cantos - Jesuit High School

CANTOS
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Jesuit High School
2006-2007
Senior Editor
Katherine Bakke
Assistant Editors
Christina Heinlen
Andrea Rosales
Madisen Semet
Mallika Yavatkar
Faculty Advisor
Jada Pierce
Graphics Assitance
Hillary Currier, Faculty Advisor
Edwin lanes
Sean Roney
Student Readers
Nik Bowen
Spencer Degerstedt
Camille Nicolle Estabillo
Allison Francis
Peter Gallagher
Lizzie Meier
fared O’Loughlin
Erik Peterson
Salain Tesseina
Kelsey Wilkins
Special Thanks
Michael Benware
Maurice Fykes
Gail Fleenor
Eric Mellor
Cover art by Nik Bowen from his “Souls” series, Clockwise
from top left: “Robust Soul,” “Enlightened Soul,” “Lover’s
Soul,” “Aggressive Soul”
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Sketch by Geoff Vincent
Contents
Alpha Tessema
4
Jensen Vollum
6
Leigh Schommer
Kari Davidson
Megan Petrusich
Beth Fagan
Kirsten Reinhart
Camille Nicolle Estabillo
Allie Hawes
Perry Nickerson
Henri Wuilloud
Morgan Woods
S
9
10
11
15
16
17
18
19
20
The Laws of Man
Bedroom
Truth Behind...
Sleep
Your Inner Side
Scratchboard: Elephant
My Brother the Moose
Swift Season
Photography: Tower
A Daughter’s Woe
Experience
People
Sadness
Graphite: Child
Kelsey Wilkins
21
Nik Bowen
23
Peter Gallagher
Kelsey Wilkins
Madisen Semet
25
26
27
Rob Williams
Cecilia Estraviz
Ben Katz
Caitlin Cruickshank
Madeline Botteri
29
30
31
32
33
Ifrah Sheikh
Toryn Slater
Will Mehigan
Kelsey Wilkins
Sam Conchuratt
Jacque Bonciolini
Nik Bowen
34
37
38
39
40
41
42
Mai Anh Van-Dinh
Nate Dick
Mary Payne
44
45
46
Emmanuel Clark
48
Maha Pasha
Spencer Degerstedt
Tyler Montgomery
Connor Cahill
Martie Massey
Lizzie Meier
Kyle Craven
Emily McCool
Christina Heinlen
50
51
52
53
55
56
57
60
61
Charlotte Dugoni
Sean Devlin
64
65
The Departure
Ah! Sunflower
One Hundred Skies...
Picking Mv Brain
Expressional Exodus
Graphite; Clown
Turned Away
Graphite: Audrey
The Cell Phone
iPod
Me or 1?
Photography: Road
What We Must...
Disappear! A magic act
Grand Central Station
Scratchboard: Gorilla
Wild Wind
Faceworid
Graphite: Jugs
Loneliness
Mixed Media: Face
Photography: Down
Photography: Lift Me
Ink: Girl
Photography: Portland
Photography: Mask
Photography: Chairs
Photography: Deer
Photography: Foxglove
Acrylic: 13
Photography: Green
Chalk: Old Man
A Snapshot of Africa
Perfection
Magnetism
The River Flows
Scratchhoard; Snake
Basketball
The River
Tribute To Welch’s...
The Traveling Scrap...
Life is Not Yet
Tom Kioucek
Alice Pascual
Caitlin Cruickshank
Edvin Janes
Kirsten Reinhart
Harnoor Singh
Joey Bieze
Geoff Vincent
Cait]in Cruickshank
Erin Simpson
Allison Francis
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
77
Joey Bieze
Fred Long
Katherine Bakke
77
78
79
Mai Auth Van-Dinh
Madisen Sernet
Salarn Tessema
80
81
83
84
Kate Rafter
Caitlin Cruickshank
Zanele Mutepfa
Mallika Yavatkar
86
87
88
90
J oev I3ieze
91
92
J oey Bieze
Fred Long
Ink: If I Were Many...
Listen
Photography: Music
Glow in the Dark
Photography: Path
Not Fine
Sketch: Bird
A Self-Rumination
Photography: Weeds
The Hummingbird
Today
Last Sunday
Sketch: Squid
Photography: Cat
6,570 Days on Earth
The Power of Tight...
Emily Dickinson...
Ink: Fear Nothing
Sketch: Whale
Acrylic: Moschino
The Battle
Nouvelle Orleans
Superhuman
Photography: Gloves
African Queen
An Empty Room
Invisible
Sketch: Snake
Photography: Light
ALPHA TESSEMA
The Laws of Man
He’s waist deep now.
Treading water in his sweat,
He wonders why they won’t allow...
He bleeds to know why they won’t endow,
With all the power and strength
He’s waist deep now.
He sees a man float by with ease, no sweat forming on his
brow.
He will fight to the death.
He wonders why they won’t allow.
Fame and glory stand before him, a part) a luau,
As he sets his mind on earthly fruit, it is not enough.
He’s ,rajst deep now.
He looks to his family, enraged, and reasons without
Truth; truth he couldn’t see, of his real wealth,
He wonders why they won’t allow.
At last, he stumbles to the ground and cries aloud,
An address to his Maker, it’s too late, greed catches his
stealth,
He’s waist deep now.
He wondered why they wouldn’t allow.
4
Bedroom
No place can comfort me,
like you do.
Gazing into your gaping mouth.
Cluttered, just the way I like it,
speaking to me.
What a sweet smell seeps through the frame.
The Cross on my left,
the face of God on my right.
I look at the way the sun reflects on the walls.
You tell the history of my life,
for it is in you that I have changed,
growing and maturing over the years.
Through success and failure I have dwelled in you.
Your arms catch me as I fall in distress,
and you are a safe place.
Life changes, people change, things change.
But you, no, you stay the same.
Quietly observing.
But when I leave,
rjl1 you still be?
So much has happened in such little time,
will you wait for me?
Will I ever see you again?
And when I die,
will you quietly observe another?
5
JENSEN VOLLUM
Truth Behind the Rage of War
Can one betray his sense of right
And in deception dodge the light?
Can intentions stem from malice
Should one develop such a callous?
Apathetic Atheistic
Disregard or Disbelief
Of future judgement
Consequences
Of a life full-brimmed with hate
—
Or are morals all subjective
To one’s own experiences?
Can your mortal conscience differ
From those of opposing neighbors?
If we are all but beguiling
Can we succeed in so contriving
To perceive our own convictions
Or is this merely our contention
If our conclusions be so different
Who is right and who is wrong?
How many casualties of conflict
Must endure the battles long?
For if between us
Both unyielding
Can no compromise compose
How can we ever seek revealing
Truth behind the rage of war?
6
Sleep
I wander through the mists of night,
Forgotten hours of delight,
When time is lost ‘fore dawn’s first light
Time has vanished, all its might.
Unenchanted rest in creeps,
Like a blanket, warm it keeps,
While like a child, pure I sleep,
Honey-coated dreams now seep.
