Alexa

16

Music

I can see its wavelengths all around me

Dance tracks are an electrifying green

They flash like neon lights over teenage heads

Country bathes its surroundings

In a warm golden light

Like the grain fields that its singers call home

Love songs vary

From subdued pink to passionate red

Depending on the lover

Rock is steely silver

Like a cold suit of armor, protecting a heartbeat

The saddest music is a cloud of indigo

Which serves to cushion life’s worst hurts

Music is my light

Without it, life would be darkness

I cannot bear to walk through blind

Please do not take away my

Music

Rooya

13

I'd tell you the birds are singing
but that'd sound too cliche.
I'll tell you that the flowers are blooming,
when they're actually fading away.
Alas, the summer is ending.
It's as dreadful as you think.
Again it's time for pencils and teachers,
and bullies and faking sick.
So, for now, let's enjoy the summer.
The butterflies and the bees.
The pool time and the parties,
hanging ten and playing games.
Because once this summers over,
what follows is nine months of shame.

Brooke

16

Ebullient Interactions

For those among us with the cola addiction

The sweaters are coming off
We smile delicate smiles,
those of the almost-there-hopefulness,
not-to-sure-but-I’m-still-pretty-confident.
Crack—fizz!—peel back the metal top
and drink, savoring the…cool…sensation…
Hey! It’s warm enough outside
to feel condensation on the can.

The charmed life is here,
with sweaty faces and barbeque-filled laughs
swirling above the bon fire
smoke dancing among fireflies.
My red-stained lips drink in the fizz,
eyes swimming in the crimson light
of the setting sun shining through
at the bottom.

The sand-filled jeeps are parked,
the beach bags in the backs of closets.
Falling leaves surround and that nagging chill—
not biting enough for a sweater but
not hot enough for those sunburnt cheeks,
fire-lit faces, chlorine-dried hair.
Drink it because you can,
it’s dull and losing its zing but
the good old times will come back
if you close your eyes
and wish hard enough
as the last few sips say goodbye.

6:00 pm, nighttime already.
We push the hot cocoa aside
drink the soda instead
because who cares if our fingers
freeze to the can?
We will swallow the cold,
freeze our color-drained lips,
and wait for the moment to arrive
when the cold doesn’t hurt,
the darkness isn’t frightening,
and the summer doesn’t leave us
in the same way every year.

Aaron

16

Be Sure to Mind the Seasonal Changes

To each human
His identity
To every man
His perspective
To the population
Its interests
Differing, yet attempting work
In simple harmony

Though when these differences clash
And they will
On the verge of the pettiest of wars
We
To this day
Turn to the seasons, turn to each other
And utter “Wonderful weather, ay?”

This smallest of remarks
Remains bona fide evidence
Of Our eternal respect and vulnerability
To the nature of our creation
Of our will to continue life on this Earth
With sound mind, and body
To intertwine ourselves with our fellows
And enjoy a peaceful existence
Upon the soil we all utilize
As home

Yes.
The seasons are that force.
That guiding force,
Which tours our abilities
Around what mother hath donated
Teaching us well
Teaching us holistically
How to live our lives as proper beings

After the blisteringly cold winter’s nights
And the seclusion of autumn
Our creator generously grants us
The distant light at the end of the tunnel
The opening act to a Broadway production,
Spring

Yet what follows is a full relief from established social fetters
A constant reminder
That what we continue to live for
Still exists
Alive and well

Summer finally appears, granting us warmth
Granting us friendship
Over a simplistic glass of lemonade
And the hum of a cool fan

Summer arrives
Granting us hope, a future, a fresh new beginning
A chance to open up
And recognize
That we may not be what we see
During other times

Yes it’s true
Seasons do change us
Our personalities are mendable
Constantly at the mercy of our surroundings

Yet these seasons
Are benevolent enough
To remind us
Of whom we truly are
As citizens
As humans
As Earthlings

Just in case
You ever lose sight
Of this reality
Remember to look outside
For at the right time,
you will know
why you are here.

Angela

14

Summerset

It's no longer sad
When the trees bleed away their leaves,
When the mountains trade their jade for gold,
And the tides breathe warmth to other worlds.

