Forewarning: To keep the amount of pages to a minimum there are A LOT of poems on this page
Included in order: Transatlantic, Amtrak, A Lonely Ombrologist, Absconding, When We Stopped Blending Colors, A Ghostly Masquerade, Stale Light, Perfection in Perspective, Mint, Growing Pains, Limbo, New year, New me, Time., Cheers to the New Year!, No (Sensitivity Warning)
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Transatlantic By Sofia Clash
I am floating on the crest Of a green wave, salt caked onto my skin from forehead to ribcage indicating where my body drifted, submerged in the monochromatic sound. Seaweed entangles my hair, and I’m sure that if I were Venus I would be thrilled with the coiffure and delighted with the ignorance of just having been born yesterday. Instead I feel like Venus on a Sunday morning after she’s discovered what it means to be shipwrecked and understands how important the surgical addition of sea legs are. Vertigo clenches my stomach in her fist, for the sky is the same grey-green that engulfs me, and I am suddenly filled with the sensation of having no body at all. I drift across the vast green expanse, as some sort of gaseous being unable to cross fully and successfully into any domain. |
Photograph by Anna Biddle
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Photograph by Kyra Miller
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Amtrak by Sofia Clash
My heart—or the space where it should be-- is surrounded by a heavy shroud of smog that lingers somewhere between the weight of my guilty conscience and that of Atlas’ burden. I drew a map on my body with routes so entangled I couldn’t be sure where one track began and another would end. My ribs are Portland, Maine and the pollution has escaped its cage and bargained its way into Boston, choking my lungs and pinching my esophagus (Baltimore, perhaps) and leaving my tongue (Pittsburgh) weighed down with steel. Upon entering the city limits of Chicago, the tips of my fingers feel so far from my brain’s junction that I can scarcely move them without a few feeble coughs of exhaust(ion) and black smoke belched from the greasy engine. There’s a track to Memphis and the blues and one to Milwaukee and booze but I’m fixated on determining exactly which vertebra I can function without and if I remove the Occipital bone from the spinal column the pounding in my head will finally cease. I trace my form in the street with blue sidewalk chalk and fill in the tangled topography and wait on the curb for the rain. |
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A Lonely Ombrologist by Sarah Raphael
I see them fall together into loving, open arms. They collide, meld, crashing and growing until they are encased in each other, no longer individuals. My lonely hands clench, under my unkissed face as I gaze wearily at what I will never have. I’m trapped in a sad music video only the lead has no love interest, no partner. Their forms slide into a deeper, all-consuming love. Blood rushes to my head, though my face is tinged with green. I wish it was explained by disgust, nausea; my infinite envy snuck up, infiltrating and remaining. I press my unloved fingertips on the worn, black button. I watch them cling desperately to each other as they get crushed mercilessly and drop in the sliver of space separating outside and in. The pouring rain hits my face and instantly falls in love with the tears on my unwanted cheeks. Another happy ending, just not for me. |
Photograph by Colin Buckley
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Photograph by Anna Biddle
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Absconding by Sarah Raphael *Scholastic Honorable Mention Winner
One punch. I picked up my pieces. I escaped, I disappeared, I lost myself, but, One punch, one last drink. My muscles automatically tense at the sound of glass and fresh cubes of ice. Screams contracted in my throat, tears welled, frozen in their tracks. One punch, one last drink, one threat. They told me to wait, to wait for concrete proof. Maybe I should wait until my cheek shows purple imprints of his knuckles. One punch, one last drink, one threat, one year. I avoided his miserable evenings with terrified caution. My strength cowered and hid though fear followed me as an unwavering companion. One punch, one threat, one last drink, one year, two damaged people. I can no longer love, but I’m not sure he ever could. |
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When We Stopped Blending Colors by Anna Biddle