And as I dream such visions clear,
Of vibrant colors ever near,
And sounds as sweet as angels hear,
A blessing ‘pon my tired ears.
I smell the honey-suckle vine,
I taste the sweet and pungent wine,
I love these dreams for they are mine,
These meaningless yet lovely songs.
Yet all great things must sometime end,
And as I turn my road doth bend,
More time I pray for night to lend,
But night recedes and nothing sends.
Greedily I wish to stay,
And in this garden ever play,
But time has caught itself at last,
All else now is in the past,
Never, I’ll return this way,
So now burst forth this brand new day.
7
LEIGH SCHOMMER
Your Inner Side
The better you are gives you glory
The smarter you are gives you pride
And whether or not these are used just for you
Will depict who you are inside
The defect of pride comes from power
That power can then become lust
And once the greed gets inside you
It will stay until things are unjust
The view of justice is heart-filled
Where one’s goals are to live for all good
So take the beliefs that you gain from your faith
And present them with love as you should
8
I
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MEGAN PETRUSICH
My Brother the Moose
My Brothei the moose,
Roams around clueless,
Oblivious of his surroundings.
He lies around by the highwa
Grinding the bitter, wild grass between his teeth.
His short, brown hair parts
When the wild wind blows.
You can tell by the foul smell
That he hasn’t been groomed for awhile.
Across the highway there is a river,
Where he can drink and bathe.
Everyday he makes the commute,
Across the deserted highway.
One special day,
He didn’t look to see if anyone was in sight.
He clumsily ventured across the highway,
When a car came passing b
The car slammed into him,
Throwing him up in the air
And smashing the windshield.
My Brother, the moose, was not hurt at all.
From that day on,
He will always look twice
Before crossing the highway,
Then prance across quickly.
10
ROB WILLIAMS
The Cell Phone
The phone rang and the lights flickered ominously.
Jack was finishing up a few things at the office on
Halloween night. He felt badly about not taking his kids
out trick-or-treating, but this project had to be completed.
He was about to leave when the ringing began. The lights
of his cell phone flickered one last time, then darkness. On
the other end of the line was the chilling sound of a woman
screaming hysterically for help.
Jack asked frantically, “Where are you?”, feeling that
the woman had little time.
There was no reply, oniy a few seconds more of
screaming, a burst of static, then the annoying hum of the
dial tone. Jack was deeply disturbed by what he had heard,
until he remembered it was Halloween and convinced him
self, It was probably just srnne immature high schoolers making a
prank call.
Outside the air was cool and crisp; Jack could see his
breath expand. A peifect night for trick-or-treating, he
thought as he opened his car door. As he was about to turn
on the ignition, his phone rang again. He answered, but
hearing more screams he dismissed it. Jack jumped in his
sedan and began to drive. Stopped at an intersection not
far away. he received another call. More of the same greet
ed him when he answered. Feeling perturbed, yet slightly
apprehensive, he continued to tell himself that it was noth
ing, just the same tasteless hoax.
While walking to the front door of his house, he
turned to look over his shoulder. The trunk to his car was
open; strangely enough by itself, but what he found inside
was even more terrifying. Lying in the back of his car was a
cell phone. Jack picked it up and found still blinking on
the screen “Last Call: 22 seconds. Jack Cell.”
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29
CECILIA ESTRAVIZ
iPod
When you left me on that cold, windy day
My heart was at a loss for words
This was the second time you’d done this to me
I already forgave you and now you’re lost for good
I can’t help but remember all the times we shared,
It’s just so hard to think of you now
No longer will we have our long walks on the beach,
Where it seemed you could talk for hours
And how I will miss our karaoke nights and DP’s in the
street
I will miss all the games we used to play and the reflection
your back gave off
Please tell me you remember the times I’d get stuck in the
headphones and I told you to cut it out
I’m still lost and I’m not sure why you had to leave
I bought you a case, 1 always recharged your battery, and I
even cleaned you off
I guess it wasn’t enough
I thought about replacing you, but the pain is way too deep
Not only did you break my heart, but you took away half
my savings
You left me in a hole and it’s far too deep to get out
I hope we encounter each other someday, I’ll smile and
wave and you can sing me a song
Road trips will never be the same without you
All these new slick models will try to replace you
But you’re the original, one of the first to be made
I miss you man, I really do, you broke my heart, but I think
its time I move on from you.
3
BETH FAGAN
Swift Season
“Look!” Dad’s face points towards the dusty August
sky.
I look up, my fork dropping onto my plate. My fami
ly silently watches as the tiny dark bodies cloud the twilight
horizon, darting and swooping, throwing the air in little cir
cles. As they flicker towards us, the chattering grows until
the gentle roar of the city lying below our veranda goes
silent, it too straining to listen to the birds’ calls. Then, all at
once, they are within feet of our house’s tallest height, dip
ping almost to our arms’ reaches. There are thousands of
them twirling in unison, a small group sometimes tem
porarily leaving the pattern, darting off to chase insects on a
path of its own desire.
The swifts are passionate seekers. They have been
journeying ceaselessly all day, never perching to preen and
socialize like the other birds do. Trees, wire lines, and roof
ridges do not interest them; their clawed feet only cling to
vertical surfaces. And so, they leave the customary resting
places to the swallows and crows, stopping only at night at
safe, isolated roosts made in abandoned chimneys and air
shafts. These makeshift homes are the swifts’ goal. The jour
ney I am admiring aims toward this nightly rest, the swifts
by some instinctive knowledge sensing where to satiate
their vertical cravings. This place tonight, and for the next
fortnight, is the cavernous chimney at Chapman grade
school, just down the block from our house. As their chatty
pilgrimage nears this goal, the chimney becomes the eye of
a black hurricane. With each revolution, about twenty birds
at the bottom of the typhoon disappear into the brick and
smoke-made haven. The storm lasts for thirty minutes or so,
nv family still silent witnesses. Then, as suddenly as it
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began, the night stills. Downtown Portland groans awake
once more as it too realizes the show is over.
Why does swift season captivate me? M wonder
goes beyond appreciating its natural beauty; it has become
a spiritual experience. Through the many layers of my
being, I find a consistent restlessness which mirrors the
swifts’ ceaseless journeying. All my thought tends to revel
in ambiguity, careening around and around, darting about
for ideas as the swifts do for insects, following a pattern of
circles in my mind. I follow Rainer Maria Rilke’s command
ment: “Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far
in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it,
live your way into the answers,” just as the swifts unwit
tingly sift down into the chimney until they are all at rest.
Growing up in the theatre has no doubt contributed
to this restless nature of mine. Forever darting from project
to project, I have developed myself within an ever-changing
environment. I was a liquid child, and the ability to adapt
to any circumstance, to seek truth out even in the tightest of
spaces, is the very talent which lies at the center of my art.
