Isabelle

14

Where's Your BK, Ko?

I’ve been trying really hard,

to forget you over the summer.

But, I got a taste of your hate,

the other day.

And, I think I love you again.

Isabelle

14

429 Won't You Be Mine?

When I told you about myself,

you wanted to fix me.
Pity the rude girl,
need I remind you,
it's not even June.

And I told you I couldn’t be fixed

‘cause the third boy I loved

didn’t even try.

I remember when he told me,

to stop putting him

in the God awful poetry 
I always write.

Saying that if the boys in front of him

couldn’t pick up the pieces of my heart,

neither could he.

Hell, he didn’t know that the ventricles

were even under the arteries.

But, he thought if I was still breathing,

I was just fine.

And at some time,
I found the leftover poison he left in my refrigerator.
It'd been mixed in my lemonade.

How had I been so blind?

As much as I'd like to die from heartbreak,
you gave me the only antidote,
what some may say to be true love.

Yet,
it's still too hard to even say his name.

So, maybe you think you can be a superhero,

but not mine.


‘Cause goddamn, all legends tend to die.

Bryce

14

TO THE PLACE WHERE EVERYONE KNOWS

The warm sun sizzles my skin
The sand shifts beneath my toes
Down the beach I go to run
To a place where everyone knows
I hop up on to the pier
I sprint down to the end
And jump without fear
Into the waves that bend
Then I’m in that place where everyone knows
The great wide sea
With the water on my face
I think, oh what a great place to be

Karah

18

Summer Solstice

Time shades the space
fabricated in our memories.
Without light there is no darkness.
When light is forth
The dark cannot shade us.
Define us.
Like we are our own Sand castle, slipping;
it builds on our selves, fabricating its own memory.
In the Dark
we simply cannot See
ourselves in the same Light.

Tiara

16

[A Prose Poem]

Regression

He leans back in a wicker lawn chair, arms folded behind his head. The skin on his face gathers in folds like his jeans—washed too many times—holding moisture of another life. A young couple sits at the bus stop across the street from his shoe-polishing stand. They kiss, fingers tangled in hair tangled in knots, lips and tongues stained with an afternoon’s berry lemonade. He spats. Passersby cringe: even the sunburned father with one hand on a three-child-stroller, even the half-naked woman who bikes against traffic, and the Asian woman with an umbrella in the middle of summer. Even he sometimes cringes. At himself, at the dusty jar labeled TIPS, at his empty left ring finger, and the wicker chair that he will soon give to his nephew, who will sit here, whistling through the gap in his teeth, a melody that trickles away as quickly as it comes.

Rory

14

Well my feet are in the grass
But my heart is full of broken glass
I'm shipwrecked in your arms again

Well there are bulls in the Bronx
And the police car honks
Well, dammit baby I dunno again

Well I'm waiting for never opening eyes
Well I'm waiting for the sun to rise
Thinking "Summer never lasts" again

"I'll love you all the time," she'd yell
Before she fell apart and went to hell
Only 17 and only crying again

But baby I know I'm so young
But baby the water is filling my lungs
So baby this is goodbye again

Kate

17

Summertime Ceramics

Pencil meets paper.
This action has been repeated countless times.
But it’s that pause,
right as they touch,
when the entire world sighs ... knowing, waiting,
for the explosion to begin.
And here it comes...

Yes, it’s the breeze, mother.
That summer breeze, tickling my ears, whispering a language we are not meant to
decipher.
It eggs me on...my eyes close.
Mother, this time, when I think of you,
my words paint...
Chestnut hair that you tuck behind your ear absentmindedly,
just like me.
Laughter pouring from your entire being,
leaving tiny rivers of wrinkles around your eyes,
just like me.
Today,
your fingernails are nonexistent
from nervous snacking.
You hate the cold.
Your current fashion is ever changing.
Now, grey, the new black instead of just grey.
However, blue will always and forever be
your favorite color,
just like me.

When you come to mind,
questions claw at my insides.
Birthmother, each summer
when I have too much time to think,
and the wind whispers,
you become my clay.
I mull you over and over.
Shaping, crafting, as if I know you...
Will I ever know you?