“the problem of the twentieth century is the problem of the color line.” – W.E.B. DuBois Too many of our brothers and sisters are afraid of the world; Too many of our brothers and sisters are afraid of themselves, because they are constantly being told they are wrong. Misshapen, misidentified, maybe our nation is just misinformed; maybe we’re just mistaken, holding truths too real so close to our hearts, just over top of our bullet-proof vests, right next to our handguns. We protect the traditions in our world because we don’t know what else to believe in. We black out our memories of courage and replace them with white-washed canvas, ready to begin a new history after forgetting where we came from. I know those who have Louis Armstrong in their trembling fingers, ready to blow that battle horn. I know those who have Aretha Franklin in their lungs; and I’ve been told that she’s been singing the blues for so long, it’s turned her whole body indigo, like the color of denim-clad pickers in South Carolina. But nowadays we like things plain. We’ve sucked all the nectar out of Langston Hughes’ syrupy sweet; we let that dream defer. The same way we ignore the siren-flashing truth right in front of us. The way we keep blaming our mistakes on the situation, rather than addressing the hatred sewn in between the bleeding colors of a Civil War flag that is still allowed to fly. I say we need another revolution, one to bring back all of our lost gospel voices. They will not silence us. Our present-day privilege has covered up our picket sign past. I say that for some reason our renaissance breath has been running out of air. It has been forced out of our lynched-up lungs. It hangs in the Mississippi wind; “I can’t breathe” he said. “I can’t breathe.” But I still have those rag-time trumpets blaring in my ears; I want to bring that music back. Do you know what color you get after mixing together all the pigments on a canvas painted by artists like Aaron Douglas, Lois Mailou Jones, and Jacob Lawrence? You get a masterpiece. You get a history. You get black. This time, we will have a Civil Rights movement that never stops moving forward. I say we need another revolution. |
Photograph by Anna Biddle
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Photograph by Colin Buckley
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A Ghostly Masquerade by Seth Turnage
*Scholastic Silver Key Winner In this pitiful celebration, where the guests arrive in droves to shed their sensibilities. there sat a shell of a man, discontent with his endeavors. The luster in his eyes removed, leaving black pools to fester in their place. He sat back cross-legged in his chair, surveying an abundance of immoral conduct. Within the mindless mass of people, their false ambrosia dulling their senses, Guilt-ridden ghouls masquerade as men, Clad in garish masks to hide their shame, their lust, and any stains that soil their moral character. Adorned with fresh feathers, glittering jewels and gems, and a subtle seductive mixture of makeup and malignancy. In this empty hall, As the towering wooden doors thrust open like the arms of a lover’s welcoming embrace. an intoxicating tangent of sweet blissful melodies and sharp chords encapsulated the audience. Emerging from the mass of hysteria, A manufactured mistress, wrapped in a positivity so pristine, Free from her self-respect, Free from worry or dignity, She bathes in blissful ignorance, To attempt an arrogant escape. In this continued expulsion, Of the burdens placed on our hearts. We lose sight of those who live in denial And those who chose to accept them. |
Stale Light by Sarah Raphael
Stale light
Penetrated my eyes
But released no warmth
Slowed my vision
And seeped into my pores, burning.
Rays creaked
Through the hallway
Permanently etched
In the cracked concrete.
Small doors shut
In random succession
Their harmony mutilated.
I wished to be locked
In their safe shapes
Out here, I’m vulnerable.
Stale light
Haunted the hollows
Of my withering bones
Shoulders hunched as a shield.
They wonder why we slouch
In our worn, crumbling desks
Surrounded by decaying walls.
The concentrated dose of stale light
Shredded the curtains
Thread by thread.
Stale light
Tore at my veins
To drink my blood.
In calloused hearts,
Manipulation thrives.
So much blindness despite
This relentless stale light.
My throat screeched.
Grating sounds struggle against ice.
My edges were crushed in
A box, to fit in
It was sound proof
My screams thrashed
Against the enclosure
Wake up
Clumps of inky brown fall
To the dusty floor.
Moldy, faded tiles
Wasted and conventional.
My scalp is ripped.
Red drops rain.
Stale light laughs in my face
Follows my slumped shadow
Murmurs in my sheltered ears
Even after I push open the rusty bars
Of my stifling prison
It follows me home
Warps my thoughts.
My body is brittle
And fractured.
Each day
Stale light returns
With renewed wickedness
Constantly, consistently
Snapping my ribs
To poison my soul
Dark circles rim
My dead eyes.
Life has been
Leaking out from
My tired limbs.
Freedom has been
Flushed out thoroughly
Drowned in
Suffocated creativity.
