eyes
and how ever y single of her brothers died suddenly, silently
quietly mourned in the minds of their children as they received imaginar y phone calls
offering Condolences and soliloquies to how their parents were great people,
pillars to the ver y fabric of the bloodline that I have inherited.
I remember the castle that my ancestors owned in the islands through the eyes of my mother
and heard the whispers of the cr ypts from which my family escaped bondage
but I smelled the fresh peas that their bloody hands produced before getting there.
and I remembered the awkward silences that filled the room
When thoughts were thoughts that were better left unheard and unsaid, for fear of the future’s re ply.
I see, through their memories, the inheritance that I could have claimed
I hear the lies and conspiracies that formed the inner outskirts of my mind
and wrote the poem that provided the introspective that I needed
to realize who I was,
where I came from,
and what I wanted to be.
5
D ESC RIPTI O N O F T H E UN K N O WN
By: Jordan Horton
I have come to know my true-self and the lies that cause falter.
I have come to know what is original is just a revisionist copy, for
it’s all been done before and all have extinguished
creativity behind the door.
I have come to know the meaning of real work—
I have the paper cuts to prove it,
mourning the endless murder of letters spoiled and words unsaid on the vastness
of paper.
I have come to know ever ything isn’t permanent—
sadly, even with happiness comes transience.
I have come to know I am who I am for what I become tomorrow:
a burst of color on this blank canvas, a needle in a hay stack,
the active amongst the activists.
I have come to know that as I was, you are—
as I am, you will be.
ALTITUDE S I C K N E S S
By: Shaquan Nelson
a tad bit sicker than the rest of the grinches
love’s no man’s land
i’m a soldier in the trenches
pacifist at heart so I cower with the Frenchmen
altitude sickness
and I make the ocean wetter
with the sweet lies of a future that’s better
child at heart so I have weak feathers
I play the field for the double header
we defeated the odds
so who sold us those nevers?
6
MO RNING BRE E Z E
By: Jada Anderson
The morning breeze pushes pass my bohemian-esque drapes
and cree ps silently upon
my naked skin,
caressing my shoulders, neck, and face.
I turn to welcome it,
rising and pushing away the sins
of the night before. The perfume of
clean air and fresh cut grass
fill my lungs as I partake
this breeze.
It dances around me,
carr ying me to a tub
filled with pink tulip petals and a sweet aroma.
It lowers me into its altar,
washing away the
dirt and
grime
of imprints left upon my skin
that were trapping me. The breeze carries me
back to where it found me this morning,
leaving me limp against a new skin
and escaping back behind
the bohemian-esque drapes.
WIND O WS
By: Ms. Herbert
Windows are always open
In this city.
Windows –
Floor to ceiling.
Window shopping,
Windows of opportunity.
Only glimpses,
No welcome mats,
Leading to open doors.
Doors open for a moment,
Just long enough for you to stand clear,
Before they close.
But open windows surround you Just peeking.
Stand clear of the closing doors.
7
WH AT W E A RE
By: Jada Anderson
The beginning is always the best
The moment the pen hits the blank sheet of white
Ever ything changes forever.
All of these new ideas easily flow out of the ink
And there’s no telling when you will stop.
But soon Writer’s Block sets in
and you tr y to find ways around it
but it is so adamant about not
moving.
There’s no remedy to curing such a disease
What else is there for you to do
but wait for it to pass.
Waiting is the constant of your life.
You sit and wait and turn your head to the darkened skies
And watch the raindrops fall onto your face
…...or so you thought.
Anything can trigger inspiration-A fallen leaf
Snowflakes
The ver y thought of Spring
Blades of grass moving in ever y direction as the wind hits them
Come on, Pen, you say
Work with me
But the pen’s response is silence
and it falls against the floor
and shatters.
8
THE FEATH E R’ S ME L O DY,
THE M O O N ’S S YMP H O N Y
By: Starkwan Bethea
Quietly, quietly,
I dance around wildly
moonlight bathing my skin,
into the palm of my hand
it swe pt into my room,
to this sweet melody.
its soft, faint glow
through the open window
and blew by the moon
to the sound of something low.
Tickling my palm,
I open my eyes,
setting my heart ablaze
and allowing my soul to see.
It woke me up,
Spinning out of bed to
louder and louder,
ever yone dancing
with embers in my heart,
past the door I grazed
and sent my body swaying.
to this wild melody.
A single twirling feather,
the moist street gave
whistling to the dark
and memor y to my feet.
With the humming in my hand
our souls echo and resonate, and
I stumble down stairs
and finally blend
out the door with bare feet
It twirled faster and faster,
back to slee p
and blew up my strands
into the glistening street with no cares,
and with eyes closed
until this melody resounds again.
a small bird perches on a tree.
Drifting down
9
N A M E L E S S R A I N FA LL
By: Ebony Felton
I’d never thought it would rain again—
A soul pouring out effortlessly,
beyond conce ption and record,
damply, along the surface of comfort,
stopping shortly but soon again rushing
beyond a comfort surface.
I’d never thought it rain would again—
But false hope causes the rain to pour harder.
SONG
By: Sean A. Smart Jr.
Song is life—an expression
through lyrical words.
