Madalyn

16

A time for...

A time for driving around with the windows down and the radio turned up

A time for daisy duke shorts and bonfires in an old corn field

A time for 4x4 trucks to play in the mud as buddies drink and try to impress the girls

A time for surfing, water skiing, tubing, or just floating on a boat

A time for jumping off bridges, swinging on a rope or just hanging out in an intertube

Summer is a time for happiness and tans

Devon

15

Brown Eyes

It is just he and I
We sit on the splintered, wooden dock; I with my hat on, my head tucked under the stitched brim
With my damp pants rolled up to my knee and my toes dangling and drifting in the chilled lake water, we embrace the silence

We watch the birds scrape the sunset with their outstretched wings and listen to the crickets hum a pleasant melody in the long, wispy grass
He glances at me, his deep, warm brown eyes melting; The world cradles us in its burly arms
Soon we will be called to return

I know the sun will shortly fade and the only thing left to light our path in the dark, still night will be the full and heavy moon
Its gleaming shadow will dance on the water's stage, the spotlight all to itself

The fireflies appear to come from nowhere but soon they surround us in a circle of light
I spy the warm glow of a lantern from the small prairie house that has managed to raise my family of six
The aging timbers resemble the fingers of hands grasping at one another, straining to avoid loosing their grip
My ears turn to the clinking of metal on metal as my lean and stoic mother labors over our rusted kitchen sink
The daisy, yellow curtains blow through the open kitchen windows like unleashed ghosts roaming through the night, riding the wind
My father's sillhouette emerges from the house, tall and sturdy, looking for me now
I duck down, hidden underneath the swaying reeds
I hope he does not spot me out on the dock this late, he knows I will bargain for all the time I can get and this time he will not be fooled

Through strained eyes he does not see me, I breathe a sigh of relief as he starts heading in the other direction
"We've done it again," I whisper to my companion, letting out a giggle
And so we stay, until dusk settles in
Resting our heads back on the dock
My hand around his rough but fragile paw, his brown eyes now shut in a peaceful slumber
For now, we are safe

Rachel

17

What’s It Like?

What’s it like?
Outside the glass that I’m trapped in.
Free from the strings that hold me captive.
Breathing something besides poison smoke
that corrupts every thought,
wilting and killing the roses of my mind.
Please tell me what it’s like.
Because I don’t know.

I have been trapped in this glass,
held by these strings,
for so long
I don’t remember what it’s like to be free.

I thought I was free, but then
the strings pulled me back,
hooking me into place,
yanking at my heart.
So I can’t break free.

People tap on the glass,
try to help, but I don’t see angels.
I see angels,
I see demons.
Demons who tell me to destroy myself,
who tell me that I am worthless,
disgusting,
pathetic.
Who order me to
starve
cut
purge.

Anything to be worthy
of love
of affection
of beauty.

My reflection in the glass is warped.
I think.
I can’t tell anymore,
what’s real and what’s an illusion.
But my false angels call to me,
the blade,
the pills.
The devil scale taunts me,
says I’ll never be good enough.

And he’s right.

I’ll never be good enough,
not by his standards,
so why don’t I focus on my standards?
The ones I had before,
before I was strung up,
before I was trapped.
The standards that were great because they weren’t there.
The one rule to be happy.
Before scales mattered,
before numbers were my bible,
the blade my cross.
I remember that rule,
I remember those standards,
I remember happiness.

The long-smothered flame of my soul
begins burning.
Fighting through the thick poisonous smoke
of insecurity and pain,
fighting for what I know,
what I’ve always known,
to be the perfect way to live.

The strings that bind me tighten,
knowing that I’m starting to fight back,
determined to keep me in the dark.
The flame of my soul burns brighter,
clinging to the long-lost memory
of happiness,
of peace,
of loving myself.
I remember that time.

And I want it back.

My soul erupts in flames,
the strings burn,
the glass breaks,

and I am free.

I land outside the glass
and I laugh.
Because I’m bathed in light,
the bright light of love,
and I see that the demons who were taunting me
are angels after all,
angels who wish to help me.

I don’t love myself,
not yet,
but I want to try.
I want to learn
how to live outside the glass,
without strings,
how to accept help,
how to love myself,

and how to live.

Lucy

17

Battle at Sea
(Poetic form: sestina)

And in the waves of red, an endless cycle beginning,
Twigs of limbs wash away unto a hush of calm.
Such is the beauty of universality, witnessed by all—this same silence.
The calm is honored with abandoned sheaths, the blades floating
Away. Now clashing foes hold calloused hands
They wonder about those lost at sea.

