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

Stage 1:
They tie off the knot and she’s as free as can be
Without experience or knowledge is she
She is let out in world
Untouched and beautiful
She wails and then waddles
And life is just great
This might be her happiest state

Next is stage 2
She knows she is as free as can be
School is easy and fun when you learn A,B,C
The pig-tails and giggles may fool some
But the tantrums and screams are what really come
She better hold on tight, cause a time out
isn’t the only strike to come about

Finally here comes stage 3
She only thinks she is as free as can be
But life’s about to strike her hard when she’s a teen
There’s high school, friends, and boys that could be
But locked in her room is where she’ll dream
Of pebbles being thrown to her fourth balcony

Stage 4 is here at last
As they send her far, far away
Finally she can feel, her freedom today
Until red and blue flash before her eyes
The telephone rings and to her mothers surprise
It’s her daughter calling, sounding glazed and weary
“I need your help.” She cries
And suddenly everything’s dreary

Time has passed and she’s onto stage 5
She’s lost in the world not knowing where to dive
She needs to find a job, a man, a house, and a car
Oh and of course money is the real star
She weeps alone in her dark apartment
Maybe freedom was not what she wanted

Stage 6… what a great time to be alive
She thinks she is so free without any guide
But little does she know
No peer is what freedom is comprised
Her husband and her and her four little kids
From soccer to piano to guitar and more
These things distract them from acknowledging her daily chore
“I do so much but no one cares, I try to help but you all just stare”
Night after night in screaming fights

Stage 7 is the last, the end of them all
Where life finally surrenders the brawl
As she takes her last breathe
And lets it out in one long sigh
She knows this is her time to die
Yet she is not sad or regretful
For she knows freedom is awaiting
Freedom comes when your soul’s at rest
Freedom comes only at death

Rebecca Latham ’19

Like a sunset, he seeped into my realm
Honey golds, calm roses painted onto the canvas of blue
His secrets guiding his ship at the helm
Sounds of waves, washing away the darker hues
Yet, the fading sunset must one day go
The rolling tide must one day subside
There lies the danger in seeking a hero
A beauty too great walks with arrogant pride
In eternal darkness I am left lost
To wander through misty clouds of foggy gray
I wonder if sunsets are worth such cost
When their beauty is only to tempt, not stay
But until my sunset finds his way back
Stars are my comfort among the sea of black

Maya Gonzales ’18

All the day’s a stage
It begins at dawn, dark in the world
The seven phases of the day,
first the woken, drowsy, stumbling
Torn from slumber, almost sleeping tall
Then the morning like vibrant streaks across the sky
Brushing, washing, scrubbing, ready for the day
Step out the door, and meet the world
Driving, bussing, get to school,
Hitch their bags, heads down, all focused
Then comes the noon, a high sunshine
Relax, rejuvenate, replenish-
Halfway through a day and dragging
On towards the afternoon, of tiny snacks
And bells a-ringing, come stomping out anew
But then the evening hits them, of a
Tired, homework sort, pens and bags and pieces
Shove away, feel the day, it’s very near the end
And bringing up the glow and shine
Of a single star-like being
The parts and cogs– reboot, rebirth
It’s time for a new day

Ava Mar ’18

A quest of nine, two young lovers,
seven stages of life
trapped between two covers:

Our hero begins his journey on a shelf,
squeezed between Hemingway and Wilde.
Carpeted in dust, lonely,
resembling a lost child.

A helpful buyer,
low and behold,
rescues our hero.
The two fly off into the cold.

He is jostled around
between a wallet and key,
before being thrown, roughly,
on to the vanity.

However, later that night,
tea warm in hand,
his spine is stretched,
his words are scanned.

This operation is repeated,
every night or other.
A week of bending, flexing,
His pages and his cover.

But he can feel it ending,
his pages wearing thin.
The cover closes,
another bookmark thrown in the bin.

Squeezed between Tolkien and Faulkner,
our hero is back on a ledge
Poised, waiting,
dust carpeting its edge.