Lyrical words, lyrical words,
lyrical words that say:
Here I am world,
come and get me.
Song is us—the thread that holds
the world together and gets together
with those melodic words.
Song is the art—the expression
of where we’ve been, who we are,
where we’re going.
The word, song,
that word, song—
the lyrical words that we are,
lyrical words, those lyrical words.
We are the lyrical words that tell of the past
struggles and future successes.
We are song, and we will sing,
always.
10
IS L IF E WO R T H L I V I NG?
By: Akira Caruth
Is life worth living when the only thing moving is time?
When the ways of the street have been instilled in your mind,
when it’s not even safe to take a trip to the storel
when nobody cares about human life anymore?
And yeah you have dreams, but life’s got its own vision,
so ever yday life slowly becomes a competition.
You shoot for your dreams, but, somehow, you kee p missing,
so you find yourself taking a break just wishing
for a hero to come to right all the wrong,
to fix the youth whose minds have been ruined by songs
with degradation in ever y single line—
He better hurr y up, ‘cause this hero’s running out of time.
Do you hear the clocks tick-tick-tickin’?
Just a matter of time before these sticks become glocks,
before their time finally stops
and they get shot down just for roaming blocks.
But there’s a positive place, beyond all of this hate,
where you’re the only one who determines your fate—
not your place or your taste, no, not even your race,
only you and your will,
where just for a second time seems to stand still.
Because those ignorant minds, finally start to wisen
and the hero you’ve been chasing finally reaches the horizon.
But as it gets closer it couldn’t be clearer
that the hero you were after always lived in the mirror.
AWA K E N ED
By: Sandra Osei-Frimpong
The brick wall that boxed in my
innocence
has been blasted away.
My mind has gone on a journey of discover y and my soul on a journey
looking for it other half.
But, by the time my soul found its other supposed-half,
I had already woken my mind, penetrated and soiled by human dece ption.
I had wizened my aged attempt to hold on to an innocence
that was not meant to be.
My mind refused to allow my defeated heart
to take part in this big love
that was bound to fall from grace.
11
T H E A R G U M E NT C ONTI NGE NC Y
By: Sierra Stridiron
I have come to know my place in this world.
A burst in the bubble pooling all minds together,
serving as a falter in what is heard and seen as imagination.
Resolve: I am who I am, who I wish to be, and who I will be.
My thoughts are as wide and expansive as the vastness of paper without lines,
blank, clear consciousness interrupted with the trickle of words through the
pinhole of self-awareness,
without misunderstanding,
without understatements.
Lack of clarity, losing one’s self in slee pless slumbers, forgetting
what is right and what is left.
Behind the masks they hide,
it’s all been done before.
Transience of those who come and those who go.
Who will stay?
Not me—I am not immortal.
Rather, what will stay?
My mind, my thoughts,
what makes me who I am.
Resolve: After all the re petition that comes in a sequence and the loss of all
that is known with life and death, all that is left is nothing.
The nothingness that my thoughts can fill with its invisible words,
an abundance of my words that can be held but can’t be seen.
Resolve: Belief in the vulnerability of
Contingenc y.
12
I T, H E R, HIM OR THEM
By: Jessica Debrah
I am the fading sun before your eyes waken.
The memor y you pray to rid yourself of
the obsession that drives you closer to heaven, the myster y that lies in “heaven,”
pending, pounding, corrupting your mind to believe that earth isn’t enough, that there is something greater,
manipulating your mind into a tightly sewn cloth that soaks up ever ything with ease—
I was never easy to forget.
Your creators pounded on my existence, dying to find a name for what it was,
for how it came to be, or if it was to be, and if it was to be an
it, her, him, or them.
The dilemma for sexuality and humanity that drove humans towards the loss of their own humility,
questioning what was never to be known, could never be known, for it or her or him or them went beyond
what they could imagine awake or dreaming—
For the truth falls in the simplicity of things.
But the complexity of the mind and body condemns this it or her or him or them to an insignificant label,
while searching elsewhere for what could never be found.
In the de pth of that loss, the true dece ption that only we could comprehend amongst all.
And this comprehension of ours has proven to be our true doom, never quite allowing us to simply be
fulfilled with what was offered by it or her or him or them.
From this comprehension we knew our enemies as the mirrors of our true selves, and our friends as what
we hope to be.
Searching for what was to be, we lost sight of it or her or him or them that for so long caused the shed of
blood, the tears of happiness, and the destruction of ourselves.
For by searching for it or her or him or them,
just like our creators, we died.
13
BUT WH Y, F OR W HAT ?
By: Charisma Lambert
You are black. Go to the back.
Don’t return.
If I don’t see your body move, you will burn!
I’ve done nothing, but evidently I’m wrong.
But why, for what?
You are black. Go to the back.
Don’t return. If I don’t see your body move—
Yeah I know—I will burn.
But why, for what?
It’s not 1910, there’s no excuse.
I know I’m black and I’m proud,
your despotism over me has long since been allowed.
You are Black.
And so what—
Your car is black, your dog is black,
the ground you walk on is black, and, from speculations in histor y, the God you worship is black—
and you want me to go to the back?
Only if you can tell me why and for what, list ever y reason, besides racism in the 21st centur y.
