Ariella

17

In these distinct hours of the night,
when the lonely cars that sigh, gasp like beasts down the road
cast tinkling light patterns
in flitting, whirling star swarms
across the late-drenched bedroom walls,
It feels as if this is not a time for breathing or whispers
but only for listening intently to mumbling rain
and crinkling cicadas until
finally joined by sleep.

Lucy

Diversity Illuminated

As my skin blooms into soft feathers, ignited by the sharp daze in the sky,
I become weightless

I am divorced from the cycles of time — indifferent to the barriers of space
I seek deep within the corners that have not yet been explored
Corners that would frighten my human, clocked self

The flavors of Indonesian sauces puncture my taste buds, biting me with a spicy story of the cooks behind the counter
I pull off the mask of a tourist; I melt my appetite into the warm vibrancy of new combinations, new sciences, new religions

The songs of Harlem pace the beats of my heart
I feel the perspiration of the woman pressed next to me in the fervent audience
The fringes of her head wrap tickle my shoulders as she bobs up and down

Smoky Caribbean goat meat wafts in the air,
pulling my mind into the body of another human dancer

Hmmmmm
Hu-ummmmm

Voices from new, unknown places create a symphony in my ear
Without the rigid cycles of time and space

I can see the glowing beauty in someone else’s story

Ariella

17

When she blazes, she burns,
if only peeping through bright-eyed dandelions
or skipping a pin-toe prickle breeze atop the pond.
She lounges, serene in the foliage flushed emerald and plump from tender rain.
Cradled in the afterglow of love and affection, a busy April’s fawns now her own to coddle,
She beams upon the sun-nurtured fields of golden
Sprawls,
the summit season’s fair queen crowned in peach blossom pearls and swathed in sky satin.
She is the center of attention, the life of the party,
the first whisper of music, the sureness of Cupid’s bow and the line of his arrow.
With a wink and a smile they melt, they melt,
______shed one more layer
______and grow their hair long
Rediscover the wild, the bird song, the morning’s sweet dew which tickles their bare feet
smeared in mud, nature’s skin.
A return to the beginning, they stumble and howl, frolic and dance,
Bubbles of laughter echo through a night once still, broken
by the claw streaks of a growling fire desperate to preserve the day’s light.
The silk tails of smoke twirls flirt with the moon and stain clothes with the perfume of
feral freedom.
A time for touching, holding, tasting,
recognizing a lover’s sunlit eyes, iris expanding.
A time for growth, blooms deep and steady,
the same green for two months.
______And when the tilt begins, the colors unfurl,
______when Persephone exhales, ruby seeds on her tongue,
______they flock back to being
______and share one parting kiss,
______memories scattering like cool ashes to the wind.
But dandelion parachutes,
although gray and dormant,
carry hopes and wishes to lie by Summer’s side,
awaiting her reawakening.

Katie

17

"Post-Senior Year"

Our yearbook’s staple
was an already-been-chewed cornucopia
of mass reflexive skills,
of biceps twinning with your rubber
exoskeleton—its vestigial limb
trailed in flannel, making off
like a doomsday sheriff.

The cafeteria mass-marketing
campaigns careened near the inverse.

Admissions office maps stuffed
the thin crust until Amherst
waved out your pie hole.

I blazed away behind
a shield of sand-dollar,
practicing an intolerance
for whole milk.

"Home for the Summer"

I’d like to think we sink the past—
dip biplanes into nacho cheese,
checkmate our putt putt golf caddies
their cheeks lined with crinoline
their seams sprouting fluffy and tart.

We set ourselves up for a booby trap
grinding up the bronze garden tortoise
smoking it so fumes headed hot air balloons.

They were coaxed down by whipped cream flares
streaking in engineered ombre, receding
so our customized kittens
could’ve lapped at them,
once they were off the clock.

"County Shortcake"

She was born
in a balloon of nose powder.

She farms the blowsy patch,
scrubbing the flannel hole.

