All posts by Henry Nibbelin


We complain
that our parents will never understand the problems we face
Not knowing that they spent a lifetime ensuring
their struggles would not be relived by their children

We place
labels on individuals based on judgment and the superficial
Not knowing the story, the struggle, the emotion
that lay beneath each fleeting face

We create
boundaries among ourselves distinguishing the classes
Not knowing that the barriers we manifest
cage people both out and in

We live
in a society where hookup culture dominates
Not knowing that by seeking only the physical
we trivialize our spirits and destroy our souls

We misappropriate
cultures that are not our own
Not knowing that our fads and passing phases
disrespect a history that we do little to comprehend

We tiptoe
around topics of race
Not knowing that by making it a taboo subject
we elongate a culture of silence and blind eyes to oppression

We forget
the lessons of the past about hate and exclusion
Not knowing that our ignorance
leads to a present of the same depravity

Nevertheless, we must
step into the shoes of others and walk around in them
To know the whole story, the truth, the insight
that will shift our mindsets from the confines of ME
to the incomparable freedom and rare luminosity of WE

Ayushi Tandel ’17


Right now I sit on my bed and look disdainfully at my hair,
Desperately trying to run my fingers through my coarse and tangled curls
I wish for straighter, shinier, sexier hair—
Anything but this dirty-blonde Jewfro upon my head.

Right now eight-year-old Valeria sits on her bed 385 miles away,
Staring at the thin tufts of hair that awkwardly sprout from her sensitive scalp
Reminiscing the glistening goldilocks she braided and combed—
Before the leukemia.
Before the chemo-therapy.
Before Children’s Hospital of Los Angeles became her home.

Right now hundreds of girls like Valeria sit on the edges of their hospital beds,
In UCSF, Kaiser Permanente, Stanford, CHO
Praying solely for luscious locks of their own—
But right now, doctors don’t know how many “Right nows” these girls have left.

Right now I sit on my bed and stare at my hair,
Understanding that hundreds of girls just like me do the same:
Aspire for more beautiful and desirable hair—
Hair that screams “style, fashion, and grace.”

But right now, ladies, I beg you to stop!
Enough with the keratin!
Enough with the straighteners!
Embrace your God-given beauty and
Cherish your locks while
You’re healthy and strong.

Because one of these days
Disaster may strike and
Just like Valeria’s
Your goldilocks might be gone.

Beata Vayngortin ’16

While the Sun Sleeps

A mid-summer’s day to a mid-summer’s night
The dim day breathes last
As the sun ebbs towards fair slumber.
Out fades the bright baking eye;
Our blue tinted crystalline canopy
Clemently burns out to a sweet tempered dusk.

Silhouettes of reaching hands—branches let silver light pass
In a yielding orchard with dulcet fruit.
The green grass hums and gently sways as cicadas sing.
Saturated air blown by the seaside breeze
Tempering the vast deep blue
Serene, wide waters reflecting benevolent moon.

Evelyn Plam ’19

One Clipped Wings

Preparing for the day she can make her flight
Away from His grasp, away, she shied
He remembers not of His great blight

Teaching herself to smile and bite
Nodding her head, just quietly abide
Preparing for the day she can make her flight

She learns to toil, struggle, and fight
Her Father, thwarts, tries to keep her tied
He remembers not of His great blight

She looks to the Suns, oh so bright
But she soon finds that she’s pushed aside
Preparing for the day she can make her flight

Please, once in her life, let her be right
He stood and laughed as she simply cried
He remembers not of His great blight

Until, at last, she can soar like a kite
Her ribbons fly free, the wind catches a ride
Preparing for the day she can make her flight
He remembers not of His great blight

Isabella Silvi ’19

Lost Boy

No good.
Not smart.
Not pretty.

kept all in
avoided the pity.

locked away in doors
that Never kept closed
until I discovered a path
to paving repose.

knights and maidens
wizards and magic
gods and creatures
that Never had happened
opened the doors to a new kingdom
where Lost ones could go
and be their own freedom.

Never had a place
to go or to hide
to be myself
no one by my side
i ran
ran for so long
till i found a place
where Never belonged.