But why, for what?
Can you answer me that?
Because we blacks,
never did anything to deserve that.
PRE C IO US JE W E L
By: Amir Ballard
Born as a coal, and subjected
to the pressures of life, she rose.
Slowly, but surely, she stood up;
a new atlas to carr y the world
on her blessed shoulders.
Blessed by the Gods and sealed with a kiss of life,
she never opened her heart.
Locked tight in a box of memories,
corrupted thoughts,
hopeless nights, and
tearful eyes,
her light almost went out.
But—a light shined into her sea of darkness
and she turned into the jewel she
was always meant to be;
refracting, reflecting, the hopes of others in her eyes
a precious jewel, indeed.
14
WH O AM I
By: Yemi Oseni
They say, as a child one thinks like a child,
and, as a man one thinks like a man.
So easily do the winds of the world change,
and my perspective of this forsaken place along with it.
Do I leave this place and spread my wings,
or do I stay and rebuild the streets I know so well?
Virtues and vices scrape the fabric of my mind,
and I find the child in me fighting for freedom while condemning this hell.
But the virtues cr y for sympathy and plead for rebirth,
while preserving the chains that have caged me all my life.
And life? Do I live for me
or do I live for those who feel the effects of my actions?
What is my life if I have left no mark of my being?
Is it better to affect more and sacrifice some
or to neglect all and care for one?
As a child, I think as a child.
As a man, I think as a man.
LEG ATO/STA C C AT O
By: Mr. Taubman
A cupful of blossoms hesitates on the kitchen table,
On the corner nearest the open window.
Each day at noon I clipped this cut flower’s stem
Hoping to delay frailty.
Nevertheless, it thinned.
I put a teakettle on the stove.
Libia always put a little too much sugar in her tea.
When somebody’s ashes dance and scatter in the wind,
What remains is a haphazard harmony,
The sum of the moments in which we knew them.
Like in the evening, when the birds have fallen silent,
And all I know is that there was song in the afternoon.
The teakettle sings.
Raindrops tap onto the roof.
Smiling, I listen –
And in the next room
Tati plucks a melody from her guitar.
15
PA S S I N G CE M E T E R I E S
By: Mr. McCluskey
I’ll give up this breath to my ears, and
I’ll breathe your words.
And like a wish,
I take in
this intention,
the vision of my future self—
Holding it, dee ply,
afraid to defer in exhale,
until it floods the dee pest de pths of my lungs and
see ps into my blood and
fills me with an infinite hope that
flushes my cheeks and makes me dizzy.
I cannot,
I will not,
exhale.
I will hold my breath,
and I will wait on you
to let me exhale, like a boy,
in the comfort of this passing cemeter y.
H E R BE A U T Y ( S O N N E T I I )
By: Edward Acosta
I face not a challenge but an impossible task,
not vehemence but something I could never understand,
and that is explaining her beauty as if she had a mask
but knowing full-well words compare not to the heartbeats my chest commands.
If only one could take her eyes
and compare it to the morning sun,
only the moon herself would lie
to not embarrass the shadow God bore as Son.
If air held her at glance
or raced her lucid smile,
then even the clouds would take patient stance
waiting for the foolish wind’s much longer while.
But if Time only stood in between innocent flaw and death’s perfection,
well then irrelevance would stand between time and my heart’s dedication.
16
L I G H TN I N G I N A B O T T LE
By: Ms. Herbert
Have you ever tried to bottle lightning?
The closest you’ll get is fireflies.
Transient creatures stay for a season
And vanish with summer’s end Intermittent flickers of light fill your jar,
Bringing temporar y awe, but no substitute.
The roar of the thunder,
The treacherous flash,
That thrill as much as they menace,
Are out of your reach.
Meant to be gingerly marveled
Never tamed nor timed.
Never confined.
Have you ever tried to bottle lightning?
I tried once in my innocence.
The flaring bolt tore calm sky without warning,
Demanding pause and notice.
Arrested my curiosity and wouldn’t let go.
But when the night was black again,
I was left only with longing.
It never strikes the same place twice.
TH E I N A N I M AT E
By: Jessica Debrah
I was born when sweat and skin-peeling hands carved me into a comforter.
Never retrieved like secrets between desperate housewives on autumn nights, when the leaves changed colors,
the pennies hidden underneath my thighs, rusted away as my owners fell apart.
The moon rose, blue as the ocean’s waves, as his blues drowned in liquor.
He we pt on me as I wrapped him in the skin of my body: his body rested, night after night, on my heart, as I tried
to breathe life back into the drowned soul of a fatherless man.
His head lay in my arms after late night arguments about meaningless things that created meaningful cracks.
On this fateful day, the sun rose from cracks in the sky to reveal the wrinkled sketch of a man aged too soon.
Her footste ps were never heard.
It was just him and me,
slowing tearing apart fabric by fabric, slowing dying—
And, in this, we lost ourselves in each other.
17
M O M M Y’ S H O M E
By: Jessica Debrah
My image is of her opening the gate to the house,
opening the joy that’s hidden beneath the innocent hearts of her three boys, who are
manipulated by those small arrangement of words , “I love you—I’ll buy you a McDonalds’ happy meal,”
mesmerized by the sweet taste of the goodies she bought to mask the void caused by a mother suffocated,
yearning for her attention and sweet care and goodnight kisses condensing until she leaves again.