Megan Kelly ’19

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

Dear children of the ground,
What’s the sound you’re making now?
First the rattle.
Then the rumbling.
Now an explosion that sends all tumbling.
Why the violence?
Why the wars?
What are sisters and brothers for?

Humankind- what a pathetic race!
I would cleanse myself with water
And rid you from my face
If only my waters, once blue,
Weren’t dyed with human blood and guts.

This is Earth to humankind:
End the violence, stop the bloodshed.
–Over and out.

Alexander Lo ’17

I cannot find love in the air.
I may have seen it before.
It blossoms in the center with a majestic oak
Surrounded by rich grass on the outskirts.
They remained in a fragile balance for 160 years by
Assuming the oak deserved more than the grass,
Truly incomparable in glory.
And so the garden remained unquestioned and unbalanced.
They prayed for light breezes
To preserve the frailty
And to prevent
Chaos.

They assumed the garden was built on respect
Both the grass and the oak in different ecosystems while
Surviving and supporting each other.
Yet the tree continued to grow,
Creating too many roots and
Feeding on too little a community.
The roots consumed and conquered the grass,
Disrespecting and destroying a once dignified ecosystem
Forever throwing away the balance

Thick roots, stuck and settled.
Forever frozen in their paths that
Sliced through the grass and
Penetrated a household.

In the original garden
Lived two separate but equal ecosystems
Who never talked.
Who never discussed.
Is that love?

In this disheveled garden
Lives one ragged ecosystem
They must talk.
They must discuss.
And they will move forward
As a single ecosystem
In the presence of true and honest
Love.

Lauren Cueto ’17

If you’re going to leave
Allow me to tell you all the things I’ve wanted to share-

I see the roaring clouds behind your mysterious eyes
The song of a bird floats through the air, even as you sigh

Under the willow tree is where I picture you in the summer,
Or as a drummer in the school marching band

Or do you rummage ‘round redwood giants
And tiptoe through tulips in the spring

You are found bound within the sound of a catchy tune
Your simplistic and optimistic outlook piercing through the clouds of negativity

I cannot let you float away like dandelion puffs,
Because the wind blew when I wasn’t ready to make my wish

Diamonds do not shine brighter than your smile,
Which is only bettered by the dimples on your cheeks

When you enter the room, the temperature rises
and I can feel the sound waves of your voice floating through the air

You are beautiful like a rose, but your thorns pierce-
You said that you would never let me be on my lonesome

But today I watched you set onto the platform
I stood as a bystander as my best friend stepped onto the train

I stood helplessly as your army green shoulders disappeared
Into the clustered sea of army jackets

Lucy Anastas ’19

Quiet cowboy rides
Marlboro man no cigar
Crossing the river

Faithful horses
Wise nomads of the meadow
Ripple the river

Life before my eyes
Daydream mirroring heaven
Summer memories

Intensely quiet
Symphony in one moment
Nature’s perfect song

Sean Fitzgerald ’19

Sitting in a lemon tree,
Tasting the tang of sour
Smooth bark very slippery
I had climbed for half an hour
A gentle breeze blows softly
As I spy the sun-baked sea
A lazy cloud floats o’er me
As I slowly fall asleep

Anthony Mark ’18

In times of struggle, throughout decades of strife,
Those yearning for equity have often cried, “What harm does our desire for justice bring into your life?”
This message seldom heard and often preached, has woven its way through every great speech, every protest, every exasperated plea
Indeed those searching for equality often wonder
how their freedom could possibly cast any system’s good intentions asunder
time and time again they are stumped, it is a mystery to them,
this question the derivative of a multitude of spirituals and hymns
and although it may appear to the proletariat that their desires bring
forth no grief, there is scarcely space for everyone when an aristocracy
occupies the seats
The truth is this question leaves the affluent and privileged cowering
in their slave labor endorsing shoes, retreating to their luxurious estates far away,
Where they needn’t be bothered with the news
that the overlooked and underrepresented are sickened with their plight,
they no longer wish to kiss rings, they are now prepared to fight
to take up arms and make haste dismantling walls of discrimination
to forcibly inherit the rights promised to them upon their arrival to this nation
promises drenched in the blood of their ancestors, treaties long forgotten
behold their footsteps draw closer, they will no longer be downtrodden
they will set ablaze the castle walls, they will brave the treacherous moats
away they shall be carried upon clouds of blackened smoke
If they should succeed, if themselves they set free, an age of reckoning will commence
Arise, arise you ninety nine, down with the one percent!
For years complacent requests for freedom have fallen, disregarded by deaf ears
The time for diplomacy has descended, now dawns the era of tears
They demand their suffering discontinued, food in the mouths of their young
Not one more foreign country shall be invaded while citizens within our borders
live on crumbs
Not one more penny to the fortification of barricades
against fabricated wars, while veterans of those previous are abandoned in
poorly funded wards
Or better yet left to the streets to indulge in the splendor of old age
No more increase of the national debt while the lifeblood of our country
can’t make a cent above minimum wage
These are the new cries of the lowly, the non-negotiable declarations of the meek
It is no longer merely liberation, but reparations they seek