However, the fact remains that theatre made my childhood
emotionally unstable. On the other side, I was (and am)
blessed with a loving and supportive family, enough money
for what I need and most of what I want, and a healthy
body. But when I have been taught on stage to never be sat
isfied and to ceaselessly progress beyond the status quo,
how could I ever think my life was good enough? After all,
who really goes to bed at night counting their blessings
instead of sheep? Theatre taught me to never stand still, to
constantly move toward something better than the present.
The swifts echo this lesson, careening ceaselessly through
the day, never settling for a moment of rest on an ordinary
perch because they know that when night comes, the rest
will be so much better.
12
Beyond being an articulation of my lifestyle as an
actor, the swifts contain truth within their own existence,
carrying on their wings lessons about society. One element
of the swifts I have neglected to explore is that a swift does
not travel alone. In fact, she travels with thousands of her
sisters and brothers, together exploring the vast plains of
the sky. Swifts rely on their community not only to reach a
nightly resting place, but also to find food and to provide
safety from predators. Even when sidetracked by the temp
tation of a particularly juicy-looking bug, the swift does not
leave the colony by’ herself, but a small sect of the group
accompanies her. This no doubt makes it much easier to
bear the burden of constant movement. Watching the
swifts’ flight, one cannot help but think that much of their
chatter is support, bucking-ups from one bird to another:
“It’s airight, chap. Only a few more circles to go and you
can sleep away on a lovely brick wall somewhere.” The
swifts teach that support is absolutely necessary, whether I
want to fly in circles all day or sit very still and think,
because either one involves risks which I cannot take all
alone. Too often, I isolate myself in my adamant belief in
self-exploration. However, society necessitates some level
of conformity. To make it possible for society to be for
ward-looking, some conformity, some sacrifices of inde
pendence, are necessary so that the whole group can even
tually come to rest.
However, the greatest truth lies not in the swifts’
flight pattern or community ethic, but rather in the moment
after all the birds have taken roost inside the chinmey and
the city is achingly still, listening to the silence, before it
resumes its constant buzz. During that tiny moment before
the city awakens, I find the eloquence and utter peace of
coming home.
I have never felt at home in my family’s house.
Restless from an early age, I spend most of my time retreat
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ed in dreams and thoughts, darting about in a space not
contained by four walls and a roof. Just as my home is not
a house, my being is not a body. I, like Walt Whitman, “am
not contained between my hat and boots” (Leaves of Grass).
Rather, I exist as much in abstraction as I do in physical
reality. So, it is fitting that my home cannot be simply a
building. But if it is not my house, then where is the eye of
my hurricane in which I will experience the tranquility of a
final homecoming? Where do I aim my own solemn
descent? I do not know, but neither do the swifts. Their
goal is not cognitive, but rather instinctive, the knowledge
of their home residing somewhere deep within themselves,
within their ancestry, within their blood. This knowledge
gives them the passion expressed in their constant chatter
and ceaseless searching. I share their paradoxical existence
of focused turmoil. I too am a passionate seeker. I choose
to fly like the swifts, tirelessly swooping through the sum
mer air until I find my home.
Searching, searching ceaselessly for questions, is the
life I choose. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, I will
gradually, without even noticing it, live my way into the answers.
Until then, I will keep my face tilted toward the dusty
August sky, experiencing every day the magic of swift sea
son.
14
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15
CAMILLE NICOLLE ESTABILLO
A Daughter’s Woe
Always love;
Never hate.
Be real;
Never fake.
Think clearly;
Make no mistakes.
Work hard;
Think of the stakes.
ever fail;
Make the grade.
Be on time;
Don’t be late.
Act perfect
All the time;
Keep the rules
On your mind.
Be a queen,
A star too,
Be anybody
But the real you.
16
ALLIE HAWES
Experiences
After awhile you learn the distinct feel of
looking into a lover’s eyes and seeing yourself.
And you will learn that love is not certain and
hope doesn’t mean truth.
And you begin to believe that kisses aren’t
true symbols of love and flowers given eventually
die.
And you realize that hurt and pain that stand in
your way of daily functioning will make you
stronger and help you find your weaknesses
that you try to hide.
And you learn to live your highest dreams today
because tomorrow is too uncertain.
And you teach yourself how to fly on your own
so that when others’ wings fail, you can aid them.
After awhile you will face the hard truth that
even a subtle breeze can turn into a tornado.
And with every day that God brings you, you will
learn.
Learn that after every hard experience comes a stronger
sense of self.
17
PERRY NICKERSON
People
Differences everywhere.
You can’t escape it.
Diversity is the outbreak of the
Twenty-first century.
The good outbreak.
Walking down busy Main Street, I see ye1lo
Green, purple, white and black people.
Chinese food and people in bad moods.
Slender, tall, plump, and small.
It shouldn’t make a difference to you,
In the way you view who they are.
If each of us were the same, who would you be?
Everybody.
But you aren’t, you are you,
And I am I,
And this is what makes these lands and these seas
Flow and overgrow with Diversity
In turn, making what we call home,
A lush picturesque garden filled with
All of the most beautiful flowers.
18
HENRI WUILLOUD
Sadness
Sadness is a tear
that is shed
when a tragedy occurs
of large or small size.
A tear receives bad news
and faints on the sofa.
It begs on the street,
while you walk down on it,
your hot coffee vapors
fill the air
with coffee bean’s scent
while cars zoom by
on a frozen day,
with jeans so ripped they look
like they went through the
shredding machine,
gloves with holes so big
at the end of each hand
that they do not even
cover the fingers,
a hat with loose strings
all over the place,
a coat with bright colors
from the Eighties,
suffering because of the
freezing temperature.
A tear remembers hearing
a passed soul speak
with a loud voice,
remembering their warm bodies
you hugged, as if they were still next to you, sharing
19
a thick glass of eggnog.
With a cheery voice
it brags to you
about a new car
as if it was the beginning
of the newest generation
and you were left alone
in the old generation.
A tear is salt water
that represents the bitter part
of life.
/
/
I)
z
/..
Morgan
20
KELSEY WILKINS
The Departure
It is a fine emotion, gazing upon the shore
Total relaxation grasps the mind,
What am I leaving for?
A sensation washes over, too remarkable to ignore
Mv soul leaves my body behind
It is a fine emotion, gazing upon the shore
Sunset left me craving for more
Continuous skies drowned with sunshine
What could I possibly be leaving for?
Warm sand, lines our feet contour,
Everything makes perfect sense, a feeling hard to define
It is a fine emotion gazing upon the shore
Cares whisked away, delicately blown out the door
Embraced elegance of God’s Design
What am I leaving for?
All good things must come to end, time to go back to before
The carefree circle conforms back into line
I will soon forget emotions I felt, gazing upon the shore
Somebody please tell me, what am I leaving for?
21
AhI Sunflower
Ah! Sunflower,
water runs out.
Dainty yellow petals
transforming into dry brown.
Death wraps its sturdy hands around you,
strangling your delicate stem,
crumbling you,
cracking your fragile leaves.
Ah! Sunflower,
how does it feel
to be taken from your home
beneath the enriched soil,
cut from the place you once knew,
set as decoration
in a red vase.