Isolation sips into the dips she creates with her live-ins and the
survival instinct that it is better to make money than stay home and care for her children.
Always filled with the fatigue from a day to night’s work,
lonesome illness of abandonment overshadows her children’s hearts while her childhood she claims to have
wounded with her womb, never
accurately deliberating the reality at hand, she revisits her past but never notices the
yearning her children have for her to
stay just one day with them. To say
Goodnight while lying beside them as her
oval shaped lips imprint the crescent moon on their faces; faces that wish upon the stars and moon for one
night when she can be home and rest in the evening with them
TH E S PA W N O F H U M A N I T Y
By: Keisha Smith
The night rises as the moon kicks
the sun to the west.
The stars glisten and sparkle in a misty
haze of outer space
and smoke, which reaches up into the night air,
shrilling screams intertwine
with the smoke as blood stains the earth.
Panic and wear y reaches its zenith
in the acts of abomination and
trusted on to the aspirations of a rose bud who waited
to become a blossomed rose
consumed by the rouge of nature.
A howl that trembles trees and frightens wind,
manifests into a creature absent
of soul and engrossed in time and blood.
18
W E D N E S D AY By: Tiaja Harley
I am fatherless, I am clueless, I am less less,
less than 1 but more than 0.
Do I fall between like the pennies in cushion seats?
But, I am mothermore, I am forever more, I am more more,
more than 100 but less than 101.
Do I count myself as whole or 1 less than a whole?
Because, in all actuality, I am what I want to be.
At least that’s what I think, or am I what my father thinks?
Wait, that doesn’t matter; it would’ve if I weren’t so fatherless.
Or could I be what my mother thinks?
I take that back. I could be if I weren’t so mother more.
Okay let’s start over—I am sister, I am an old, I am older sister.
Older sister of 10—ten little young ones
who shine like the stars I never get to see.
But I am love, I am pain, I am painful love,
painful love like a nasty scar—that death slices at the heart.
These titles is theirs imposed on me like a subject verb agree.
I am nothing without my subject hypocrisy—
Like genero y numero, no soy una chica que no entiendo mi raizes.
Si soy una Boricua pero
I live in America.
I take up after a father I do not have and
forget about the mothers who raise me.
19
WAT C HING TH E P R O B LE M G O B Y
By: Paris Murray
I’d never thought it would rain again—
A soul pouring out effortlessly,
beyond conce ption and record,
damply, along the surface of comfort,
stopping shortly but soon again rushing
beyond a comfort surface.
I’d never thought it rain would again—
But false hope causes the rain to pour harder.
SER MON
By: Ms. Mastrocco
the four o’clock sunlight that falls across the living room
throws your shadow, making you look like
the giant that you are on the inside.
your shoelaces are untied
but the limp-wristed way in which you
animate your words tells me that you’re unfazed.
you unconsciously pace the floor
back and forth back and forth
as the music in the next room builds.
I wonder if you can hear it.
you stop with your arms in the air, head hanging low,
as the climax strikes and begins to descend,
and you’re finally ready to sit down.
eyes rimmed with tears, and cheeks as rosy
as your ruby-red sweater.
you collapse into yourself
and fade into the couch.
20
I’M JUST S AY I N G
By: Joi-Breanna Derrick
Light and rain
flow with the sane, turning
my eyes to clovers.
Fire and ice
churn and entice,
the impasse to freedom.
The winds turn litter into tiny tornados—
Will you go against the force?
Or go with the flow?
How do I strike against and
revert against the arrows?
Run from the liars,
hide from the hurt—
Relentless words, curt,
My skin tight, crimson and white,
Over and over.
How can I control
what was never mine?
How do I let go
of vicious screaming sounds?
Glass, breaking—
the end, breathtaking,
but you will never know—
That’s the if of cliffhangers
Against the wall,
battering my head—
Call me crazy,
but aren’t these people losing that
innate sense of humanness?
They are cowardly creatures,
afraid of the not,
I am just saying.
ART iculate
By: Dianeth Hernandez
22
GAMBATTE
By: Annabel Bryant
On my first day of school in America, I skipped to the brown soaring unknown environment with
excitement. As I cre pt anxiously to my locker, I heard giggles and whispers. Closing my locker door, a girl
intentionally tripped me and yelled, “Watch where you are going, African booty scratcher.” A chorus of
laughter joined in right after her stabbing words. Ashamed by the laughter, I ran away from the crowd.
On my second day of school in America, I rushed into the giant brown building that no longer had an
affable atmosphere. Upon entering the building, I raced through the hallways to find the sign that said,
“girl’s bathroom,” so as to avoid any more conflicts. I opened the door swiftly, slammed it behind me and
locked the door. My constant wee ping allowed me to lose track of time until I heard a knock on the door.
A familiar voice came from outside and forced me to open up. It was my mother who welcomed me with
open arms. At that moment, I was relieved and comforted.
On my third day of school in America, my legs quivered from the fear of entering the dark building.