Sierra Bourne ’17

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?

Combat…Shhhiiitttt.

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?
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.
Why?
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 close my child
Listen,
Listen to the language of the Almighty.
Come close my child
See,
See the strength of love for all humanity.
Come close my child
Smell,
Smell the faithful’s sweat and tears in perpetuity.
Come close my child
Taste,
Taste the blood and body of eternity.
Come close my child
Feel,
Feel the force of God the Almighty.

Michael Lundgren ’18

AMDG?

We each have our own language of thought
Each have our own dance of morality
Each have our own story plot
In our own created mentality
Language alone cannot carry it all
The complex yet common capacity
Ideas perish as does the night fall
Day’s unending race, mind’s tenacity
Only through the genuine connection
Of pure and vulnerable empathy
Can we catch each other’s intention
Understand the mystery of each melody
Although the world may never hear my song
Our symphony’s one harmony rings

Ava Nordling ’18

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
Shifting
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

Another
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

This is for the girls who act like queens who only care about themselves,
and the guys who, like the girls, are always needing my help.
This is for the people who act like they care.
Only in it so that they can get a share.
I know all of this may sound a bit unfair,
but I still love the haters, ’cause moments like this are rare.

This song’s for my grandma’s and grandpa’s alike,
my mom and my dad who continue to be my light,
my brother and sister, even though we fight,
and also myself, for I love my life.
My teachers who push me to the limit
and my God who reminds me I’m in it to win it.

I’d like to thank my music, for keeping me inspired
and my high school, teaching me to spark my inner fire.
The singers, stars, and celebs in their cars,
reminding me that my future isn’t too far.
To my friends and their everlasting loyalty.
I’d like to tell them they mean everything to me.

To the fights and the quarrels, for making me break a sweat
once in a while (or has it been everyday yet?).
The sins and the hardships for teaching me that
my life is just beginning, and there’s no reason to be sad.
Lastly, I thank the world for showing me how to live
and teaching me always that I have so much to give.

So now I leave this song in your hands
and ask you to be thankful whenever you can
because whenever you start something or wish it to end,
you’ll use this song to remind you to mend
all your past relationships, desires, and wants
and love them anew and make your own song.

Jonathan Lo ’17

that man is a menace
he would so quickly throw away
the heart
of the holiest of angels
as one does the first slice
of a loaf of bread

he will take as much as he can
until nothing is sacred but
what is left of the air in your lungs
(you will wish you could give more)

this is my final warning
realize that you are phenomenal
guard your heart with
the ferocity of a thousand lions

your time is gold
you, yourself, are priceless

Silvia Jiménez-Montano ’17

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

I stand for the weak,
Those society left alone,
I have no fear of the whip,
No insult will hit bone.

I stand for the sick,
Those struck down by chance,
I have no fear of judgement,
Forever I hold my stance.

I stand for the broken,
Those who cannot fight,
I have no fear of pain,
My weakness gives me might.

Defender of the innocent,
Those who don’t deserve,
The cruelty of this world.
For them I proudly serve.

Francesca Briggs ’18

I haven’t touched the harrowed
pages of this book
Since you stopped feeling the words and
Stories and letters that make up mine,
Since you put me down and closed me
Without a second glance,
(It was easy)
Since your long, elongated fingers stopped
Caressing my worn-down spine.