Dearest Sunflower,
do you remember
when you were a tiny seed?
A small weed
among the breathtaking wilderness.
Look at you no
matured,
death creeping upon you,
your life cut short
for our own eye’s pleasure.
22
NIK BOWEN
One Hundred Skies Away
From one hundred skies away
You still catch my heart off balance,
Tripping over hesitance,
Clumsy with excited thoughts,
As I fall into pure bliss
One hundred skies away.
What happens next,
Nothing else compares.
Every thought rich
With the warmth of our soft hearts
One hundred skies away.
For this moment
All of your joys become mine,
In the hope that when I close my eyes
I’ll catch a glimpse of your sweet smile
One hundred skies away.
Round and round in my mind,
Following thought after thought,
Too impatient for just one,
But wishing everything was still
One hundred skies away.
“There must be some way out of here
I can’t get no relief”
Music in my ears, music from my heart,
Reflecting you, reflecting me,
One hundred skies away.
23
The sun goes down,
Resting the sky,
Rearranging the stars to
I miss you
One hundred skies away.
say
Picking My Brain
A curious mind,
with more questions
than there are profound answers for,
asked me: By what path do you follow?
I traverse no clear-cut path.
Choosing but what feels right.
Intuition as my compass,
leading me out of the dark.
A passionate heart,
with great desire
for opportunity to find its meaning,
asked me: By what star do you follow?
And I said to him,
I live by the living sun,
zL?arming my heart,
my purpose bright and clear.
A troubled soul,
desiring for a chance
to lay down its burdens,
asked me: By what choice do you thrive?
Freedom of Feeling.
A detenninatioii of defiiing the deepening dark.
To protect myself
with the goodness in my life.
24
PETER GALLAGHER
Expressional Exodus
Today I heard the utterance of a word I thought long
extinct,
It was not the word spoken, but the fossilized remains of
what the word once was;
A skeleton likely to pop up in the gas tank of a Hummer at
a Shell station somewhere in California three years from
now.
Where have you gone, word? Have you simply abandoned
me, left me with a few meager synonyms not fit to appear
in thine absence?
Spell check just asked me to conform.
Maybe my word was made illegal, deported for not work
ing hard enough;
Left to die, decayed and decrepit in the pit of expatiation.
But how hard you worked, word!
Surmising thousands of images and evocations in the mere
pronunciation of 2, 3, 4, even 7 syllables!
Word, it is no wonder you went on welfare.
Forcibly purged by the bourgeoisie from the vocabularied
ejaculations of society.
You were far too radical, word,
raised too much of a ruckus.
Leaders found themselves dependent upon you,
only to find you a subterfuge with the intention of subvert
ing their actions.
Don’t worry word,
they may dissuade, exhort, and spoil you
but I will remain steadily by your side in order to prevent
you from the linguistic languor so tempting for a word of
your type.
25
1’3
a)
U)
Wilkins
MADISEN SEMET
Turned Away
There is a boy
I’m aware
Who sits behind me
All day
I can’t stand it
Mv back
Always turned towards him
Never knowing
If the boy looks
Turning around
Would admit my secrets
His stare
It burns my shoulders
My spine
Folding under the pressure
To turn
Would not give me
The \r[o1e
Of what I desire
Can’t say
It would ruin everything
Petty fears
He dissolves my posture
The wait
If he liked me
A little
I’d love him forever
Again unsure
My face turned away
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“3
Madisen
CD
(i-i
BEN KATZ
Me on?
Under the big, blue sky,
Below a ceiling of firs and leaves,
Lays the place I learned to be me.
Yelling youngsters and chirping chickadees,
Helping bring forth in me what I needed to be me.
Music floating in front of the mountains,
The fire takes the notes to the clouds,
Within the lyrics I learned what was needed to be me.
Funky art projects dangle in the breeze,
Inside walls painted with quotes of wisdom and glee,
And through this art I came to know of how to be me.
Running feet cough up dust,
Making the joyful screams,
Seem as if from ghosts,
From these ghosts I was shown the answer to the mystery
of how to be me.
The splashing, the laughing,
The water settles the dust,
To reveal the little, wise ones,
With such large smiles,
In those pearly whites I saw how to be me.
Out of the forest in the wide open spaces,
The grass calls to come lay down,
Looking beyond the clouds,
Pointing to how I can be me.
Time to go home from home,
To leave this camp so important to me,
In the vehicle I contemplate how he will mesh with me,
But I don’t worry,
Lii just play it by ear.
31
1
ckshank
32
MADELINE BOTTERI
T’Vhat We Must Remember
Grey rain-filled skies and winds that sweep
Around and brush my reddened cheeks
I look across at higher peaks
And long just to remember.
The rocks that aim up from the land
Are places for where I’ve come to stand
Palming memories in my hands
So that I might remember.
The bridge that broke because of fear
And aged heartache that seems so near
All these things have led me here
Hoping to remember:
What never was but still can be
The only trusting faith can see
When I can set my own self free
These things I must remember.
And when these things shall come to pass
Heaven then shall open at last
To draw the present from the past
And leave only to remember:
The mountains climbed and battles won
The walls built up and then undone
The plagues from which we’ve become
What we will all remember.
33
But as the ashes gather on
Throughout the time of passing dawns
All must recall and linger long
On what we must remember.
Sheikh
Disappear! A Magic Act
Disappear!
A magic act
An escape from what
I wish to forget
A place where no one knows I’m here
Who’s given me a broken mirror
As the only thing to see myself in my life
So that I hoped to be different out in the light
I didn’t know I wasn’t wrong
Had no idea that I was strong
Until I saw the cracks unbreak
The star’s reflection in the lake
The chance to have me remake
The wounds that caused me so to ache!
But is this just a magic act?
I’ve seen the rabbit inside the hat
and out it jumps
and Disappears!
I guess miracles, not magic, unbreak mirrors
3
Grand Central Station: GO-BY-TRAIN
Wet and dark, a winter night
He sits and waits beneath the light
Of olden lamps; clockwork ticks
As he so humbly waits and sits
The cream within his coffee spins
And on his papers: the Yankees win
But still his face is all amiss
Remembrance of their own last kiss
The clank and danger of inbound train
Is not a call for his outbound name
No person runs out from the tracks
For him to hold and sa “At last!”
But in it rolls, his departing car
To take this weary wanderer far
From the sweetest lilt of life he’s known
For him there can be no other home
He walks out into the chilly air
A breath of frost shoots through his hair
He xviii not turn around, but lags
And hesitates with his bundled bags
A whistle sounds the one last call
But he doesn’t even board at all
But stands and watches it pass his side
He waves his hand and whispers, “goodbye”
36
TORYN SLATER
Wild Wind
0, wild wind of a dark, gloomy night
How terrifying you are at first sight.
You hiss and snap, while you demolish
Everything in the midst of your spontaneous path.
You scatter leaves and throw branches astray,
Looking for your next innocent victim to surprise.
On some dark nights, you surprise us
As ancient trees hiss violently trying to resist your power.