Before pulling the shiny, heavy door, I turned around to see if my mother were still there. She wasn’t, and,
in her place, a cold, hard substance kissed my face and shattered against my soft caramel skin. Though I
couldn’t grasp it in the moment; someone had just hit me in the face with a glass bottle. My thin legs gave
up on me and I hit the ground, back first. The warm, thick substance oozing from my body mixed with the
cold sweet liquid and traced the outline of my body. Once again, I fell back into my mother arms. These
hardships made me ask myself, “Is this the land of opportunity and if so, why doesn’t it apply to me?”
On my fourth day of middle school, a new school, called North Star Academy, I learned about a core
value: “gambatte,” which means perseverance in Japanese. My teachers instilled in us that, though we
may face adversity, one should always work harder because that is the true definition of one’s character.
On my fifth day of my sophomore year at North Star Academy High School, I began to realize that the
land of opportunity can apply to me. It was then that I realized that my mother can no longer defend me
and that I need to fend for myself. Coming into high school, I faced new challenges. For example taking
Spanish for me was harder than for my peers because English was not my first language. Throughout
my years, I lived by doing the bare minimum in my class. I did not participate and avoided ever y way to
not speak this unknown language. Concerned about my tactics, Señora Aponte told me, “In life things are
not given to you, you have to go out and get it.” When hearing this, I realized that nobody can solve my
problems for me. My mother will always be there to aid me and encourage me to hold my head up high,
but she cannot always do ever ything for me. America can become my land of opportunity through what I
had learned many years ago as a middle school student: gambatte.
On my last day of college in America, I will be a re presentation of a strong, intelligent Liberian woman.
I will be a role model for my siblings. I will be a proud college graduate, and I will not allow external
forces to interfere with the goals I set forth for myself and make this the land of opportunities for me
and others
23
C H E C K MAT E
By: Samira Lipsey
The sound of the pieces moving was so intimidating. Clack! What am I going to do? What am I going to
do? I had to make a decision quickly; ever y second that I waste renders the moment more intense. Ever y time
my opponent puts his piece down, I had to make these meticulous decisions as if I were one of the pieces
in the game. The light shined brightly on the beige and brown chess board as a million of possibilities ran
through my mind tr ying to make my move.
My father always advised, “Life is like a chess game ever y move you make is crucial and important.” I
started playing my dad in chess when I was twelve year old, but I never really acknowledged what he was
saying or knew what he meant. Yet, each year I learn new strategies and skills, and his words have begun
to take hold of my resolve. And, even though he always beats me, I perpetually challenge him.
One day I challenged my father. I thought I improved a great deal in the game of chess. I fought precisely
and passionately. I meticulously and painstakingly considered ever y move I made because, once you make
the wrong move, the entire game is over. Even though I was vigilant, careful, and pre pared, I still lost;
however, I never gave up. Some days my brother used to ask me, “Why do you still play when you always
lose?” Well I am never going to give up. Even though it may be impossible to beat my father, I will never
stop tr ying. That is not the type of person that I am. My father always said, “Lipseys never give up.” And
I won’t. That’s one thing that I will not do.
As I got older, I started to think about the chess games that I used to play with my father. It taught me
various life lessons: like to never give up and how to read people. Perhaps it should not be called the game
of chess, but the game of life. There is an Irish saying, “Once the game is over, the pawn and king go in
the same box.” Through playing the game of chess, I’ve learned that people may seem different because of
the way the act or because they have money, but, at the end of the day, they’re people and that makes them
the same. I still struggle in much of what I do, but I never, nor will I ever, give up. Nothing has stopped
me. Just like in the game of chess, one must make the right decisions in life. If one messes up his or her life
and does not make these important moves, he or she will fail. I refuse to fail; I will never be in checkmate.
24
LEAVING HOME
By: Imani Johnson
(Mark 5:25-29)
I forbid myself to make any complaints.
In my hiding place you said we’ll meet.
I am now apologizing for submitting to defeat.
Please forgive me for molding our relationship into a one way street.
I lay my soul on the horizon; my casket houses my body with the strength of the Earth. Eliminating
the tre pidation of a decision that I struggled to make, I can now say that I am cognizant of what
it feels like to Rest in Peace—tranquility. Whether or not it was the right decision baffles me and
blows a sudden chill over my heart. Until this day, I’d dreamed of a fresh, new beginning in a
serene place that I could potentially mold into a home. Accomplishing this, I would have made
a stable foundation for a future, I thought. Now, alone, I ponder if I’d masqueraded hope for a
better future with lust for simply wanting to fulfill a childhood dream of my own, conceiving an
erroneous re plica of actuality. Will there ever be an opportune moment to rekindle the life I thought
was golden or sew the tattered destiny that I subconsciously manipulated with the strength of
having a choice? Earth’s fresh air envelopes me and my spirit sails across the sunset momentarily.
Living has coaxed me to mistake my short excursion for liberty. The murky waters mar my shadow,
but the light of the moon attempts to bring it back into existence. I am shackled to the memories
of my Nirvana by the heart, but today I die to them, raising them to the Heavens as a sacrifice; I
long to be restored.
Turmoil within my mind is claimed by the winds of the ocean and, again, I lay my soul on the
horizon, this time, with the anticipation of a brighter tomorrow.
