Serena

16

Breathing Summer

He comes with a magnetic sound
A heavy hum hanging over the afternoon haze
The kind of heated passion
That keeps you awake for days

His perfume is the smell of fresh cut grass
And warm sunlight filtering through leaves
Laying beside him in the cool tickling green
Listening to all the birds and bugs overhead sing

He’s got the kind of voice
That sounds like late nights on the beach
Resting your head on his gentle shoulder
Watching the slow rise of the pink and blue sun breach
The golden dapple blue of an ocean crest

The fervor of feet on the concrete street
Keeps you following him through the night
Playing the part of the Pied Piper
As he leads you
Dancing
Back into the pale morning light

But for all the energy that he’s worth
He’s still got the softest of all touches
Tucking you away to bed with a light drizzle
Of fine, delicate kisses
And leaving the scent of his sun-soaked skin
Upon your sheets
In the fleeting breath of a passing breeze

Glenn

16

A Perfect Ten
Not again
Another gopher has thrown itself into the pool
I see the brown mass of drowned fur and gag
at the thought of what is to come
I grab the pool net, take a few deep breaths
and reach out to pick up the suicidal beast
Now out of the water the rodent can be seen clearly,
mocking me with his macabre two-toothed grin
Smiling, he knows how much I hate doing this
A stench permeates the air, reaching the nose of a sleepy Labrador
In the distance, the puppy eyes the gopher longingly: a dellectable treat.
The dog is trotting over now, eager to claim his nauseating lunch.
It's now or never
With bared hand I pick up the gopher, bile rising in my throat,
and hurl the foul creature over the fence.
Behind me the dog voices his lament for his lost meal.
The gopher executes two flawless flips before disappearing over the oak trees
A perfect ten!

Brooks

14

Summer

What's the difference between
Watching the mixing pot of the icy ephemeral Pacific
And perched in a brittle birch that appears to be so lengthy that it tickles the underbelly of the cumulus and makes them giggle into ponds and rivers?
Is it the stinging taste of salt in my nostrils
Or the cushion of bark beneath my khakis?
I see the same horizon
I see the same visions of the future lying across it, in an apparition.
And I see the same stars pull open the blackest nights like zealous velvet drapes
I feel the same ghostly hand grip my heart ever so slightly
Lift it
And toy with it like a greasy flesh colored putty.
Giving it a new sight
And diminishing it's awareness of time.
Will it matter how I choose to spend my days?
Be it riding my bike through pine cone sprinkled trails in sap stained parks
Allowing a lime Popsicle to melt on to my pulsating taste buds
Or letting the harmony of life guide me like a conductor
I know it won't make a difference.
I will know this more and more as I watch the waves along the beach.
As they teach me:
The beauty of summer is not the decorative facade.
The truth is in in the evanescence.
An element that has been sought after since the beginning of time.
But all that is left is syrupy popsicle sticks and a faded beach towel.

Sally

16

"The Fabric Was Sewn"

Everything was velvet and wrapped in muslin.
You were sea salt
And I was the moon.
Not the sun.
Never the sun.
Nights were stitched with golden sequins and indigo ribbons.
Mud caked our clothes
And coated our skin
While summer’s biting midnight breeze
Froze our fingers and stung our toes.
But the campfire melted us into chattering puddles
That slipped into the river,
And washed up against the islands.
I knew it could never last,
Yet when the muddy leaves whipped against my frost-bitten skin
And the fabric was sewn,
I knew that I had lost everything,
But regretted nothing.

Sally

16

"Under the Saffron Lights"

I wait
At the river’s edge,
Where dark shadows splay across the high grasses,
Whispers fade into the moonlight,
And stars burn bright with untold secrets.