And yet, what was I afraid of
In getting left behind?
Not of fights, nor imperfection, or infidelity,
No, the fear stemmed from fear
Of our story simply slipping away
In the vast dunes of time.

My open pages seemed to bathe in
Newfound light, they glowed bright-white
And pure by the love of the Moon.
How sad to see your soft rays replaced
With an eternal bookmark,
And an impenetrable promise that said,
“Let us take a rain check, soon,”
As if you would come back in the rain.
I wished for a god damn monsoon.

Oh, the most painful of pains.
To realize you never saw the allusions or
Allegories hidden in the margins,
Hidden in plain sight.

To finally know the significance of an
Hourglass, of time’s slow fight,
To know that change comes everyday
In the hands of a sunrise, and now,
I no longer need the Moon’s light.

To accept that even though I now
Feel more closed, unfinished, and
Forgotten than ever,
In the grand scheme of forever,
We were never even the tiniest grain of sand.

Rose Joseph ’16

In one ear persistent pounding of the radio
In the other grating music of the subway
Full of its satisfied silence
And steel cacophony
The drone of tired voices announcing
“__________________________
________________________________
____________________”

I like the train
Or at least the idea of it
I like the soft yet powerful thumps of the skid on the irons
The metronomic whistle audible from my room
Miles away

It can take you miles away
But the lowering of the poles
Reminds me of a guillotine waiting to execute an unsuspecting car
I have a fear of becoming stuck in the middle of the tracks
no turning or moving
just watching the oncoming bullet
Grow larger and faster and louder and BOOM

It hits me
The train will come for us all
One day or another
For now it is imminent
Only revealed by a distant whistle
Today may not be the day
But just wait

On the bench
Yes,
That one over there
It’s only five minutes away
Scan your card
Prepare to board
The wind rushes forward, swift and whirling
The brakes screech
Doors whooshing open:
Where to?

Caroline Joseph ’16

Blanc, bianco, blanco, white
Is the only color I see every school day of my life
Sitting in class, realizing, Nobody looks like me,
We barely even learn about African American history
Feeling confined to share what thoughts cross my mind,
While everyone is looking at me noticing I’m one of a kind
Classmates always wonder Am I okay,
Yes, I am, but I can’t express what I truly want to say
As I walk from class to class,
Only a few people that look like me have come to pass
Excitement rises with Wassup’s and Hello’s!
But quickly dying down as the bell rings and we have to go
I go back to a silent yet observant mood,
patiently waiting for the long 80 minute period to be through
Once class is over I can go to the Magis office and see my real friends,
and It’s always easy for us to laugh and reminisce on the good times we spend.
As we all look alike and share similar experiences —
It’s effortless to understand each other and our daily grievances
Considering that 6% of 1400 is only so few,
we must band together
and support each other
because that’s the only thing to do.

Armond Gray ’17

Surely as the day goes on
As the mockingbird sings it song
As the rivers flow, seas toss and turn
Someone always falls
And someone always burns
They find a new friend
Love comes to a bitter end
But the partner continues on
And the mockingbird finds a new song
But this leaves a scar upon the heart
That was not there upon the start
But the partner still moves on
And the mockingbird finds a new song

Hannah FitzGerald ’19

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

Once upon a summertime,
In a life where everything was a lie,
There lived a girl who loved to climb.

Her parents thought it was a crime,
To let their girl go into the sky,
Once upon a summertime.

However, during her free time,
She took those occasions to say goodbye,
There lived a girl who loved to climb.

She floated up at a rapid climb,
And said to herself, “Let me fly.”
Once upon a summertime.

To explore the skies, she was in her prime,
In a daring feat, she stepped into the sky,
There lived a girl who loved to climb.

Stars, clouds–new worlds sublime
Time passed, and she realized she was sky high,
Once upon a summertime,
There lived a girl who loved to climb.

Kristin Chai ’19

They told us not to go out late,
They said don’t wear a short skirt,
Stay with the group, and be a saint.

