Roni

17

Let’s leave behind trivial things.
Let’s burn our bridges and damn our regrets.
Let’s forget our responsibilities.
Let’s say to ‘hell with the rules!’
Let’s destroy those things that destroy us and then -newly freed from burden- let’s throw ourselves into love.

Let’s run head first into adventure and freedom.
Let’s jump to passion and folly.
And Instead of making love,
let’s let love make us.

And whatever we become, let’s take comfort in knowing it will be surpassingly more beautiful than we could have ever made ourselves.

Roni

17

God damn the black night with all its foul temptations,

Of sweetly scented crisp cold air,

And passionate alluring creations.

The infinite stars to fill the boundless void and mock your minuscule existence,

And your spirit rebel against their rule,

To try to keep persistence.

The day comes to shed light on your skin and dry the sweat that stays there,

With divine condemnation from the sky above,

And your lips caught in a death snare.

Renaya

17

Sitting...
Watching...
Waiting...
Anticipating...
The adventures
These months will bring.
Summer
Ticking....
Tocking...
The clock
Is thocking...
Summer
Eyes
Are Wandering
Minds
Are pondering
BRIIINGGG!!!
The final bell
Finally rings!
Summer
Everyone's
Up
Up
Up
Out of their seats
Summer
No more alarms
No more school meets
Summer
Just the sizzling sun
And
The late night beats
Summer
Freedom's running through the halls
Girls are heading to the malls.
Summer
Summer
Planes soar...
Vacations GALORE!
Summer
Beaches
Camping
LOTS
Of napping
Summer
Grillin...
Chllin...
That move's killin!
Summer
Dancing...
Shopping...
Party popping...
Summer
Late nights...
No more fights...
Let's go fly some kites!
Summer
The BEST TIME
Of our lives!
Summer
Wait...
It's fading...
We spend ten months waiting...
Summer
It ends
So soon
It's almost time
For "back to school" gloom
Summer
All the memories were made
Fun in the sun was paid
Summer
But...
We...
Gotta go...
Back
Before...
The slowness...
Attacks...
Summer
The fun times
Now just stories
Of our summertime glories...

Deja

16

The post is not dead.
That realm of summer which refuses to be said,
We've chosen to write and post off instead.
In July, we near the post office door,
its facade brick-red.

Soldiers returned home from tour,
Grandmothers bearing gifts,
Long-distance love (sealed with a kiss)
Approaching the red-brick filled contour,
Our many heads frequent the post office door.

Out and in, our lowered heads
(Shielding the late summer sun)
Frequent the post office door. Better
late than never to get the job done,
whether sending bill, or postcard, or letter:
The post is not dead.

Emma

14

Summer's the Time for Angels

And depending on which TV show you watch,
that statement may or may not
be terrifying. But it's true.
angel – Greek angelos – messenger.
Angel of The Lord or Term of Endearment.
Or a statue that'll snap your neck. Spoilers.
That made no sense and I didn't mean it to.
Because how do you describe the feeling
of climbing on a plane, speeding down
the runway, watching dawn break
like an egg, like an iPhone screen–
ha ha– letting the world turn pale gold,
bleached out by lemon juice
and sunlight. How do you describe the feeling
of a world caught in a jar with half
a dozen fireflies, blinking and winking,
Tinker Bell and the Faith Hill song,
and I know my eyes are glowing like they swallowed
up all the firelight, don't tell me otherwise.
(An ideal world would be safe,
right? Isn't that what we mean by World Peace?
We don't live in an ideal world.)
When you're scared, don't think.
Don't let your mind catch the hem
of its cape on all the sharp corners,
all the thorns and barbed wire, don't think
of the future, of reality, of the darkness
on the surface of the moon.
And definitely don't think about high school.
Or hashtags. Or your own twisted generation.
Don't think about placement exams
or freshmen orientation, or that Time
and Youth just might be slipping
right out of your hands. I don't want to believe that.
And I don't believe in angels. Books,
though, books I believe in.
And that humanity has a shard
of decency at its core,
though we rarely act on it. We prefer to drink
our sorrows. We prefer to drown.
We shoot the messenger and the sheriff
and whoever else gets in our way.
This is humanity. The Great Human Race. Don't you see?
Summer swallows us whole. Faith takes practice.
I believe in myself,
but I don't believe in you.

