Philip

Almost forever

Since the first day the sun came up
And we rose while it was
A fire was lit

A fire that seemed eternal
Hotter and brighter than any of us remember
Reflecting its majesty in our wide eyes

But soon our feet wander
And our eyes wander farther
No longer filled with wonder

Boredom wins out and fills the time
Until the fire is stomped out suddenly
And it burns hotter and brighter in our memory
Than it ever really was

Valerie

13

The Speculations of a French Teacher

He caresses a non-existent beard,
His black eyebrows poignant against the canvas
Of a bald head.

The girl pauses, Cheez-It frozen in mid-air,
Salt collecting microscopically on her lips.

With gesticulating motions, he tries to force knowledge
Where it is unwanted -
In one ear and out the other.
So she writes to numb the
Ebb and flow
Rise and fall
Push and pull
Of his thick French accent.

He flips manically through monstrous textbooks
Books filled with pictures of croissants
And horizontal stripes
And mimes
And all the other things that characterize France in its entity.

He searches and continues and goes on
IS THERE EVEN INTERNET IN FRANCE, MONSIEUR?!
Nonetheless, those who seek do not always find.
He learned that early on.

If only they would like him more,
Appreciate him more,
Respect him more,
STOP EATING IN MY CLASS YOU BUFFOONS!
He wants but their admiration, not the ceaseless argumentation
Of Cheeto-stained lips.

Pools of perspiration rendezvous at the precipice of his new bowtie,
A courtesy of mother, dear.
But he searches on, smacking aside the white flag,
Only to hear a gum-slapping,
“Why don’t cha just Google it?”

If he can't teach you much
He can teach you one thing:
None of you hoodlums more gladly await
The dawning of summer
Than he.

Flannery

15

those montages that they play, in movies.
set to the background of edward sharpe and the magnetic zeros or some other indie band that sings about living in the now.
silhouettes of girls with long,straight hair.
the narrator talking about the smell of the salty air and the sun, and their feet in the hot, gritty sand.

this was supposed to be the Best Summer Ever.
i kissed a girl this summer.
i dropped a charred, still flaming marshmallow onto my bare thigh in the cool air, and I now have an enticing constellation where my skin melted.
there was a girl with curly brown hair. she was kinder than ever to me this summer.
i walked two blocks at midnight on the fourth of july, and a middle aged man harassed my friend and pushed her into the street. he walked away with a possessive, self assured smirk because no one had ever told him that he couldn't.
but he didn't know that he smelled like shame.
i ruined my first real relationship with a boy with brown hair and a crooked smile. i cared about him. i couldn't be with him.
he treated me like my father treats me.
i left rehab this summer, and my friends will kill themselves.
we ruin kids.
i plan to smoke marijuana in a few days.
i almost fit in with a group of friends this summer. They forget about me.
i hate my family. so much.

This was supposed to be the Best Summer Ever.
Fuck.

Rachel

16

if demeter made summer to be joyful
then why is it so miserably hot:

why must i struggle to appreciate drops
of perspiration that freckle my forehead,

and fail to comprehend
the joys of an infinitely warming sun?

demeter, the harvester of the heat,
who searched for her daughter
and forgot the necessities of man,
who created the unfruitful
seasons of the earth.

in new england, hot air
occupied by moisture
hangs loudly above our heads,
explodes into multicolored
thunderstorms,
withers in puddles
along the cavernous streets.

my friends slice the sky open
with their palms;

a watermelon with too many seeds
leaves pinkish polka-dot pools on the table
and we threaten to make trees of the remains.

but at summer camp, i fight the heat
with a thousand rumbling fans
like lions in the ring. i approach summer
with evenings of words, mosquitos,
and well-painted yellow sunsets
all floating in the air at once.

demeter, whose daughter’s actions
limited the length of summer beauty,
whose fields of wheat fed generations:
might i escape from my own endeavors,
or will they scar the earth with arid heat
and chapped, rough land?

when i think about going home,
my forehead burns with fever—
the temperature of my blood
indicates an eternal summer within me—

persephone, whose abduction changed
foreign, ancient landscapes,
a youth trapped by stone gates,
a girl of six pomegranate seeds.

by the time i see my mother’s car
approach the curb
eager to collect the teal suitcase and me,
i have found six pomegranate seeds
of my own, and i devour them.

if only half of the year
could be spent in this sanctuary,
this protected paradise.