25
THE SECRET GARDEN
By: Jada Anderson
I stared at the image on the yellow, blinding cover that lay in my teacher’s pinkish hands. In between the two
plastic covers lay a thick, yellow mass of paper that reeked of old age and dust. The small print intimidated
my immature eyes. I looked up at Mrs. Heath, her rosy cheeks and round pair of glasses staring back at
me. I couldn’t comprehend why she was handing me something whose insides could easily lull me to slee p.
But there was a spark the moment it transferred from her hands to mine. I stared at the bolded letters, The
Secret Garden, and the picture of the girl with Goldilocks’s curls curiously looking into a slightly open
door with golden light peeking through.
My eyes moved longingly from the strange girl to the dusty bookshelf behind Mrs. Heath, where a Junie B.
Jones book sat propped between others. Mrs. Heath explained to me that I was ahead of my peers and wanted
to challenge me with more advanced reading. I was a naïve ten-year-old who loved rudimentar y texts. I
could not foresee that such a challenge was exactly what I needed, for I was too concerned with what Junie’s
next kindergarten adventure would be or what other crazy thing Amelia Bedelia would do.
As I began to explore the world of the ten-year-old protagonist, Mar y Lennox, I became enchanted by this
secret garden that she had found at her uncle’s mansion. The words of Frances Hodgson Burnett mesmerized
me and painted an image that I had never seen before. I grew more excited each time I opened that bright
yellow cover. The Secret Garden had tapped into a part of my imagination that was out of reach for Junie
B. Jones and Amelia Bedelia – I could see the dead flowers in the garden, feel the warm breeze, smell the
fresh air, and hear the red robin chirping on the wall of the garden.
From there, my love for reading was born. I began to look for more books that painted pictures instead of
just telling stories. I was infatuated with the language that these advanced books held, and I desperately
wanted to know how I could write like that.
Eight years later, the pen has become my best friend. I have devoted my entire high school career to writing,
from writing leisurely and creating a collection of poetr y for a project to becoming the Managing Editorin-Chief of my school’s literar y magazine, Broad and Central. Wherever I go, I bring some paper and a
pen because I know that I will see something captivating that I can write about.
Like Mar y, I searched through vines and plants to find the key that would unlock the door to a whole new
world. Once I found the key, I opened the door and discovered the world of writing. Sprouting in the
corner were haikus. Hanging down the sides of the walls were persona poems. The floor of the garden was
inundated with free verse poems. As I learned the different types of writing, I began to slowly build my own
garden, filling it with my own words and images. This is something that I have developed a passion for. I
want to continue growing and nurturing my garden and share it with other people in hopes that someone
will be touched by my words, the same way I was touched by the words of The Secret Garden.
26
T R U T H B E T O LD
By: Charisma Lambert
“Be truthful this time because lying won’t get you anywhere,” she said. But I once heard that the truth
hurts and lies heal.
“Lying won’t get you anywhere,” he said. This coming from the man who, because I’ve lied, and I’ve lied
successfully, has bought me a car, pays for ever ything I want on this earth, and de posits $50,000 in my
bank account ever y few months as “tuition” because he thinks I go to his alma mater. How far can the
truth take me if lying will not take me anywhere? Will it take me to his level as a rich pushover who
played by the books all his life so it took him twenty years just to get to the level of his career his father
achieved in five? See his father taught me this craft, so I’m puzzled how lying hinders me, when it has
been my life code since the age of two.
“Are you listening to us?” he said. Probably not, since he is talking a bunch of trash, the truth has lies
and my lies are my truth so perhaps I’ll tell the truth this time.
“Are you going to respond?” she asked and I nodded.
“Well then, talk,” he sneered. So I started right in the middle of my... “truth.”
“I took the car to the party, but I didn’t drive it drunk, someone else got a hold of the keys and must have
went on a joy ride ending in that disaster,” I bluffed or, at least, I tried because he came back at me with
the sharpest remark I’ve ever heard from him.
“Are you done with telling me a fool’s tale?—because someone is dead and you know what happened.” His
detective spirit was kicking in, but I didn’t budge.
“I told you…” I started.
“I know you told us what you wanted, but someone is dead because of your car, according to the law you
did it…” That was the lawyer coming out of him, I zoned out after “it,” but once he finished I had the
chance to speak.
“You want the truth?” I asked.
“Yes the real truth,” he said, “please.” That was the first time I heard him beg, but I couldn’t resist. I sat
back, to wash the grin off my face and, with the most sincere voice, I explained, “Well, you can’t handle
the truth.” There’s no words to describe his face, and after that he got up and walked out.
“The police will be here in 30 minutes, if you don’t confess to us how are you going to talk to our
lawyer?” she pleaded with the rich “my money buys the world” ebbing from her voice.
“What are the consequences... of... an incident like this?” I sort of asked.
“What the?” she paused, “Why does it matter? Just tell us the truth.”
“Okay,” I went on a tangent, but she bought it. The lawyers tore me apart, but money can buy you
anything because all I got was one-hundred hours of community service and all the lawyers got a lie. But
like my mommy said, “Lying won’t get you anywhere.”
