Ellen

17

Stories

Our lives are defined
by summers—chapters
while everything else is
cramped in the margins

Our silhouettes are steady metronomes
we spin dirt in the humidity—together
under our weight, taunt the rope groans
the whole baseball field stretched below

Our feet splash beats against concrete
racing after ice cream trucks, satisfied
hair wet and swinging
leaving marks of damp chloride

Our friendship bracelets tied
fingers nimble and fast
coral, amethyst, chartreuse
sure that novels always last

Ellen

17

Debut Lines

Glorious July dresses and undresses herself
in Pennsylvania buttercups and Ohio lilies.
Industrious drones flutter, fly, flit
fixating hexagonal strategies.
Butterfly wings flex to break through
cocoons of transformation, whirling
as to embellish my summer.

Radiance melting like new jam off a jar
slowly, quietly, unwittingly
sweeping over my sweet sixteen,
transient touch of love mixed with
pinches of adolescent impetuous
and a heaping helping of laughter.

My memories entangling, growing
only upwards like a emerald vine
foliating from my heart, carrying
journals nestled in secrets,
forms in future endeavors.

Setting out for Summer is the stage
for the vogue ahead.

Natalie

16

August, August

I wonder what the children below the equator
would say to the those above
about the month of August.
Perhaps they would sneer
at the northerner’s sprinkler systems
and popsicle sticks
and laugh at their cotton clothes
and open toed espadrilles.

Because where they were sitting,
rain was solidified atop cement
and swingsets were left
for the wind to play with.

The southern children bow their heads
to an August who appears
so august on his throne,
cushioned by mink fur
and the leather from yesterday’s killing.
He feasts on the metallic tang of opulence.

This is the August whose dominion
wrinkles like dried apricots
and glimmers like plywood.
Bees do not suckle or pollinate
in this feverish land.

Instead, they venture
to the hydrangeas
above the equator
where August morphs into
“happiness happens” month;
where plums are stewed in milk
and limbs are exposed to dry.

August is still august,
wearing his pastel-colored crown,
dancing to the saxophone
and drinking in the delights
of hazelnut macarons
and triangular-shaped sandwiches.

I dance too,
beneath the silver dollar sun,
laughing with my bare skin
and crying for the children in the South.
But they’ll dance too in their February.

Jesse

15

Bus Into Town

The summer’s well into its corporate years
and I do the same thing every day.
Today I sat on the morning bus into town
and watched as an old man with a suitcase tugged
and finally, struggling,
pulled his worn heart onto the bus
and took his seat, reserved.
I watched him stuff his composition books,
buckling yarn and decorous coffee-bean paint,
deeper into the front pocket.
I told him that I’m like him,
and that I’d love for my notebooks
to be army vets too.
Turns out he didn’t speak a word of English,
and I not a word of his poetic cipher.
But he seemed to understand
the blank page in my right hand
and he showed me the first page
of the notebook deepest in his suitcase’s front pocket.
“08/07/1964,” he pointed out in the upper right.
He smiled in the way of a never-absent father,
puffing out a bit of air, a sensor of levity,
I understood.
I began to laugh, and he patted me on the shoulder.
I took my seat again, and gave him a nod as I exited
into town.