My skin is burning
And peeling
My mind has been melting.
This stale light
Refuses to loosen
Its smothering grip
On my being.
It has complete
Control.
Infiltrates my veins
And squirms beneath
My thin skin
Like a parasite.
Ropes restrain me
And chafe my fragile skin.
Originality is lost at sea
Drowning in repetition.
I’m breathing with no air.
My brain is rotting
Faster than my flesh.
The dragon, stale light
Has scorched everything
In its path.
I spit in its face
But the target isn’t reached
A foul, bitter taste consumes me.
I spit again.
Failure, my knees buckle.
I’d rather jump from the cliff
To escape this madness.
Turn it off.
Before there’s nothing left.
Stale light
Penetrated my eyes
But released no warmth
Slowed my vision
And seeped into my pores, burning.
Rays creaked
Through the hallway
Permanently etched
In the cracked concrete.
Small doors shut
In random succession
Their harmony mutilated.
I wished to be locked
In their safe shapes
Out here, I’m vulnerable.
Stale light
Haunted the hollows
Of my withering bones
Shoulders hunched as a shield.
They wonder why we slouch
In our worn, crumbling desks
Surrounded by decaying walls.
The concentrated dose of stale light
Shredded the curtains
Thread by thread.
Stale light
Tore at my veins
To drink my blood.
In calloused hearts,
Manipulation thrives.
So much blindness despite
This relentless stale light.
My throat screeched.
Grating sounds struggle against ice.
My edges were crushed in
A box, to fit in
It was sound proof
My screams thrashed
Against the enclosure
Wake up
Clumps of inky brown fall
To the dusty floor.
Moldy, faded tiles
Wasted and conventional.
My scalp is ripped.
Red drops rain.
Stale light laughs in my face
Follows my slumped shadow
Murmurs in my sheltered ears
Even after I push open the rusty bars
Of my stifling prison
It follows me home
Warps my thoughts.
My body is brittle
And fractured.
Each day
Stale light returns
With renewed wickedness
Constantly, consistently
Snapping my ribs
To poison my soul
Dark circles rim
My dead eyes.
Life has been
Leaking out from
My tired limbs.
Freedom has been
Flushed out thoroughly
Drowned in
Suffocated creativity.
My skin is burning
And peeling
My mind has been melting.
This stale light
Refuses to loosen
Its smothering grip
On my being.
It has complete
Control.
Infiltrates my veins
And squirms beneath
My thin skin
Like a parasite.
Ropes restrain me
And chafe my fragile skin.
Originality is lost at sea
Drowning in repetition.
I’m breathing with no air.
My brain is rotting
Faster than my flesh.
The dragon, stale light
Has scorched everything
In its path.
I spit in its face
But the target isn’t reached
A foul, bitter taste consumes me.
I spit again.
Failure, my knees buckle.
I’d rather jump from the cliff
To escape this madness.
Turn it off.
Before there’s nothing left.
Perfection in Perspective by Kierra Coutts
Growing up fat
meant being revolting,
It meant the words ‘ugly’ and ‘fat’
were interchangeable.
I was ugly by default.
Growing up fat
was dinner at the table
and my mother and father telling me
not to eat too much
before I even took my first bite.
Every dinner quickly turned into a fight
I was just trying to defend
myself from them.
Growing up fat
was months of exercise.
Dieting after deciding
to do something
about feeling this way.
It was time for change
but nothing was changing
and I became restless.
I became hopeless.
Growing up ugly
meant a summer of starving.
A summer of “Don’t eat or you’ll get fat.”
A summer of “This is the only way.”
I watched my reflection shrink
I wouldn’t be hungry if I didn’t think
about it too much.
Avoiding every meal by sleeping.
Convincing myself it was worth that feeling:
that feeling of hunger
because I’d wake up thinner,
I promised myself.
Growing up ugly
was endless amounts of cocoa butter
to make the stretch marks fade,
the marks that just wouldn’t go away,
the marks that drove me insane,
the marks I decided to trace
with a blade.
Growing up ugly
means constant insecurity.
Never leaving the house with certainty
that I look decent enough,
that I look pretty enough,
I can’t even fathom
what the word ‘beautiful’ means
but if I’m certain of one thing
I know it doesn’t mean me.