But onto summer days we hold,
Days we do not want to end,
Days when all we leave behind
Are footprints in the weary sand,
Days that warm the nighttime,
Burn down heartbreaks,
Brand our hearts.

No, it should not be sad
To watch the evening turn cold,
And sigh farewell to summerset
As it exhales and slips into the sea
Too quietly for us to hear,
So we can sleep in summertime one more night,
Until next morning,
When the fallen leaves
Are shaken awake
By autumn's first breeze.

Kate

16

"A Lightning Bug for My San Francisco Friend"

The Bay Area is cut by numb street lamps,
so unlike the light in Pennsylvania when the
ground wakes up,
so I pull a light out of air and let it blink for her,
an insect so significant, insignificant.
Our Ohio girl, a girl like honeysuckle,
a girl like window-box flowers,
used to dream fire into jars with air holes.

I know lightning bugs from June midnights
savored in rocking chairs Carlos painted.
with my father's heavy brow propped up
by apple cheeks for his little girl.
What if stars are pinpricks in
Heaven's curtain? What if eyes are the soul
screaming to be noticed?

Theoretically speaking, when the sun dies
the earth will have eight minutes of light left
before the pines begin to slouch,
before the grass shrinks back into the soil.
But our breakable bodies, so quick to shatter,
will not yet become gelid.
We have our lightning bugs.

Conor

17

The Declaration of Codependence

We’re free! July comes forth, we tear away
Our chains of bureaucratic rule. To be
So liberated when we once had to pay
Those extra pounds for stamps and tea,
Now I can shed those pounds only for me;
I need no king to judge me at the bay.
My “stamps” and “tea” are certainly the key
To attract some mates and mateys to come play.

Complain all you dare, you grey toothed cysts,
When summer comes along we kids are free
To frolic, play, and dance all night with glee.
As revolutionaries, we insist
That we may play as long as we may yearn.
“So long as in September you return.”

Anika

13

Summer

Goodbye spring
Hello summer
Summer brings swimming
Summer brings sun
Summer brings sunburns
Summer brings fun

Children take advantage of this season
Some goof around as if they're Tom Sawyer
Some sit around reading big books
Some go swimming, or play video games
Any way it's spent, as a kid summer is time when school doesn't exist

Adults may have to work just the same
But those with kids can spend more time
And those that don't don't care at all
Some can have off and do what they want
Any way it's spent, summer to adults is time that must be spent wisely

A fawn or a lamb might be growing up soon
Flowers might have gone but the green remains
It might end up sunny, or rainy, or thunder storming
Any way it's spent, summer to summer is a time to be changing

Goodbye Summer
Hello Fall

Mary

14

BEGINNINGS

High, tickly grasses
bleed over the field in a swathe
of sunshiny mint.
Thin streams, rimmed by fuzzy cattails,
lie still and reflect blue
when none can be found
in the pale, azure-clouded sky.
Tall and shadowy trees
billow above
the speckled, budding smaller shrubs.
Heat and breezes mingle.
Trailing green languages brush
the ribs of a startled
black bird who flings himself
o'er the reeds.
Summer buzzes-- and soars.

Kaitlyn

13

The Skin of Routine

the anticipation so real you can feel it ticking
boom, boom
beneath your skin
the sun’s bedtime gets later
as it approaches, never slower
summer

like a lemon, it has a bittersweet taste
the sweetness of the summer is there,
more prominent with time
and yet the bitterness is what strikes you first,
what you must endure
slither, slither
out of the skin of routine that nearly suffocated you, so tight
and new skin grows,
but it takes time
routine does not appear overnight

and all at once,
it’s yours for the taking
the sun tanning your new skin
the night testing your new freedom
but, a lazy creature by default,
you spend your time trying to spend your time until
tick, tick
the longest days of the year near the end
and your new-turned-old skin sags so
threatening new routine
but you are so sick of doing nothing
you almost don’t care

Zienne

14

Summer Melody

As the sun emerges
the aubade begins.

Smooth, rhythmical,
yet soft and spiritual.

Clouds absently drift away
as birds peer from nests,

sensing if danger is near.
Coast is clear.

“Chirp chirp, cheep cheep.”
More melodies are added to the aubade.

Soon
the morning is filled with a cacophony.

A few barks here.
A few chirps there.

