Elsie

16

A Breathe of Fresh Air
Windows are down
The music is loud
So inviting
You hair is billowing in the wind
Pixar style clouds are out there
All you can do is sing along to the music
Laughing along with friends
Pushing the speed limit
Being rebellious gives you goosebumps
It's indubitably summer
Just a breathe of fresh air

Elsie

16

A Summer's Escape
The buzz of the bees
A happy summer's breeze
Putting me at ease

That overwhelmingly blue sky
Makes me want to fly
All I can do is sigh

The big billowing cloud
Away from all the crowd
Never been so proud

That sun is so bright
And I feel so light
I almost cry at the site

Sitting under a willow tree
Feeling awfully free
Just to let summer be

Cayla

17

I wish I could go back to
when my feet ached from scampering across the unforgiving pavement.
To the water, oh so inviting under the hot sun.
Blazing sunlight burning into your corneas and leaving stars.
To falling in, faith first.
Letting our regrets disintegrate, and welcoming our new found freedom.
Wreaking havoc in the sleepy town we call home.
Running through the moon lit streets screaming: “we are here, we are, hear”
Swimming at midnight, limbs going numb,
and running off with too few clothes on our backs.
Loosing our minds in the music that washes over us.
Swinging side by side, enjoying the company.
Inedible Twizzlers of all colors, devoured as we lounge in the sun’s rays.
Passing around a bottle of whiskey and sucking on lollipops
because we don’t know what age we can claim to be.
Melting ice cream, freezing water.
Photo albums fill with pictures of beach bods and wide smiles.
Becoming accustomed to the way your driveway looks after midnight.
Oiling hinges for silky exits.
Looking up at the stars as he explains the intricacies of the Milky Way.
Kissing under the stars.
Staying up all night, because we cannot bear the thought of saying goodnight.
Talking about pointless things, real things, emotional things, and nothing at all.
We are growing up.
Getting smarter, stronger, braver
Forgetting fears and boundaries and the word “no”.
Only Yes.
Living in the moment. Our moment.
Jumping into the unknown, peaking over the edge to catch a glimpse of the other side.
We are simply searching for something at the edge of our vision.
We are simply,
Saying, Yes.

Catherine

14

five dollars for a ticket and a memory

Children running around with sticky fingers
and odd tan lines from brightly colored tee shirts
make me remember
what it was like to sleep until nine
and eat pancakes with hot syrup for breakfast.
That when you went to the boardwalk
you would always have pocket money
to play darts in the hopes to win
that giant bright pink stuffed monkey
that would wind up in the garbage
a month from then.
Your parents would just laugh when you’d turn around
with the biggest grin
that would remind them why they even had you in the first place.
They love you for you
and for the reason that you smile so brightly.
They love it that you like to splash around in the water
and that you don’t cry when you fall down
like the neighbors’ kid,
and that you just get up and keep going.
And they love that you get excited about the little things,
like getting a new pail and shovel the day before you go to the beach,
or getting a letter addressed to you in the mail.
The kids with sticky fingers are chased into the water
by mothers with frizzy hair and even worse tan lines
to wash up in the salty water,
and all I can do is smile,
because it’s not like they won’t get cotton candy
in their hair
and stuck to their fingers
at Jenkinson’s.
I guess for the older kids,
life’s just easier on the sand.

Elisha

15

The steady rhythmic sound of hooves struck the ground by the thousands. Weapons aimed. Targets chosen as men bolted down into the peaceful meadow that lay beyond.

I as a child once saw this hillside as a magical place. The luscious grass beneath me, echoes of tweets and twitters from the soaring birds above as I dreamt with all the imagination and wonder of a young boy. Not today no bird dared to chirp today.

Explosions, noises, and screams echoed into the vast mountains beyond. An eruption of fire and piercing metal lay just to the right. Bullets flying through the air to the left, yet no one called for a cease fire. Hell raged on right before my bulging eyes. My bleeding ears could make out the impact, clashes of guns and metal all around. Both armies of boys meshed together like dark and light colliding in that beautiful hour after sunset. Red, red was all I could distinguish out of all the chaos that enveloped around us. A metallic scent of hot blood ran down my arms. A force of anguishing power smashed into my chest.