Growing up fat
meant being revolting,
It meant the words ‘ugly’ and ‘fat’
were interchangeable.
I was ugly by default.
Growing up fat
was dinner at the table
and my mother and father telling me
not to eat too much
before I even took my first bite.
Every dinner quickly turned into a fight
I was just trying to defend
myself from them.
Growing up fat
was months of exercise.
Dieting after deciding
to do something
about feeling this way.
It was time for change
but nothing was changing
and I became restless.
I became hopeless.
Growing up ugly
meant a summer of starving.
A summer of “Don’t eat or you’ll get fat.”
A summer of “This is the only way.”
I watched my reflection shrink
I wouldn’t be hungry if I didn’t think
about it too much.
Avoiding every meal by sleeping.
Convincing myself it was worth that feeling:
that feeling of hunger
because I’d wake up thinner,
I promised myself.
Growing up ugly
was endless amounts of cocoa butter
to make the stretch marks fade,
the marks that just wouldn’t go away,
the marks that drove me insane,
the marks I decided to trace
with a blade.
Growing up ugly
means constant insecurity.
Never leaving the house with certainty
that I look decent enough,
that I look pretty enough,
I can’t even fathom
what the word ‘beautiful’ means
but if I’m certain of one thing
I know it doesn’t mean me.
Mint by Bella Setta
It tasted cool,
akin to a crisp and bitter winter day
like a brisk frost chilling me to the bone.
My taste buds recoiled harshly,
but you made the tart flavor
melt in my mouth like honey.
It tasted like heartbreak,
with jagged ice piercing my lungs
making it hard to breathe.
I wanted to shout your name
to bring you back home to me;
but the shards cut deep into my throat
silencing my voice.
It tasted sharp,
like teeth grazing the crook of my neck.
You were as cold as the arctic;
your fingers stiff and full of fear
afraid that I would break like glass,
that your touch would destroy me
that I would cease to exist.
It was supposed to taste like relief,
but it quickly became sour under my tongue;
just like the way your cologne makes me sick,
the way your lips make my knees weak,
and how your blue eyes make me forget how to breathe.
It tasted cool,
akin to a crisp and bitter winter day
like a brisk frost chilling me to the bone.
My taste buds recoiled harshly,
but you made the tart flavor
melt in my mouth like honey.
It tasted like heartbreak,
with jagged ice piercing my lungs
making it hard to breathe.
I wanted to shout your name
to bring you back home to me;
but the shards cut deep into my throat
silencing my voice.
It tasted sharp,
like teeth grazing the crook of my neck.
You were as cold as the arctic;
your fingers stiff and full of fear
afraid that I would break like glass,
that your touch would destroy me
that I would cease to exist.
It was supposed to taste like relief,
but it quickly became sour under my tongue;
just like the way your cologne makes me sick,
the way your lips make my knees weak,
and how your blue eyes make me forget how to breathe.
Growing Pains by Allison Closs
New Year’s Eve is no majestic night. It’s awkward and graceless and overflowing with empty dreams like champagne bursting from bottles. The year is no infant turned sagely elder who meets its demise every December 31st, so a phoenix-like new era can take its place. No. December 31st is not the end, January 1st is not the beginning. It is a transition; that is all.
New Year’s Eve is when Father Time goes through puberty. The adolescent year matures, acne scars and all, into a fresh one; the same but ever so slightly different. And, at first, it seems as though the new year is better, like its learned from its mistakes and will surely meet all those proudly pronounced, expectations. But sooner or later, it becomes apparent: a new year has not been created; an old’s just evolved.
New Year’s Eve is no majestic night. It’s awkward and graceless and overflowing with empty dreams like champagne bursting from bottles. The year is no infant turned sagely elder who meets its demise every December 31st, so a phoenix-like new era can take its place. No. December 31st is not the end, January 1st is not the beginning. It is a transition; that is all.
New Year’s Eve is when Father Time goes through puberty. The adolescent year matures, acne scars and all, into a fresh one; the same but ever so slightly different. And, at first, it seems as though the new year is better, like its learned from its mistakes and will surely meet all those proudly pronounced, expectations. But sooner or later, it becomes apparent: a new year has not been created; an old’s just evolved.