Navya

17

Moving

We tore down the tree house walls,
rotting panels and musty curtains,
cast old treasures into the mud below.
We scrambled down smooth-worn steps that sank
beneath our weight:
slowly, suspiciously, as though we were strangers.
The backs of our necks were slick with sweat
under summer’s drowsy heat,
the afternoon languor profane somehow
in our holy demolition.
But we sacrificed ceremony, worked
on into the evening,
crickets chirping its smooth arrival.
We abandoned the carcass to morning,
broken and collapsed on the wet grass.
Later, I found you kicking
at the skeleton of our fort.
You saw me and you looked down, hard.
“Don’t act like this is sacred,” you said. “And when we leave,
Don’t look back.”

Olivia

18

She is a hum in my mind. Anastasia
_________Anastasia
_______________Anastasia
____________________nestling somewhere between love and shattering.

One evening, I asked her: what are we doing?
It was raining. Heat hung heavy.
Things were blurring

Together, naked, fragile.
Eyes closed, four AM,
I asked again and she answered

With lips and fingers
Running, sliding, turning
Away from me to the edge

Of the bed, down the street
Into the blurry end
Just beyond my vision.

Navya

17

She tells me, watch this horror movie.
You'll feel unreal. I already feel unreal, disconnected.
Everything should be clear and bright. I'd paint straight out of the tube if I could.
So close to the colors.
So close to everything like
lying on the ground with my ear against the earth just soaking it all in--
but it's too distant, indistinct.
It's
the summer heat, pulling,
stretching everything apart into waiting.
Longing.
Hanging on the end of a word.
Trying to find
_____________ the edge.

Natavia

17

Summer

The way that you make me feel
is indescribable
The beauty that you bring with you
is undeniable
The bright yellow sun and its warmth
is uncontainable
The burst of colors everywhere
is uncontrollable
The green grass and tall green trees
is unexplainable
The beautiful dancing flowers
is unmistakable
And all the other great things that
you bring
no other season can bring
Because Summer you are incredible

Elinore

18

"Not Now" [pantoum]

Not now, my dear. Don't say goodbye.
So summer's here; short-lived, the nights
Pretend that they will never die,
But each the last's epitaph writes.

So summer's here; short-lived, the nights
Fly towards the morning when you go.
But each the last's epitaph writes
And I shall too, for I follow.

Fly towards the morning when you go
Out somewhere in the atmosphere,
And I shall too, for I follow
With heart, but lost, must remain here.

Out somewhere in the atmosphere
Our moments slip away, but we
With heart, but lost, must remain here.
My blood aerobic quotes my plea…

Our moments slip away, but we
Pretend that they will never die;
My blood aerobic quotes my plea:
Not now, my dear. Don't say goodbye.

Elinore

18

"How Horrid Is A Rose"

How horrid is a summer rose,
How hideous the bud!
How wretched is his curvéd pose,
His petals red as blood!

He'll blaze in sun but never burn.
He'll suck the life from soil.
His image makes my stomach churn;
Oh, from him I recoil!

How villainous the flower is,
Each year to be reborn!
Great the audacity of his
To blossom, ripe with scorn!

His petals peel like broken skin.
His odor spoils the air.
Yet haughtily he lifts his chin
And thinks his beauty fair!

Though some admire this confidence
And flock to him in droves,
His loveliness is but pretense.
How horrid is a rose!

Elinore

18

“An Opening Revised into a Closing”

It's not the sound of thunder,
Booming far and farther still-
Nor the air of nighttime
And sweet summer's rarest chill-
Nor dancing of the grass stems
As wind sings through them, shrill.

There is no sense of emptiness
Or insignificance of being;
There's simply what's before you:
All the fireflies you're seeing
And the very distant lightening,
Like the thunder, farther fleeing.

The lightening strikes like fire,
Each firefly a spark;
The night lights up like noon sun
In the zenith of its arc.
The simplicity and amazement-
Though fleeting- leave their mark.

It's not the sound of thunder,
Nor lightening by night blessed-
Yet something from the setting
Wells and fills within your chest.
The dry storm passes onward,
And then comes peace, and rest.