It’s 3 AM
Again,
Yet still I wait for a sign:
A message in a bottle,
A shooting star -
Anything to guide me.
At least here I am free and
Safe.
But then dawn splits the sky wide open,
The trees angrily rustle their leaves,
And the sky crackles and spits rain at me.
So I should turn away from river’s edge
And leave the muddied waters behind.
But this is where I belong:
Among the midnight blues
And emerald grass.
In my mind, this place belongs to me,
Every petal, droplet and star.
In my mind, I can pick up summer with steady hands,
Twirl it around,
And dance under the saffron lights of the setting sun,
Holding it flush against my
Heart.
This time,
I won’t let it go.
This time,
I’ll stay here.

Sally

16

"I Keep it Within"

It had always been there -
Within me.
I could always feel
The warmth that penetrated my skin
On the most frigid winter days.
When I cried,
The ocean inside of me splashed salty tears down my face,
And the stars were dull
Compared to the glint in my eyes.
Sleepless nights were spent
Peering at plastic glow-in-the-dark stars
That littered my ceiling.
Coated in mud,
I smelt of trees
And meadows.
But inside me
Was a tangle of emotions
Rooted deep in my heart.
I felt free inside.
If I closed my eyes for long enough and sat quietly,
I could almost hear the roar of the ocean
And the stuttering of leaves
Fighting against a gust of wind.
Outside,
The trees spit their leaves at me
While snow melted on my cheek.
But the flowers in my mind still bloomed,
And I always felt warm
And free.
Outside,
It could be frozen jungle of icicles,
But inside me,
It will always be summer.

Sally

16

"Down by the River"

Down by the river is where I rest my head,
Dreaming of brighter days and a warmer bed.
Under an indigo blanket where stars are hung,
The moon appears behind the fading sun.

Here is where I close my eyes
And listen to thrum of midnight flies.
Here is where I pour my heart,
Staring into swirling rivulets as the days depart.

The river is where the summers begin and end -
Where hopes are dashed, and new ones penned.
A place I cannot chase from my mind,
I am trapped among the cattails and murky waters, yet unconfined.

Elena

18

In the stifling heat surrounded by carefully organized tools, dried up glue bottles lay on a nicked up wooden table. The air has a slight metallic taste mixed with the buzz of a radio turned down. A man with a face blackened by charcoal dust is peering into a glowing forge. In a swift movement, he pulls on a pair of worn gloves covered with scorched holes. With handcrafted tongs he reaches into the smoldering flames to remove a piece of bright orange steel, held like a prisoner in its clutches. Turning to face a nearby anvil, the man gently lays down the steel and starts to pound rhythmically on it with a hammer. Its amber glow dissipates into a shade of dark grey as the metal cools. A sword is born.

Amber

14

I know it’s going to sound crazy
We’ve only just started talking,
But I can’t help but to want to know you more
Is it too soon to say?
You’re everything I could ever want?
I kind of just want to hold you and kiss your head
While we watch your favorite TV shows
Im hoping that distance won’t matter
And you’ll learn to see the same for me
How dumb of me
To use an online profile and quick chats
To fall in love
But god, your photos are so pretty lighting up my laptop screen
And your words compliment them so nicely
How silly of me to think
You could love me back
Over a silly internet connection

Mackenzie

16

On the Subject

On the subject of summer,
the night will advance with a coolness unsure of its seasoning yet crisp in the uniqueness of its desire.
Taste the air with lungs unsure of what to do with cleanness
anymore
and hope the city stars will not fade under screens of pollution like the others
because then what would dilated pupils look up to for encouragement
then;
not another screen
not another.
Because the days will come and the sun will ripen with heat demanding acknowledgment
yet still bare eyes cannot look summer in its face without cowering at the presence of light.
Because first we must conquer the night without scattering the stars behind blankets and layers
and then maybe summer might not pass with the swiftness and sneakiness of an orphaned child pocketing survival
because awareness incites pause
and thus a feeling of
realization.

Julie

17

"Sunny, with a Chance of 120"

Eggs sizzling on the sidewalk,
Cookies crisping on the dashboard,
Backs roasting by the pool.
Welcome to Arizona's oven.