Limbo by Matt Edlin
Where is Limbo and
how do I get there?
Sometimes I think that
the dark is warm
and quiet, but it is
deafening, and freezing
c o l d.
I have been here
for a long time, but it
is not my home;
I must break its
h o l d.
But it is strong.
It likes to pull me back down
when I climb up up up
the slimy black stones.
Every dead thought, burned
bridge, crushed dream,
rotting husk of a friendship
fills my Limbo.
Maybe I knew the answer
all along.
Where is Limbo and
how do I get there?
Sometimes I think that
the dark is warm
and quiet, but it is
deafening, and freezing
c o l d.
I have been here
for a long time, but it
is not my home;
I must break its
h o l d.
But it is strong.
It likes to pull me back down
when I climb up up up
the slimy black stones.
Every dead thought, burned
bridge, crushed dream,
rotting husk of a friendship
fills my Limbo.
Maybe I knew the answer
all along.
New Year, New Me by Christian Slyder
It’s a new year, time for a new me.
It’s time for old habits to fade
and for new ones to sprout.
No more slacking on work
and finishing it late at night.
No more fake friends and
people that never really care.
It’s time for new things,
new adventures and crazy experiences.
No more high school but right into another four years.
New people in my life to offer me something new and different.
It’s time for a new me.
It’s a new year, time for a new me.
It’s time for old habits to fade
and for new ones to sprout.
No more slacking on work
and finishing it late at night.
No more fake friends and
people that never really care.
It’s time for new things,
new adventures and crazy experiences.
No more high school but right into another four years.
New people in my life to offer me something new and different.
It’s time for a new me.
Time. by Rachel Zimmerman
As each second disappears into a void of
nothingness
leaves begin to be covered.
Either with regret, sorrow, hopefulness, or snow.
You swear that just a second ago,
you were a child
yearning for playtime and a happy future.
But now the future is here
waving in your face and taunting your soul
saying
What comes next?
Will you be happy?
Are You Happy?
Now seconds are torture,
instead of disappearing they float around you
talking to you.
Are
You
Happy?
At midnight, people kiss.
They kiss childhood goodbye
each touch is sweet yet sour.
They kiss away the time that will never return,
time that may be regretted.
They have no idea,
because they think it is a new beginning.
So, why does it seem like the end to me?
I am finishing the race,
while they are getting lined up
for the new beginning.
Ready
Set
Go.
Instead of a gun sounding the start,
a loud voice echoes…
Are
You
Happy?
Every runner knows the answer.
But, I sit.
My legs unable to move.
Soon months will absorb the seconds
and years will layer over it’s place.
Everyone else has taken control,
and I am still in last place
waiting for time to tell the answer
that I no longer know.
As each second disappears into a void of
nothingness
leaves begin to be covered.
Either with regret, sorrow, hopefulness, or snow.
You swear that just a second ago,
you were a child
yearning for playtime and a happy future.
But now the future is here
waving in your face and taunting your soul
saying
What comes next?
Will you be happy?
Are You Happy?
Now seconds are torture,
instead of disappearing they float around you
talking to you.
Are
You
Happy?
At midnight, people kiss.
They kiss childhood goodbye
each touch is sweet yet sour.
They kiss away the time that will never return,
time that may be regretted.
They have no idea,
because they think it is a new beginning.
So, why does it seem like the end to me?
I am finishing the race,
while they are getting lined up
for the new beginning.
Ready
Set
Go.
Instead of a gun sounding the start,
a loud voice echoes…
Are
You
Happy?
Every runner knows the answer.
But, I sit.
My legs unable to move.
Soon months will absorb the seconds
and years will layer over it’s place.
Everyone else has taken control,
and I am still in last place
waiting for time to tell the answer
that I no longer know.
Cheers to the New Year! by Grace Lippert
It’s a new year, therefore
a new me.
I plan to make THIS year the best of all.
I mean, I said this last year…
but that’s how it goes.
My aspirations for the future have changed
and I now know that I want to be
a part of NASA and go to the moon;
I think I may have a chance.
(I can do long division if the numbers aren’t too big)
I’ll spend my time planning about all I will do
(but not actually do it)
because thinking about it was a big enough step
in the right direction.