“Kate come inside and help me with this!”
The wind comes to a standstill.
“Coming mom!”

Cameron

17

Turning

I walk on air in the early summer.
There is no wrong; there is no right.

There is.

There is possibility, and adventure, and at times complete lethargy.
The sun emerges again and we revel in forgotten warmth.
We keep secrets and share the ideas ensconced in the part of our minds only accessible in the twilight.

And we were happy, together, with our inane and insignificant plans for how we would change the world.

Then you wanted freedom of thought and deed, and journeys I thought were dreams.
I wouldn’t notice an absence, you said, because you’d be back before the season turned.

But the corn has grown since you asked me to wait.
Knee high by the fourth of July and harvested when ripe.
The lupines have bloomed and faded and gone.

The days lengthened to a glorious, glittering crescendo when I thought the stars would never shine again, for night would never come.

And that’s when I realized – while waiting for the sunset, and waiting for you.

We live for the light of the stars and the endless wonder in which they exist.
Day is always the sweeter for the night that has passed.

So for a moment, I remember June, and am walking on air again. The assurance of a long summer haze is fresh.

It is tranquil in this world of mine.

But autumn has its colors, and winter its snow, and life is new in spring.
I begin to welcome the reality of darkness, and frost, and endings.

Lillian

16

Summer Love

gray
not a dirty gray
a light, mellow gray
your gray
soft, plush
smelling of you
vanilla bean
watermelon too.
my hands lay
in your pockets
feeling the voids
your fingers filled.

moist beads
drip down my chin
scarlet roses
flush on my face
as glossy rays scorch
the back of my neck
firing into my soul
and igniting old wounds.
yet the tickle of a breeze
and the sly wind’s nudge
makes me huddle
closer to you.

your fingers lick
sweet and salty beads
that trickle down
burnt cinnamon skin
chiseled arms
hanging loosely
by your side.

voices fly
through the air
higher and higher
carrying with them
excitement
passion
and dreams.

on pavement
ring summer beats
bicycles sing, awakening
the city streets
ice cream trucks dance by
flooding the city
with
laughter.
kids laugh.
couples laugh.
we laugh
as our plastic bags
heavy with groceries
clunk into one another
and our bodies
sway to and fro
like pendulums.

our strides
quicken.
our bodies
bump
constantly
as pedestrians
blur past.
sizzling, cherry-glazed
barbecue ribs
tempt us as we scurry by.
street performers
wild and unpredictable
flash gaudy outfits
enticing high pitch squeals
from the hypnotized crowd.
their bending bodies
block the path
trying to
capture my eyes
and peel them away from
you.

dark clouds drift by
shading the once
blistering sun.
your squinting eyes
relax
crinkling into
a mischievous grin.
drip, drip,
splat, splat
summer sprinkles fall
delicately onto us.
raising your bushy
dark eyebrows
you cock your neck
to the side
tuning into
the melody
of summer.
thunder rumbles
in the distance
and my arm
brushes
yours.
the sensation is electrifying
surging through me
like lightning
jolting, fleeting,
leaving me
hungry for more.

the dam breaks
large, fat water droplets
pour down like little demons
unleashed from heavens
suffocating the warm air
between us

we bolt
blindly running
down slippery streets
a sea of monsters tackles us
from all sides
and suddenly
I lose you.
my eyes
search desperately
for you
under heavy eyelids
imprisoned by
the forceful rainstorm.
something grabs my hand
my heart skips a beat
it’s you
your warm palm
fuels my shivering soul
and you become
my green light
leading me through
the deluge
as we fight the storm
together.

we turn unknown corners
and fly through dark alleys
my knees begin to buckle
my lungs are about to burst
but your voice
encourages me to
keep pushing through
reassuring that
you will always be
by my side

staggering into
the apartment
drenched
our hearts
beat furiously
like two kids
falling in love
for the first time.
without stopping to
catch our breath
we collapse
in unison
on the
soft
gray
couch