David Wall ’17


Her life is filled with toxic people
Toxic people think toxic thoughts and speak toxic words
Toxic people drink toxic drinks and smoke toxic smoke
Their lungs are filled with perfect poison pushing through their stained lips
In the form of malicious mumbles and wicked whispers
Their horribly beautiful faces cast stares of death
Their sweet toxic kiss enchants you,
But they do not love you
Toxic people don’t love anyone
The Serpents look down on you with eyes of venom
Bad blood boils
Their toxic beauty convinced you that you are less of a being,
But you can never leave a toxic person
Like a ghost they will linger
Intoxication is addictive

Samantha Riordan ’19

To Do List

Life has been a to do list.
And I complete every task,
Yet living life itself remains to be undone,
Setting goals to be number one,
But we are beyond perfect, understand?
If you don’t, it’s called life.
If you’ve never suffered, then you’ve never lived.
If you’ve never been treated badly, then you’ve never learned to forgive.
Note to self: learn to forgive

Can we forgive society for chaining us up to its standards?
We don’t need awards to validate skill.
We don’t need to put our lives in danger to validate will.
We don’t need a cool status in order to fill
The void that’s inside of us.
Screw getting into Harvard,
Don’t you want to get into heaven?
Note to self: value authenticity

Life has been a list of reminders.
But then again, we try to forget because the world can be painful.
We try to pretend.
Let’s pretend that all things in life are ok.
Let’s think that there’s no global warming or inequality in this world.
Let’s act like everything we do will matter because oblivion is impossible.
Let’s breathe…
And then learn that we should stop pretending.
We are sick of pretending.
We want to make our dreams a reality.
Note to self: stop being a fake

Life has been a cycle.
It’s a broken record, stuck on repeat,
As if it’ll never end.
It’s never started either.
And if it has, then lately it’s been boring.
I don’t mind being fixed,
I don’t mind being remixed,
I don’t mind getting a kick-start.

And I have a certain part
of myself that’s broken hearted.
It’s not so long until these standards shatter my soul.
Note to self: look deeper into your soul

What is a soul without passion?
What are words worth if you don’t take action?
What is the attraction
Of wasting our valuable time if they don’t live up to something?
And each of these tasks is shouting,
“Get this done!”
But what about the responsibility to myself?
My heart’s saying, “When is it my turn?”
Why is there a need to get everything done so fast?
What’s the rush to grow up?
My heart’s saying that this is getting old,
And it’s also turned cold,
It’s yearning for fire.
I need people to understand how I feel,
Because what I have IGNITED within me is rapid FIRE
Note to self: SET A FIRE

I don’t want to go to college,
I don’t want to be judged.
For every single action,
I just want to be loved.
Maybe I want to be someone,
Live, love, and laugh,
But I was raised to be a coward.
I’m locked up with no chance!
Maybe I’m not wrong,
Maybe I’m not right,
To say I don’t want a job.

Darlene Silva ’17

Rain Falling

As the sky begins to cry,
the droplets hit the ground with an incredible speed.
The sound becomes a white noise,
a constant ringing that overwhelms the thoughts in my mind.
The water dresses the world around me,
placing a black and white filter over my day.
Filling the holes in the ground with murky liquid,
setting the perfect scene for its counterparts: thunder and lightning.
Igniting my subconscious and inspiring the soundtrack to my nightmares.

Skyelar Reel ’19

Family of 6

The laundry was never done
The dinner was always burnt
Everyone was on the run
Lessons always learnt
The house was always loud
Rooms never clean
Keys never found
Our best friend was Mr. Clean
The walls were scarred with sharpie and handprints
The car had a constant smell of old milk and socks
Cheerios stained the car seats
A baby was always crying
Mother was always sighing
Ending prayers and good night kisses finished the day
And loud wake up calls brought in the morning
Routines were established
Chores were assigned
Yet the house was still a mess
And schedules never aligned
Chaos ensued
Voices were raised
Doors were slammed
The sun was setting
The table was set
And the family met
To sit and pray
Laughs were shared
A lovely protocol
We never had it all together
But together we had it all

Samantha Riordan ’19

Changing the Game

Once the day was almost done and there was nothing in the sky,
The sun was no longer visible in the distance,
It was darkest when she sensed she was going to die.
With all her force she fought and strained resistance.

The day was long gone but she still felt the pain,
The toxic relationship obstructed her from bonafide trust.
The once understood ally had altered the game,
She grew to be a vent inhaled with dust.

Once she began to play it was impossible to leave,
“Sit and confide, for I will never leave your side.”
Filling her lungs with gossip she couldn’t breathe,
She begged her, “Get me off this ride!”

After the sun set and Satan was gone, she caught her breath,
Twas’ the first time since she had left.