Emma

14

Our Summer Made Her Light Escape

out of the cracked window behind
the kitchen sink. She left her shoes.

Just a few months ago, Spring
came with his hands and blossom-salted winds,

and before that, Winter left
his frosty footprints on our roof.

When I was born, my mother says
(and mothers are prone to lie for their children),

the trees all murmured, whispered, sang,
and the crescent in the sky was shrinking.

Maybe that's when my problems started.
Maybe, even though the moon

waxes and wanes, back and forth,
I'm still caught in that shrinking phase.

The desire to be smaller. To grow thinner.
To become just a tiny sliver of light.

Our Summer made her light escape. Now,
Autumn shakes out her hair, flings up

her hands, sways to the music. My head:
caught in a net. My head,

the patchwork puzzle of here and there,
bare branches crossed with shadow,

rain on slivers of broken glass. You.
The wisp of Summer's breath. Insubstantial.

Faerie song. Like my dreams, unraveling
in the harsh morning light. Coming undone.

You,
coming undone.

Our Summer escaped like a runaway bride
out of our sight and out of our lives,

and she pretends she didn't leave us broken.
But in truth? That's me,

there, the unwound thread beneath your feet,
the shards of mirror, patchwork puzzle,

frayed at the edges, and I'd still be whole
if only you'd gotten here a little sooner.

Emma

14

Dog Days

Hello, old friend.
Hello, yesterday.
Auntie Summer drove into town
with her cherry-red car and stiletto heels.
Slow down, count the seconds
till I explode, collide with the paper planes.
Once upon a time I was the villain.
My generation's made of hope and lightning,
and we always get carried away.
Next summer,
I want a better world.

Emma

14

We Compare Love to a Summer's Day

But all I can think of is the century that will come when the sun will reach out
and swallow us whole. It'll be in summer.

Winds crackling like dry old paper,
tarnished rings, the loss of all things
young and beautiful. At least we'll die together.

All I can think of is tyranny,
the stone thrones of worn-out kings,
dictators and attempted genocide, names

we don't ever dare to say, acts deemed unspeakable
that we cower from in our cross shadows, stories
faded on the scrolls of history, and we hide

our blemishes, our murderers, our mistakes, all
because we scare ourselves. No, more than that.
We disgust ourselves.

All I can think of
is the love that apparently happens that
I don't believe in. Summer flings,

brief spark exploding into fireworks,
all this laughter and all these colors and
so short. So fleeting. Artists sing

of young love, heartbreak, the same chords,
the same choked mind. Veins humming,
but not on fire. But what would I know?

I'm buried in sand. Vines curling around
my fingers, my neck, my driftwood bones,
morning glories flaring

in my eyes. Too dramatic?
I've got to follow the rules here.
Summer. Love. Even though you shrivel up.

Even though there's nothing left,
I don't think. Everything's already been said
and done. Nothing new under the sun.

Emma

14

Verano

How would you have me, hmm?
Dip-drop, long shot, what-not.
Sweet or spicy. Lemon and lime.
Poolside barbecue? Bonfire on the beach?
We've got much work to do. Vacation,
vanilla ice cream, velvety skies,
dripping eyes. You want a piece of me?
Nylon, polyester, sweat and seawater.
When it's warm, it's hot, it's humid–
June July August–
that's when you're mine.
That's when I own your veins.
So how would you like me?
Long day, hard play, wash away. Drown
in me, in my light. I'll tear you apart.
Queen of Broken Hearts.
You make me laugh,
you know: you think too much
or not enough, you hold too tight
or not at all. You make me laugh.
So I make you high on life. You get drunk
on, well, me. Glass bottles filled
with sweet soda, ice dripping
down the crystal edges, all the open panels
of your hands, your eyes, your laughter lines.
Screw you. Wasting, spending, killing time.
Believing in the ocean spangled
with starlight, that one love
can last forever, that the waves won't move in
and take it all out to sea. Up up and away.
But that's my nature. I'm flashy.
I'm Time drenched in golden light,
layers and layers of candy-yellow, neon
outline, orange and cherry blossom perfume.
I make you want me. And
I use you up. I drain you dry.
Hollow heads and fireflies. I give you
the world
and I take it away again so
quickly. So so quickly.
I'm the rush. The highlight. The climax.
Bare feet, no sleep, last week. But
I come with the drop, too, you know.
Just my nature, the smell of chlorine,
volleyball and picnics, grass stains on new shorts.
I drop you. I let you fall. Don't care. Nothing personal.
That's just what happens when
I end. I leave you crumbled,
worn-out, scorched and dazed,
missing me.

