Tessa

18

Letter from Meschers

Today I ran into a jellyfish
floating like a Sunday secret
in the shallows of the French estuary I am still a stranger to.
I thought it was a buoy rebounding
off my goose-bumped thigh,
until the current exposed a tendriled underbelly

The French word for “jellyfish” is méduse
“Comme Medusa”
I said to the twelve year old who translated this for me,
but he apparently had never heard of her
and I couldn’t remember the word for “snake”

The water here is heavy, weighed down with salt
and French ennui I suppose.
I know this because I float easy as le méduse,
my body lighter than this weighted ocean could ever hope to be.
I am comforted by the ambiguous density of the water,
it means I am unable to calculate the force needed
to pump it out of a swimming pool:
twelve by ten by
too much sand and salt and wind in this country
to worry about foot-pounds or meter-tons.
I can only estimate
that it would take the help of
ten thousand million méduses
to relieve the ocean of its’ heaviness

Rachael

15

Ants, reddish brown have come out to feast on the sullen heat of summer
Or perhaps to escape the scotching sun they carve their way into my cave
Upon the many school less days of dreary and imaginary merry
I sleep upon the sweet sweat of a water hungry sky

A computer screen growing forever brighter and hackneyed
Days spent in timeless events
A beaches breeze through my hands, as friends depart in happier events
In summer
Oh summer, oh sweet sickly summer
A blurry red given under the blossoming trees
Oh summer, don’t depart, oh sweet sickly summer
I feel guilt under your leaves and a sky that entraps me in dreary
Of thoughtless days, I’ve longed for, yet I’m weary

Rachael

15

Ants, Sweat and Summer

Ants, reddish brown have come out to feast on the sullen heat of summer
Or perhaps to escape the scotching sun they carve their way into my cave
Upon the many school less days of dreary and imaginary merry
I sleep upon the sweet sweat of a water hungry sky

A computer screen growing forever brighter and hackneyed
Days spent in timeless events
A beaches breeze through my hands, as friends depart in happier events
In summer
Oh summer, oh sweet sickly summer
A blurry red given under the blossoming trees
Oh summer, don’t depart, oh sweet sickly summer
I feel guilt under your leaves and a sky that entraps me in dreary
Of thoughtless days, I’ve longed for, yet I’m weary

Paloma

15

my ribcage crib
the sweltering creak of its haunches
as we sway on tired heals
back and forth in the mushroom bloom of night
the spongey moon like a
freshly sprung cap
between shriveled pleats of
gilly sky
when we brush up and down our arms
our lobes of loose skin
and find ourselves budding spores
their flimsy threads rising like lanugo
downy and breathing away from our heat
the mud of our fat
our scattering dance

Paloma

15

I'm hushed
a porcelain bobble in the cold sweat of night
playing with your fingers as though
dreaming of a ghost piano,
a keyboard pounded with muffled noise into the neighbor's floor
vibrating, there we lay surreally
melting clocks over a branch of Dali,
we stretched out and sank against blue gymnastic mats
stuffing erupting under elbows and hipbones, and you told me to sing
music box melodies like shards of glass up my throat
the individual notes, half beat, quarter note, sticking precision
tangling with vocal cords, I was gasping for thick trumpet
honey and dark chocolate melting across silver plates, saxophone
chasing itself into a frenzy low within my stomach
here was Frank Sinatra letting summer loose at the nape of my neck
Nat King Cole deep and full under my chin
here was Billie Holiday bright against my collar
lyrics like foam off your bottom lip
that grin was twisting about, unsure and distorted
I could see you, cracking my wrists until the veins and bones were
splintered and sticking out, all white and glass
I could see you stealing my hands, nudging them, curled up into your pockets
And I would keep singing, no music to hold the tune, no melody or rhythm
just thin, coaxed out soprano
my fingers still twitching against your thigh

Paloma

15

The 2 A.M. train
is a glowing sweat transaction
the flexing conductor arm like a phantom limb
his fist a moist and slick organ
pumping out lonely caterwaul cries

my back is wet and humming with mosquitos
they flicker against my bulbous head
the grain of my cheeks
this flax skin of fumbled melanin

these eyes are frescoed search lights
the dry yolk of them gliding with static awakeness
in the skull of 4 A.M. when
the garden is crowded with crysoprase cicadas
their clicks like pilgrimage points to the
dead husk of my ear

catching seeds on my tongue I
swallow a white powder prayer
in the muddy light of 6 A.M.
when the steel tracks are still humming in
their aggravation

Texas summers are measured by
ant bites on ankles and
the crosses we dig into them each night with our nails when
we wedge the holy spirit under our
mounds of red skin

These days congeal like
river-bank algae beneath
a liquid sky
the shocked blue of a heat flash
of a fist against metal
of wailing air at dusk

Danielle

15

“Intorno Alle Macchie Solari”

The summer assignment for my European history class was to read a book about Galileo. I think he’s a pretty cool guy.