On water breaks
she photocopies
a paint-by-numbers image
of her prime rib berries
bouncing out her basin.

Each morning after brushing,
she swishes complex sugars,
licks up the dilute cones,

fastening extras
to her iron belt
as she bags and sells
her jingle sprinklers
county-wide.

Malika

15

You were the heat and the sun
Keeping me warm
We danced in the sky
On short summer nights
You tried to hold me close
You pretended you were right
But I twisted on my toes
And we ran past the rising light
Rays of morning rose to your cheeks
And like the moon runs from the sun
I was gone before the end of the closing night.

Lily

14

summer heat sticks to us like tar,
hair clinging to our backs,
i cannot tell where the fairgrounds meet the junkyard.

i can feel sand between my teeth,
so i grit them real tight and try to push out the grains with my tongue.
lenita is sticking fingers in her mouth,
trying to suck off the taste of
candied fruit and cough syrup.

he says his name is dennis,
i flick my eyes sideways, tug the hem of my skirt upwards.
his fingers graze the fraying fabric, i count:
his hand, nine inches from the knee.
two coats of cheap mascara.
five weeks without rain.
seventeen years of middle-class make-believe.

lenita is the freeze-dried beauty queen of the southwest,
teaching me the art of seduction through slightly parted lips.
every movement is calculated, lenita can
chew up the heart of a loyal husband and spit out the wedding ring
with a backwards glance and a turn of the heel.
i can hear lenita laughing now,
pronouncing me the lolita of the rio grande,
watching me from the back of my brain.

i’d like to think dennis is a good man,
even if he’s a terrible kisser.
his hand is sliding up my thigh,
the pad of his thumb pressed urgently against bare flesh.
i untangle his mouth from mine,
letting slipknot desire come undone.
lenita says girls like me are supposed to teach
blue-eyed cowboys how to want.

i walk back through the fairgrounds,
people dwindling in and out of tents like ghosts,
rodeo bulls kick at the the dirt with bleary resentment,
a fine dust settles in my marrow.
flea bitten dogs with eyes the color of dry grass run past
the hot-dog stand, where the odor of fried food and burnt meat circles the air like
flies crowding over a piece of roadkill.
everything feels thick, clouds trickling like molasses, sky dimmed by the dull haze of august,
broken bottles and drunk ranch hands,
moaning at me with horsefaced vulgarity, i look straight ahead.

lenita has bought salmon for dinner,
but we can’t clean it in the trailer because
it would smell like fish for days,
so she takes a cutting board outside and
cleans it cross-legged on the dirt,
cutting through the meat with precision,
she ties her hair back with a flick of the wrist.

i shuck the corn while
lenita tosses some guts to birds who lurk nearby,
squawking desperately for a bite of something better.
“the birds have no shame in begging,” she laughs darkly. “why should we?”

lenita is smiling, her mouth aching with hurt,
a subtle ferocity drawing lines of deep anger across her complexion.
she begins to clean the fish more slowly, with short strokes,
she is stabbing the fish again and again with the knife.
i look away out of courtesy, busy myself with the corn, but i can hear the
smack of tears against the cutting board.
i only look back when i hear lenita scream,
the salmon is splashed with red,
her fingers are back in her mouth, sucking,
she turns her head away in shame,
spits blood onto the woodchips.
the beggar birds haven’t come back since.

Ryan

18

The promise of what was to come kept me going, that colorful world open to me, there right in front of where I stood in high May. Towering to the lofty sky were pillars of dreams and hope and love, and as I stood in awe, I knew that it was mine and could never be taken and so I turned away for the slightest of moments, knowing it would be there when I returned my gaze but when I did the haze of August mist surrounded me, and where before there was beauty now there was only the faintest glow, and reaching out finally to grasp what was mine I felt nothing but clammy fog and a mocking whisper of yesterday, and I saw the pillars and light for what they were, and that they were never mine and were never close and were never near being all for which I had hoped, and so I walked ahead in the fog waiting for winter to reclaim me.