Christina

16

"A Summer Day is What I Need"

‘A summer day is what I need,’
I muse within my mind.
A day when our sun’s radiance bleeds
Upon our kindred kind.

To feel the sand between my toes,
To curl them in lush grass,
That’s what I need, Lord only knows
My wish for months to pass.

However, time has not been sweet
As dripping ice cream cones,
For Winter’s embrace crushes Heat’s
And stiffens my young bones.

Let me survive a few months more,
June’s not that far away!
At least, I wish right through my core
These blizzards go astray.

Alas, I cannot jump inside
A time machine of sorts;
DeLoreans can’t help me hide
In future’s denim shorts.

Instead, I have to sit and wait
For fireworks and fries,
For top-down drives and lemonade,
God, winter kills my vibes.

Amanda

17

When I Think Of Summer

When I think of summer-
I see girls running razors down their legs,
Instead of running on beaches,
While not even knowing why,
They bother.

When I think of summer-
I remember the boys at the pool,
Who claimed my friend was a “ten”,
And- don’t worry- I could be too,
If I lost “ten” pounds.

When I think of summer-
I imagine arriving with unshaven pits,
And being called,
A Beast and a lesbian,
As though they were the,
Same thing.

When I think of summer-
I hear my younger sister disclose,
That she wishes she could have
Large breasts and wear bikinis
So that she could feel
“Pretty”.
Like us.

When I think of summer-
I feel myself rotting in the core,
Under “beach-kissed” skin.
This peculiar season,
Give it time, it will burn-
And I assure you-
It
P e e l s

Katie

16

SUMMER, SUSPENDED

time, like travel,
follows strange bends,
curving over an unknown horizon.
new places burrow into our bones,
calling themselves home.

the city moves to secret signs
while I try to learn the rhythms of its traffic.
cyclists spin past me on silver circles,
mirrored by the ancient clock faces,
their golden hands catching the last rays of sun.
I have fallen a little bit in love
with the way these towers touch the sky
like fingers steepled in prayer,
the pebbled rivers rolling
beneath my feet.

this moment is a monarch butterfly
pressed against a windowpane,
a feather halfway between floating
and falling. there is too little time
for development;
still I try to make something
with my camera-eyes and the flash
of your smile.

I need to believe in fate,
in plane paths crossing,
even when we go our separate ways,
returning to the lines drawn by borders.
I need to believe in something after
this bell finishes tolling,
each pulse a grain of sand
trickling to the bottom of an hourglass.

maybe summer exists for us
to tie things into neat packages,
fleeting flirtations and long nights
where we find the hands of strangers
and call them our best friends.
where we crack open windows
so our braver selves can breathe.
come autumn, these names I’ve learned
will become characters in a story
I relay to my classmates,
wisps of a gray-sky, rain-filled dream.

but for now,
the salt-smear the French fries leave
as they hit my window—
the scent of wet leaves—
her hair brushing mine
as we sprawl on the couch—
the cotton of his shirt
against my cheek—
all is real.

solid, substantial,
like the goodbye that sticks in my throat,
a rock lodged in the back of a shoe.

I smile into the sunrise
and hop on my plane.