..........He wrote in the Italian vernacular so non-intellectual, non-
..........snooty types could read his works He was really into
.......... candied citrus and gardening Under his microscope, he
..........observed Black Plague-spreading fleas, not knowing they
.......... were black plague-spreading However, he did think they
.......... were “quite horrible” He also got sick every, like,
..........twenty-five seconds, which is pretty cool, too, I guess
..........He also did more stuff that’s important to textbooks and
.......... encyclopedias and such, but I think I should really just
.......... get on with this thing

Irrelevant facts aside, an important discovery of his (well, sort of) is the existence of sunspots.
Sunspots are little stains on the sun.
(Kind of like that mustard smudge on your pants.)
Galileo really liked sunspots.
......He wrote letters about them.
........He published those letters about them.
..........He wrote a book sort-of-a-little about them.
............He published that book.
I honestly have yet to expend the brain energy to figure out exactly what they are and exactly why we care about them,
but I do know that they remind me of my grandmother.

Okay, let me explain.
My grandma has lived next to the beach for lots of years and is covered in spots.
When I was younger and I would go to said beach, she would request that I apply an ample amount of sunscreen to every exposed patch of skin in existence.
I would whine in protest, and she would present me with her wrinkly, brown-speckled hand,
and then I would slather myself in smelly, oily, white viscous fluid. (Obediently, wordlessly, rapidly.)
And we would go to the beach.
We would walk down the street with her double stroller filled with buckets and shovels, towels, rusty beach chairs, and the Umbrella. (It was mostly faded blue with one salmon stripe and one white stripe at the bottom. I loved this umbrella because it was the Umbrella all throughout my annoying kid AND preteen years.) The stroller never carried children, which embarrassed me greatly for no good reason at all.
I would spend the day boogie-boarding and making drip castles in the sand. Grandma would read under the Umbrella.
Lunch was always aluminum foil-wrapped tuna fish sandwiches, but with an exquisite, exclusively-at-the-beach crunch. Grandma cut me white peaches and Macintosh apples. And I always got her to buy me Italian Ices for lunch dessert.
I’d come back to her house with sticky Italian ice syrup all over my hands and face, sand in between my toes, and a tangled forest of hair and salt. She’d have to hose me off in the driveway.
But, things have changed.
Hurricane Sandy happened. When I see her, she looks frazzled. We don’t make a lot of eye contact, but when we do, it’s funny eye contact. My aunt says her Valium prescription is a double-edged sword.
This summer, I’ve seen my computer screen, my TV screen, Argentine Gaucho festivals, Argentine World Cup-watching, lots of crying following the previous list item, and sketches by Galileo of spotty suns, among other things.
But the one thing that I really want to see is Grandma’s spotty hand.

Krushangi

17

Summer

The world is a split rainbow; the colors spilling out
like laughter held back too long, bathing me

with the warmth of a sunrise. The beating of the drum was
our heartbeat, the echoing of the chorus

our fuel, the squeals of laughter our air. Smiling,
I dug my bare feet into the apricot colored sand.

The pale yellow of the sunset, like sweet lemonade,
lingered in the sky for a moment, before it was replaced

by vibrant cerulean, the world a frenzy of colors.
A single trickle of warm brown, from my chocolate ice-cream cone

ran down my hand, and onto the cool water.
I flung some of that same endless blue

At my brother. He laughed,
and I copied. Everywhere I looked

there was a glorious outpour of sunshine. I was painted
by a scarlet brush made of joy, against a backdrop

of August skies and the distinctive
smell of sunscreen.

Summer had begun.