Suddenly, we hear the thunderous sound and cry of
A large beast falling as quickly as a meteor from the sky
And crashing with a loud boom. You have destroyed the
Poor, innocent tree as you look down displaying a gallant
smile.
Sometimes your presence is sudden and unexpected,
Other times it is slow and anticipated.
Sometimes you come for a short, little sta)
Other times you decide to reside for long-lasting tempests.
Many people enjoy your presence and dismay,
Others despise and envy your power.
0, wild wind of a dark, gloomy night,
When is it that you will return?
Your power and presence I truly enjoy,
As I patiently wait to hear the hissing sound of the trees.
This time your stay is oh, so short,
I hope your return is near.
37
WILL MEHIGAN
Faceworid (an alternate reality where life is exactly as it
appears on facebook.com)
When I woke up, I turned on channel eight to watch
the news. This morning’s top stories: seven of my friends
were discussing their top five least favorite movie endings
with Sam Wasson, Bob Goman took pictures of six of my
friends, and a group for people who watch “The Office”
was started. I turned off the news and decided to go hang
out with Aidan Willis, but first, I had to request his friend
ship.
“Will you be my 153rd friend?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied, “I went to high school with you.”
After confirming this to be true, I immediately cornmerited on his appearance: “Laugh out loud, u are so hot,” I
said.
To show his gratitude, Aidan taped a picture of a
pink thong to the side of my house.
“Thanx, laugh out loud,” I said.
Then, Sean Roney approached us and told us a story
about a hitchhiker who turned out to be a ghost. He told
me, “If you tell this story to five people, the hottest girl/guy
in the school will ask you out, but if you don’t, the ghost
will kill you.”
Panicking, I rushed over to Chris Griffith’s house,
and told him the story.
“That’s ridiculous,” he said. “I refuse to tell that story
to anyone. Besides, I’m too busy. I’ve just been appointed
Officer of Keepin’ It Real for the highly-esteemed organiza
tion, ‘When I Was Your Age, Pluto Was a Planet.’ The group
administrator has given me a responsibility; I’ve got to
make sure all the group members keep it real.”
As expected, Chris was killed by the ghost the next
38
day. I was pretty depressed, as I couldn’t help but feel
somewhat responsible for Chris’ death. However, I cheered
up when the hottest girl/guy in the school asked me out.
The End.
Kelsey
39
SAM CONCHURATT
Loneliness
Loneliness
Is like a black widow spider.
Dark, black eyes
Pierce your soul at a glance,
Send shivers down your spine.
Wherever she goes
The scent of fear follows.
Men try to satisfy her loneliness,
But it never works.
No one is good enough for her.
She throws them all to the curb,
Her leftovers
Always dead.
Many white, silk body-bags
Occupy her doorway.
She sighs,
Closes her door,
Returns to her sanctuary
Alone,
Waiting,
For someone new to come.
40
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52
CONNOR CAHILL
A Snapshot of Africa
The young boys,
Although they have no toys,
Laugh, dance, and emit a sense of happiness,
They have no sadness.
I can feel a mile away.
This feeling is gay
Despite their unfortunate circumstances,
these kids are joyful.
And will always be extremely playful.
This joy is a thing of beauty.
I wish for people back home to see this special quality.
For we should be happy
But instead we are often crabby.
We should be glad for what we possess
Not just wanting to confess.
Boy, watching these kids play soccer,
They don’t even have a locker.
It is extremely amusing
To see them cruising.
They have no T.V. or computers,
It’s a miracle they’re no looters.
They have but a ball.
They pass and fall
Across a muddy little patch,
Here, the doors don’t have a latch.
Then out comes their mothers,
For its time to do the chores,
For the boys it is herding cows,
Then they use the plows.
--.,
D3
The girls fetch water.
One runs up front, who can catch her?
Those strenuous tasks are unthinkable for us.
Most of us would blush,
Yet they do it with a smile.
You can hear them from a mile
Away, singing, dancing, and laughing.
Even the ducks are quacking.
But still they are joyful!
Whereas we are sorrowful
We have more
But they never bore.
In this land, life is cruel, but joy and happiness rule.
54
MARTIE MASSEY
Perfection
Sure we say
“There’s no such thing,”
Yet it’s what we strive for.
Most often,
if it is not achieved,
That’s what people lie for.
Most of us say,
“We’re okay with a D”,
But that’s usually what we cry for.
Though we say,
“It’s impossible”,
That’s all we try for.
C is average,
And B is great,
Yet A’s are all we work
for.
We say,
“The perfect do no wrong”,
But that’s what God made sin for.
We strive, we lie, we cry, we try,
we work, we sin, we die.
Who wants all that anyway?
LIZZIE MEIER
Magnetism
Fluttering eyes
Delicately upturned nose
Carmine blossomed lips
And abundant chest
Is not beauty
That is attraction
Beauty is more—
The sea angry
Gurgling its contents
The electricity lingering
After a potent storm
My mother’s face
Her high, prominent cheek bones
My quiet rage
In light of injustice
56
KYLE CRAVEN
The River Flows
A wilderness is often where one finds oneself when
he is lost, or is looking for something that is itself lost. But,
when time decides itself just right, a wilderness can present
itself as a homely abode to visitors not so much lost as
found. These visitors, or perhaps a better term would be
temporary settlers, are few and hard to come by. They find
comfort and an eerie familiarity to the natural wonders of
the wilderness, and although they might perceive them
selves lost as first, they are in fact more at home than they
know.
Three brothers chance to find themselves in such a
wilderness, where common existence ceases to exist, and
the obscure haunting of its other-worldly inhabitants is
their only company. Darkness and an impassable danger
grows from the very ground they stand on, stirring within
them a desire to run far and away, which they would have
done so eagerly, except from each direction the darkness
looms ever closer. Still they are not entirely alone, and the
support of a lifelong bond of blood and heart lends an
ounce of familiarity amongst the foreboding foreign land
scapes. How they find themselves in the unusual terrain at
this point in time is not a matter of importance. But they, as
many do, perceive themselves as lost and desire to escape
the alien world.
One day, the youngest of the three brothers discovers
a swift river in the wilderness. Examining the river, the
youngest also finds a small raft tied to an immense tree
which stretches to engulf the river, as if to provide it with
the comfort of a shelter to protect it from some unforeseen
foe. In truth, the raft is only but a bundle of oversized sticks
held together with strands of fraying rope. But to the
57
youngest brother, it is a royal chariot capable of bringing
him and his kindred back to the comfort of their rightful
place. Home, once a distant dream, now a wonderful possi
bility.
With new-found excitement and hopefulness, the
youngest gathers his two older siblings, and they quickly
decide to venture onto the daunting river. They fashion oars
out of birch wood and pack provisions to aid them in their
journey. Before commencing the expedition, the eldest voic
es a peculiar concern. “To where does such a river flow?”
To which the youngest responds quickly and knowingly, “It
flows to where the sun meets land, where the last of light of
day is extinguished.” And so they set forth to confront the
chaos of the river.