Catherine Wall ’18

Generation 3

Quiet – doesn’t say a word,
There he goes walking, hidden by stacks of books,
And coal black, uneven rice bowl bangs which shade
Eyes so slim you can’t tell if they’re closed,

Two helicopters (parents) hover by the gate until he goes inside
Identical features, but all that’s heard from their lips is loud and incoherent gibberish
He looks back – nods – secures his ‘exceptional student pin’
And adjusts his fine rimmed glasses,

The further he enters, the more pressure he feels to go back out
He doesn’t want to go, but he’s the one who must succeed, go to college to succeed his family,

He passes the girl he likes
The only one with the compassion to look twice and smile at his foreign face

Her name is Brittany
Fair skin, blonde hair, blue eyes, off-limits
His parents would never approve,

Preparing for class
He gets his books, studies in between periods, and greets all his teachers with a yellow smile
But leaving the classroom feels like leaving the country
He’s pushed from behind and slammed into his locker,
This is a normal day for him

Three bigger guys size him up
And throw his stuff
He hears the same things everyday
‘Chink’, ‘alien’, ‘immigrant’

It hurts,
But who would stick up for the awkward student with honors grades
When that could mean involving yourself
And risking your own reputation?

He has no say, no voice, and no power
All he can do it sit
And wait,
And obey

This continues for years,
But by the end, he’s the one to graduate from Harvard University
With a Master’s degree in Neuroscience
And an internship lined up in accordance
He is an Asian American.
Born facing discrimination,
Challenging racism and hatred,
And expected to be a concert musician by the maximum age of 18

He does what he’s told
He becomes a professional
He marries an Asian girl of their (his parents)choosing
And he provides the family with a grandson that his own parents can feel relieved with

He is trapped between two worlds
Stuck and not knowing what he is anymore
He’s done everything his parents wanted
But what happens when they pass away

Has he wasted his whole life living their lives during his time
Or has he just never been able to break away from the respect that they beat into him
Maybe both

Nevertheless, he sees it now
He realizes what he’s done wrong
And he knows that if anyone can do the right thing
It will be his children, to grow up and follow their own dreams as

Asian Americans to set things straight
Generation three

Grace Pating ’18


This compelling enigma, it twists and turns
Oh how the aborted solution burns.
Possibilities, possibilities galore
All the combinations make me want more.

Everyone’s goal is to be the best
Some never stop, others give it a rest.
So many methods that need to work
But when I fail, I go berserk.

I can try and try and try to change,
But there is only one way the pieces arrange.
A deception as it’s known, so mystical and wise
Everyone, however, says it is filled with lies.

Justin Sautter ’19

Into The Forest

The long open trail comes to a cool end,
Your overworked body feels the first shaded bend.

Your body is filled with a feeling of completion and relief,
It seems like there are no more observable signs of grief.

The pain and suffering is over,
Oh so you think?
Maybe you can just settle down on a shaded bed of clovers,
And enjoy a chilled drink.

Trees of all colors and kinds tower above you,
Their leaves covered with the remaining dew.

No sunlight can reach your trail,
Your body loses the feeling it might fail.

Shadows fill your vision,
You should make your decision.

Do you continue on this trail of dark twists and turns,
Or are you too consumed with thoughts and concerns?

Who knows what lies ahead,
Whether it is a monstrous beast or a sketchy shed.
Your body longs for a bed,
But suddenly a noise fills you ears and you stop dead.

Not a human, that is for sure,
But it moves towards you, its figure obscure.

The sun is setting over the trees,
And your body begins to freeze.

Your heart beats with rapid pace,
Mindful something horrible with surely soon take place.

The figure moves towards your space,
So you prepare for the worst, just in case.

I closed my eyes and heard, “Into the Forest you shall never come,
For you will now pay the price, let your body be and become one of them.”
You take another form.

Colin Niehaus ’19


A buzzing isolation
embraces a vainly hopeful town,
built of hasty strokes of wood,
and a callused one-way street.
Beggars grow rich
as with bleeding fingers
they nuzzle splinters of silver
left by some fool
dizzy in pursuit of gold.

A buzzing isolation
surrounds workers as they toil,
web of motion,
silver and sleek,
uniform strings of pallid rhythm
upon the kneaded, crushed and broken fields,
torching nighttime,
for the blinding hours of day
do not suffice.