27
G O O D E NO U G H
By: Jessica Debrah
Time: 60 minutes
Think…think Jessica. My head hurts. I’m hungr y. No! Think about the essay, think dee per… The Street
by Ann Petr y…
I’m hungr y…NO! Six hours pre paring for this and all you have to say is “I’m hungr y” and “your head
hurts.”
Hurts. Lutie Johnson hurts. Jones hurts. Pain. So much pain in The Street. Yes, connect it to your essay.
The pain of feeling caged in. Yes.
Focus.
The hook, my bait, as a fisherman, to hook these readers… A stimulating question? Okay a question
hook. No, questions are too full of a complexity that yields too much and not enough all at the same time.
Think, more creatively.
A quote. Yes. Mr. McCluskey always uses amazing quote hooks in his essays. I wish I could do that. Okay.
Yes. A quote hook…about dehumanization…Something from Night? Something about dehumanization
affecting all of us indirectly and directly? No! That doesn’t work for this essay. Whatever Jessica, it’ll
be good enough.
Think better than good enough!
Imager y…a vivid image? Just write something. The clock is ticking.
Surrounded by four walls and a roof that Cages one caging one into a basement with no sunlight
and no form of human interaction, one lacks the love and compassion that fertilizes the soul
within them due to human interaction due to the denial to this love, one physically ages as any
animal on the planet does without a heart or soul that can comprehend humanity or morals. the
darkness would consume an individual causing him/her to lack the love and compassion that
fertilizes the soul within. Due to this denial of compassion, one physically ages as any animal
on the planet does; yet he would age without a heart or soul that can comprehend humanity or
morals. Jones, a character created by Petry, spends his whole life in profession that causes him to
be caged in and excluded from the world…
Thesis statement. Thesis statement. Thesis statement. Thesis statement. Mr. McCluskey says it is the
most important sentence in my essay—just writing something. It’ll be good enough. Why is your hand
moisturized with sweat? Why are you stressing yourself out? Jessica, focus, what is your point? What is
the point, the argument, the message that you’re tr ying to convey? Write!
Through the juxtaposition of Jones to his dog, the symbolism of the closest, and Jones’s
flashbacks to his previous professions, one can see how Jones’s animalistic attributes reflect his
conformity to societal oppressions. Good enough?
28
Time: 44 minutes
You’ve wasted sixteen minutes on your intro. Mr. McCluskey advised we spend eight minutes on our
intros—you’re wasting so much time. Write. Write. Write. Write!
Jones’s flashbacks illustrate the sequence of strategic oppressions that have caused society to trap him, thus
dehumanizing him. Jones spends his whole life in professions that cause him to be caged, excluding him
from the world. When Jones reminisces about his past, he shares the stor y of when he comes back from the
ship and goes home “hungar y hungr y for a woman,” but the woman denies his offer exclaiming “no , you
can’t come in” (282). “hungar y”
Hungar y? Really, Jessica? Jones is not feeling a countr y for a women. Hungr y not Hungar y… You’re
distracting yourself. Kee p writing. You’re running out of time. Just write something—it’ll be good
enough.
Write better than good enough.
The rejection of companionship when he had just been completely excluded from human contact
on the ship creates a void within Jones. Petry utilizes the diction of “hungry” to highlight the
deep ache in Jones for companionship especially love from a women. ..From all his jobs which had
been jobs of isolation. This isolation dehumanizes Jones causing him to repel human contact…I
am re pelling this essay.
You should tr y to give clemenc y on these two fingers that have always been poorly wounded by your
handwriting. You need to take a break. I can’t! I can’t stop! I must show my competence. I am competent.
I am not incompetent. I am impotent. I am incompetent. I am competent. I…am running out of time!
Time: 33 minutes
Jones shares with readers that “after he left the sea, he had a succession of jobs as a night
watch and he was alone again” (86). Through his profession, the profession offered to him
by society, he is always alone; the loneliness eats his humanity away causing him to behave
like an animal. Min notes “maybe if he had more sun, he would have been different” (370).
Maybe if Jones was not trapped in loneliness through his professions, and he was exposed to
“more sun,” more interactions, he would not be unbearable to live with. He pushes people away
through his animalistic qualities losing any companionship that comes his way. The repudiation
of companionship creates a void and “loneliness that [eats]” him into pieces. Petry expounds
upon this “emptiness” through the symbolism of the closest.
Through the symbolism of the closest, petry evoke how Jones is a product of his society
due to his animalistic actions that causes him to be empty and heartless. The closest is first
introduced when Jones goes into Lutie’s closest while she was at the nightclub and he “ looked
closely at the blouses … and it smelt like the…
Why did you cross that out? That was good enough! Not good enough. Stop dying to impress. Just
write! Write about what?
29
My loneliness, my emptiness, Jones’s loneliness, his emptiness? The emptiness within myself, the need to
fill the hole with praise and accolade from what I produce and not what I am? The dangerous desire to
please and be good enough? Be loved? The desire to be enough for all? Being “hungr y” for a her or
a him. For a them. Yearning for companionship and destroying it once I have it with my own personal
attributes Violently crushing it all. Sinking myself in school work and trivial matters in order to avoid
the any possibility of a family bond? Isolating myself from the possibility of a greater disappointment?