Baila

17

Summer School
She is crouched in the dark
Against a wall scratched with pencil marks
Knees pulled to her chin
Strewn papers radiating out
From her feet
The floor full of them
Silver spirals glinting like barbed wire
Jagged edges of crumpled homework
Textbooks open, pages glowing whitely.
EXIT glows red like a clock
Time’s up–
–school’s over–
–it’s summertime–
–time to go home.
But she had to come
Just once more.
She clicks her phone to life
And nearly calls him
Then lets it die back to blackness.
“Where are you?” he would say
“Are you in school again?”
“Why do you go there?”
“We finally graduated, for chrissakes!”
“I don’t understand you.”
But she doesn’t need his questions
She would say the answer anyway
Just to hear the truth of it.
She whispers the words
Alone
To the darkness of chairs and desks
Concealed in locked classrooms.
“This year has been hell.
But when I come here…”
Her voice fades,
Echoes against the abandoned shapes
That puncture the emptiness.
Her secret place.
She is remembering
The first time she came
Walking, late at night,
Praying for the door to open
Stepping through its reassuring creak
Upstairs to the English classroom
She buried her head at a desk
In the center of the room
Until the shaking sobs left her
Calmed by the gentle hum
Of the vending machine.
“When I come here,
All the noise leaves my head
And I can finally breathe
I love seeing this mysterious,
Inverted version of school
With all the lights off
I love that I know this place better
Than anyone else,
Better
Than I know myself
And I know myself
Because of this place.
You gave me silence
You gave me a home
When I had nowhere to go.”
She lifts her head
To the gray outline
Of the muted fluorescent lights.
And in the darkness
It seems that they
Listen.
“Thank you.”
Warm air envelopes her
As she walks away from school
Into summer vacation
For the last time.

Dorothy

21

Under Radiant Temper

From hours of dawn,
to hours of dusk,
a mild, yellow temper
follows me every step.

His bursting lights upon my back,
a burden that breaks all of my soul,
unable to stop his unbearable rays
and lingering still of a skunk smell.

No cloud in sight for just a shade,
he cares of himself and that I stay,
becoming the soot beneath his flame,
locked in chains of a fiery rage.

But out of his light, into the shadows,
let me perspire his radiant temper.

Porter

18

I think by now your time has stamped me out and
thrown me into the sand and the

Water we used to splash at each other, two
four-year olds with bulging brown eyes and

Skin thickly coated in layers of sunscreen. But that was
then and our youth swam out further than we could;

The current struck it away with the plastic sandcastle pails and
the jellyfish that so tormented our nightmares.

And now it’s not me chewing on your toys or you
mispronouncing my name, but a competition;

A war we fight with each other--who will care less? Who will
drop further and away from the other, the sadistic

Sunny memories tarnished and burned--but the smoke
lifts around us and all we do is blow it

Away. Three years ago you proclaimed yourself an addict,
and I the villain for not stopping you before you could

Begin. Because life is like that. People come and happiness goes but we
aren’t just friends and I and you know that.

Now your low-tide is lower and you don’t want to see the
waves we used to play in. You run on and the sand

Burns your feet; you reach for the dampness and the foam but it
stretches beyond you--the needle in your arm and I no more.

Claudia

17

Hunger

the dream: sand dunes into glass, the sky streaked
with gold, and everyone wanting & ill with envy. After I gave

my hamster away, years ago, he was left in a car while his new
owner dined at a restaurant. He died of the sun beating its steady
hands on the glass, of fur blackened with sweat, of a wild

soundless heart. Earlier that year, he had escaped
his cage for six weeks, until I found

him starving in the bathroom with skin loose
as bedsheets, fur lighter than thumbprints. He didn't die
then, not of his own matchstick bones and gaunt snout,

but waited until later, to die of someone else's hunger.
In my dream, everyone's hands stretch forward, pressed

together in prayer or desperation. These summer days,
the wash of fruit flies dipping into bowls of red wine, insects

cradling the humid air and worshipping the heat
with grating cries & the rub of their back legs,

I wake to clouds plated with silver:
the world trying to hold on to its richness
until all water has been lost.

Katelynn

15

Nostalgia and shame
Overcome us through the nights
But we still live on

Katelynn

15

For a short time, I notice the moon
And how it contrast with the sky.
A peculiar thing it is to me
How such great things seem to hide.

Because with time soaking through my bones
I learn to be aware again.
And without pattern or restrictions
I am released to feel again.

To think on my own, without being told
Told what, told how, told wrong, told stop,
Is quite a beautiful thing.

Yes, it's nice to have fun and unwind.
But how could that ever compare,
To the freedom
of my
trapped mind.