A throbbing isolation
feathers the only dove,
silently incandescent
in this town of hoarse and speckled pigeons
plummeting forward
in packs of whitewashed symmetry.
The dove veers off,
no longer isolated though she alone carves tunnels of invisibility
in skies of dawn,
frivolous colors retreating hue by hue
which land upon slowly penned rooftops and time-carved roads,
humble dirt and modest ruts,
unsteady sound of unsure wheels,
polished by despair bitten hands
toiling for the future
one must journey to glimpse,
for the dusty sunset,
or the bellowing moon
that only shines when the soul is content.

But the dove, as always, returns.

In buzzing isolation
the mortals of a town
rip weathered horizons
with metallic silhouettes,
the brand of perfection
and the scar of unrest.

Angela Yang ’18

Flaws and All

We strive twice a day to uphold our name,
and only when foe exposes our flaws,
with vigor, anger and integrity,
do we quickly crawl to the mighty law.

But, when the mighty sword presents its blade
before our heavenly, assuming eyes,
the sanctimonious pasts of our lives,
catch up with the trials of our decries.

It is your duty, as much as my own,
to carefully consider our actions,
and the indignation which we create,
within our insolent interactions.

Pity the world, or else this sorrow be,
The hindrance that will forever haunt thee.

Sophia Teng ’18


Dad said I shouldn’t join the army,
Shouldn’t serve my country.
He asked me why?
I told him it was to do my home right,
But I knew that that was a lie.
I always would wonder why?

Basic training flew by.
Jumping, running, diving.
Stripped guns and stripped minds.
Learn to take orders like rounds to chest.
Don’t ask questions, don’t waste time.
Don’t you know we have a war to win?


Back home.
I was in a grocery store, saw a kid playing with some toy pistol, pop, pop, pop. Nearly flipped, nearly crashed to the floor like I did when they had us running with rocks in our packs in IET. Stepped outside for some air, saw a bag lying on the ground near a car, IED flashbacks. Dogs getting blown up as they tried to sniff out little packages of BOOM!

Tour 2.
Officially veteran level.
Younger guys, staring up at me, thinking, if this guy did it maybe I can too.
It doesn’t always work that way.
A damn bag detonated on a highway.

They medevac me out.
Rush me in to the temporary camp hospital.
Doc tells me it’ll be alright,
But I’ve seen it before,
I’m dead, or will be soon.

Last thoughts.
Why did I join up?
I ran through the bullshit I’d told myself.
Pride in my country, protect American lives, help those abroad from tyranny.
Truth hit me like the shrapnel off the IED that killed me.
Had to prove myself.
Had to prove myself to who knows what, who knows who.
Had to show myself I could handle it.
Had to know. Why did I join up?
Dad was right.

Newspaper headline. Obituary column.
Corporal Sam A. Rozner died in battle.
He was kind, gentle, and funny.
He died serving his country.
He fought to preserve American ideals now and forever, protect American lives, and end tyranny abroad.

Saul Rubin ’16

Come What Come May

I’m lying in my old white sundress
In a field of stiff grass
On my back, palms up
Towards the baby blue sky
And all its clouds

And it’s hot.
On this day the sun
Beats me down
Through my dress and the grass
But I don’t want to go anywhere

Seventeen clouds
Transforming slowly

And one, bouncy
And big and white
Is shaped like my
Old kid bike
With tassels on the handlebars
For a second I close my eyes
And breathe
And feel a gust of wind
And when my eyes open
The cloud has been pushed
Leftward and is streaked
Quietly evaporating

Moves along
Not as white
And pretty massive
The shape reminds me
Of a curled wave
Like the ones
I duck under
At the beach
It lingers for some time
And I feel the chill
Of its shadow
For a moment
As it passes
Above me

So then
Solid blue
For a minute
I anticipate
The next cloud
But it’s a plane
It breaks the silence
With a roar and echo
And so too arrives
Little lumps of cloud
Each wandering more quickly
Through the sky
Bumping into birds
Some dark edged
And some gleaming
Like my mother’s wedding ring

I close my eyes for a while now.
I’ve seen so many clouds today
Enough for a lifetime

I know when I’m sunburned
And I’m sunburned
But the grass is no longer stiff
And a quiet breeze soothes my skin
And I’m not going anywhere.
I’ll let anywhere come to me

Caroline Parkinson ’17

I Hear America Singing (Ode to Whitman)