They said that leggings are not pants,
Watch our backs as we walk and
Do not talk to strangers.

Do not get into a conversation with anyone.

Do not drink a drink someone has given you.

Do not go out alone.

They told us that because we are girls,
We have to be extra careful.
They said that because we are girls,
We need to watch everything.

And never,
whatever you do,
Never Turn Around,
Always Walk Straight.

Keep going and run as fast as you can.

They told us to listen to them,
They told me to do as I was told,
To take their advice,
But I did not.

I did not want to listen.
I went out late,
And wore what I wanted.

I did not listen.
I did not listen.

And maybe I should have listened.

Juliana daRoza ’18

The pretty girl down the street talks to me in
Fragmented snapshots,
Fifth-hand rumors and shattered bones that heal
with the touch of a beckoning finger.

She lies in the looming grass of her backyard and mentions
she never had a favorite blanket as a little girl.
She shook with cold at night
but didn’t want to say so.
The rumbling echo of music from the basement rocked her to sleep,
and Mama’s champagne-bubble laughter was her lullaby.

Ten years later she jolts awake
Pacing all night
awaiting normalcy’s knock on her bedroom door
Sleepwalkers roam the early morning streets
Living is easiest with eyes closed.

She thinks she will get the love she never got before by
filling the space with a warm body next to hers and
she’s never known how to go one day
without seeking love that no one wants to give her.

I watched her
run away from home to get the peace and quiet to
rip herself apart as she pleases
I watched her go from cruel to broken to
both all with a
picture-perfect smile plastered on her face.

And, as she twirls her pretty hair in her
Pretty hands and
parts her pretty lips to speak I catch her
Eyes
In the act of shattering, and they scream,

“I am being eaten from the inside out.”

Ali Pond ’19

Our hair has its own radical beauty
While conducting spiral revolutions
Making us sistahs Nubian cuties
Creating cultural contributions

Everyday what it takes is not quick
Can I treat it like a glorious crown?
But when it’s done, it’s almost like magic
I think it is right, either up or down

It does what it does – no explanation
From Afros to braids to dreadlocks to curls
It screams style with a loud exclamation
A celebration for every black girl

It proclaims where our legacy presides
And pays homage to our ancestral pride

Jazara Metcalf ’18

Give me a pen,
And I’ll write you a best-seller.
Promise me your vote,
And I’ll run for president.
Give me a wrench,
And I’ll repair your car.
Throw me a pitch,
And I’ll hit a home run.

Give me the paycheck I deserve,
And I’ll provide for my family.
Hand me an application,
And I’ll enroll in school.
Give me a man in distress,
And I’ll rescue him.
Write me a script,
And I’ll play the lead role.

But give me a broom,
Tell me what to do,
And I’ll laugh in your face because I can do so much more
Than just clean up your space.

Annika Tiña ’16

Hi,
You are new this year,
And everyone likes you…
But me.

You confuse me,
You lock me out of projects
And never let me finish my test.

You exit out of my classes
And never seem to follow a calendar.

You try so hard for everyone to like you,
You put pandas on your screen and
Try to make everything colorful.

I can not stand you.
Because of you it takes me hours to find my homework.
Because of you I never see when papers are due.

And sadly I’m stuck with you for the next four years.

To canvas.

Juliana daRoza ’18

Run for the hills,
You merry adventurers.
Swaddle yourselves in jackets with fur linings
That shield your ripening noses
From the evening winds.
Fight those winds.
Fight the powers that be!
Run, run up that hill
Until you can taste the blood in your throat
And feel your gums pulsing from the cold.
Look back.
Look back and see your friends behind you
Clamoring towards the heavens
And stumbling in the dirt.
You are liberated,
You lost boys,
You seekers of the evening.
Run, climb, give a helping hand.
And in the name of Possibility,
Head for the hills!