Not long after their departure, the three brothers’
excitement and hopefulness turns into anxious misery. The
raft, at first becoming of a homeward bound chariot, can
now be seen for what it truly is: a hell-bent black stallion
plummeting deeper into the depths of despair. The river
becomes a hideous beast gushing forth with jagged rocks
and boulders jutting from every direction. As the fraying
rope snaps and the raft slowly dissipates into the white
foam below, the brothers submit to their impending doom.
Home, it seems, is but a small, flickering flame, soon to be
extinguished by’ the hellish torrent flowing forth.
In the last moment of desperation, the eldest again
asks the pressing question, “To where does such a river
flow?”
The youngest answers, but this time not as quickly
and somewhat hesitantly, “It flows to where the sun meets
land, where the last of light of day is extinguished.” Into the
river they plunge.
Washed ashore, the youngest awakens to the whisper
of river water. He finds himself devoid of injury, but his
mind strays as a peculiar sense overtakes him. It is as if the
58
wilderness that engulfed him before has now revealed itself
to be something completely different and less than threaten
ing. Confused and weary, he contemplates whether his eyes
deceive him, that the wilderness is simply an illusion, but
then his eyes find first one brother, and then the other. They
are just as perplexed as he.
The three brothers reconvene and together they scan
the surroundings. The river seems quiet and peaceful. The
rocks and boulders resemble rubies and pearls. The wilder
ness itself appears wise with a welcoming au; beckoning to
them. The fiend has transformed into a friend. Adding to
the utter confusion, the three brothers see an old man sit
ting upon a large rock. A fishing-pole in hand and a smile
upon his face, he is a perfect personification of the hos
pitable wilderness that now surrounds them. They
exchange brief glances and walk slowly to greet him, won
dering if he can solve their puzzle.
A large, strong hand withered with age greets them
with a warm embrace. Indeed the three brothers’ hearts feel
warmed from the old man’s radiance. His gentle smile
sparkles in the sunshine and his eyes betray a knowing
look, as if he had known of their coming and sat waiting
idly for their arrival.
The eldest brother speaks first, and, just as before, he
asks the burning, itching question always on his mind, “To
vhere does such a river flow?”
The old man replies, “It flows to where the sun
meets land, where the last of light of day is extinguished.
Indeed it flows to me.”
59
McCooI
60
CHRISTINA HEINLEN
Basketball
Like ravenous wolves, they scratch and yank
The golden goal is close at hand
The room is full of awful stank
Only those who conquer, stand
The basket high, the challengers low
The hope of triumph fills the mind
As leaping frames and sweaty palms
Against the flimsy jerseys grind
One man breaks free to leap for fame
The blood streams down his panting lip
Holding the sphere that holds his name
The ball quakes under his crushing grip
Heartbeats still as the buzzer nears
The brazen youth sails through the air
Figures turn, mouths open wide,
And grasping eyes can only stare
With a furrowed brow he strains the last
Fingertips graze the molten rim
His flame flickers; the crowd aghast
The tempers strung, the outlook grim
Dripping sweat mars an iron brow
The spherical mass bumps left and right
But Lady Luck has left him now
His victorious dreams are out of sight.
61
The River
What does the river’s soul seek?
Does it long to rest awhile,
To gather its thoughts
Or does constant motion satisfy its inner desires?
Does the river mourn when one fish dies?
Do its shadowy depths cradle the corpse
Unto its watery grave
Does a bed without sun fulfill a sleeping soul?
Does evaporation detract from the river’s spirit?
Or does one molecule not mean the least
To a body so full
Does teeming life depend on quantity?
What does the river lack?
Does it miss the scampering feet of innocent children
Loving its coolness
Or does it relish the days it goes unnoticed, untamed?
62
Tribute to Welch’s Grape Juice
Welch’s grape juice
A childhood treat
Concoction so fine
Nature so sweet
Welch’s grape juice
American Dream
Along with orange soda
And coffee ice cream
Welch’s grape juice
A day at the fair
Discovering popcorn
And ladies with hair
Welch’s grape juice
How could it be real
The sweet juicy goodness
The hope that you feel
Welch’s grape juice
A moment divine
More special than candy
More legal than wine
Welch’s grape juice
Oh, pour some for me!
So that I may join
You sweet family
03
CHARLOTTE DIJGONI
The Traveling Scrap Book
We passed around the tale of our lives
New stories and new experiences have arrived.
There were ten of us friends
Who didn’t want our friendship to end,
So we made a pact to keep a book to tell
Of the wonderful memories that we knew so well.
Each person took a week to describe
How they really were feeling deep inside.
Different emotions were poured into one thick book.
It described each of us with one simple look.
Each page was designed with incredible skill,
That each person had amazing foot prints to fill.
The book began like a burning fire,
Each person showed their true passions and desires,
But as it moved down to each person
The mood seemed to change much different from the first
one.
Our lives were going in different directions.
We had changed in all reflection.
We no longer are kids, but young adults,
Each one of us showing the true results,
Of time and how it changes our exterior
But will not make the slightest change to our interior.
We are still the same people we were to this da
And every one of us knows that our personalities never
d ecax
We will love and cherish each other till the end,
Because nothing can compare to genuine friends.
64
SEAN DEVLIN
Life is Not Yet
The flowers die as we approach the garden,
Life stands still. All hope is gone.
The frames of courage have faced us all,
But our desires will never end.
The light goes out as the day is finished,
But we have not accepted our fate.
The challenges we face are yet to be known,
As we await a day of reflection.
The flowers strive to feel existence,
But life alone is yet to be heard.
65
Kioucek
66
ALICE PASCUAL
Lis ten
A bitter cry full of wanting
Screaming in the distance
so low, high-pitched, and bleeding
surrounded by loud yells and screams
It’s fallen deep, no sound
Scratching at the surface
No one can hear her trying
Tearing through the barrier of brick walls
a tiny air hole being covered
Can she breathe?
Desperate whines and still...
No one can hear
Ripping away the fabric that once held her
she’s breaking through
A burst of bubbles lingering about the ocea
n surface
A slight chance of air,
bursting into her lungs for one more chance
to speak,
One more chance to live
Sweet freedom
It breaks
the surface caves in, she’s falling
A dead end in the pit
A muddy bottom
A dead soul
Loud, babbling cries, grasps of air between
screams
Puddles of tears
Can someone save her?
A guardian angel offering a hand
a divine pull to heaven
white, angelic wings
drag her up
the hell she’s
a
swift
of
from
in
67
a slight smile hidden on her face
her prince charming has come
someone could hear her after all
Cruickshank
68
EDWIN JAN ES
Glow in the Dark
So yesterday the power went out, and I realized that I still
have glow in the dark stars on my ceiling. Not just a few
either. My ceiling is covered by legions of glow in the dark
stars. A plastic canopy of green. Is that sad or spectacul
ar?
You tell me.
At first I figured “I should take those down.” But who
cares about my ceiling? I decided that if anyone does, then
he or she can take them down for me.