your
gray couch

making
summer love

Meredith

16

Simplicity
Summer is a sundress.
Bare legs and shoulders
covered only by the fabric of my tan
easy access,
to the mosquitos that sneak onto my skin.
Flowing fabric
to flatter the body
that the sun has long since melted
into a puddle of futile resistance to midday naps,
modest
but cool,
and hot.
sweat gathers at my temples
reminding me of something
warm
the meaningless kiss of the wind on my knees
temporarily distracts me.
Then I need a drink
and lemonade accessorizes
the curious bees decorating the gladiolas braided into my hair.
My skirt,
the charming patchwork
it calls for an afternoon basking
half sincere, half self-important.
Like a great serpent
too engorged with watermelon to slink away gracefully
I spread my legs apart-
probably no one’s looking
too much strawberry daiquiri-
open my arms
to embrace the sun,
cheek turned to the side
to receive a peck,
The warm concrete beneath me
Wondering when the first leaf will die.
How I wish you had slipped off as easily
As my polka-dotted sundress with summer’s last sigh.

Katrina

15

“Summer Age”
I used to think that I’m growing up, as the candles grew in number.
But I realized that I’m growing up, as the summer heat slowly lessens the number of leaves on a tree.
Aging comes with experiences. Yes, time is a factor but the number read on the cake does not define one’s pure growth, it just tells you that you are 365 days older.
I didn't feel the growth in me during my birthdays, but when leaves began to wither in the heat, slowly becoming crisp.
My youth diminished and crumbled up like a leaf in summer.
Summers on a playground used to be scraped knees and having the fear of the fast peeling of a band aid off of my skin.
Summers now, I fear being a band aid, of being attach to people, and being quickly ripped out of their lives.
Summers at the beach used to be sand-castle making, and running away from the grabbing waves.
Summers now at the beach, I try to learn to be a wave…to be consistent, to be distant, to learn to push away when the shores are no longer worth the scathing pain, because love; is just a game, that pulls you in, and gets under your skin. I try to build a sand castle around me, for protection from affection, a sand castle that’s concrete, because what’s inside is fragile.
Summers on a plane, I used to think, people who closed their windows on airplanes were sad people, because who didn't want to see a bunch of clouds, or miniature crowds, or the bright city under, or maybe even parts of the seven wonders?
Summers now on a plane, I still believe that people with closed windows are sad people, but only because they don’t want anything in, they tend to push away whoever tries to come in.
Summers on a plane, I used to think that if you pushed hard enough on the windows of people, you’d be able to touch the clouds.
Summers now on a plane, I still believe that if you push hard enough on the windows of people, yes, you’d be able to break in, but instead of a soft cloud, you’d be able to feel their cold storm, and just maybe, you’d be able to touch them.

Summers camping, I learned the closer you are to the fire, the better the s’mores.
Summers camping now, I am still learning that the price of being too close to the fire, is getting burnt.
And I’m still growing. Still growing, and holding on to the sand, so when a wave hits, I’ll be tall enough to stand.
Still enduring, and curing no longer the scraped knee from the monkey bars, but the scars within me.

Still in need of motivation, and some type of inspiration, to keep the camp fire of compassion burning in me.
Still in need of tolerance and acceptance, that not everyone’s cold storm can be warmed with a jacket, but it’s never bad to give it a try, to see eye to eye.
And I’m still learning, still earning knowledge through these summer experiences.
Still realizing, and analyzing the purpose for my existence.
Still figuring out the reason, why I age so much in this season.
Why I’m aging as flowers decay slowly during the day, or when schools are empty, while pools are full, or when ice cream shops are booming, or when the sound of booming scatters in the sky in July, or when I’d hold my mom’s hand less often during the take-off in the plane going to Hawaii.
I’m not the same, my aging cannot be tamed.
Summer to me, is the flame that lights up the candles on the birthday cake.
If you asked me how old I am. I’d say 15. But if you asked what my summer age is, I’d say, “older than you’ll ever think.”