I can hear America singing.
I hear the repetitious clicking of the computer as a tired worker types into the dark hours of the night
I hear the monotonous, dull tap of the thumb as a girl scrolls through the daily feed straining for some dab of interest
I see the veering eyes of people as a young woman with a hijab walks through the airport terminal
I feel the uncomfortable shifts and diverted glances as people walk past the begging, worn out man on the street corner
I hear the sighs of migrant farm workers as they breathe in the pesticides and cringe with chronic pain from bending for 10 hours
I hear the dying fight of too many as hope withers and the dream seems further away
I feel the yearning desire to join as one with a nation that seems to shrug away like the millions of people who lazily turn their cheeks to those in need of a home, an open community
But I also hear America’s music
The song of the joy from the lucky ones, the proof that hope is alive and well
I hear the hum of the diverse language on the bus ride home,
I am in a new world, a new time
I smell the cultural melting pot walking through the streets and breathing it all in
I hear the free cries of justice and opinion through the computer screen of a passionate student’s blog he types every night
I see the pride and radiating beauty of a woman embracing her culture while coexisting with the new America
Instead of being stared down for her religion, she is admired from afar
I see the compassion and desire as a student nervously sits down for a meal in the soup kitchen with a homeless man
Together, no longer through a separating wall, he can share his stories and shorten the gap that divides the pedestrian from the “untouchable”
I rejoice in the fulfillment as the immigrants see their daughter grow into what she wants and chooses her own path in life, paving it off her parents sweat and ambition
I see the pain. I see the disappointment. I see the struggle and I see the joy
I see the beauty as the two coincide as one nation united

Natalie Ruxton ’17

The Grind

We work ceaselessly
Searching for perfection endlessly

Stress piles up like the papers around us
Nerves fray like the straps on our backpacks

Expectations loom like jagged mountains
We are forced to climb them by the voices all around us

Relaxation is like a luscious oasis in a vast desert
We search for the oasis of relaxation in our spare time

We are told that perfection is at the top of the jagged mountains
We are told that with perfection comes the oasis

It seems as though the work will never stop
It seems like the search is truly never ending

But the search must end
At some point the work must be finished

For us the grind will never stop
We are the future of the world

We are the students

Noah Zovickian ’17

From Dust it Came

Fingertips ghosted over the carefully arranged sand grains, not daring to touch its perfected surface. The man breathed softly so as to not make the sand below stir. For days, he had been toiling on this project. He had sacrificed sleep, meals, and outings. He had moaned and groaned over the sand design and the color choice, often cursing at himself for a minor slip up from exhaustion. Amidst the bloodshed, the agony, and the loneliness, this work of beauty and trueness had come to completion.
His art teacher assigned the prayer circle. Create it from small objects. Morph it into a work of art. Examine it, meditate upon it. Adore its majesty and greatness.
He agreed. He spent hours simply preparing the design of the prayer circle, discerning what symbolic meaning could go to which, or which style, the like. The work was endless, yet so too was his resolve. Now, all that remained rested in front of him.
A picture. A picture would immortalize this moment and trap it between a thin plastic covering that would eventually brown or bend… But that wasn’t the point of the exercise.
“You will create something painstakingly beautiful. Then you will destroy it.”
He took the brush in hand, engraved the picture in his mind, and bit his lip to prevent the tears from escaping. He couldn’t tear his eyes from it. His arm raised above, holding his breath as he tried to steal the masterpiece’s existence for seconds more.
“This is a lesson on how everything comes to an end. Beautiful or not.”
His arm tore across the middle of the piece of art. No. He could still see the swirls and the arches. He could still see the paths to the outer ring then freedom. Another sweep, in a diagonal. The swirls folded onto themselves. The colors blurred in the background.
“All art comes to an end. It must live on in the eyes of those who have seen it! But this art work…It shall only live on in your eyes.”
He would never get to tell his friends how he felt destroying this masterpiece bit by bit. He wouldn’t go into the specifics of realizing how humiliating it was to have wasted so much time on rubbish that would be destroyed in mere seconds.
“No art is ever wasted!” his teacher would bellow. “It is a message!”
A plethora of colored sand remained. Sand that lost its form. Even this, the remnants of his masterpiece, would not remain with him. He would find himself at the edge of the beach, dumping it into the waters. In an attempt to have others realize his achievement? To rid the disaster from his sight? He had no inkling. But it was gone.
As he watched the last grains tumble away, by sea, wind, or gravity, his eyes closed and concentrated on the image tattooed on the backs of his eyes. “…What is art worth if it lives on in one person?”