Tae

15

Summer
He comes back every year
My warmth, my love, my hope, my dear
He brings me joy, he brings the Sun
And will do so 'till our days are done
So when the snow falls down so fine
Remember dearest love of mine
We must split ways, we must depart
But your tender warmth won't leave my heart
Now when those days of cold make way
He'll bring me back his light one day

Tracy

17

"Closed Doors"

A soft layer of white blankets the world, yet
Acts as a pillow to let the great Earth rest its head,
Tired after creation. The land misses the green,
but makes do with the sheet of reflected blue.
Trees reach up to the sky, their arms long
And skinny, famished from the cold, stripped.
We shut the cold out yet relish in the snow,
Build companions from the ground, magic.
Come May, when the buds are sure to sprout,
The flowers bloom, the insects awaken, water
In its most fluid form kissing the earth once more,
We will be itching to shut out the warmth,
Closing the door to the life outside
In favor of a cool drink and air conditioning.

Tracy

17

"To Sun"

O brazen brother of the eternal ceiling
Sight of fire unleashed, reach unlimited.
O liquid life residing in worlds unknown,
Thy face a reflection of those who see thou.
O verdant Earth with thy vivacious sounds,
So dearly missed by the mortals above thou.
Dearest Sun! If thou hearest my cry,
Put me out of my misery and show thyself
In all thy shining glory, thy solicited warmth.
Thou are the brightest source of life,
Thou are the center of the soul, the spirit
Thou are the reason to continue turning, living.

Tracy

17

"Vivaldi's Overture"

We celebrate your homecoming, old friend
By putting away layers of clothing
That we say goodbye to gladly,
Stashing away rain-boots as well.

Gone are the days spent inside,
Waiting for you to come back,
Watching the rain wash the earth,
Pattering on the window like a procession.

The wind forgoes a farewell,
Packing its bags, with no warning,
Like a love you’ve reconciled with
Who realizes it was a mistake.

The flowers are happy to see you,
Turning their heads to you, almost singing.
Their vibrant songs resonate
With every fiber of my existence.

The world is golden when you are here,
Radiant and warm and lovely,
And the night hides behind a veil,
Cowering in your brilliance.

Of course, with your presence comes a price--
Your imminent departure.
But we will welcome you anyways,
With open arms and bare skin.

We say:
You are home.

Tristan

16

Warring war,
War on ourselves,
Destroyed from the inside out,
Our lifeblood drained,
And nothing but a withered husk remains,
The shell of who we used to be, calling out who we are,
Never united under a common title,
One that bound us to one another like an oath,
Nothing that would shelter us, like a coat under the rains of death,
Would not be worn by humanity until now,
O’ warring war,
War on you,
Ripping and tearing us apart,
War we will fight,
With dignity standing tall,
Until night has come,
And still, we shall not fall.

The world to which you have come
Much more defiant that you thought
Stronger than that of even the mightiest emperor's armies
Containing power beyond measure when united as one
We may war
And we may die
But we are all humans
And under that label a force to be reckoned with
Destruction reigning, ruling the earth
Masses stricken, laid dead to rest
Gives us a rallying cry for a martyr
Far louder than that of one of the explosions unleashed upon us
Like the many we have seen
But when the last body has hit the dirt
No farewell will be said. No final goodbyes given, and we die proudly
Because in death, we will be victorious
And in life you have lost
For our spirits still fight on
Till the dust has settled and the sun has set on the ashes piled high
It may seem silent, but our cries, our shots, and our war echoes throughout time
Undying in its entirety, and reverberating in the mind of you.

Katherine

16

She was the sun, silver
and white-hot, burning.
Summer kisses on
white and red checkered
arms, steaming asphalt.
Salty waters and salty tears,
an ocean of orbital pull.
Her touch was everything
and nothing; it spoke of
oblivion, tar and sulfur,
and always, always,
brightness—like the sun.

Kara

15

The Man of Summer

The man lives in a tiny cottage.
An old cottage, it was,
Surrounded by rotten wood,
That was always desperately clinging to each other,
With only a few rusty nails.

The Man of Summer never minds.
For he lives in a wonderful place,
A wonderful place he only sees.

As The Man of Summer walks down the occupied streets,
He notices the frowns on many faces,
And how they walk around the town like mindless zombies,
Off to do work over and over again.
Off to continue their linear lives,
Without wonder and curiosity and happiness.