My boys fell left and right. One shot after another. Round after round. Screams after screams. Hot masses of bleeding out soldiers one after another falling to the blood stained hill below. The targets became so blurred I couldn't make out who was on who's side.

Earth, I could feel a mixture of earth and wet grass beneath me now. Falling, I couldn't recall falling.

The soil beneath my aching body was soon the only thing I could feel. My vision became a blur of motion whether human or not I couldn't decipher. Soon the noises distilled into a poisonous silence. No screams or explosions. Just the crickets. Oh the crickets how they symphony together. Harmonizing without trying the crickets began to lull my crumbled mass to sleep. I lay there with my fallen brothers. I lay there for...for what? It was so confusing now. War seemed so important till this very moment. War...war would be my lullaby now, a raging, endless, and merciless war. The thought plagued me as I took my last breath. The last breath taken on that blood stained hill on that summer’s eve. The last breath of life for a hero so young., a hero who was simply another victim of that tattered red flag.

(My poem is set on a summers eve during the setting of the civil war. It commemorates the soldiers of that war and all other wars.)

Iris

15

The Glass of Water and Sand

Clink.
Tendrils of kelp gently tickle my ankles
the way drops of condensation caress the sides
of a glass of refreshing iced tea--
a hint of citrus the bright zing
that complements the rays of sunshine
sparkling across the azure stretch of ocean.
Clink.
The ice crackles softly, the sound nearly drowned out by
the ocean’s repeating chorus of inhalation and exhalation--
“Crack-eline du Pré,” my dad jokingly dubs the quiet symphony.
(It’s a glorious but tragically short-lived occurrence--a fitting name.)
With each subtle crack, the disturbed ice taps delicately against the cup.
Clink.
But the warm sand between my toes is the very same sand
that trickles through the hourglass of summertime.
So now, to this ever-exalted season, I raise my glass for a toast
in the hopes that this time,
this time--
summer will last for just a little bit longer.
Clink.

Terence

16

"One by One"

The rain subsides
the clouds parting into
a blue morning sky

The sun rises
greeting the people
with its warm and heated
conviction

One by one
they turn away
unable to bear

the truth

They withdraw behind
their umbrellas
white petals
glowing in the sunlight

They flee the streets
their cars carefully stowed
in their hideouts
below the ground
huddled together
in grids and boxes

One by one
they draw back
into their houses
locking their doors
shutting the windows

of life

Night descends
the sun sets off
to warm another civilization
far across the sea

The people return
into the streets
out into the darkness

They close
their umbrellas
white petals
fading in the moonlight

One by one
they shamble out
the pale streetlights
shining on the faces

of death

Bailey

18

Believe

If I told you I loved you,
Would you believe me?
I haven't always shown it,
At least not completely.

But there's something in your eyes today,
Something that gives me a reason.
Maybe they're shining a little bit brighter,
Or maybe it's a change in the season.

With you is my favorite holiday,
One that I hope never ends.
Summers spent wrapped in each other,
Wishing life didn't have to begin.

That's my sanctuary,
That's my peace.
With you,
I feel as if I can finally speak.

Ruthie

16

Camp River Ranch
The mist rises from the lake/
I touch the morning water from my canoe/
It’s warm, too warm to bake/
I’ve got a few songs to review/

Two weeks is a long time/
To cry and bond and laugh/
Our lives are prime,/
I’ll say we all learned, on everyone’s behalf/

As we go away from hear,/
We think of each other and wish we were near

Anusha

14

The Constant Battle

Perching on the curb by the street,
A melodious tune
Catches the attention of a little girl.
Racing for the ice-cream truck,
She could already taste
The sweet-and-sour Popsicle on her tongue.
Smiling, her brother joins her
And buys one for himself.
Sweet syrup
Drips down their chins
As they licks the luscious treat.
Cars pass.
The sun goes down.
Time stands still.
The victory was effortless today.