Alison

15

fling

our sunday morning filled with gray rain
droplets on streams of light
hitting the arid dirt land
with the force of bare
knuckles and I smiled when I heard you ask
if we could wear white

before labor day and I rolled my eyes so the white
was showing and said yes as the rain
banged on the windowsill asking
for entrance into our light
hearts and brave bare
souls I should have let the fireflies land

on our porch and listen to land-
aged cicadas singing to their white
deaths their smooth bare
wings fluttering like weeping rain
leaning on the slanting light
melding into the lake I should have asked

you when does summer end but if I did ask
we would become a plane scraping to land
wheels against red lights
as our love draped against white
tarmac sagging under the acid rain
of Norwegian skies stripping pines bare

of foliage under boldly bare
flat clouds to ask
so much of you in the drenching rain
in our house even if I needed somewhere to land
after flying too much in white
light

would be unfair to your poor light
heart and your naked bare
chin and the pale white
smoothness of your arms I’m happy I didn’t ask
because if I did you’d bring me down to land
and fill my mouth with bitter rain

from heathen foreign rains
so why are you asking me how to land
from our sky to land where no one asks

Alison

15

five senses of summer

one:
stranger’s sweaty fingers
gripping nervously around your waist
hair swinging feet patting the
gum-stained concrete
hips mamboing to the ta-ta-ta-ta rhythm
from the boombox on the corner

two:
intermingled saturday night porch cigars
and old burnt charcoal no one cleaned out of
barbecue pit
and the decay of droopy wisteria
fade into black

three:
cicadas night in, night out
plugged in your ears
as you strain to distinguish their
everlasting morbid song
from the hiss of tailpipes in the street

four:
ice cream soup on too-hot days
sickening sweet on the teeth and then
sour aftertaste sucking in your
cheeks and grinding on your teeth

five:
leaking drops of sunset
into the embracing swells of ocean waves
as colors drain out of the sky
and the night yawns

Sean

16

The Coca-Cola Gang

Four gangly adolescents emerge from the creek
their clothes streaked with mud
pebbles cascading from their hickory-colored hair

Passing them, they stare
a look of annoyance and anticipation

I round the bend
the tires bouncing over the cracks

they crack open the cokes they'd smuggled from ____ their mom's basement fridge
to quench their thirst on that July afternoon
picking the mud off their shirts
and laughing at my pointless hastiness.

Sophia

16

"polaroid moments captured forever on glossy paper"

I am afraid that one day
all of my friends will collectively decide
to give up on me, and I will be left alone
and my anxiety will swallow me whole,
neon green nail polish chipping on a nail.

I want to be funny without being mean
I want to stop sucking at everything in my life
a dead butterfly almost symmetrical,
except for it’s missing wing.

purple lilac hair tied up in a messy bun,
some leaking down the back,
I am afraid of being the family disappointment,
I am afraid I will let my mother down,
I want my sister to enjoy hanging out with me.

tall buildings scraping the sky and blocking the sun.
I am afraid of heights, or maybe, not heights , but falling.
I want to fall in love dizzyingly hard and fast.
I want to be spectacularly, amazingly happy, for a long time.

Victoria

17

Renaissance

A white fan hums to the buzz of cicadas,
The sunbaked grass sits cool beneath my bare feet,
Clandestine mosquitoes kiss the backs of my ankles,
But I wait quietly.
The steamy Sunday dusk glows orange, pink, then purple,
And traces of barbecue mingle in the perfume of sleeping nectar.
The dark green garden shyly flickers to life,--
one by one, July’s Christmas lights
except they’re kaleidoscopic summer lights,
But I wait quietly.
Luminescent sprites daintily meander a breeze
casting ghostly auras of color
to the waiting azaleas and peek-a-boo branches.
A glittering jar wanders with nonchalance into the neon sparkles.
Miniature stars scatter like fireworks.
But one star shines brightly in the hand-cupped jar,
Brilliance.

Brilliance quietly waits.

Margaret

16

To the woman at the sidewalk:

What does rain look like with hazy white cigarette in one hand
and plastic wrapped lilies in the other— tilting her eyes back to the pitter patter
of this cement littered with rusted brick-dust and yellowed shards that told the
propped elbow on the windowsill how things are set to flame and how evening

and smoke on the rooftopsill spilled ascetic scarlet
that stretched conflagrant wings unfurled over rosy cheeks and
a half empty paper cup she held from coffee-shop
to inferno’s smithy shop where ghost smog crackled
crumpled the family sepia photo into how a black rose may be folded
flaming record that played all of fire’s eruptions in finale’s requiem.