Who invented glow in the dark stars? I can see it now:
“You know what this room needs? Green plastic stars. But
not just green plastic stars, but green plastic stars you can
only see in the dark.”
Food for thought: When was the last time you turned the
lights off so that you could see something?
Also, I don’t think stars are supposed to be green. Maybe
it’s just me, but stars are kinda white. Or maybe pale yel
low. I may not know the exact coloi but I’m rather certain
they’re not green. Even if they are green, they’re not “glowin-the-dark” green.
“Glow-in-the-dark” green is perhaps the least natural color
known to man. When you think glow-in-the-dark green,
you think of nuclear waste or something like that.
Something unnatural. Not the night sky. If you ever find
a
star in the night sky that’s “glow-in-the-dark green,” do two
things:
l) Call me and 2)Head for the hills: the apocalypse is nigh
.
69
Reinhart
70
HANOOR SINGH
Not Fine
The man was small; at least I think he was
I couldn’t really tell because he had no legs
He didn’t have arms either for that matter
The rush hour crowd was rowdy as ever
Pushing and pulling me out of the way
They flowed around the cripple, as if everything was fine
But nothing was fine, you could tell from his face
His eyes told it all
They were murky and brown
He watched the crowd pass with a look of despair
He begged someone to spare him some money
But the most he got was a nasty mean glare
His clothes filthy
His skin ragged
His hair matted
With layers of grime
It seemed a crime
That over time
Not one person stopped
Not one person looked
Not one person helped
Not one person cared
All the great prophets spoke of charity
They spoke of goodwill, and helping the needy
But on that street amongst the people
I saw no charity, I saw no help, I saw no goodwill
All I saw was the crowd flowing by as if everything was
71
fine
But nothing was fine
On that day-, in that hour, I lost all hope, I lost all faith
That the human race was fine
For nothing was fine
Nothing was fine
N
72
GEOFF VINCENT
A Self-Rumination
The worst thing you can do is come to your own conc
lu
sions.
When you think for yourself, but without anyone else,
Your philosophies become your delusions.
Thinking to yourself, you start to make sense.
It is easy to make a horrible mistake
And there’s no one to tell you the difference.
I find it heinous to think but not consult.
Ponder if you will, on top of a lonely hill,
But remember that you can be a dolt.
The flat-earthers booed and to their opponents jeered.
They thought they were sharp, much keener than a dart,
But it turns out the world is really a sphere.
Try as you may to be rational, cunning, objective;
Praise your insight, but to get the thing right
May need the help of another perspective.
73
Caitlin
(J)
ERIN SIMPSON
The Hummingbird
Context The first day of the new season, Crow
set out to
find Owl. In the beginning Owl wore a technicolo
r jacket,
and was of the most beautiful birds. Crow knew
Owl,
being the wisest of the animals in the land, wou
ld be able to
answer Crow’s question. Crow set out to find
the first fall
en timber; the one with a hole just the size for
Owl. On his
arrival, Crow pecked the log one, two, and three
times,
Owl’s signal for friendly species. Then right on
time, as if
by schedule, Owl appeared from his home.
—
Crow
Owl
—
Owl I have a question, and I hope you can help
me.
Go ahead and try asking; I’ll see what I can
do.
—
Crow Well, I was wondering, why do the trees
whisper
the secrets of the wind?
—
Owl That’s a very thought provoking ques
tion. I think to
answer I’d like to share a story. Do you have
the time and
energy to listen?
—
Crow
—
I definitely do.
Owl Way, way back when the bright circle
had only risen
above the land a few times, trees and the wind
were the
closest of friends. They got along very harm
oniously.
—
Crow
Owl
—
—
Well, what changed?
Ahhh, my friend, be patient, and you’ll see.
-So, where was I? Oh yes, the trees and the wind
75
in
had a peaceful relationship, and as the bright circle cont
ued to rise, their friendship grew stronger. Until one day,
,
,
the bright circle failed to rise, and the day was dark cold
and gloomy. Along with the darkness came what we know
as rain. To the early inhabitants, rain was just a substance
falling from the ominous sky. In addition to rain, thunder
rain
and lightening boomed and illuminated the sky. The
was very protective of the trees, which because of their
make-up, were set afire and murdered. If it weren’t for
water, all the land would be forever flattened, and we
ed a new
wouldn’t enjoy the shade of the trees. Water spark
r to
friendship with Tree. However, as Water became close
n
Tree, the strong connection between Wind and Tree bega
to dwindle away. For during the tirade, Wind grew
,
stronger and began to hurt Tree. It pulled tree’s branches
yed by
and separated them from Tree’s core. Tree felt betra
by
wind, and because nature is vengeful, Tree fought back
the
of
storm
whispering the secrets of the wind. The first
as
land separated many species, but none were separated
much as Wind and Tree. The rustle of Tree’s leaves is the
sharing of the secrets Wind wishes to hide.
ques
Crow I understand, and I am forever grateful. That
d
how
rstan
tion was troubling me because I couldn’t unde
friends could betray one another.
—
rd
Owl Crow, you are wise and peaceful, and I shall rewa
shall
you for that. I will give you my bright colors, and you
hum
fly faster than any flying creature. Your name will be
the
all
ng
amo
mingbird because you wish a peaceful hum
land.
—
That is how the hummingbird got its name, colors, and
ty.
speed. To this day, it is a calm bird that radiates beau
76
ALLISON FRANCIS
Today
There was nothing, nothing, still nothing
until her inaugural birthday
when light, shadows, and music
exposed themselves to the world.
Evolution tried to impress her
but she was always so distracted
by the task she took upon herself to find the perfe
ct flower
and deliver it to the world, its roots wrapped in foil.
Last Sunday
Joey
He held her hand for the last time.
In the pantry, the cat made a clamor
and he strained his neck to look
as though he genuinely wondered about the direc
tion of its
padded feet.
77
(0
KATHERINE BAKKE
6,570 Days on Earth
Laura Hall’s birthday was Saturday- I congratul
ated her
about being 18-”Porn and cigarettes” she yelle
d down the
hallway.
This is what being 18 has come to symbolize. But
I can’t
help thinking of all the countries in the world
where 18 sig
nifies driving alone-finally-and in Japan, where
the age of
consent was raised from 12 to 18- how relieved
school girls
must feel- and how in the seventies the voting
age was low
ered from 21 to 18- old enough to fight, old enou
gh to vote
was the rally cry-
18- I’ll be 18 on November 7th, election day.
I’ll be receiving my voter’s pamphlet in the mail
soon; I bet
ter get informed. I remember filling out my
registration
card in July and dropping it into the blue mail
box, looking
at my brothei scared of the responsibility that
piece of
paper would grant me. I hesitated marking “dem
ocrat”
under party affiliation and couldn’t figure
out how to open
the blue mailbox’s slot. My hands were shak
y. I shut my
eyes and dropped it in, after my brother show
ed me how to
open the slot, of course. I now have a responsib
ility other
than to myself.