Andrés

18

The dull ache
at the base of my skull
is back again. It has been there
on & on
since Winter murdered Fall
back in late October.
The seasonal dysmorphia
polar vortexed itself
into an inverted fuckery of nature.
It has also stolen the color
right out of my skin.
May began a few days past
but Winter won't yield
its frosty blitzkrieg. The experts say
it has gotten so bad because
the international climate community
allowed Winter to annex March
but i think that is a
load of shit. We could not stop this demon
with the Summer the that
caused the Chicago fire. And
we cannot stop my headaches
and we cannot stop
all the bees from dying.

Dear Summer,
i can feel your soft heartbeat
every time my mothers face
breaks into smile.
I know you will come back,
I know.

Malika

15

He told her how
The sunsets
Were like magic,
And the streaks of blue between the pinks and oranges,
Reminded him of distance,
And usually it scared him but on warm summer nights close to her he could only imagine.
How the moon is shining on the other side of the world, and stars are falling somewhere in the sky and in reality we are only so tiny in a world of millions but here we are laying in the grass with a sunset like magic...
And it would never scare him again.

Andrés

18

this is about you,
and it also isn’t.

i bake away
in the sunnied summer
smilebound balloonboy
salad days daydreaming
dazing and confusing and forgetting
the sizzle of my flesh
against -- sweet rough what ! --
the cold of yours.

so odd,
where my memory runs too of late.
in the summer
in the baking
sunbathing animal, another
vagabonding member
of the misremembering flock.
i need little of your cold
now.

one creature i return to, one habit i neglect
i cannot slow the pace at which i yearn
at which i learn
and relearn and
teach outward and
relearn again

(i fell in love with you
like the earth is in love with the sun)

i cannot return to
your cold, i cannot,
cannot --

(we know without them
we would be cold and deoxygenated,
but we both know not to get too close
for fear of terrible burns)

my body
frails
at the whiff
of February,
cough syrup stomach achings
and stale brioch chocolate.
choking back tears,
the sun,
you
screams through
my window paine
in one last gush of feverish emotion
– quiet.

fall comes now
sneaking between my
sock naked feets.
fear.
i am afraid i may stumble about central park
in the grass swallowing dirt and
crocket-dreaming Courts
until January freezes me
all up
to the morgue-freezer-unit life
i vaguely remember.

if this is your doing,
i cannot take any more
lashes to my already
mountain terrain back.
the blood
so red
so red
so
stop stop stop stop
-- oh, Paradise ! —
holdmeinyourfire

Annika D.

15

"Summer"

Summer is the hum of lawn mowers in the distance,
the spurt and sound of sprinklers in the grass.
Summer is the neighbor's radio streaming from their open garage.
Waking up by the tweets and chitter of birds
even when the window is closed,
is summer.
Summer means hot car seats and lemonade stands.
Summer is sweat and sticky,
warmth and laughter.
Summer is the soft kind of wind that rolls on the top of your skin.
It is sunlight wrapping a warm hug about your face.
Summer is long lines at the amusement parks
and coming home with flip-flop tans.
Summer is working on the garden,
or spending time at the pool,
or finding a job,
or learning to ride a bike.
Summer is the loud buzz of crickets as early as 2 in the afternoon.
Summer is humid, and dry
it's bug bites and ice cream.
Summer is the soft rustle of wind in the trees,
and hours spent squinting at the clouds.
And finally, summer,
is laying outside in a sweatshirt and the dark, staring at the stars.
Summer is awaited, loved, and longer for.
But the little things that make summer so special are quickly forgotten
until the next year comes.

Alison

17

Drink summer nights
Corked with the rising moon;
Remember this moment is ephemeral
As you wipe time from your cracked lips.

Stars will slide down your throat
And whisper constellations to the bird caged
In your voice box

Listen to the summer rain pattering in your chest,
Your green heart satiated with wildflowers
August breathed into you;
Soon September will pick them one by one.

Stars will ignite your veins
And sing fire to the volcano dying
In your core

Inhale the shrinking summer air
Ticking away with the falling moon;
Remember this moment is ephemeral
As you let time close your tired eyes.