Rajan

14

Summer is...

Cookies with a cup
Of sweet lemonade,
Which makes for a memory
That will never fade.

A soft beach towel
On which to lie,
As the sun continues sinking
Lower in the sky.

A walk with your friends
On a lazy day,
Or spending some time
At an ocean bay.

Watching colorful fireworks
As they explode up high,
It becomes clear
That the end of summer is nigh.

The riches of summer
Are a dreamer’s gold,
For so short a time
It is ours to hold.

Rona

15

Procrastination

I like to think the beginnings of June feel like a melody, something lyrical, something whimsical,
cusp of vacation, and a prayer to the Final Exam gods. There are some things I wish

not to understand, how time streams like honey during seventh-period Calculus and whistles
by weekends, and Father at twenty-one, in the pressure-cooker turmoil of a revolution this month

two dozen and some years ago underneath a smog-lit Beijing sky. July at night brings glittering
pops of scarlet and cobalt, messy for peripheral vision: I fall in love with a songwriter who

likes grilled cheese sandwiches, but only for an hour. Fireworks tint everything rosy.
An hour thirty-five minutes away from Portland, the stars throb with a vitality I imagine

might draw many moths. In August a rush of due-soon homework emerges mysteriously
from a backpack forgotten underneath a pile of jeans, and instead of finishing history notes,

I scrawl down whispers about summer, call it poetry.

Sophie

15

"Blue Beast"

Bare feet on the scorching sand,
running tirelessly toward the horizon
where the sky greets not the earth,
but the volatile skin
of the cerulean creature.

And I,
overcome with reckless optimism,
plunge freely into the water's grasp.
Immediately, it runs its teeth along my skin,
working to strip my body,
until all that remains
is pure, unprotected flesh.
Its delicate fingers
curl around my numbed ankles
and tug.
The ocean utters methodically
some mysterious chant,
and though I fail to fathom its meaning,
I sense the eerie insistence
with which the ocean sings.

Still undeterred,
I spy an opportunity to conquer this beast.
A flare of the ocean's strength
rolls into the land,
moving with silent and confident magnificence.
I move outward,
following the lure of the sea,
to greet the twinkling mass
that winks at the sun.

And that is when the tower falls.
All at once, it deconstructs into a chaotic mess
of white debris.
I, who thought that she could match the ocean,
stand hopeless
as the torrent of froth approaches,
as the arms of the sea engulf me,
as they pull me into the sea's mighty breast.

It is in those moments of utter defenselessness
that I understand:
to the ocean, I am neither friend nor foe.
I am merely another body for it to consume–
another life to fuel its power.

Jo

15

Solstice

Paper dresses—burning apricot
splashed with summer light,
illuminating
painted toes in the sand
peeking out from ruffled hems.

Powdery purple stamen
burst forth with faint
fragrance of bergamot—
soaked in anise—or perhaps
peppercorn, crushed.

Prickly leaves—armor
against a gypsy moth, more ravenous
than a laggard,
iridescent eight-legged
ash borer bettle.

Blossoms—tangerine—
a taffeta gown,
basted
to a yeilding
stem.

Will you dance with me tonight?

Sophie

15

"The Dance"
That night was our night.

Outrageous tutus hugging our hips,
songs sprouting from our lips,
we went with unmatchable exuberance,
for this was the night
that all campers await.