Rachel

14

“Summer,” they say.__ Blasting music, shrill, assailing laughs,__Clothes that barely cover tanned top halves.__Sweat, dust, heated breath and hands,__Throwing up a glow stick and not caring where it lands.__Quick, hot kisses, planted on the cheek,__Loud commotion drowning out the gurgling, peaceful creek.__Roaring crowds, garishly orange skin,__extra time spent letting all the sunlight in.___Sneaking out windows, giddy, mindless screams,___Scattering from a wailing car’s searching head beams.___Loose pandemonium, throbbing, raging fires___Smoke, stars, blinding lights, wasted drinking minors.___
“Summer,” they say.___ ___“Summer,” they say.___Sitting on a cool rock beneath looming shade,___The tickling sensation of an emerald grass blade___Skin that prickles in the air conditioning___
Sometimes it’s nice when nobody’s listening.___Afternoons spent in overflowing solidarity___Except for the company of a dog’s effortless hilarity.___Old book, new flick,___Letting a new friend take their pick.___Musty paper, pencil in sore hand,___Big trees, sturdy knees, sun-kissed land,___Soul-deep music playing in the backseat___Tongue tingling after sharing icy treat.___Natural smile, warm, pecan-colored skin___Dust laden ideas can finally begin.___Bodies of people in bodies of water___Souls are lighter when the weather gets hotter.___Velvety skies, intimate vows___Joke, stars, twinkling lights, mind in the now.___“Summer,” they say.___ ___“Summer,” I say___Examining the differing views___And relishing in the fact___I finally have the freedom to choose.

Samantha

15

Summer Time

In summer time is different
Like trickling sands in an hourglass,
Or waiting for water to boil so you can cook your pasta,
When you don’t pay attention everything happens at once
Your time is gone, the water’s boiling over.
The sun stares me down as
I leave the sanctity of my home
Burning my eyes out of my sockets and turning my skin the color of
The blood that runs through me with its intense glare
And so I retreat meekly to my bedroom; I’ve always preferred the indoors Anyway.
But there are exceptions
I love nighttime, the moon and her bashful beauty,
The only illuminating lights coming from headlights
Of cars trying to find their way home
And the stores that demand the contents of your soul and your wallet, Enticing you with the droning buzz of fluorescent lights and the promise of New belongings you can call your own.
I love looking at houses when I pass them, because on the outside they look Simple and common.
When you enter, you’ll discover everything has a story.
The dining room rug everyone hates,
The beloved mug, cracked and weary as my sanity
Beds imprinted with the eternal crevice of a warm body that curls there Every night
Pillows yellowed with tears of adolescent confusion
Summer gives us freedom
Summer gives us life
But the days steadily get shorter and soon the dry, bitter bite of Winter will Clamp onto my face and ears
Punishing me with howling winds and endless nights,
Simply because I’m in love with another season that’s too warm and too
Brief.
And so I must love Summer
Before she’s dead again.

Jo

15

Summer of Goodbye

Crickets joined in chorus,
the chorus of good-bye,
the chorus of sorrow,
the chorus of why.

Dappled gelding hoof beats,
creaking caisson wheels,
followed by gentle clacking
of mourners’ heels.

Snare drum gave his signal,
bugle wept his song,
the twenty-one gun salute cracked
a tiding into clear blue open sky.

Historic ballad interrupted—modern jets arced skyward-
screeching giant turbines,
flashing silver metallic tails stretched long.

A prayer recited in unison,
final words—sung together—
a tribute for one;
a love song shared—
breathing quiet breaths
on wind tossed grass.

Alice

17

some days
the children race, holding
vibrant cherry popsicles
cold sweetness dripping down their fingers
into sticky puddles on the sidewalk

other days
the heat chokes the earth in a
fire blanket

nobody outside except
the old lady who
sits on the porch all afternoon
a bundle of tattered quilts and wrinkled lines somebody
stuck to a rocking chair,
a squeaky metronome marking the slow rhythm of
each second

the old lady who
squints impatiently at the passing driver as he spurs on
his fiery steeds,
their manes slick with sweat
their hooves stirring up dust clouds on sky blue roads
their backs burdened by a chariot always heavier