Claire Fenerty ’16

They claim that They want to meet me
Connect with something long lost
So They visit
Patting themselves on the back
Boasting over Their five dollar figurines

Here’s the problem:
i’m not a simple aesthetic

But maybe that’s what Humans miss most of all
The thrill of disorder
Dare i say terror?
Anything to distract Them from that desk job that They pretend to love

Everyone secretly wants a natural disaster
Not because it’s fun
But because it’s new
A, granted, macabre chance to start over

Even then They pick and choose
Wanting the idea without the pain
But it’s a package deal
What kind of arrogance makes You think that You’re exempt?

So, please, fawn over me
Let me watch the same eyes with different faces gaze day after day
But don’t fool Yourself:
Maybe what You’re missing isn’t something that You’re ready to find

Caroline Joseph ’16

Complete

O let me be like the larks
Who sing melodiously for the sake of it
Whose songs and harmonies pierce through the dull morning
I am only a listener
The wax myrtle delights me with its aroma gently wafting by
Its red berries wear nothing but the morning dew
They are perfect and I long to be like them
Or the magnificent ocean
Its waves shout at me and invite me to adventure
I wish to accept the invitation
I bathe in the sun’s vigilant eye
It is sentry over all of creation
I am part of creation
I live under the sun
And I am not going anywhere
So let me sing like the larks
Let my existence be as perfect as the wax myrtle
Let me accept the call of adventure from the mighty sea
But most of all let me truly live

Joe Lerdal ’17

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

You are as lovely as a chocolate rose
With your rich caramel highlights
Along your curved body.

In pictures, you needn’t pose,
For every time I look at you,
You seem elegant and fine.

From the many, you I chose
In that dark and dusty shop
With scarlet velvet carpets.

I could never suppose
That my love for you would
Turn into this.

It is my job to expose
Your inner sound,
Even if I have to drag it out of you.

Your music resonates from my head to toes,
And I love each note we make.
Legato is so lovely,

It sounds as if it were coming from meadows,
And staccato is the sound
Of an army marching through a quaint town.

God only knows
How much I love you so.
Sweet Adelvice, I will never tire of your sound.

Let me propose
That we never part
Because my heart would

Painfully decompose.

Sophia Leon Guerrero ’19

In a small dingy they come in, reeling,
seeming only as asylum cases.
Wondering if their lives have meaning,
they are running in separate races.
Each of them was born on the starting line;
No time to take a second to breathe.
Rejected by selfish states screaming ‘mine’
for their faith, they are only asked to leave.
Was coming here really their decision?
As we fight overseas for good and right,
privilege mutely distorts our vision.
At home when real duty calls, we take flight.
Should we allow them in and take their side?
Or, in this trial should we cover and hide?

Tessca Almeida ’18

Rooted in Love

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

As I lay down at night to sleep
And think about life in general.
I cannot help but think to myself
Is it a wonderful world?

All around the globe,
Chaos is the only constant.
From turmoil in the Middle East,
To poverty and disease.
From global warming,
To bombs exploding.

Even domestically
Everything is getting messy.
From homelessness and drug addiction,
To systemic racism and a broken prison system.

What has the world come to?
And does anyone know what to do?
Seven and a half billion people roam the Earth.
Confused and afraid of what the future holds.

So as I try to put myself to sleep.
I think of Louis Armstrong’s famous song.
Then I think to myself
Is it a wonderful world?

Michael Hymowitz ’18

Mulatto
Halfrican
Oreo
Milk chocolate
Half and Half
Black enough
Some people think I’m not black enough
I used to think that too
I have a white mom
And caramel instead of chocolate skin
I didn’t fit the stereotypes
Or at least not enough
But tell me I’m not black enough now
Tell me I’m too pale
Tell me I’m white washed
Tell that to 8 year old me
Who was called the n-word for the first time
Standing in line at the museum of the African Diaspora with my grandmother
Tell that to 11 year old me
Who realized there was a reason
Store clerks always followed me around
Tell that to 13 year old me
Who was asked for the first time
“Nice hair! Is that a weave?”
Tell that to me now
As I avoid looking at colleges in the south
Afraid I might actually like one
Tell that to my brother
Who is always overly respectful to cops
Tell that to my father
Is shunned by his father in law simply for the color of his skin
Tell that to my grandmother
Who was dragged to the back of the bus
So tell me I’m not black enough
Tell that to my caramel face