The humidity
of that old, chipped-paint lodge
greeted us almost as eagerly
as the boys.
The heat mimicked the limbs of the campers,
enveloping whatever bodies it could find,
until the adolescents in that room
became a singular entity–
a tangle of arms and lips
and sweat.

At some point
in the chaos of that evening,
two
detached from the whole.
Perspiring hands wrapped around a perspiring neck,
exhausted fingers found a decorate waist,
and we were in love.
In those moments,
swaying to the tune of the surrounding pandemonium
that couldn't quite touch us,
we were desperately, undeniably
in love.

When the playlists had been played and the drinks had been drunk,
us girls,
with our curls and our frills and our made-up faces,
boarded the bus,
the iridescent glow of which
seemed to symbolized
the fantastic surrealism of that night.
Silently, we left,
abandoning the lodge and the lake and the thick, warm air
and my passionately ephemerally romance.

Kate

16

"The Day It Got Boring"

We understood time, but not like we do now.

Time used to be the hours killed attempting lemonade stands,

and making each other laugh so hard that we forgot where we were.

Time is not always innocent,

like how we used to be.

Time left us laying in the grass

on the hottest day you can imagine.

Bound by shackles of boredom,

watching the clouds,

the clouds that looked as though even they had better places to be than we did.

This is the day that time revealed itself.

And suddenly lemonade stands seemed childish,

and the jokes that used to destroy us with laughter seemed stupid.

They walked home for the day and time as we knew it walked with them.

How strange it must have felt:

that in the middle of the summer,

something had ended.

Maya

16

False Ad.

dear god make me a bird so I can fly far, far, far away from here! (4x quiet, get louder)

Last one: DEAR GOD MAKE ME A BIRD SO I CAN FLY FAR, FAR FAR AWAY FROM THIS EARTH! And if u do it I promise to reimburse you with my life! Because its something about about this world that just isn't right!

I pledge allegiance to the flag. Of the untied states of America, and to the republic, for which it stands one nation under god, indivisible with liberty and justice for some!

See I call that false advertisement, because as Americans we advertise liberty and justice for all! All except the gay boys and gay girl that hide in the corners because we all know no one wants to be friends with fag or the dike! But why not?!

Don't they walk like we do? Don't they talk like we do? But the most important thing is DONT they love just like we do? So why as Americans why do we feel we have a say in who can love who? Why can't he love him and she love her just like I love you, you, and you?!

And we can put the bible in there too. Man shall not lay with man and woman shall not lay with woman and we can point our judgmental fingers, and we believe in the scripture that has nothing to do with us! and then we look down and see three fingers are pointed back at us, and we think do we believe in the scriptures that say you are fearfully and wonderfully made, and you can do all things through Christ that strengthens you? NO! Because if we did we would have accomplished everything that the little voices in our heads said we couldn't, and whether your 100 pounds over weight, or 50 pounds under girls and boys would know they are still beautiful in Gods eyes! But yet we despise the homosexuals who are looking for acceptance!

i think, this whole situation is false advertisement for teens like me! Because where are all the political arguments about fourteen year old girls having body amounts twice they're age?! And where are the political arguments about boys thinking they can't go anywhere without their phone, money, weed, a gun, and some condoms?! this false advertisement is making them think everything I do is okay, just as long as I'm not gay.

And that makes homosexuals feel like there's something wrong. And it's a shame that people rather die than be who they are. Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far,far,far away from here. (Puts gun to my head,) boom.

Maya

16

No Child Left behind..

They say theres no child left behind but they left us behind the closed doors of our sins by our selves locked the door and said our freedom depends on what we did, we couldn’t bid to live. I hope Martin doesn’t see that we completely ruined his vision! And the village it took to raise children went through division. We lost sight of our mission, and now this generation is being raised by each other and music.