in summer

Katherine

14

I am the kiss of butter on their sunburnt skin, taming a cool layer of invincibility on their flayed mosquito bites. I carry the heartbeat of the grounds, the beat that they match their cult-like incantations to, the grasper, the possessor, and when the drums give way to silence, I mix the lonely, collapsing footsteps into one another, a rich, collapsing melody. I am the fade, the warmth that huddles against the smalls of their backs. I am the dancing silhouettes that ripple on the steaming asphalt. I am a collapsing collapse, the sculpture of five collapsing sailboats haphazardly stacked, the steeple that stabs at the milky firmament. I stain the four brick steps and winding brick road with collapsing silence, the sort of silence that drinks dewdrops off bending grass. I am the collapsed, sweat-slicked shirt of the painter, the collapsing greens and polar bear blues. I collide with the ringed circle of trimmed hedges, the sandals greasy with twilight’s tears, the collapsing angle of the grounds, the gentle, moaning resurgence of the beats. I am the reason why the hair in the shadows whispers like collapsing sheaths of wheat, why the banners that sprinkle the hill’s crest are transfigured from paper to endless flight. I am the rectangular plane of grass, and I envelope myself with pines and oaks and the drumming of their hearts. I am the blankets of the trees, the unleashed, collapsing sun. I melt the trickle of bird song into bird song that deceives. I caress the sturdy pine with young sprouting from a collapsed branch, for I am the reason why life yields to life. I embrace the pocket flies to hum from the collapsing shadows to the pavement to the pebbles, and I collapse on the colorless pond, alive only from the blurred pastels of reality that quiver with the water’s every breath. I am the reflection and the polarized world within, the mountain warped into a giant’s broccoli stems. I blow the clusters of fallen leaves to scrape the pond’s surface; they are my ice skaters, drifting and broken and collapsing and still. I am the ferns that tease underfoot, the miniature dock that lies offshore, collapsed, un-remembered. I stake the birdhouse a few feet from the water’s edge, because I am the unknown depths, the known depths, I am it all. I am allure, the color of emptiness that breaches the world within, the forbidden September petals. I long for the sun I cannot see, the intersection of Boathouse Road and Hope Street, the chain of blurred archways un-collapsed by time, and I inhale the dusty sunlight that leaks from the mirror above, the tree with only five limbs that collapses, reaching.

Moya

15

Thoughts from a drive back

I met them again this summer
Family, but not those I love and deal with most days
Those I love most days
But only deal with some.

There was lots of driving,
Separating the moments when I actually saw them.

But when I did see them I checked to see
How they had changed,
Had to reference who they were
Not last time, but that first time
I remembered them on the drive back.
These last times brought up last times
Before times I was even there
To not really remember
When they, in distant past times
Were people who hadn’t changed into the people I do remember
And to who I was a something that wasn’t yet a thought
Though, looking back, I wasn’t coming too long after.
Reminded me of the person I was
Not last time, but the first time any of them remember me.
Unlike those stories about a past me I can barely relate to,
The me that knew them
In the last times I remember.

Like the me of now, who I’ll remember when now is a last time
On a next time drive back

Alexander

16

Summer Love

__I fell hard for you, you my poison,
You, my Roman lead cased cask of wine,
Thinking of you and everything we've said,
I am tumbling, falling, tripping, after you!
I want to call you my sweetheart,
I want to call you my girlfriend,
Even if you are poison!
I still will love you for you.
Even if I was just the stupid princess to fall for that shiny apple,
I would gladly,
Eat it,
And devour it,
Then drink it all down with a bucket of toxic sludge,
Because for you I feel perfect,
Maybe it's just because I'm in love with you maybe it's not,
I certainly don’t know for you are my great enigma!
And I love you.