Campbell Simmons ’17

Half a lifetime here I go
Fast or slow don’t know where I’ll go
Die too young and age too old
Baby now and tomorrow grandpa Joe
I’m just living half a lifetime you see
No fun for me
I’ll die I promise too young to be
Go to my funeral then you’ll see
I just lived half a lifetime
The next day,
I’m too old to do anything I would please
Oh life sucks when you live too old
Oh life sucks when you live so young
So what about half a lifetime?
Half a lifetime here I go again
Fast or slow don’t know where I’ll go
But
Living half a lifetime is good for me
No matter what I’m good you see

Jennifer Lopez Garcia ’19

here lies a voice
with a Pentecostal tongue
that lives in all bodies and
embeds in our lungs

the voice acted as a schoolyard friend
who held my hand and danced across the hopscotch
every star in our sky was a dream for the future
as we twirled in innocence

my soulful city once resembled Atlantis
deep below the water and farther from heaven
many were crying and many were screaming
yet I heard only silence, for my reliable voice had abandoned me for the stars

I could not speak without the voice
yet created my own rivers into the bayous
I longed to move and continue on
yet lost my heart beneath the broken floorboards

my voice left me alone in a sinking world
I no longer looked to the stars

Above me

Above the stars

flew my voice
away from the darkness and into the sun
the voice of my life shone onto millions
while I looked to the floor
my voice took to the world

Lauren Cueto ’17

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

weeds will grow regardless
of whether you want them or not
the only way to get rid of them
is to uproot them
one
by
one
or all at once
it is tedious work
they will inevitably return
(this time with more vigor)
however
you have the comfort of knowing
the strength and resilience
hidden in the wrinkles
of your hands

Silvia Jiménez-Montano ’17

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

Was it her fault? Did the universe despise her curly locks or the way she handled her
dolls? Perhaps it was merely bad luck or the fact that her mother did not believe in God.
Nonetheless, the child, in the winter of her ninth year, was diagnosed with stage IV leukemia.
For weeks, the girl refused to consume the grilled cheese sandwiches her mother prepared or to
role play with her porcelain dolls. The lights dimmed in her eyes. Now all her hopes of
becoming a lawyer and having two children of her own had been snatched from her. Death
stared her square in the face, for she had only three more months on earth according to her
supposedly “optimistic” doctor. She needed a miracle.

Erin Louie ’19

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

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

The attic of the house is painted in shadows
With blood colored paint cracking and chipping along the walls
A musty odor permeates the dingy furniture
Drenches the walls
The carpet once white and pure now grey
Only a reminder of what once was
The woman’s hope now gone
There are no windows in the attic
Light flickers on and off from a broken lamp
Sporadically bathing the room in yellow
Illuminating her harsh reality
And there, in the corner, sits a mahogany dresser
Coated in a thick blanket of dust
Completely bare but for an oval mirror in the center
Like an eye carefully watching over the room
Its stern gaze unforgiving
There is no lock on the door of the attic
Nothing preventing her escape
But the woman stays in the attic
A prisoner to the demons in her head
Sara O’Halloran ’16

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

We soak in an addiction.
To know how to do things without ever being taught,
To know how to succeed without ever having failed,
To know where we are without ever being lost,
To know who we are without ever losing ourselves.

Our spirals grow bigger as our climb grows longer,
And we pressure ourselves to go farther with each step.

We step higher and higher
Unsure of where we are headed.

We push and we push and we push
And we consider stopping to catch our breath
A weakness.

We are immune to our own achievement,
And we no longer recognize great,
But we expect it.

We get caught up in a lifestyle that reads more like a factory.
With each day,
We’re scheduled to produce the bigger and the better.

We grow afraid to fail,
Afraid to be confused,
Afraid to ask for help,
Afraid to disagree.
We grow afraid of ourselves as we realize
We are not perfect.
We conform to the idea that our endeavors are worth nothing
If they won’t lead to success.

We’ve absorbed and adopted a false realization:
That we must not only be ashamed of our shortcomings,
But that we must justify them for others.