Unnatural blue water
Pierce
The little girl’s shivering skin.
Blinding rays illuminate the waters
She can’t let the enemy win.
The timid little girl knows
To conquer her next adventure,
She must acquire enough courage
To vault into icy waves.
A pair of arms catch her.
The strong, welcoming hands
Of her father
Hug her
As she grins in triumph.

Thrusting her hair into a frenzy,
A sliver of cool breeze rushes through the sky.
A silver bike laced with violet streamers
Races down the hill.
Blinking back tears,
Blinded her for terrifying minute,
A little girl grips the handle bars,
Her heart palpitating,
While her knuckles turn white.

The smooth pavement,
Nothing but a forgotten dream,
Never to be reached.
Tipping sideways,
The handle bars entwine with streamers.
She doesn’t let go.
The girl and her companion fall as one.
She felt a gentle throbbing along her shin.
Gradually intensifying,
The pain turns to blood.
Frightened,
She staggers home,
Abandoning her ally.

Her mother
Cleans her wounds,
Bandaging the gash.
Showing off her battle scars,
The girl stands proud.
Content with driving the enemy out.

Never would she let excitement lose.
Adventure always remained the victor.
The little girl knew
Feeling pleasure was the one purpose of summer.
Everyday must be a new thrill.

Years pass.
The war steadily turns away from her favor.
The enemy grows stronger.
The thrill of childhood soon abandoned.
The girl soon forgets who she is fighting against.

The pool still sparkles
With it’s frigid, wild deeps.
Her best battle ground
Lies forgotten.

The ice cream truck
Still plays its melodious tune.
The girl no longer pursues it.
Her best weapon
Lies forgotten.

The bike rusts in the garage.
Surrounded by cob-webs,
The girl’s best soldier
Lies forgotten.

The enemy has won.
The eternal war ended.

Anna

16

Kristen’s Connecticut II.

Swung
up
in pines
and birches,
our tea is still hot.
We run towards our looming moon
through the day and let our fireflies sing us to sleep.
I see you were given a new shooting star to string up in our branches - forest green,
like our naiad cat-man’s eyes. Yours too, though they are at half-mast while you sail past your paradoxes and into the mindless seductions of faerie whispers.
Do you look forward to morning? When our sun will hit those blond locks like Narcissus’ pool
which you brushed by the heat of the burner we left on -
Oh! Did I mention our tea is
ready? But wait, you
seem to know
what they have sung.

Esther

16

Gaia

There was a girl who reached the summer sun and tasted the nectar and ambrosia
and there was a girl who reached the winter moon and wrote by the light of supernovas
and there was a girl who sang the autumn stars and reeked of the constellation's aromas
_____but as for me, I stayed on earth
_____I saw the best, I saw the worst
_____and I wouldn't trade it for any writer's persona
There was a girl who stole the summer sun and thought she would be resurrected
and there was a girl who killed the winter moon and was shocked when she was disconnected
and there was a girl who tricked the autumn stars after she was labeled as defective
_____but as for me, I grew the ground
_____and vines enshrined my crown
_____no matter if the sky thought I was dumb or silly or rejected

Dave

15

The beginning of summer,
the way it is for me,
is like being a prisoner...
a prisoner set free.

The winds which used to give me chills
now feel comforting, ready for summer thrills.
Ready for hard-earned money to be spent,
and in a couple days I’ll wonder where it all went.

It starts with a ring
on day one of this ‘summer’ thing,
a ring which begins the adventure
as I step outside to feel the temperature.
Today it’s warm, but when it’s not
the feeling outside is blazing hot.

The squish of the wet sand beneath my feet,
to the movie theatre with the reclining seats.
The screams in the amusement park,
to sneaking out at night to party after dark.
The concerts where the stentorian music play,
to the long board which takes me away.

The empty classrooms and blank space
truly put a smile on my face.
The constant amount of class and homework
and the hallways where class-cutters lurk.
And it feels so close, yet so far away
but unfortunately I must go back some day.

Now we’re nearing the conclusion
of what summer is supposed to be,
which creates this illusion
of being free.

The comforting and exciting feel of the summer days
now feel scorching and boring, like shades of grey.
My skin is burnt and almost glows red,
and I wish the entire mosquito population would drop dead.