Danielle Eden Silva ’16

88 Tiny Steps: a story about my piano

It’s day one—the beginning,
I eagerly wait and see,
Whose skill will dance upon my floor,
And prove themselves worthy,

Whoever has the passion,
The will to dream and strive,
Shall be my next companion,
My friend, my muse, my guide

Untouched for many years now,
The dust—slowly collects,
The pain of past experiences,
Lost love, betrayal, regret,

Muffled noises from the outside,
Cause my heart to pang within,
Warm fingers run along my shell,
I feel myself cave in.

A crack of light and a suddenly,
She opens my top; peering through,
She dusts my surface carefully,
Old keys—refined, once new,

A small hand extends and pierces a note,
Which takes me by surprise,
Who is this child, this amateur,
Who tests my talent and lies,

They promised me a genius,
A prodigy at most,
Now I’m stuck with this beginning seven year old,
And Kingsbury gets to boast.

Her tiny hands attempt a fifth,
But fail to get nearly far,
This is humiliating to watch her struggle so much,
This embarrassment is going to scar,

Although I expected the best,
And not a wanna-be Debussy,
I’ve realize that I’ll have to learn with this strange new girl,
The two of us in harmony,

She’ll struggle to hit a few certain keys,
But she’ll learn to work in depth,
Her path to musical success has just begun now,
A path of 88 tiny steps.

Grace Pating ’18

The Finer Things

The warm breeze flits upon his face
His smile deepens the lines age did trace
Essence of ripening fruit wafts over the vine
While the worker plucks the best to make wine
Oozing juices flow from the berry
Ripe and bursting, they can no longer tarry
Keep no more shall the Pinot Noir
Even a few more days, and it will go too far
Red stained with skins, in barrels perfumed during the roast
Infused in oak for vanilla, hazelnut, and toast
None of the other noble grapes can compare
To the delicate bouquet that the Pinot can share
He pours the elixir into the glass
Elegantly swirls it with utmost class
Velvety smooth it is to the taste
Infused with red fruit, with violet interlaced
Nutmeg, clove, it warms to the core
Even with all willpower one wants a sip more
Young wine, like a garnet does it glow
As subtle tannins tantalize one so
Refined is the art of mastering wine
Delight in the moment: appreciate what is fine.

Katia Renault ’19

I Am in the Air

Knees locked, pressed together, shoulders hunched
as I count the breaths I take.
While you, man, sit down, elbows flying, thighs inviting,
you, man, have never been taught to count your breaths.
Heads straight, hands on desk, eyes riveted to the board, there is a halo of goodness around girls in a
classroom, as if we were divinely put there to temper the boys’ boisterousness.
Boys will be boys, while we will be perfect at all moments.
We are the audience to their mischief, with coquettish laughs hidden behind flared fingers.
And yet, when it is our turn in the spotlight, it seems as if we have all contracted sorry syndrome.
We apologize away the times when we slip from the
perfection that we hold so dearly, or try our hands at confidence.
I am an expert at feeling the air between my lungs.
I know exactly how much space I take up in the corner of the room.
I fold my body like origami, so that you don’t have to.
Where are the days of running naked through the garden,
with a chest as flat as a boy’s and therefore ok,
with sticky fingers flung towards the sky and my heart hopping between my brittle bones.
I didn’t used to count breaths.
Air was as never-ending as my childhood seemed to be.
Now I hold it all in.
All so that I can be skinny, quiet, understanding, kind, good, feminine, polite, perfection.
With all the air sucked in, I try not to move.
Sometimes, I am so good at my job
that there is no difference between the air and me.

Alyssa Urroz ’16

The Cantina’s Deceptive Truth: a Tribute to Star Wars

Corellian Captain Solo, the smuggling scoundrel, runs from his debts for another day.
Han Solo shoots first, killing the Rodian Greedo, bounty hunter slime.
With death still looming, the Cantina Band jubilantly continues to play.

Han leaves the corpse in the booth to lay;
Meanwhile, the patrons of the pub ignore the crime.
Corellian Captain Solo, the smuggling scoundrel, runs from his debts for another day.

At the Cantina’s center, he gives the bartender money for the murder tax he must pay.
Leaving rather hastily, one thing Han does not have is time.
With death still looming, the Cantina Band jubilantly continues to play.