Julia

17

‘Write a poem about summer’

Okay, I can do that
It’s such a broad topic
I can talk about all the cliché summer things
Like the pool or the beach
The hot sun pounding down on hundreds of people
The hot sand burning the parts of you which the sun cannot reach
The hot air coming into each remaining vein and crevice and pore
Forcing you, for relief or out of peer pressure, into the water
But summer isn’t only about heat,
Though on those 104⁰ days when I’m worried my tires might melt,
It can feel like it is

Summer is about riding on the handlebars of his bike,
Holding his hand while walking down cobblestone streets,
Sharing an ice cream cone,
Laying in the grass looking up at
The clouds
The stars
But really only looking at each other –
Really cliché summer love
But I find it hard to write words from the heart
When mine is a crumpled heap in the corner
I leave it at home when I go out;
It cannot handle any more pain
And I’ve decided I don’t need this mythical “love”
Which only exists in romantic comedies and the works of naïve, young poets
But this was supposed to be about summer

I guess I’m not the biggest fan of hers
I don’t like choking on stuffy air all day, but also
I don’t like the arctic tundra that has become my home
I don’t like flip flops – they hurt between my toes
I don’t like grains of sand hiding between the pages of my book
I don’t like constantly having to bathe in sunscreen
I don’t like that I can’t wear sunglasses over my glasses (without looking ridiculous)
I don’t like all my friends going away and leaving me behind
But that all doesn’t make for a good poem,
Just complaining about all the little things that bother me
It’s not deep or meaningful,
But also not comedic or otherwise amusing
It’s not something that people would want to read about,
Right?

Lily

14

when i was younger, my mother would drop me on
aunt eleanor’s doorstep, and depart with a dry kiss on the forehead and a
stern look at eleanor.
i would duck behind eleanor’s legs as we waved goodbye
to the angry growl of the 1956 mustang starting up,
and mother would drive to the rhythm of
so long, farewell
as she sped off onto the highway.
i never saw which way the car turned;
she would drive away so quickly that the wheels would kick up a
dust cloud bigger than the sun,
and one time i stood in the street, squinting, hoping to see mother
glance backwards to check that i was safe,
or even just a glimpse of the mustang’s red paint,
but i got dust in my mouth and for a second,
i thought it was cinnamon.

when i was younger,
i was a dandelion growing in a field of sunflowers,
and when i began to sprout, i touched my leaves with trembling fingers and cried,
afraid of myself and afraid to fall in love, because i knew
anyone who loved me would make a wish and blow me away.
mother uprooted me every summer and
planted me in the center of aunt eleanor’s garden,
where i bowed my head in shame as the other flowers bowed their heads in admiration.
she’s from the city, they would whisper amongst themselves,
their dinnerplate eyes smudged with blackened attempts at grown-up makeup,
pudgy fingers clutching at cans of coca-cola, craving their fix of sugary carbonation.
the flowers there would marry a high school sweetheart,
drop out of college,
work the dinner shift at the local pizza joint.
they would waste ecosystems picking out their own petals,
curled up in the fetal position at three in the morning,
the moon catching on their faces like it might catch on a piece of broken glass,
unable to fall asleep because they can’t stop their own mouths from
forming the shape of the words:
he loves me.

i knew this,
because i was taught this.
even a child (especially a child) could pick up
the way my mother’s shoulders began to slouch after a night or two with a man,
because she knew she was settling for the crust
when she could have had the whole loaf.
she would close the door quietly behind her when she came home,
silhouetted in the fluorescent light of the television, she’d kick off her heels
and roll her pantyhose down to the ankles,
dejectedly resign herself to a corner of the couch next to me and say,
let’s just be quiet tonight.
and she’d turn the volume on Saturday Night Live as loud as the neighbors would let us,
so that i’d hear the laughs, not
the sobs that escaped her body involuntarily,
or the shuddering sighs that followed.
she thought i was deaf to these late-night tears,
but i’d stay awake hours after she put me to bed just to make sure she had stopped
crying on the fire escape.

aunt eleanor dismisses my mother like
an atheist dismisses god, with respect but secret pride because
aunt eleanor thinks she knows me best, and tells me so.
even though i had never met my father,
i am still a child of divorce to aunt eleanor.
she tells me that i am
the lovechild of heaven and earth,
the subject of a trillion year custody battle.
aunt eleanor tells me that the horizon line is just
the tug of war rope pulled taut,
she tells me that the sun rises every day just to see me for a little while,
she tells me that before i was born,
i was a divine embryo delicately folded into the womb of the universe.
aunt eleanor whispers promises to me in the dark,
asks me to fall in love with the solar system,
make love to the moon.
sometimes, she tells me i was the cause of the big bang,
and when i die, i will die unto a supernova.
i want to shout,
I AM A WEED!
but the words don’t come out,
because a dandelion would like to be mistaken for a sunflower sometimes.