Bree

16

A Summer Seasonal Time Lapse

The Beginning was the end
The Start
Leaves began to fall
The air shivered from it flu
I stood there praying
Embracing
Chasing
Watching
The familiar scene warmed me
Calmed me
Called to me
Fighting the contagious coldness I focused
The home of knowledge waited
My prison and sanctuary
Towered tall above
Emotions stirred
A smile played the face
Familiar faces in the distance
Ones in which shared my past
Possibly my future
It was the beginning of the great
The end of the amazing
It had once been the beginning of the amazing
Yet now it was the end
Everything had become nothing
All the time.
Little time
Three long months
Three short months
Worthless
Eventful
The Beating Sun
My beating heart
Synchronized
Harmonized
Every Second Good and Bad
Here and gone
Pools fill
Tickets Booked
Books borrowed
Everything used
T.V’s watched
Internet used
Games beat
Lots of sleep
Each moment fleeting
Pleading
Gone
Day by day
Short then long
Here and gone
Moments pass and we return
The house of knowledge again
Memories remain and replay
Fireworks cracked
Parents appreciated
Friendships stated
Late nights
Everything just right
It’s okay
Only about 267 days away
Till we can play
On a warm summer day

Sarah

14

Little arms flail in
crisp air
as she dives down the
huge-giant-monstrous slide,
giggling the entire way down,
DaDa waiting at the bottom
to catch her.
Those were the days.

Mud-caked hands tightly
grasp
the swing as she soars
high enough to
steal the stars,
Daddy swinging along
beside her.
Those were the days.

Sweaty palms cling to
handlebars
as she drives her
pretty pink bicycle
around the newly-planted grass,
Dad gleaming at his daughter
from behind.
Those were the days.

A little-baby-tiny slide
sits next to a rusty, ancient swing-set
atop of worn grass
as she admires
the playground.
She now dives into a grander
playground, as she aims to steal
the stars and drive her way through
high school.
These are the days.

Sophia

14

Heed the warmth, the light__
Let them hold you…warm and bright__
Heed life and let your soul bask__
Over the rolling hills of freedom__
Let green and blue live and grow__
Banishing the storm, and floating free__
Let wind and rain hide no sun__
Cloud no day__
And let you rest__
Under deep blue skies__
Under the waves of days that are__
And days to come__
Heed the summer call__

Sarah

14

People enjoy writing poems about summer.
About how beautiful the fireworks flash.
About how sour the lemonade tastes.
About how bright the sun shines.
Such a shame they’re starring at their
laptops tip-tap-typing away
while they miss out on enjoying
the beautiful season.

Lindsay

15

I wake up to the sound and smell of my mother,
Cooking breakfast in the tiny kitchen.
No one else is awake
As we claim two seats on the porch.
We eat and talk,
Laughing at some innocuous piece of gossip
She heard in the grocery store.
The rest of the family gradually awakens;
One by one the slow addition of their voices
Joins with our own,
Until we have a complete chorus.

Everyone has eaten now- it is time to set off
On our daily adventure.
We set off in the boat, tootling along the lake
Until we reach a little inlet,
Where we jump out to swim around.
My mother calls out to us:
“Are you wearing your noseplugs?”
Our heads bob, up then down, as we nod back,
“Yes, mom!”

Soon, it is time for lunch.
We pull out sandwiches and lemonades,
And have a little feast on our little boat.
When all the crumbs have been licked
Off all the fingers, we jump back in.
My father calls out to us:
“Are you ready to go home yet?”
Our heads shake, left then right, as we yell back,
“No, dad!”

When we can no longer refuse our father’s entreaties,
We return home to cook dinner.
Before long, the scent of burgers and fries
Permeates the living room.
All of our noses shoot into the air,
Sniffing like bloodhounds.
We gather around the table,
And as soon as our plates are set out in front of us,
They are emptied.
Once the table has been cleared,
We set out a deck of cards
And play until our hands are so tired
The kings and queens lie vanquished on the field.