The man has a radiant aura,
Full of wonder and curiosity and happiness.
He wonders why they are never happy around him.
He wonders why they don't appreciate the summer.

The blue skies are always cloudless when he is around,
The flowers always bloom wherever he steps,
The cold scurries away from his body because of his existance.

However,
No one wants to be around him.
Perhaps he needs to learn how to share.
How to share his cloudless skies,
How to share his blooming flowers,
And how to share his beautiful warmth.

As The Man of Summer walks down the occupied streets,
He approaches the people with the frowns on their faces,
The people that act like mindless zombies.
"Everyone, it's summer! Enjoy the summer!"

The crowd simply gazed back at him with bleak eyes,
Devoid of any life.
They stopped walking,
And listened attentively.
"Summer?"
One asked,
Almost as if he never heard the word before.

The Man of Summer smiled,
As he finally grabbed the attention of others.
"It's a time of cloudless skies!"
"A time when flowers bloom!"
"A time when the beautiful warmth comes to stay!"
"A time when people can smile and enjoy their lives!"

Everyone in the crowd smiled at the idea,
But some were left skeptical.
"Is that real?"

The Man of Summer chuckled,
Offering a grand gesture to his surroundings and everyone else's.
"Look around you!"
"What do you see?"
He shared his beautiful vision to everyone around him.
He shared the beautiful skies,
The vibrant flowers,
The caressing warmth.

The Man of Summer shared his beautiful world,
The one only he could see before.
It only occurs for three months,
But for many three is long enough.
People can savor the moment it comes,
And grow anxious for its return.

Many people think it's a dream come true.
Many people call it a miracle.
However, everyone still calls it,
Even to this day,
Summer.

Sophia

15

Summer is like a Snowstorm

Summer is like a snowstorm,
temporarily pulling you away
from reality. While you are sitting
in your chair, hastily doing your
homework, you excitedly check the
weather reports for the
possibility of a heavy snowstorm.
“If only!” you think, sighing
and then squinting back to the
brightly light computer to finish
that tedious homework.
Your fingers feel like your
grandmother’s wobbly knees.
Your drooping eyelids are like
windshield wipers, ready to wipe
yourself from reality. Your
head plunges onto the computer,
while you silently promise
yourself that you will continue in the morning,
only to find out that the wispy snowflakes,
fluttering in the ivory sky
making garbage-sized clumps on
the world, has obeyed your wish.

Summer is the prolonged snowstorm,
making your dreams come true.
It’s the time when you can
kiss snowflakes, that only come
once a year. It’s the time
when you can build that snowman
with the garden-grown carrots and
the obscure buttons that fall from
your clothing. You can wake up in
your hot-pink pjs, covered
with pictures of ponies
and watch your favorite TV show
series all day.

Summer is when you
can relax, like a shower,
except its two-months long.
Summer is like the release
of your nose plugs when you swim,
allowing you to take those
desperate gulps of air.
Only when you put back those
nose plugs, you are pushed by the coach
to swim twenty more abiding laps.
Pushed back into reality,
where you constantly have to worry
about the future.
Summer can only last so long, to suffice
one’s dreams temporarily. Just when
you think it will become reality,
the blatant sun shines its nasty rays,
melting your short-lived “reality,”
forcing you to finish that
tedious homework.

Laurel

18

At the Pool

“Are you watching? Are you ready?”
His grandmother nods in response.
“Okay.” He smiles

His lungs puff up as his
racing heart accelerates.
He plunges into six feet
of pure liquid sky.
His little body, immersed in the
shimmering chlorine blue, escapes
the grasp of the sweltering summer sun.
Bubbles swarm like bees, except instead of stings,
gentle kisses of their buoyant touch
soothe his sunburnt skin.

Finally out of this liquid sky, pops
up his bobbing head,
eagerly awaiting a response from
his grandmother.

“That was wonderful,” she says sincerely.
A phrase repeated a bajillion times but
never got old.

“Again?!”
“Yes, again.”

Out emerges his body with the pitter-patter
of dripping water and the sound of raisin
toes stepping on the sun-soaked concrete.

At the daunting edge
where this sun-soaked concrete
confronts the liquid sky,
his crinkled toes wiggle in anticipation as
he waits for the attention of
his grandmother.

“Are you watching? Are you ready?”
His grandmother nods in response.
“Okay.” He smiles