We realize everything but the truth:
Complete perfection is a figment of the imagination.
Perfect is just a word
And its definition is nothing but the opinion of another.

We are not perfect, we are flawed.
Stopping to catch your breath is not a weakness.
Confusion leads to a greater clarity.
Asking a question leads to a greater knowledge.
Failure leads to a greater success.

So while many of us may not find ourselves
To be our personal definition of perfect,
We can find shelter in knowing
that to some,
To be perfect is to be flawed.

Olivia Mohun ’19

He’s a young man
With a gun
And a plan

He had not a prayer
But the gang was there

Got in some fights
When he lived in Logan Heights

With a lock n’ a sock
On heads he’ll knock, knock, knock

When the Sons hoped for Silence
He hoped for rain
But no amount of water can wash away his inflicted pain

And when you have the need he’ll sell you speed
That you can burn up the road with

Be you blue or red
There’s a price on your head
You were red when you bled
And you’ll be blue when you’re dead

Street life is rough
But it made him banging tough

A brother’s mother cried
When that brother’s spark died (it’s okay that he died, it’s all for group pride)
We all wore black to the funeral
And to the boot party right after

They’ll off ya
When your in the Mafia

Violence
To Silence

MC
OG
MOD
ABZ
One. Three.
OMG
Latin King
Wa Ching

Now the hat and bat
Has taken his gat

Thought he’d be twenty for life
Now he’s serving the same
Cause’ you can’t rewind bullets
And you can’t rewind shame

Annabella Lynch ’16

It’s not your fault,

even though I say it is.

Even though I connect the way you
measured my meals at the dinner table
to the way I
measure my waistline at the bathroom mirror.

Even though I insist that
the bang! of a pan hitting
the oven door,
and the roar of two voices from downstairs
justifies
the smack of my fist hitting
the living room wall,
and the shriek of my voice from my bedroom.

Even though I suggest that
your insistence on hiding
my body and our family
from others
has led to
my insistence on hiding
my life and my emotions
from you.

Even though I realize now that
I’ve used the ways
you have tried to help me
to explain
the ways that
I have hurt myself
and you.

It’s not your fault,

even though you say it is.

Gina Cusing ’16

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

He wants to live
right now!
The high school student sits sighing at the screen delirious from deprivation of sleep sleep sleep desperate for sleep he feels the caffeine the sugar gnawing away at his spongy brain struggling to stay awake to study for the science exam shiny iPad glow but not quite like the stars he would rather see the moon the sky the trees fall asleep under the blanket of darkness late at night he stays up cramming his eye bags burrowing into his cheeks I can endure hell a little longer until lunch tomorrow then I can live
right now!
He sighs of relief feels free failure is a possibility but who gives an F I finished now for the next class new assignment new exam new project next class new new new next he sets into speed of the week but he would rather run on the sand the wind the endless sky the tides swallowing his worries why is the week only halfway done drowning in his work just a couple more days until Friday then I can live
right now!
He goes out gets wasted on the weekend after waiting a week returns to drag himself on the endless road running running low on energy enthusiasm for life like a machine making mom happy good grades good reputation all good I guess so much due so much he would rather do so screwed he can’t screw around for the next few months not long until summer then I can live
right now!
He feels the sun makes new friends new lovers at music festivals now a freshman in college parties sports enjoying beers in between boring classes Bachelor’s in business because big bucks he would rather find philosophy but just wait until my first job then I can live
right now!
He makes mountains of money stability for his family but he would rather take them to climb the chill the clouds counting down years until retirement then I can live
right now!
He waits waits waits for a
right now without realizing it’s passing:
the right now.

Valerie Kau ’16

Falling down with ease and serenity
Drifting off the tree with an autumn breeze
Dropping slow trying to find its destiny
The breeze could carry it far overseas

It has a color of brown, green, or red
Landing on the ground, it crumbles in ten
People walk around crushing it dead
Season of pretty leaves stumbles again

Children run around looking for memories
Through the rivers, rocks, and stone they find me
My aged body, found after centuries
Running around like it’s a Grand Prix

Taking me back from my aged willow
Putting me beneath their warm pillow

Michael Maciejewski ’18