Off in the distance,
A throng of birds accompany a band
Singing retro music from my parent’s generation.
Every once in a while a swell in the waves
Laps against the shore
And in between the cymbal clashes,
You can hear a light swish-swish, swish-swish.
As my family sits out on the porch,
The murmur of our quiet conversation
Joins the band as well,
And in between the guitarist’s chords,
You can hear a muted haha-haha, haha-haha.

The setting sun causes a chain reaction among the houses
Settled along the edge of the lake.
One by one, like fireflies at dusk,
They take turns lighting up
And blinking out.
It is late now.
No more boats can be seen streaking across the water.
No more giggling children can be heard
Playing at the shoreline.
And inside our house,
The only sound is that of five slumbering bodies shifting in their beds,
Restless for tomorrow to come
Faster than it did yesterday.

Gillian

14

School is over, work is not,
Summer tasks start on the dot.

NHS and applications,
Need to meet high expectations.

Hours, hours day and night,
Toiling until it’s not bright.

Reading books and papers too,
There is just too much to do!

School come back; on summer I’ll pass,
I’d rather be sitting in class.

Jamie

17

The Contrast of Childhood
Fireflies rose_
like prayers_
from glass jars in our hands,_
fluttering away_
into our bedrooms._
I think of this,_
returning to the empty house_
full of the past._
Now,_
the front door flakes paint_
and releases a breath of musty wood and stale dreams._
My shoes_
swirl dust_
that resettles in floorboard cracks_
long ago traced by sand_
and stir memories_
that sting._
Once upon a time_
gasoline puddles were rainbows in the gutter_
and the only luggage we carried_
was the kind full of favorite sweaters and blank notebooks…_
Crabs scuttled in buckets balanced on our handlebars –_
boiled and seasoned with Old Bay, their rusty shells_
crack_
open beneath wooden mallets and our_
greasy fingers scatter salt_
over the ruby innards of garden tomatoes._
We spit watermelon seeds across the porch_
and send laughter shimmering_
amidst the gurgle of the frogs_
living in the upstairs bathtub._
Our noses are sun kissed_
with freckles._
Coconut shampoo_
drips_
from the ends of our hair._
Before the world stirs_,
honeyed light spills into the kitchen,_
the kite lays unmended on the rocking chair,_
and we wonder what rainwater tastes like._
(It is sweet.)_
At night,_
the beach is cold silk,_
the moon sheens the ocean to meringue,_
and into our pockets full of swallow feathers_
we gather magic._
In the moment,_
we slide the carton of ice cream dregs and Hershey syrup_
over a tabletop spread with yesterday’s newspaper,_
our stories twist paths of words into the milk of twilight,_
and we believe in_
mermaids,_
each other,_
and forever…_
Once upon a time_
clouds frothed into fairy castles_
and our pillows were not stained wet_
from broken hearts._
Damp walls hum with stillness._
On a windowsill once decorated with sea glass_
sits a relic that turns my fingertips grey._
A child’s voice breathes–_
Listen - this conch holds the echo of waves._
I press the shell to my ear,_
close my eyes,_
and for one_
heartbeat_
imagine the thrumming wings_
of fireflies._
But the sound is only that_
of dead leaves_
dropping_
against the glass._

Ashley

17

I catch myself looking at the sky too much

as if the blue vastness can somehow act as a crutch to keep me from the ground

because life has been dragging me down

each day the weight used me as its holder

making a dent in my back and my shoulder

leaving physical evidence that life isnt easy

just sometimes it gets to me

a reminder that we dont all live long

and feelings can't all be summed up in a song

and that life will take from us the things that mean the most

and then keep the memory around like a ghost

so I lose myself in shades of blue

and dig fingers into my palm to distract me from thoughts of you

of whats coming and going to pass

and how nothing lasts

except for the sky, there

as long as I can dare

to turn my eyes up toward the clouds floating by

as if it can help you

but I can still try