A lighthouse calls nostalgically out to sea,
Casting out a cowardly incandescence lost from the beginning.
And making its way at the end, searching for abandoned hands,
The light is devoured by a black, red, raging calm.
The waters cast ashore paint the ground with the bodies floating.
A glow finds way to shore cast the art’s glory among silence.

Cries and screams fade to a beauteous silence
Where empathy and understanding reign the sea.
On waters dense with memories, heavy hearts are floating
And the waves carry them back to the beginning.
Starting again, to battle for calm
Starting again, to ready unsullied hands.

Tossed ashore are blades of the past, wielded by worn hands
And guns of the future, wielded by regretful silence.
The lifetime spared of calm
Spares no mercy until hope is bottled in thrown to sea.
When the bottle is found, there is another thousand bottles’ journeys at sea beginning
Not sinking but floating.

And when the bottle is opened, the light within begins floating
Beyond earthly grasps—hands that fail to resemble hands.
Still, in the crevasse of another beginning
A wave approaches shore in silence
To fuel the emaciated souls of the sea
Satiation leads them to an eternal calm.

Should the metallic taste fade to calm
Should sin leave floating
as the bitter taste surrenders to the warmth of the sea,
Perhaps beyond its red, a savior’s weapon is bare hands
To grasp the waves and force them back; are screams better than silence?
Silence has been empathy, from the beginning.

Waves return to their places, their rightful beginning.
The same shades of black and red dye the waters in silence,
Demanding a price: To understand is to be caught by the sea.

Jo

15

Must the Sky Be Always Blue

Teakettle gray presses the horizon—
stitching a charcoal thread—wobbly as a Sharpie line—
a permanent etch on muddy ground.
Summer sun stows away behind cotton batting of clouds.

An agrarian quilt stretches from the front porch to the road.
Not a red roof farmhouse in sight,
only potato plants—malachite leaves touched with feldspar—
corn stalks—jade poles—blanketed by the flannel sky.

Paines gray brushstrokes open up the western front.
Ruffles of indigo and onyx
stain the swollen clouds,
as soaked manure wafts through clean air.

Ushered by gusty wind—lead sky turns pale viridian—as rushing clouds
sweep the sky’s palette of all colors—leaving only blue.

Emma

15

The breeze fluting bends in the trees,
the water lilies -- wept unto
the delicate green film: soilless, still --
a sheet over depths of crumbling dirt interspersed
throughout a dewy dip in the valley --
the secluded wishing well of the pond.

We sat in simple design,
the croak of the frogs overlapping our jabber.
The muggy air sat atop our jackets,
creating drops of cool dew
as we hugged our knees
and haphazardly pulled at the grass beneath our fingertips.

Opaque, pastel emerald moss covered the rocks,
sitting in quiet delicacy.
Twisting vines had slithered
to the branches of Jukebox trees.

Bluebirds lacing tacitly,
straw nests against the backdrop of
light, hazy fog --
chirps splashing through the thick air.

We chattered -- like the birds -- as the day grew old,
we got up and ran to catch the setting sun,
we tilted our heads back and laughed without remorse,
we snacked on crackers and apples,
we still smiled in lull of conversation --
remembering tales from elder days.

Emma

15

Dandelions

You walk and notice the splinter in the curb at your feet,
where the earth has pushed through concrete and
a line of weeds has settled in a crevice.
The water-splashed, stained, laminated "Missing!"
poster for a black-and-white calico cat is pinned to every available surface,
as if to better the chances of Fluffy remembering he has somewhere to be.
You notice the breeze stretching its fingers through your hair and the light pit,
pat, your worn-down Converse sneakers make against the sidewalk,
dandelions against the base of a rusty chain-link fence, facing upward
toward a sky expanding wider than the world could ever be.

Rachel

17

Are You Serious?

Are you serious?
Are you actually serious right now?
Did you really tell me to “get over it”?
Did you really tell me to “be happy”?
Did you really tell me to “just eat”?
Do you not know how hard this is for me
just staying alive?
Do you not know how much I struggle
every single day?
Do you not know that I am doing all I can?
To keep my heart beating,
to keep moving,
to keep living.
Do you not know that I am at war
with my own mind?
That my brain and my heart have been torn in half
and both sides are raging to destroy each other,
and sometimes one side falls, but then gets back up.
And it never ends.
Every second of every minute of every day
I am fighting a war

and I think I’m losing.

So don’t tell me to “get over it”.
Because you have no idea.
How a poisonous weed has taken root in my mind,
How it spreads and spreads and
will
not
stop.
How I am slowly being smothered by the all-encompassing
darkness.
How every tiny bit of light in my heart and mind
is being snuffed out.