Tires squealing.
Aging folks head to work,

operating through life rapidly.
Not taking the time to notice the alluring
melody.

Hours pass.

Cheeps die down,
yells of children follow.

“Let’s play ball!”
“I’ll have a snowcone please!”

Shaved ice stuffed into paper cones,
the sun reflecting off the radiating artificial colors.

Red.
Blue.
Purple.
Green.

Dripping down eager faces.
Spilling onto clean shirts.
Slightly staining the purity.

Hours pass.

Children head inside,
weary.
The heat becoming unbearable.
A hazy summer afternoon.

The aubade dies down.
Soft chirps replaced
with exhausted engines.
Hardworking parents
pulling into driveways.

Soon,
all is quiet.

The moon shines brightly.
A cricket’s “creek” heard
ever so often.

A quiet night melody.
Barely audible.

Until tomorrow
when the sun emerges.

Mairead

14

think outside the sun

think outside the sun
beyond the beaches and fruity drinks
don’t take advantage of every moment
for then the moments may not like you anymore

think outside the sun
spend your days the way they want to be spent
don’t get a tan if you long for a snowcone
and seasons won’t stop rain (but they also don’t stop you from playing in it)

think outside the sun
sit at the poolside if there’s a book asking to be read
long sleeves are lovely if there’s a chill in the air
and eat as much ice cream as you want

think outside the sun
because you’ll have to once it’s not there anymore

Rhyanne

15

April's Summer

I was born to the bleached winters of
December, January, February, March,
And April was my name,
Summer my favorite season.

I looked like autumn, my mother said
Weaving lions through my rust.
You’re the perfect irony, father replied,
a beautiful embodiment of divisions.

The trees and I were sisters alike;
I had the transcendentalist spark.
When the winds changed, so did we,
And with every spell we belonged.

But my sisters had roots that dug too deep;
they could never outgrow their soil.
This run-down town couldn't hold down
a spirit like mine any longer.

I planted my roots across the states,
walked underneath golden rays of light.
I dreamed in the fields that glowed with red;
my world was brimming and bright.

I swam in crystal waters
that mirrored galaxies and stars.
I sought fragrances from the wildest of flowers,
discovered merriment throughout these days.

I mastered illustrations
of colors and of spaces,
sculpted my own little world.

In time, my roots had spread across the land,
digging deeper into rich soils.
Alas, my blue-sky season departed,
leaving smeared colors in its slumber.

Content and weary, I laid to rest
against my weather armored sisters
whose vermilion and copper leaves
weaved throughout our autumn grove.

Aaron

16

The Bedazzling Woman of the Summer Day

A warm morning
life is bedazzled.
A woman,
Smile like a moon's crescent,
eyes green as leaves,
Glorifies the daytime,
With her bejeweled designs
she sits on billowy clouds
cruising gingerly over sunshiny blue
like a leaf in a pond
red paint cheeks
A canvas of delightful color
Beaming down upon the lands
all those touches she has
that make me happy
every time I see her
She is the summer day
Making me fine
Bedazzling my world
Bringing tears to my eye

Aaron

16

A warm morning
life is bedazzled.
A woman,
Smile like a moon's crescent,
eyes green as leaves,
Glorifies the daytime,
With her naturally bejeweled designs
she sits on billowy clouds
cruising gingerly over sunshiny blue
like a leaf in a pond
red paint cheeks
A canvas of delightful color
Beaming down upon the lands
all those touches she has
that make me happy
every time I see her
She is the summer day
Making me fine
Bedazzling my world
Bringing tears to my eye

Michael

16

cold toilets are cold toilets

cold toilets are cold toilets
with their lids up, Siberia. one day
I lift it,
seeing you waving. slam it
like a million dollar bill