Isabella

15

Crash,
I make waves as I first enter
the water chills my skin
but I have no time to react
Their words and commands are received
I start to slice through the water

Its only been a few minutes,a few laps, a few strokes
My stomach churns
My breathing is harsh
My legs burning, aching for relief
But thinking about the pain isn't acceptable
But I do it anyway
I touch the wall
I've given up
Everyone keeps going
cutting the water with graceful strokes
But I stay behind on the wall
I feel another type of water threatening to trickle down my face
But I blink them away quickly
I breath, and I close my eyes
And then I start again

Emma

18

We were five and it was hot
I had watermelon juice dribbling down my chin
And your hands were sticky from melted ice cream
But we chased each other 'til the sky was orange
And tainted by the smoke from the grill
The burgers were as big as our faces
I ate the whole thing
And threw up behind your shed
You said the dog did it
You didn't have a dog

We were nine and too cool for sunscreen
You tanned, I was a cherry for a week
And both of our mothers were mad
I got freckles that summer and I hated them
Until you said they reminded you of stars
I grinned until my face hurt and then some
We made a promise to be friends forever
Then we rolled down the hill at my house
Until our clothes were stained, our faces dirty
And our mothers were mad again

We were fourteen, you liked Sara Smith
And I realized I loved you
We watched fireworks from the hammock in your backyard
And when the fireworks were gone
We traced fireflies with our fingers like they were constellations
Until our hands bumped together
You held my hand for a minute
Before I laughed and punched you in the shoulder
I called you a sap, and the next day
You took Sara to the county fair

We were sixteen and it was the worst summer ever
Your mom died and I lost my best friend
'Cause you were different when you finally talked to me again
You didn't smile much anymore and you stopped coming over
So I watched fireworks alone and ate watermelon alone
But I always saved a space for you
Just in case you changed your mind
You didn't
You tried not to cry at your mom's funeral
I tried not to cry when you sat next to someone else on the first day of school

We were nineteen and your hair was too long
You started smoking and drinking
I shouldn't have been surprised
But my jaw dropped when I saw you behind the dumpsters
Buying pills from Billy Mars
My mom kept asking where you'd been
For the past three years
I said you were busy
I guess that was partially true
You were too busy for me

We're twenty-two and you finally called
So I flew across the country to your rehab center
And they're serving hamburgers for lunch
It's the fourth of July and there will be fireworks
And you ask if I can stay so we can watch them together
You don't expect me to say yes, you don't expect me to forgive you
Because you don't quite forgive yourself
But I do, so I stay with you until they kick me out
I promise I'll come back tomorrow, if you want
You nod and smile for the first time in years

Emma

15

When I think of summer,
I think of him.

The fresh prickly grass like his rough leg against mine
The sun's warmth feels exactly like his embrace
The rose petals remind me of his soft lips,
The popsicles of his red-stained cheeks.

The japanese beetles are the same color as his eyes
The breeze is the breath from his lips
The fire is like his eager spirit,
The kids squealing represent his enthusiasm.

When I think of summer,
I have to remember him.

The swinging swings like him swaying to music
The rustle of the trees is him shifting in the bed
The crack of a baseball bat is him flipping pancakes
The red strawberries are his favorite color.

When I think of summer,
I want to forget him.

The blue skies like his favorite suit
The melting ice cream like tears dripping from my eyes
All the flowers remind me of our final goodbye,
And the lilies of his grave.

When I think of summer,
I think of him.

Isabel

16

Summer Break is a Swim in the Pool

Warm pool water is
imported silk slipping
across my palm, between my
fingers, escaping,
breathlessly refined;
Or gentle linen,
pale against my brown-sugar skin,
cleaving to my frame
in hot midsummer winds
which blow away accountability.
The blueish water is no different
than the bed sheet which molds itself
to my weary muscles, welcoming,
as I crawl
through post-midnight darkness
into the embrace of my mattress,
after whittling hours away with a blade of nothing.
Warm water beckons me
like the amateur scientist’s familiar lab coat,
the only thing keeping him from making his living:
A place that seems infinitely comfortable.
Children splashing freckle my face
with little droplets: an evening veil,
a dinner party with one host who is also the guest.
I make small-talk with myself,
basking blissfully in the unimportance.
I play dress-up in a million ensembles,
hours on end,
as warm pool water rests weightless around me,
buoying up and away the responsibilities
which accompany deep thinking.
I submerge myself,
enjoying my game for too long.
Warm pool water easily drowns me.