The leaves which used to provide me with shade
begin to turn red, yellow, and orange… allowing green to fade.
I hear a ring but this time it’s not my phone,
because it’s six AM and I must prepare to leave home.

Goodbye summer,
what a bummer.

Angela

17

Summer is a Constant

Summer is a constant growing:
The sun is a tiger-lily,
Its petals strain, painted in blinding hues.
Stripes of ultra-violet strike everything.

Mother Nature’s fingers;
the grass the trees the green
Extended.
Grasping and groping for sustenance,
Only to wither in the heat like Icarus

Summer is a constant waking:
Small slits of sunrise overflow
Into the cracks and chasms of your plastic bedroom curtains
Like water falling through slits in a gutter.

Dust dances in the spectral orange light,
Preforming a lazy ballet
To mock the sleepys in your eyes.

Summer is a constant war:
The sun is a door-to-door salesman,
Never taking no for an answer.
He bestows upon you a demonstration on how to burn,
And you are left with samples of red skin and raw pores.

Sol lays siege, reigns;
Tyrant of the universal masses of twilight,
An autocratic King of the solar system.
Henry the Eighth reborn in a ball of chaotic gas.

Summer is a constant variation:
A prisoner to semantics yet a sentinel of the living,
It preaches sermons of wind-chimes, birds and frogs.
A siren leading you through lava flows of humidity.
You stargaze through shaded glass lenses
While the sun-flares play with your hair, tangling and knotting.

Summer is a constant;
A growing,
A waking,
A war.

Peyton

15

Summer is a Dress

Summer is a dress.
Clad in dreams, warm and fresh like sunrise,
Designed with other peoples’ wishes.
Taken from the thawed shambles of winter,
Washed, rinsed out
And hung to dry
In springtime.
Adorning our minds and bodies alike,
As we tell ourselves the fairytales of the ocean’s royal sunset,
Salty waves etched in careful foam.
Summer is a dress.
Waking up in the midst of a humid night, mid-July,
Clouded windows interrupted by raindrop rivers
We find nothing to grasp onto but rain-speckled window panes
Skies rolling like gray waves.
Rainfall in sheets
Washing away the romanticized perceptions
Leaving behind the season
Bare to stare us in the face.
Bloodshot eyes at sunrise,
Sinkhole slumbers reaching noon
Leftovers for lunch; nothing to drink.
August expires,
Closing like a mediocre novel.
Now faded, obsolescent, with edges frayed,
Is folded in fourths and put away.
Summer was a dress.

Mariana

15

She: Summer

Summer was the wrist of woven thread.
She was the long braid, golden and glimmering-
cascading down caramel shoulders.
She was the saturated colors; greens, yellows, reds, pinks
colors that cover every surface,
coat every sight like sticky, syrupy candy
that drips onto the playful little fingers of her children.
She was the white noise,
the chirping, humming,
whistling, creaking, crackling.
She was the heat shimmering off the dusty pavement,
and the scorch of the angry sun attacking the air.
Summer was the inaudible force behind the curtain of every mind
creating careless decisions and perfect adventures.

Then Summer was not.
She was evanescent; a brief flawless instant.
The thread that she once was began to fade
the designs were lost in the pale hues and tattered string.
The braid that she once was greyed;
hung limp against bony, sun-spotted skin.
The vibrant colors that she was disappeared,
leaving the world as hollow and vague
as an incomplete paint-by-number.
The noise she once was became hushed
and all silence became thundering and overpowering,
drowning out nostalgic thoughts of her unblemished face;
her desire for escapades and journeys.
The heat and anger she once was was swallowed up by an unforgiving chill;
her warm presence no longer.
The spark of ideas she once was was conquered
by the careful soldiers deliberation and hesitation;
defeated by the plague of pros and cons.

Without her, tumbling into the sea of missed calls
and marked calendars becomes inevitable.
With her, the fear of time running out washes away
and every hazy moment is etched into our minds.