I’ll then go through the year
With a substantial amount of complaining
and be upset that nothing turned out the way I planned
(don’t worry I won’t blame myself)
Then, I’ll start the process over again and
sulk my way into the following year.
Repeat as necessary.
It’s a new year, therefore
a new me.
I plan to make THIS year the best of all.
I mean, I said this last year…
but that’s how it goes.
My aspirations for the future have changed
and I now know that I want to be
a part of NASA and go to the moon;
I think I may have a chance.
(I can do long division if the numbers aren’t too big)
I’ll spend my time planning about all I will do
(but not actually do it)
because thinking about it was a big enough step
in the right direction.
I’ll then go through the year
With a substantial amount of complaining
and be upset that nothing turned out the way I planned
(don’t worry I won’t blame myself)
Then, I’ll start the process over again and
sulk my way into the following year.
Repeat as necessary.
**SENSITIVITY WARNING**
The following poem "No" contains sexual themes and descriptions
Are you sure you want to continue?
No by Anonymous
When he would manipulate me into talking about sex, I should have said no.
When he would touch my arm and ask for a favor, I should have said no.
When he took off his clothes and begged me to do the same, I should have said no.
Two letters is all it could have taken to stop the discomfort I felt deep inside my chest.
When he pleaded me to let him put it in, just once, I finally broke, and breathed the two letter word so soft I thought it was inaudible.
With one swift push, I was up against the wall, and I understood at that moment that no was an invitation for conflict, not resolution.
When he pestered me for days for just one touch, I should have said no.
But dare I say no again and have to endure the consequences.
When he demanded a hand job on our vacation, I should have said no.
And when he pressed me to allow him to put his tongue in a place so delicate and intimate, I should have said no.
My mind and body were screaming the two letter word, but it refused to resurface and roll off my tongue. Fear of violence purged my thoughts, and I gulped a heavy sigh down my throat, and continued allowing my body to be subjected to things it still didn’t understand.
When he would plead and beg to see and touch my chest for his own gratification, I should have said no.
And when he saw my body and touched it as if it was his own, I should have said no.
But my biggest regret of all was saying no when someone asked for the truth.
When they asked me if I was being touched, I said no.
When they asked me if I needed help, I said no.
And when they pestered me about how much weight I was losing, or about the cuts on my arms, or why I looked sickly pale and didn’t smile anymore, all I could say was no.
So when he pesters you to do something you don’t want to do, remember this two letter word.
And when he begs and pleads, stand your ground.
But when they ask you what he did to you, you will refuse the urge to say no, and you will nod your head with tears streaming down your face in pride, because you finally understand that no means no.
When he would manipulate me into talking about sex, I should have said no.
When he would touch my arm and ask for a favor, I should have said no.
When he took off his clothes and begged me to do the same, I should have said no.
Two letters is all it could have taken to stop the discomfort I felt deep inside my chest.
When he pleaded me to let him put it in, just once, I finally broke, and breathed the two letter word so soft I thought it was inaudible.
With one swift push, I was up against the wall, and I understood at that moment that no was an invitation for conflict, not resolution.
When he pestered me for days for just one touch, I should have said no.
But dare I say no again and have to endure the consequences.
When he demanded a hand job on our vacation, I should have said no.
And when he pressed me to allow him to put his tongue in a place so delicate and intimate, I should have said no.
My mind and body were screaming the two letter word, but it refused to resurface and roll off my tongue. Fear of violence purged my thoughts, and I gulped a heavy sigh down my throat, and continued allowing my body to be subjected to things it still didn’t understand.
When he would plead and beg to see and touch my chest for his own gratification, I should have said no.
And when he saw my body and touched it as if it was his own, I should have said no.
But my biggest regret of all was saying no when someone asked for the truth.
When they asked me if I was being touched, I said no.
When they asked me if I needed help, I said no.
And when they pestered me about how much weight I was losing, or about the cuts on my arms, or why I looked sickly pale and didn’t smile anymore, all I could say was no.
So when he pesters you to do something you don’t want to do, remember this two letter word.
And when he begs and pleads, stand your ground.
But when they ask you what he did to you, you will refuse the urge to say no, and you will nod your head with tears streaming down your face in pride, because you finally understand that no means no.