when i was younger,
mother would roll into the driveway on the last day of august,
with longer hair and a new pair of blue jeans,
and aunt eleanor and i would meet her at the front of the house.
my hair was all brushed and i was wearing a skirt aunt eleanor had bought for me,
eleanor was holding a bouquet of dandelions, she handed them
delicately to my mother.
“all those flowers in your garden and the best you could do for me were dandelions?”
i got into the front seat of the car, trying not to be noticed, hoping i wouldn’t
scratch the leather or get my skirt dirty.
aunt eleanor nodded, said
“a dandelion is a very beautiful flower.”
(aunt eleanor was a poet, and you should know that you must
never ask a poet to do anything but write, they take real world encounters to a
metaphorical extreme that is not at all suitable to a sensible, systematic lifestyle).
my mother scoffed and started the car, it purred and growled and finally roared,
we shot forward into the cinnamon dust,
the dandelion seeds blew away and were lost in the wake of the mustang,
mother turned on the radio and said with a little laugh,
"make a wish."

Benjamin

15

Dreaming of the Future:

Once Again, summer quickly returns with the radiance of the sun.
Summer blankets us with her warmth, like a mother covering her child.
I no longer rise extra early to attend school,
But can finally relax on my own time.
I would like to think that I would wake up early in the morning (7-9 A.M. in this case), and maybe practice piano or read my summer books,
But in reality, I lazily wake early in the afternoon, and push back my work to chill on my iPad.
I would like to think that I would travel abroad and enjoy learning other cultures,
But I can only dream of such an adventure.
Thankfully, I have YouTube documentaries, National Geographic, The Travel Channel, and Rick Steves to expand my knowledge, desire more, and to escape from my responsibilities.
I would enjoy hanging out with friends, but they are nowhere near, and have returned to their home countries to be with their families.

In times like these, I drift away into thought, and wonder of many things.
I wonder of what my friends a doing, but then again, there's Instagram and other social networks.
But I also wonder what God plans for my future,
Like what college I'll attend, what career I will pursue, and what job will I get, so I can travel the world.
I feel like I'm floating in air, and can't seem to stand firmly on the ground, not knowing these things.
Only when I do enter college, pursue my career, and get employed will I land safely.
Like many people, I wish I could sneak a peak of my future wherever God has it filed, but that is not possible.
This is only a test of our faithfulnesss to God.

Summer sluggishly continues, and still the same things I think,
However; I should trust in the Lord with all my heart, knowing He will work out all things for good.

But I continue to wonder these thing,
Even into the night.
Knowing when I turn my dreams into reality,
God will time it right.
I still need to finish high school,
And finish with high marks.
God will continue to walk with me,
And when I graduate a new journey starts.

Alison

17

Persephone

Eat the pomegranates summer bore in her verdant arms, for they’re much sweeter than he ever was. He was filled with teeth and bitterness, yet you still ate. You were famished, and he knew. He left you empty.

His ivy wound around your pale wrists—you still have the red bumps that tattooed poisoned promises into your skin. You’ve scratched them to the point that they will never heal. These are scars you want to bleed.

He was only a weed in the end. You count the pomegranate seeds planted in your palm: one for the love he swore, one for the love he bore, one for the love he didn’t care for. Close your eyes and shed your tired skin. Summer awaits you.

Paloma

15

The clouds are made in Switzerland
churned out from the mountains to rise like thick cream
like mushroom caps with their
expanding breath

the sky is a gray-tissued lung from
the smoke seizuring out our mouths
mountains shooting like dandelions through
cracks in the tectonic plates
and unfolding

groaning their stiffened joints outward
they dimple the soil like landscape's cellulite, these
are the mineral bronchi plunging
upwards and away
towards the alveoli of atmosphere

the pockets ripped from fiddling so
radiation clatters through like polished dimes
where the O2 is trembled in to carbon
where the coughing upheaves into earthquakes

more dandelions seize at the sunlight
their wishes wasping on the wind

Albert

16

Back to School in 216 BC

Tremble with fear students of Rome!
For Hannibal is at the gates!

Our armies lay wasted under the waning summer sun,
strewn across the fields of Cannae.

Our consuls, Procrastinius Maximus and Gaius Relaxus are dead in the field.

Our legions of Rome's finest ice cream makers, youtube sensations, and videogame designers, dead.

Victim to Hannibal's cruel devices.

Brought upon us men aged 14 to 18 years.

Hordes of counselors, SAT administrators, and Hannibal's own elite guard of AP Latin teachers.

Even our veteran late night dancers were swept away upon the wisps of this autumn wind.

What can student do against such wanton evil?

But as summer falters, we must steel ourselves
For Hannibal is at the gates.

Jacob

18

Summer Tourism

Transplant tourism is a problem that plagues the world.

An apparent game with profits to gain,

Loaded with obstacles that can be perceived as insane

And potential hazardous consequences if you fail to abstain.