Being my own enemy, inner me. Corrupted with this self-destructing idea to always be better than good
enough
The emptiness…
kills…write…
Through the symbolism of the closest, Petry conveys how Jones is a product of his society
due to his animalistic actions that cause him to be empty and heartless. Better. The closest
is first introduced when Jones goes into Lutie’s closest while she is at the nightclub and he “
look[s] closely at the blouses … and it [smells] like the talcum and he crush[es] it violently
between his hand…”(108). Petry uses the diction of “violently” to convey the obsessive and
irrational behavior of Jones as he “smells” the clothes of Lutie and “crush[es] it violently” as
if he is an animal, a dog that “smells” something it desires but is unable to tenderly treat it.
Yearning for companionship and destroying it once I have it with my own personal attributes. Jones’s
actions towards Lutie’s clothes evoke his great desire to have Lutie, his great desire to have
human companionship due to his lack of exposure to it through his profession that caused great
isolation. The dangerous desire to please and be good enough? To be loved? However, when he has
this interaction he “crush[es] it violently,” allowing his developed animalistic traits to hurt any
interactions he has with humans.
The timer is staring at you. It mocks you, suffocates you. I’ll suffocate the life out of this pen. Focus.
Write. It’ll be good enough.
Write better than good enough.
Time: 18 minutes
His continuous lack of human interaction goes on as it leaves a huge hole inside him dredged by
society’s oppression.
The juxtaposition of Jones to his dog allows readers to witness how Jones and his dog’s actions
directly mirror each other, evoking how Jones acts as an animal. On a dark night when Lutie
is filled with high spirits from a gig at the night club; however her joy soon disappears as
Jones appears on the doorstep attempting to rape her by “dragging her toward the cellar
door” as the dog “leap[s] on her back” (236). Petry parallels the action of Jones and his dog as
both physically violating Lutie in order to portray how Jones and his dog almost become one.
Furthermore, when Lutie sees the dog’s “tail between her legs” this clearly illustrates Jones’s
goal to get in between Lutie’s legs and have his way with her (236). The actions of the dog
30
illustrate Jones’s barbaric intentions and his uncontrollable sex drive, his need for intimacy.
Too much is at risk. My mind feels loaded with twenty pounds of brick. My mind needs a massage,
TheagonyoftheEnglishlanguageoverwhelmsme
Time: 6 minutes
I tr y to calm myself …
..I can’t
I should be better than good enough I could be better than good enough I MUST be better than good
enough Shouldcouldmust. Must must must. Write write write writewritewrite.
The symbolic nature of the closest, the flashbacks of Jones’s profession, and the mirroring
of Jones to his animals all complement each other in demonstrating how Jones embodies all
the oppression that society throws his way causing him to become a product of his society: an
animal. So what!? Why did Ann Petr y write 400 and something pages of this book? She was bored and
lonely. You’re bored and lonely. Do not project yourself on Petr y.
She must’ve never read Hamlet: “Brevity is the soul of wit.” Mr. McCluskey would be proud—I am
using Shakespeare. Would that make me good enough? Well then I guess this book is full of it; Lutie just
wasn’t smart enough. Jones was not enough. Petr y was not good enough. I am not good enough.
Focus. She wrote of c yclical oppression…
The c yclical oppression that black men are trapped in. Petry’s purposeful decision to create a barbaric
character that reflects the stereotypes of a black man. Petry does this to evoke the subconscious
lethal effect of oppression on the minds of the people in the society. The oppressions within
society can ruin an individual mentally and emotionally.
Time: 0 minutes
I gather my sheets and shake out my hands.
Is this better than good enough?
I’m still hungr y.
VISUAL ART
PICTURE PERFECT
By: Dianeth Her nandez
32
DREAM SEEKER
By: Deja’h Smith
33
CLOUD NINE
By: Jordan Horton
34
TREE OF LIFE
By: Amir Ballard
35
GREY MATTER
By: Dianeth Her nandez
36
END OF THE ROAD
By: Amir Ballard
37
TEMPORAL ORDER
By: Jordan Horton
BROA D& CE NT RA L
By: Mr. McCluskey
I con words —
Turn inside and outside
and upside around —
I con verse —
I’ll defy a nation
through conversation
to create a converse nation,
a reversal of the status quotation —
A disciple of change,
I’ll rage on this stage
Take the words of the page and I’ll spit ‘em
Hard.
I’ll spit ‘em
quick —
I’ll spit ‘em until they really stick —
I’ll take it state by state
To Cali and Prop 8
I’ll stand on a soapbox
outside of PA Avenue haven’t you heard
what I’m tellin’ you
The word, the rhyme, the inner-mind
Are all wrapped up in this
Little aside.
A sidewalk philosopher
Conversing Broadly but
hittin’ the heart of the matter,
centrality of heart,
cenrality of mind,
just spittin’ my rhymes
on
Broad and Central.
Write & Be Embraced
Draw & Be Celebrated
Create & Be Remembered
Vo l. 3 I ssue 2 , C om i ng Soon
By: Timeese Townes
E X P R E S S YO UR S E L F
Want to be published?
Want to be on the editing board?
Email
b ro a d a n dc e nt r al @gm ai l . c om