I feel sometimes
to wipe the piss off. not for your sake,
for humanity’s--
Paris would be whorehouses
if scooters
skipped the pedestrian thing

the waiter there was hot,
it made me mentally sad. not that
he looked like you
(he was Italian with yellow eyes and a piercing on the lower right lip)

he recommended pistachio
with chocolate-flavored vanilla,
but I got berry cheesecake
with substitute

and one berry exactly

the empty plate mirrored my face
I turned to spill
some of yours

Amanda

17

Summer Pilgrimage

In the dog days,
I hear them howl.
Craving-
Clawing-
The sun melts their chains,
And they chase.
Yawning roads, balmy nights,
Charred and boiling- crackling days-
They pursue- insatiable, so starved,
Saliva pools of lust.
The scavenger hunt of America-
Annual consumption,
Of desire and release,
And humid air that only,
Pains you for more.
Grey sweat cities leering in the distance,
Growling at the lack of restraint-
Their immaculate walls are dripping,
Sluggishly, they’ll all spill down.
Sticking skin and mosquito bites,
Gnawed, pink and peeling underbelly,
Hidden from the covetous sun,
They will crawl out, drawn by the call-
Herds of summer apostates-
To where they let the babies cry,
To where they wouldn’t dare ask why,
Where it’s too oppressive for clothing,
And no one knows your name,
And everyone gathers your story,
With spiders scattering across the back of your brain,
Like oily feathers- titillating-
Leaving you itching and shaking your head,
And running- running- grinding the road-
Towards sanguine sunsets that will burn you,
Send you popping like a firework,
Across the sizzling pavement in the middle of nowhere,
In the gory, gooey core of America-
Irresistible, engrossing American summer-
Stripped, seraphic solstice-
This Beatified,
Beatnik
American
Fever

Maura

17

The truth is that everything broke this summer

(the dishwasher, the air conditioner,

and maybe me

I’m undecided,

because breaking takes more effort than I was willing to exert—

I slipped and fell and bruised

but I’ve never been a victim)

July rolls in and I am a whole year older

the number 17 only makes a slight difference
because 
it’s synonymous with “on the cusp of something”

and I grasp at ideas and Big Things with capital letters

like fireflies that flit around this corner of suburbia

They could leave, they should leave,

we have nothing that they want

and I kill them by accident

while trying to sample a bit of their magic

but they stay, or maybe they don’t,

I can’t tell them apart.

So I sit here in the heat

washing dishes as the fireflies shine

and I feel painfully 17.

valerie

16

Fleeting Summer

I think my favorite place in the whole world is the pier by my house that overlooked the Manhattan skyline,
And was next to the highway where cars would create a sound of rushing wind to go along with the hurriedness of the city.

But at the pier the sound was set apart like background noise on a set of a beautiful movie.
The sun glittering on the water outshines the sparkling glass skyscrapers.

It was here, on the summer of my sixteenth year, that I let myself believe I was lovely due to a shy boy who bought me an ice cream.
He let me tell him my dreams of sailing out at sea and around the world,
But never would I settle on one place, for the ocean owned me.

He told me," coeur de pirate".
"Heart of a pirate", I translated.
"You steal more than treasure,
You crave more than normality,
You are a restless wanderer searching for a greater something," his eyes looking at me the way I saw the ocean sparkle.

When he left, he thought he could take me with him.
As the end of summer took with it iced coffee and lazy morning kisses,
the sunlight as you lay on the beach with him,
And moonlight dances on the boardwalk behind the amusement park.
And for some time I let myself believe he did.

My mom thought I was crazy for wanting to go to the pier one night,
Where the wind was lashing out and the rain wrecked havoc.
But I needed to put away a restless feeling...

I approached the bench where I told him my banter and scattered thoughts.
"I told you the ocean owned my heart," I whisper.
This would always be my favorite place, I thought as I sat through downpour and the chill of the icy sea.
Summer could take no more of me.

Essi

14

Manual

Teach me how to live.
How to live with windows rolled down,
musky rain ricocheting
off of sun-warped streets.
Peaches picked from gnarled branches,
runs that lead nowhere except
to aching muscles, aching bones,
the best kind of hurt.

Overcast days,
when the clouds can’t decide whether
to burst or
writhe away.

Chlorine that turns humans
into red-eyed zombies.
Eating away at our outer shell,
exposing miles of twisted intestines
and pumping vessels.
We are more than just the sum of our parts.

Walls, closing in on me.
The voice of a trillion tongues.
Begging, pleading, help me.
Help me, help me, help me.

Teach me how to live.

How to set the world on fire,
leaving a trail of ash
in my wake.
If Rome burns, I’ll burn with it.

Gentle souls,
tucked away in crannies, in alleyways.
I need you.
I need you to
teach me.
Teach me how to live.