The things that once gave me joy
are nothing.
My one-time saving graces
are meaningless.
Because of this thing.
This darkness and poison that’s eating me alive.
This acidic black ink that has spoiled the ivory cloth of my life.

I’ve been told—not often—
that I’m strong.
But that’s not true.
I’m not strong, I’m tired.
So tired.
Tired of the fight.
So I hold tight to my black rose
as the thorns pierce my numb fingers
and lay down in my mahogany coffin
and I pray to the god I don’t believe in
for a better tomorrow.

Rachel

17

Are You Serious?...Are you serious?...Are you actually serious right now?...Did you really tell me to “get over it”?...Did you really tell me to “be happy”?...Did you really tell me to “just eat”?...Do you not know how hard this is for me...just staying alive?...Do you not know how much I struggle...every single day?...Do you not know that I am doing all I can?...To keep my heart beating,...to keep moving,...to keep living....Do you not know that I am at war...with my own mind?...That my brain and my heart have been torn in half...and both sides are raging to destroy each other,...and sometimes one side falls, but then gets back up....And it never ends....Every second of every minute of every day...I am fighting a war...and I think I’m losing....So don’t tell me to “get over it”....Because you have no idea....How a poisonous weed has taken root in my mind,...How it spreads and spreads and...will...not ...stop....How I am slowly being smothered by the all-encompassing...darkness....How every tiny bit of light in my heart and mind...is being snuffed out...The things that once gave me joy...are nothing...My one-time saving graces...are meaningless...Because of this thing...This darkness and poison that’s eating me alive...This acidic black ink that has spoiled the ivory cloth of my life...I’ve been told—not often—...that I’m strong...But that’s not true...I’m not strong, I’m tired...So tired...Tired of the fight...So I hold tight to my black rose...as the thorns pierce my numb fingers ...and lay down in my mahogany coffin...and I pray to the god I don’t believe in...for a better tomorrow.

Devon

15

Are You Listening?

___The sun pierced through my skin and warmed my insides
The earth feels more crowded on sunny days; more people about
The strong rays burnt my skin and reddened my hair
Hot on my back, it shone in my eyes

It begs you to listen!

___ The sky grayed like hair turns old
The clouds broadened and turned dense
The air thickened and suffocated the earth
It drizzled, almost hesitantly, as if afraid to hurt me
The clock ticked, and the rain matched its rhythm

It begs you to listen!

___Harder and harder, it held the earth in its grip
It would not release me until I obeyed its quiet, persistent command

And still, it begs you to listen!

___The weight of water and the force of gravity tied me down
The water pellets hit my skin and drenched my pores
The cries of the sky engulfed me

Listen!

Junjia(JJ)

25

The perfect summer

The fantasy of a surrealist climate

Where the gentle rays of sunlight leaves you constantly lukewarm

While the subtle breeze keeps your pores free-flowing.

Such summer resembles the imaginary power of Roman baths

Where the water's temperature flows with the mind's pleasure.

I always say why not step outside

Stand under the sun

Don't just get a tan, but get inspired

Absorb the world's wonder into the depths of our skin

A wonder that we so often forgotten and take for granted

Why visit a tanning bed when you can throw yourself to the source of life

I believe it's summer that nourishes

It's nature that breeds creativity.

Yvonne

16

313 Degrees Kelvin

Make July hotter
until your scalp drinks cool water faster than
your mouth does,
and clinging icedust washes out of your pores,
and the metal in your bones, built up over autumn, melts and you fill to the brim with
historic greenness--

the steel will strengthen, slowly,
iron will settle like sediment, but now your feet are relearning the ground
and you will have an autumn to turn colors, a winter to freeze,
spring to lull your frozen blood back to blue--for now
linger boneless, part cloud
drifting by
the skyscrapers of cities tickling like grass beneath your back.

Travis

18

Shall I describe for thee a summer's day?
A perfect picnic breezy kind of scene?
Or one that is hot and sticky, but grey?
Either day is what summer tends to mean.
A season measures where the Earth is tilt;
and when I learned that leap years are a thing,
I doubted the calendar you had built.
'Cause I can't calculate it's really spring.
I'm told now's August, is it September?
I don't know for sure if I don't measure
Your bissextiles, I'm forced to remember.
I know at least summer is for pleasure
Even if I do not believe the day,
I chill and read, forget your made cliche.

Demi

16

Summer's come and you've gone

You had her

jangling at your ribs,
begging to be let in.

Her blue sea eyes,
sunken ships on her face,

rose tides for you,
overflowing, flooding...

for you,
for you,

for...Her
laugh is full now,

and I saw her the other night,
swingin' and movin'

movin' to a new beat, a new crowd,
movin', movin' on.