The Captain carries on; the Rodian had not been the last for Solo to slay.
A greater price put on Han’s head; assassins are to come hunting for the galactic grime.
Corellian Captain Solo, the smuggling scoundrel, runs from his debts for another day.

With his legendary ship, the Millennium Falcon, resting at the docking bay,
Han gathers his passengers and leaves at once. Solo cannot die in his prime!
With death still looming, the Cantina Band jubilantly continues to play.

Moving towards the exit, the Captain thinks nothing of his mere prey.
Until he realizes his perfectly timed blast was extraordinarily sublime.
Corellian Captain Solo, the smuggling scoundrel, runs from his debts for another day.
With death still looming, the Cantina Band jubilantly continues to play.

Hank Thompson ’19

Memoirs of a Fowl Netflix Addict

Flying through this very overcast endless maze
My very glassy eyes completely glued to the screen
Stuck in my drab, dull, monotonous dog days
My body has been running on only cheap cuisine.

The boredom and repetition of the show
Grows to be an extensive yearning for more
I scavenge through the forgotten films, like a crow
Finding endless movies that never bore.

Though I’m aware I should stop this habit,
I still fear the harsh thrust back into reality,
Will be agonizing instead of a respite
Swooping around the large clouds of actuality

Yet don’t fret, but understand I research
To give us a pretty view on a new perch.

Caroline Quill ’18


What is one compared to another?
Do you not think they’re awake?
Why is only one called a lover?

Are the memories a sad reminder,
of the love you used to make?
What is one compared to another?

Wouldn’t you think one would understand the other?
Sharing more than just a heartache.
Why is only one called a lover?

One would hope this one isn’t a mother.
For there would be a child she wouldn’t let you take.
What is one compared to another?

She doesn’t understand how you love her.
But how could it be fake?
Why is only one called a lover?

Where is the honor,
you once vowed to never break?
What is one compared to another?
Why is only one called a lover?

Ellie Wynne ’19

Based on a True Story

I wonder what the last straw was.
Maybe it was her mom threatening to cut her throat
Or kicking her out of the house again
Or her sister refusing to take her in.
Maybe she was just sick of her dad being in jail
And missing half her family.
Maybe it was the truancy notices that started flooding in
And the third address change. In a month.
This one had a neighbor who threw big parties every weekend.
Maybe it was what she learned from attending those
And the “friends” she made
While abandoning the real ones,
Replacing them with a ciggy or a drink.
Maybe it was another failed career attempt
Another ’no’, another ’you’re not good enough. You used to be better.’
Maybe that was her last straw.
The fact that her life was real.

Leanne Yuen ’17

Our Tickets

As we sit in this class today,
In a magnificent school that we have to pay,
Everyone around us had their passage paid
By a person or persons that goes back to a date.

Some may date their journey back to when the Pilgrims came,
Or when an earthquake hit,
Or when the soldiers maimed.
Our payers came from countries good or bad,
Like countries colored in with red.
Many lived lives that they wished they didn’t have.
Many had no fathers,
No one to call “Dad.”

Hearing about the huge plantations
And gold found across the deep blue sea,
Our payers paid for the trip to the land of the free.
Traveling by themselves or with family,
They rode the seas wearily.
Sweat and tears,
Dung and fear.
Hoping that they would find the American Dream,
They embraced the arduous trip,
Acting as strong as a beam.

Whether they landed in the tobacco land or Gull’s Island,
Our ancestors found themselves surrounded
With races as colorful as a garden salad.

With little money to afford warm and lavish clothing,
Our ancestors were always freezing.
Some saved money for their own schooling,
While others saved for their family’s moving.

As their stomachs growled every now and then,
They swore they could eat a cow that was just for them.
With fingers all swollen and backs all bent,
They worked everyday twenty-four seven.
Their lips were as dry as the Sahara Desert,
But their hopes were as high as the twinning towers.
“What did they hope for?”

You may ask.
Just look at yourself.
Is there a mask?
Your eyes, your ears
Your mouth, your tears,
All came from the feelings of hope.
They hoped that we may be here
In this wonderful room titled 1 1 2.

We shouldn’t ask for more.
We couldn’t ask for more.
They all came for our future,
Trying to make it as good as the Hollywood pictures.

Through pain they worked.
Through illnesses they fought.
Their hope never wavered,
To meet us all later.