Kayla

16

The Bike and the Boy

A bike stands
quickly pushed up against the railing.
Its rider,
nowhere to be seen.
But the bike remembers.
It sits,
gently taking the color yellow
from the sun,
remembering.

Everything about the pairing,
boy and bike,
seems wrong.
His legs, too short,
the bikes pedals, too long.
On every push,
the boy stretches
and
stretches.
When he gets tired, he
pushes
and waits for the moment the pedal will return from its circuit
To come back to its home on the sole of his worn sneaker.

Sometimes,
in eagerness,
the pedal spins wildly.
Too fast.
Too much.

It stops itself in the skin of the boy’s back ankle.
*ouch*

When the pedal stops,
the bike cringes.

And the boy pedals on.

He likes to go fast,
sometimes trying to beat cars to their destination.
When the lush air isn’t enough at walking speed,
the bike plows through mile after mile
with its rider attentive
and blissful.
The same wind that whistles through the boy’s ears
places pins where his cheeks are heated
and his nose is straight.

But still,
the boy pedals on.

One day the bike..
it hit a stump.
Not a very big one,
But it was big enough.
Sailing through the winds he had admired only a moment before,
he landed with a jarring tumble.
The bike couldn’t move to help,
to aid its boy.
It could only project the coldness of its metal
hidden under stolen sun.
It could not give the boy the warmth,
or kindness,
or thanks, it wanted to.
Never.

The boy stood.

And the bike watched him walk away
with blood’s fine trail
making maps on his knees.

So here the bike stands.
quickly picked up
and pushed up against the neighbors’ fence
by a passerby.
Grudgingly soaked in the bath of the sticky, sweet sun.
Feeling powerless.

But the next day,
The boy came looking.

And he pedals on.

Kat

16

Sand Storms

What’s not to love about
That sickly sweet smell of
Fresh cut grass or
The eternal buzz of
A bumblebee?

Congealed corn syrup and
Liquid dairy all churned
Into that one big gloopy
Mess of summer’s favorite treat:
Ice cream.

Raging bonfires and
Scary stories of ancestors
Past.
How summer burns on
As the sparks ignite the kindling.

Berries run red with the juices
Of the sun.
Pudgy little fingers grab at branches Consuming every last drop
Until their bellies are bulging.

Everyone has a different story
And mine is
The whipping wind that
Tears your skin.

The dagger-like grains of
Sand that always
Follow you and hide in your ears
And hair,
And every possible crevice that your
Body has to offer.
Try as you might to wash
Away the impurities of the desert,
It continues to blister your skin
And smolder your heart.
Summer dreams of ice cream
And fresh cut grass
Are only that:
A dream.

So keep in mind
My dear,
There are many tales
To be told.
So as the bees buzz and
The berry juices run thick
And the ice cream melts
Summer is bittersweet.

Grace

16

aspects of a summer morning

a quick skip of a stone
pale gray
becoming dark charcoal as the water
skims its surface
the dark halo dancing across
the morning tide
its sail fluttering across the gentle waves
catching a hopeful breeze
tacking back towards home
her wings spread wide
shadowed by newborn kin
that matched her swooping strokes
the oar slicing the water
dipping in and casting the
canoe along like rising moon
in the charcoal water
where the quick skip of a stone
makes the only sound

Miranda

16

Musings on Venice

Clean sand and
dirty people.
A man talks to his dog.
The dog
isn’t real.
Weed
sprouts up everywhere,
from clinics
to t-shirts,
and the smell
perpetually
lingers
in the air.
Oh, I want
to hate this
godforsaken place,
but
I can’t.
Maybe it’s
the sun,
shining down on me
so kindly.
Or the breeze
caressing
my skin and
doing me a favor
by carrying
cold to sooth
the heat.
No,
there is
something else.
Freedom.

I’m walking
alone
down the boardwalk.
Fifteen henna booths,
lots of bad fast food,
and overpriced tourist shops
make up the scenery.
Not long ago,
these places would give
a sense of
security
to me.
That was before.

I picture
me and him
in our swimsuits
and towels
tied around our necks
like superhero capes.
I smile,
yet tears
well up in my eyes.
I
miss
him.