Emma

15

Summer

The word to describe it would have to be
Loud.
The yells of children screaming
The swirls of ice cream creaming
The crackling fire beaming
Summer.

I'll give you another word:
Peaceful.
A girl sunbathing on the sand
Camping out in forest land
Troops of ants in a marching band
Summer.

The adjective I'm looking for must be
Delicious.
A shish-kabob on a wire
The sweet fruit calling my desire
A sticky s'more by the fire
Summer.

It is most-definitely
Busy.
Running kids to sports and back
Humming tunes to a fast-paced track
Receiving chores of which to lack
Summer.

It would have to be
Loving.
A mother kissing a skinned knee
The buzzing of two bumblebees
A romantic walk by the sea
Summer.

The last word I'd like to mention is
Beautiful.
A smiling sun who wishes to stay
An orange sunset drifting away
There it goes, to my dismay...
Summer.

Jess

16

Him.
She liked poetry
Because it helped define everything.

Like why she pictured him
Painting outer space,
The stars, the sun,
The moon, and the dark black holes.

And she thought that he,
With his contagious laughter,
Had mapped out the sea,
To pick her out of it,
Like a dandelion,
One, out of all of the field.

And all of town square,
Even the lucent city lights,
Couldn't compare to his eyes.

Or the way he wished,
That some things would never change.

She knew, however, that carefully
He drew the creases in her smile,
In hopes that somehow,
She was able to love him.

But she thought the world of him,
Because somehow he
Painted the stars in the sky.

Riya

16

I’ve tried to write about summer,
About the green blades tickling my vulnerable toes
The sun’s radiant source of warmth and light -
Always at a high tide time during the day.
About the sweet smell of crisp green leaves and flowers of colors that shall never grow ancient.
And the cricket’s drums mixed with the melodies of late night birds and lanterns that fireflies bring.
About the clear rainfall of stars from above
And the emotions the night sky brings to light up a peaceful mind.
About the warm winds rocking me to sleep,
And the push I have to give to keep my eyes awake one second longer to absorb everything.

I’ve tried to write about summer
About the way my smile stretches for miles where I continue to walk on
To reach the end.
About the stories by a blazing fire that unravel secrets from the past.
About the sweet pitter patter of droplets falling from paradise
About the twinkling of the stars as they circle around me, inviting me home
About the dusty old smell that arises from books
Where adventures play out
With lions that can fly and oceans that can sing.

I’ve tried to write about the summer
Because it’s mystical,
Loving and bright,
I’ve tried so many times
And yet I can’t convert such a strength of blinding beauty
To simple
Black and white
Words.

Gracie

17

It's the way my uncles eyes fall into place__
But land nowhere near here. __
Tiny hands and innocent skin, __
We grew up to the rocking of summer, its sweet thick night air__and dry light that bleached us.__
There was a spirit that we could hold in our newly creased palms__
That answered only in yes's or no's __
To too big questions. __
We were tigers sauntering and sliding through __overgrown grass, heat, and basement mold. __
Melting into our skin,__
Storm clouds translated the sky to our parents.__
Swooning in scarves and magic, __
We wandered and fell into place,__
Nowhere near here. __

Sarah

17

Here Comes the Sun
After “Here Comes the Sun” by The Beatles

Dear Little Darling,

Don’t look above your head
and only see the grey clouds,
like overused pillows depleted of their feathers.

Don’t feel the splatters of wet drops on your fingertips
and only measure them
by your soaked, frail hair.

Try not to let the cool winds
get to your bones.
Try not to shiver.

Little Darling,
I know you are already chilled
by this water and this air.
I know you are cold because I feel the ice on your skin.
I know you are exhausted because I can see those black circles
under your lost gaze.

But just understand that this long, cold, lonely winter
has seen its end.
You don’t need to be numb anymore
because the ice is melting
and I can see that yellow streaming.
Little Darling, I can feel the heat.