From Tin to Tan,
From Schoich to Sokoloff,
They loved us all dearly,
And so should we,
For they gave us a life,

Without a guarantee.
They fought hard for us,
Like soldiers in a war.
They didn’t know if they won,
Or if it was a draw.
But they do know that they tried hard,
So thank God for that,
For if they didn’t,
Where would we be at?

Hayden Tam ’17


The truth.
Like cool rain in the desert—
the little person I have buried in the earth of my soul
whose cries reverberate against the brokenness
has stopped fighting the tempest
and stands in awe, motionless,
as the water washes over her, whole.
Cheeks sluiced in tears,
it’s too sweet—
what is this feeling? It has been so long
but I think I can remember.
Words are truly not enough to transcribe
Your mercy

Gabby Villadolid ’17

Finding Refuge

The sweet smell of the old streets
Haunts me as I stand in the ignorant world of freedom,
For there is absolutely nothing left of the people in Syria.
One by one, house by house, the whole country fell apart.
On their knees, they beg us please, but we refuse to hear their shouts.
We have bills to pay and work to do,
We have no time for those who dream of finding a way out.
Let them fight their own battles, watch their children die on the streets,
And ride in boats in the middle of the night, and dream of a chance at a better life.
We Americans sit still, contently watching in fear of our own lives,
Yet he who watches the poor man die,
Is guilty himself for the crime.
Deny the access for those who look for refuge and a fresh start,
For isn’t that what that American Dream is all about?

Judy Shamshikh ’18

A Concrete Jungle

A candied peanut aroma ricochets through each block of smooth, stark pavement. A ragged dog rushes by with a steaming hotdog clenched between his jaws. Barely detected perfumes of various department stores vaguely drift through the crisp air. One can almost taste the smell of the churros piping hot in the glassy window of the vendor’s stand. City goers feel the movement, excitement, and energy of NYC like a young child’s glee bottled up and ready to explode at any given moment. The hustle and bustle of the shops and determined entrepreneurs with big dreams are detected even in the dead of night. Piercing the clouds, the razor-sharp skyscrapers invade the atmosphere. The narrow alleys below reveal quaint cafés with rabbit-white tablecloths gleaming under a rainbow of umbrellas. Central Park offers a quick moment of tranquility. The park is like a revitalizing splash of chilly water renewing one’s mind from the day’s tiring yet enlightening sojourns. Intricate window displays greet one with hospitality from almost every corner. Lampposts pose with valor, guarding the rough concrete jungle from utter and complete darkness. They uphold the chivalry of the knight alongside the kaleidoscopic advertisements that storm the sky of the city that never sleeps. Ceaseless sirens and honking horns never have a curfew in the Big Apple. It always seems to be Black Friday. New York City thrives as a melting pot that a diverse population of people call home.

Caroline Worthington ’19

Calm Summer Sunset

A warm summer breeze flowing through the wind
A dropping sun melts into the ocean
So gorgeous that anyone could get pinned
So powerful it stops any commotion
The golden sand around our feet freezes
The waves on the ocean let out their roar
Beholding a beautiful sight it seizes
The ability to wonder even more
The creations on Earth experience
The wonders and beauties of this planet
So vast, so fair, with the brilliance
Of teeming life that God has planned
To gaze at a sunset and think of this
It’s truly something to have with bliss

Gabriel Terry ’18

Parody Poem: The Blogger

Listen my readers and you shall hear
Of my travels far away from here
On the Tenth of April, in a city that thrives
I recorded as I sky-dived
I posted it online for all to see
Comment “goals” and how you “wish you were me”
In the land and sea to the town to-night
I venture about, discovering new things
While you sit alone as your computer clings
To the sheets of your bed, reading this you said,
Sad, whispering “how my dreams are dead”
But you do the same thing ev’ryday
Work, Work, Work making money with no play
Now I know this poem sounds cliché, but go
And do something with your life
Instead of just reading about mine

Ceili Peglar ’18


Those moments that stay with you all through your life
The ones that keep you up well into the night
The good, the bad, the ugly, the true
The long, the short, the old, the new
These memories hold meaning that runs so deep
The only challenge is: how many can you keep?
I collect memories, not stamps or marbles or shoes
No gadgets or gizmos or thingamabobs will do
No one can take them, they will never be ruined
They seem to be better than whatever you’re doing
You’ll never be out, they’re in constant supply
You’re making some right now you don’t even need to try
Many will tell you not to dwell in the past
And Live in the moment, it may be your last
But what happens when you forget what you’ve done and become
You forget who you are and where you came from

Lauren Sullivan ’18