Because y’all left us behind. Gave up hope at the drop of a dime! and never even looked back to see if we were fine! But then say theres no child left behind! No child left behind. i guess that was for a certain amount of time, and once you noticed that we make mistakes too, our time expired. I guess that goes for everyone except for the girls that as soon as she got pregnant with her very first child her mom kicked her out! And the boys that started doing drugs to fill the void that was left when life’s cookie cutter cut the shape of his dad out! No child left behind! No child left behind! We were all left behind the cages of our minds because we weren’t taught often enough that a flaws are just fine! And that this thing called perfection we won’t ever be able to accomplish! They left us behind So our lights wouldn’t shine in dark cold alley ways called life!

No child left behind?! No child left behind?! Im sure the best the CSI couldn’t even find all the children that have been left behind! in the constraint of our imagination, we have been taught to be complacent in the distortion of our generation! No child left behind?! No child left behind?!

We never learned that the medicine to fix the world could be our voices, instead we were always told to stay in our place and to us that was equivalent to being voiceless. Nobody ever heard our Humble cries to the skies. Instead they left us alone in our dark closets to think about why nothing has been accomplished! Maybe that's because our opinions have been demolished!

And maybe why the reason All of these children are SLOWLY, SLOWY, DYING. Because y'all left us behind.

Kalinda

16

Having survived the plight of seasons time and time again,
The rooted goliaths have only now adapted to summer’s capriciousness

The first rebirth of green doesn’t bother father Time
As the summer supplants the mellow times.
The gentle winds persist
And petals flourish,
But the air grows sultry,
Heavy in laboring lungs

The leaves writhe and gray
Yet skyward, salvation lies
Blue coalesced to black
Streams contorted to gust
Hope turned to mortification

Droplets pelt and pelt and pelt and pelt
Limbs thrash to and fro and to and fro

The nebulous dark shattered by ignited strikes
Ravage and Havoc shrouded from sight
Such is summer’s spite!

However, the winds subside
And gusts unfurl
And drops abate
As the day unwinds

With the relief of darkening gloom hidden from the sunlight’s sight
The rain washes away its doing for the next day’s sight

And so goes
Summer’s perpetual state

Aletheia

17

Poem for the Male Fig Wasp

Sugar is all that the wingless
male fig wasp will know. Clustered
into a helpless crescendo of supplication,
his waxen universe swarms with flowing life,
the dense heartbeat of this purple bell.
His sisters’ bright bodies sing of honey,
spinning in their unvarying patterns of sweetness.
What a pity, they murmur in their rites.
How can he explain a life
so dark and lovely?
His head bends in surrender to season,
feeding the ripe rush of summer
as fertile as any myth.
He drills an opening
in the tender fruit for his sisters.
They scatter and multiply, raising raucous hymns
in praise of what they seek.
Amid the drone of new generations,
he crumbles in the sun.

Julie

15

Summer Unsung

She means for summer to remain unsung___
The corrugated angles of soft blown dreams,___
Fading into a rheumy-eyed forever.___

Summer is a poem with verses-___
A terminal case,___
The finite state swirling into infinity.___

She means for summer to never have come,___
It’s too punctual,___
And too quick-___
Poison laced, like the wire guillotine___
that severed so many bodies from their sanity.___
It is the gentle movements of a puppeteer,___
Until his pay is due,__
And stimulus unkept.__

Summer is a promise forgotten-___
Blackberry stained memories washing away in the wind,___
Child of Proteus, rising-__
Then falling-___
With her ideas dissipating into the abyss of some sea.___

She means for summer to burn bright,___
Hotter and hotter,___
With the frequency like that of infra red light-___
But quick to come-___
means quick to leave...___
Summer is dead to her,___
like all the people swimming in her dreams.___

Summer is lazy like an old dog,___
The mutt lying supine on scratchy pavement squares,___
Saliva dripping from sulfurous teeth that rot like candy-___
Tangerine suns setting into neverland.___

She means for summer to last,___
But it is the Venetian gondola floating into bittersweet blue waters,___
Taste of cantaloupe, dripping down her cotton shirt...___
Not even she can keep pretending.___

Summer is eternal nothingness,___
The journeys no Homer cares to immortalize,___
The poems unread,___
Tunes unsung,___
A nostalgia that isn’t meant to be,___
And a luxury she is terrified of losing.___