The phoenix sets herself to flame in a funeral
but her life comes again rebirthed in ash
while it all fell to silence that speckles the grey pavement with wetness

as she caught herself staring at the rubble— it was the stupid July rain that fell into her eyes
not the delayed tears or maybe it was
just that ash tumbling out when rubber sole extinguished cigarette because
“Mama, I Love You” fell to the ground into the silent austere charcoal
with her streaming auburn locks motionless twice a decade ago and

“It’s beautiful” comes exhaling after so long: Time was no longer cruel— after droughts

She thought the rain was Beautiful.

Margaret

16

McCrae

“I wish

I heard the horses, when you came
you held me together. I was only scorch stained raw.

I don’t know when skies quite remember
when we were lost together under the
sun bitten azure that stretched for unrelenting
miles miles miles miles miles
when shadows ceased to exist from my eye’s religion— but tell me
why
you decided to

come to me
when I was soaked from head to toe in
a scarlet that roses and all other things I might call ‘red’
failed to paint yesterday (and scores before)
and a ashen dirt black that filled up my insides
like the sea of soot that rolls beneath my calloused feet
suddenly surged and poured into my every:

tatter and tear
patchwork and scarwork
bite under my lips and in whatsomeonecalls a soul
again again again again again
And Here
You Are
when I had no voice or pious hymn
I ride behind you as we tread sand-washed walls
Hoofstep on Footstep on Heartstep
to silent shattered fort for
nightfall and the rain to spill

—Water revives the Rose of Jericho
in a clumsy wide stretch of a resurrected “morning”
from a crumbled grey tousle of yesterday (and scores before)
to flourished pluming flush
beneath the glazed still brook

it’s a riveting baptism
fingering, trailing the crystalline mirrors
from earth dusted soles
to ivory spine on wet pebbles
of
“Won’t hurt you”s
“Just remember”s
“To live”s

i’m torn i’m held
his hands. I reach. There.
“I’ll see you’re let be.”
I am Here.

we could stay here.”

Margaret

16

Yesterday you woke me

___with pushing and tugging hands
___from my checkered covers to stumbling bleary-eyed yawns
stretching my fingers to a new June sky,

Shadows dappled dewy greens in gentle breezes while
___the light weaves satin in soft soft ripples
___pond waters when we paddled our feet in clear crisp wake
___in which some kind of fish
have yet to bite our lines
we drew when playing hopscotch with dripping popsicles
___(which may not have been the best of ideas)
painting chalk, face, and pavement sticky-orange but
___afternoon watermelon juice streaked the length of our arms anyways.

Our sandals were forgotten because
our feet can take All the work they need to do racing
___down the Mississippi and back to tumbling giggles and
our hands are knit together —only this flower strewn meadow knows that
___dirt browned hands were tangled in my hair—
cicada hymns echoed in one sweet cacophonic tune under late August’s
___frail white constellations
______knowing to…

Dream on
___to whispering firefly wings softly:
___they will always return.
Hold on
___to baby blue forget-me-nots tightly:
___they were cut, but still sweet.

to those popsicle days.

Sophie

14

Bask

Summer is, for me, not blazing hot.

I spend my summers
in classrooms,
cooled by fluorescent light
and the drowsing drone of the teacher
(Georgian, with Malboro Reds in his pocket each day).

He doesn't drawl, but rolls his Rs and has
too many consonants in his last name.
He told us, in his way, that there is
nothing in the world like solving a problem,
that the satisfaction was better than any
summer standby
of lemonade in brutal heat.

When I return
still sallow from a July of pencils and paper
I return to a town of sand in the streets and everywhere else,
and wind whisking away the sun's glare.

I spend my summers
on the beach,
stiff with seawater
and the burning sting of salt
(the wind in my face when I bicycle at night soothes it away).

Out at all hours, we are the party of eight
at the back of the diner
laughing too loudly to be polite.

We blast music in parks
after dark and bask in moonlight-
our sky's too smoky for stars.
They tell me that there's nothing like coffee at night
and that there's something special about
the boardwalk when it's empty except for us.

When I return
to a different classroom
(according to legend,
my school was built to the plans of a prison)
when the wind whips my face more harshly than
summer's ever could,
I remember the sun's glare.