Ella

15

“Summer’s Lullaby”

If you listen closely,
And open up your ears,
There is a constant summer song
A lullaby, to hear.

It is heard through flowers
Who bloom, and brush the looming trees,
That whisper to each other
In the fragrant breeze.

A tune composed of lover’s sighs
And the broken hearted’s tears,
Mixed with childish gales of laughter
That omits all fear.

Seen through luminous colors,
And grazing clouds in the sky.
It’s an electricity orchestrated,
From people passing by.

You hear it through crystal waves crashing,
On pillows of hot sand
And star gazing at night,
While the crickets play their band.

A melody formed by the fumes of depression
Of the monotonous days,
When there is nothing to do
As summertime begins to fade.

This song is a beacon of hope,
Through the seasons of the year.
A balm for the cracked hearts
To those whose troubles are near.

So, if you listen very closely,
And open up you eyes and ears,
There is a constant sweet summer song
A lullaby, for all to hear.

Sydney

14

The Summer People

i glance around the crowd of bodies. they are
the Summer People who i should be, but
the People i’m not.
the People who bask in the bright sunshine,
the People who crave other beating hearts near theirs.
the People who smile
and laugh
and chat
and flirt
and gossip.

the People who sprawl on the warm sand
and let the sunny rays soak through to their bones
warming their souls.
the People who never spend more than a moment in
the same place,
the people who skip along crowded boardwalks
ice cream in hand.

the People who refuse to stay indoors,
the People who are never lonely for longer than a breath.
the People whose tears are only tears of laughter,
the People who think the world is their oyster.
the People who are whole,
the People who i can never be.

Morgan

16

A Message in a Bottle 

8.15.14

I heard his name in a seashell today.

The Atlantic hums the blues like he told me it does
and the ocean's breath  tastes like his. I don't know why 
it's whisper sounded sad, like the echo of a gun,
but its song hollowed me, scooped my chest and fed it to the gulls.
 
I don't know if he misses me 
but I miss him
most days, days when Chipper barks at the ceiling, 
days when the house quiets 

and my breath hangs over me, 

days like these when wind roses my cheeks 
and I wish he was here to see 
the salt strung sky- it is lovely,
lovely as he is.

Now the waves are humming 
at my feet
and the sunsetting feels like melting ice-

I wonder if he feels it, too.

Yegene

17

My mother cuts peaches; first the skin
And then the white flesh that reveals itself
Like bare legs underneath khaki shorts
Pockmarked with mosquito bites

__________She cuts around the pit
The same way we cut the shape of ourselves
__________________________Around the thickness of the air
And the humidity that w a v e s along the electric lines

She separates the slices with the r i p
Of summer scabs earned by mad races on sidewalks
To see the final hardening of an egg
Its whites bubbling like foam on heated pavement

At the core, a peach slice is pink and delicately veined
As pink as the sunkissed edge of my nose and the hollows of my back
Slathered into a deeper magenta by the sheen of aloe vera
Until, grinning with the edges of sweet sticky sunshine
I eat a peach, in summer glow.

Eliza

15

What's so great about summer anyway?
Sweaty bodies on a hot sticky day,
Ocean swims spent spitting out salt,
Fruitlessly fighting the sun's relentless assault,

Rolling eyes at eager tourists as their shutters click,
Melted ice cream that's too liquid to lick,
Long afternoons with nothing to do,
The mandatory, and pungent, trip to the zoo,

Getting sand between your legs, your fingers, your toes,
The occasional glob of sunscreen making its way up your nose,
Fighting off gnats and mosquitoes and wasps,
Even when it rains, the heat never stops,

Obnoxious boys shedding layers for their sports,
Wearing tank tops, pulling out the short shorts,
Turning down invitations to lounge by the pool,
Afraid to wear a swimsuit and look like a fool,

Dreading the days where the tops come off,
Avoiding those moments by faking a cough,
Refusing to swim and appearing haughty,
Willing to do anything to get that bikini body,

Sun-kissed skin with beach-waved hair,
Bikini bodies in skimpy swimwear,
It's all too shallow, all too cliché,
What's so great about summer anyway?

Julia

15

Intrepid, bold, and foolish was the one
Who broke the barrier of glass jar walls
A firefly, propelling his own sun
For he who lacks the nerve to fly just falls.
Recalling his own home, he looked behind
And saw what once distorted his own view
His brethren bumped around with the same mind
So with his golden tail in tow, he flew.
The cosmos were his own, his own to take
To find, to hold, to rule as their sole king.
The void gave no love, please do not mistake;
He gave up home to find another thing.
And so he drifts, so stern and cavalier,
A lonely star in his plaster frontier.