79
09
The Power of Tight Jeans and Heavy Gui
tars
I turn on the radio: Led Zeppelin, “Whol
e Lotta Love,” fol
lowed by “When the Levee Breaks.” Rob
ert Plant must
have devirginized every female listener
he had with his
music. I remember hearing that the dru
ms on “levee” have
such a unique sound because it was recorde
d in a hotel
lobby. Boom Boom Boom. Let’s face it—
their music is sex.
Even Immigration Song—sex. Isn’t it craz
y that one band
has that effect? In the car, Dols was liste
ning to hip hop
and rap, and even that didn’t give off the
aura of Zeppelin.
And this music was by far dirtier. From
my small cell, in
the dark six am. morning, I decide what
to wear, when all
Robert Plant is urging me to do is take it
all off.
81
Emily Dickinson Wears a Mortarboard
Emily my dear, I wish you’d come
Out of your house so we could have lunch.
But I don’t blame you for staying
There, sometimes it’s safer inside.
There are times when I imagine myself as the
Graduation speaker and wonder what
I would say to all of you given the
Opportunity.
In the shower, washing away the
Dirt, I decided to scream
“1 want you to mess up big time.” I
Hope we all fail at least once.
And I hope before we all go away,
And leave our safe homes to write
Poetry, that we all walk through
The south park blocks in late October.
Before I fail, I want to wear a scarf
And eat soup while pondering Abe Lincoln’s
Pensive look at the ground.
82
Semet
83
SALAM TESSEMA
The Battle
A girl in a lacy white dress
stares out of a window.
Her glossy black curls tumble to her shoulders,
And white gloves encase her neatly folded hands.
Her feet, bound in white slippers,
never leave the floor.
The wind coming through the open window
plays through her hair and caresses her shoulders
wl-iile whispering extravagant secrets.
It tugs at the white ribbon
.
Fastened around her neck, binding her to their chair
With each puil, her breathing lessens.
her
Until she fades, drifting between her white dress and
fiery hips.
I open my eyes.
The hands that never move
reach up and rip the ribbon from my throat.
I want to stand up
And throw my shoes through the window
And shred the lace
And stand, naked, whispering to the wind.
84
Nouvelle Orleans
Life- it’s got many lovely things in it.
But me- I prefer the ugly.
Loveliness is fleetingBut ugly is forever.
I suppose it’s possible,
To be lovely and ugly a la merne temps.
But don’t fret, the lovely is oniy a façade
Arid the eternal ugly waits for a chance
To rear its head.
Take Nouvelle Orleans, for example.
Full of lovely beads
And lovely musique
And lovely nourriture
And all it took was a storm
And then you remembered who was ugly.
Ugly brown faces matched the ugly brown water.
If they were white, they would’ve stood out.
Maybe that’s why no one noticed
When they drowned.
Ugly is forever
And on a stormy day in August
The lovely city of Nouvelle Orleans
Remembered it was ugly.
85
KATE RAFTER
Superhuman
I want to slip through windshields and lift stolen cars
I want to hide under lampshades and bend prison bars
I want to point at a drink and heat it with my finger
When I leave a room in anger, I want the smoke to linger
I want to spin giant webs to wrap up my prey
I want to reinvent genetic manipulation in a day
I want to rock the world’s axis and destroy city streets
And run so fast I paint the roads with the blood on my feet
I want to be a superhero, a stranger destined for good or
bad
I want to tightrope over hell to save the loves I’ve had
I want to save the planet from asteroids and foil brainwash
ing spies
I want to catch killers by the throat and collar and punch
truth out of lies
But I don’t want it without joy, I don’t want to fight alone
I don’t want a heart that beats forever if I can’t give it on my
own
You’re not a servant or a sidekick—I know the superhero
you’re meant to be
Take my hand and jump into the glow so you can mutate
with me.
86
cJ
Caitlin
87
ZANELE MUTEPFA
African Queen
Behold, for her presence is like precious gold.
Every curve in her body,
Defines how she has been created to be.
The arch in her feet,
Made carefuliy and perfectly.
Made to walk from soft soil to hard rocks
Her legs and hips created strong.
The curve in her hips, broadened and wide
.
But with no shame, she carries them with honor and pride
Her arms long, her arms soft
Created to serve for her family
To cook and clean
For her children indeed
Her arms stay wide,
To comfort those who cry
Yes, her lips do stand out
Mesmerizing to stare at, and when in joy,
big enough for her to shout
Passion and fire lies in her eyes
For when you look, you notice
All her troubles and cries
You notice her curiosity of how’s and why’s
Although dark and bald,
Her skin stays tender and soft
Created to last long hours,
In the beaming sun
Searching for just one crop
Or even a ton
Her heart is made strong.
88
Her heart is made content
She was made to rejoice even when situations are bent
On top of her head, sits an invisible crown,
Every jewel represents her every up and her every down.
Behold, for she’s as honorable as could be
She was made to be an African queen.
89
MALLIKA YAVATKAR
An Empty Room
So there she began in a cold and empty room. It wasn’t real
ly an empty room cause it was filled with people. People
sitting stiffly on hard chairs with their backs upright; some
were sipping hot brown drinks that stained their teeth and
others were glancing at newspapers lined with lies. But
they were all so alone and distant it might seem as if the
never were there. Stern faces with stress filled wrinkles
shadowed their faces. They were blank, empty faces like
those she had seen on the dolls in the toy store. They all
came and went and left nothing behind. No forgotten hand
bags, no old newspapers and no crumbs from already-eaten
cookies were amidst the hard chairs. Only the chairs were
always there. She stared at the beige carpet dreamily as
empty lifeless thoughts entered her head like rain drops
rolling down a windowpane. Why did the silence hurt her?
All she wanted was a sound of recognition, maybe even a
little slight nod of the head or even a smile. But they rushed
back and forth in a hurried pace. Where were they going?
She wanted to think that they were going home. But she
couldn’t think cause she was so cold. The room was bright
and pleasing and yet this coldness surrounded her like
damp dew sticking tightly to a blade of grass. She desper
ately wanted to push away all the coldness, all the fear, but
she could not. She sighed and stooped over and put her
head between her knees.
90
Invisible
Have you ever been ignored? My dad says that the wors
t
insult that anyone can give you is to ignore you. It’s
true.
I’m sitting on the kitchen counter grabbing a tea bag from
the cupboard above me, and my parents are talking
about
me as if I do not exist. I’m invisible for once. Shouldn’t
it be
thrilling? Its not. They talk about my life, my future,
my
summer. I can hear them, but I don’t want to listen. I
don’t
want to respond. So, I toss my tea bag, settle for a glass
of
milk and I step onto the porch. The cool air catches me
and
eases my pain. But I know that, sometime, sooner or
latei
it’s going to all catch up with me. I have been pushing
away, and literally walking away when I should confront
it.
Someday I’ll have to pull off the band-aid and feel the
sting
of conversations that were never meant to be. But for
now
I’ll watch the sun dance between the trees, and I’ll sip
my
milk.
a)N
Joey
91
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