Depending on who is willing to roll the dice,

A journey is entered into a dark world of vice.

You are promised a luxurious room with fantastic amenities,

But a promise is only as good as the promisor’s identity.

You arrive as a kidney and once removed you have lost all value;

Your complications and problems are no longer their issue.

With a small headache you seek aid,

But this country’s healthcare deserves a ‘D’ for a grade.

You return home wishing the best for the receiver,

Until you develop a slight fever.

At the hospital they tell you the news,

During the operation your sole kidney received a bruise.

You have also tested positive for a new disease,

Something that you can only get overseas.

Everything may seem so precise,

But it really is up to a toss of the dice.

Katie

16

Sunken

The innermost ocean seems calm today.
The sky is not shedding saltwater tears.
A sandpiper nestled in a grassy hollow
ponders the meaning of dunes, and fish.

The waves lapping onto the sand betray nothing
but instead are calm like a hundred careless lies.
A tired white hat has drifted onto the sand.
It knows nothing of the depths of the indigo sea.

The breeze picks up, carrying lurid tones-
wailing cetacean songs of humpback grief.
The mollusks' briny tears are swirled around.
Countless moaning creatures mingle in the deep.

Cast your soul far beyond the sand if you dare.
Cut the line and sink as deep as you can.
The murmurs and cries have subsided here-
Lost to the hush of an aphotic twilight.

The angler fish glow and the hagfish writhe
under the freezing pressures forced below.
Here the strange fishes lurk, still cloaked in sorrow
Even they know the secrets of ocean life.

When you leisurely stroll across a forlorn beach
Don't be afraid to peer beyond the glistening tide.
Reach through the waves, though old scars may burn
and haul my spirit back ashore.

Samuel

16

Saudade
by Samuel

____We meet new individuals
Well casted in their molds-while
Others,still drip of copper, wanting,
yearning to share their cast
We learn- new strategies & concepts
We attempt, we test fate, we conquer the unknown
Sure we gallivant, but with a purpose- to deconstruct cliches & complexities
We seek to explore & share
Fueled on the drink of instinct- to wander and experience
Practicing our evolutionary traits
We embark on our adventures, with the guidance of Horae
We share these experiences- we cherish them- as the moments fade... the seeds of reminiscence settle within-
Only to sprout- to grow, and to remind

Elidia

15

1,2,3,4 Summer's hear let's grab the oars. 5,6,7,8 Someone yells they've cut the cake. 9,10,11,12 we got a job as pantomimes. 8,7,6,5 Here's an other beehive. 4,3,2,1 Summer's gone we had our fun!

Corinne

17

A Summer Awakening
I find myself drifting off in the romantic summer heat.
My hair alights on a tender breeze, then drifts softly to my back.
The grass tickles my chin and arms; it's crisp scent clears my soul.
This vibrancy, this life- a perfect day.
What beauty abounds in this world of mine!
A comfort in the flowing fields, a security in the wooded cricks.
This is life without a care.
This is glorious.
I gaze upon an endless, open sanctuary, and my eyes grow heavy.
I follow the clouds beyond the edge of my world.
We drift along in the heat.
But there, they've gone! And where have they left me?
The sun shines in a different sky, upon an unwelcoming earthen home.
What is that nightmare?
A child cowers, cloaked in rags.
A mother cries, prays, screams into the unforgiving heat. And that sun. Oh that sun!
Were it but the soothing hand I felt in the safety of home!
Gunshots. Uniforms. Bodies.
How can this be?
My paradise seems so wrong, so wrong, so hateful.
We stand for this injustice?
The peace of my home is not to be found here.
My peace has never been felt here.
Such hate! Such violence!
I must do something!
Something seizes me.
I am ripped from my haze, but the images are burned into my consciousness.
These images, so real, so vivid.
The afternoon heat bites into my skin. The blue sky reflects the angry sun, blinding me.
The clouds escape the rushing, raging, stifling summer.
It is time to return to school.
Then I'm on my way to changing the world.

Tiara

Sharma

Starlit Youth

The light slips behind our hill
churning the melting pot
of summer sunset
crimson streaks fade into indigo:
without their light
only shadow remains.
A lone rabbit peers at us
from behind a tree stump
then darts off into the sea of wheat
to find his own mate.

We squint at each other
under the milky debris
that arches over us—
kismet.
I discern a fleck amidst others.
It blazes with the delicate intensity
of midnight.
That one could be ours, you say.
I shrug.
We don’t need one.
We brush the dirt off our hands
and follow the path home.