Inkblots 2011

inkblots 2011

inkblots 2011 Abington Friends School Middle School Jenkintown, PA

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Staff Class of 2015: Cora Pokrifka Class of 2016: Liam Archbold, Olivia Avery, Eleanor Avril, Jenni Bown, Lev Greenstein, Nina Harrod, Kerry LeCure, Maya Salvacion, Lucy Silbaugh, Kate Wellhofer Class of 2017: Hasina Gibbons

Faculty Advisor Christina Baik

Special Thanks

Donna Haines, Gilbert Printing Services

Cover Photo Ben Forman ‘15

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Table of Contents Writing

What I See Anonymous

22

What’s It To You? Isabelle Esposito ‘15

23

Stare Emma Sio ‘15

7

My Pretty Painted Smile Anonymous

23

I Am Here Monica Ross ‘15

8

What’s Wrong With It? Morgan Burrell ‘15

24

After Marc Chagall’s “Clock” Corey Naitove ‘16

8

Thirteen-year-old Born Thirty Alex Bailey ‘15

25

Ode to a Watermelon Lev Greenstein ‘16

10

Madness Anonymous

The Butterfly Butcher Anonymous

11

Pores Doug Garza ‘15

28

I Don’t Think They See Cora Pokrifka ‘15

14

Playground Kate Wellhofer ‘16

29

No Contact Celeste McDonnell ‘15

15

Rude Nick Sperger ‘15

29

Undertaken Anonymous

16

A Really Honest Letter Lucy Silbaugh ‘16 White Maya Salvacion ‘16

17-20

I’m Not Blind Connor Williams ‘15

Butterfly Claudia Sessa ‘15

21

A Shame Aidan El-Dada ‘15

3

26-28

30 31 32

Listen Jess Vorse ‘15

33

Ode to a Snowball Eleanor Avril ‘16

Artwork

34

Anna Zhang ‘15

7

Procrastination Cora Pokrifka ‘15

35

Chip Starr ‘15

9

Ode to NoodleTools Henry Pitcairn ‘17

38

Jade Swisher ‘16

10

What’s the Matter with Oobleck?

Eli Russell ‘16

39

Jillian Wray ‘17

10

An Account of the Plains Carley Felzer ‘17

40

Lucia Finney ‘16

11

Shards Vienna Vernose ‘16

41

Zoe Long ‘15

12

Winter Carley Felzer ‘17

42-43

Anna Zhang ‘15

12

Everything to Lose Cora Pokrifka ‘15

44-47

Nina Harrod ‘16

12

48

Maki Chung ‘16

13

Amara Malik ‘16

14

Maya Salvacion ‘16

16

Dandelions Vienna Vernose ‘16

4

Cora Pokrifka ‘15

16

Ben Forman ‘16

36

Kate Wellhofer ‘16

20

Nina Harrod ‘16

37

Lucia Finney ‘16

21

Alex Kats ‘16

38

Lucy Silbaugh ‘16

22

Olivia Avery ‘16

40

Lucia Finney ‘16

25

Matt Yetter ‘16

41

Grace Armstrong ‘16

28

Kerry LeCure ‘16

43

Allie Slagter ‘17

29

Emily Israel ‘16

48

Oliva Avery ‘16

32

Nick Sperger ‘15

32

Liam Archbold ‘16

33

Tatiana DiBucci ‘15

35

Nick Sperger ‘15

36

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6

Stare

Emma Sio ‘15

7

Anna Zhang ‘15

Have you ever just stared?

Just picked up a shirt or your sheets and just looked?

Seen the way the colors overlap, or felt the way the fabric rubs the wrong way on your arm?

I have.

I’ve felt my favorite shirt and I’ve looked, really looked at the flowers on my sheets and you know what I saw?

I saw a completely different shirt and a completely different bed.

So I picked up my plaid shoes and knew they looked different too.

Everything that used to comfort me, now confused me.

Why was everything so different?

Could it be… me?

Did I just realize that who I thought I was isn’t who I want to be?

I’m not me and why?

Because you changed me.

I thought I liked it but but now I’m not so sure.

I Am Here I am here.

But I am covered in a cloak, a black cloak like a rain cloud covering up the sun, the beautiful glowing sun concealed by the majority of blind men who are guided only by the already learned single stories that make up their souls.

Not open to anyone else who is new, these men are not blinded by the sun hidden behind a cloud, but by picking and choosing, putting people in and locking the rooms, carving in the walls what we are to blind men.

They say to try and try and try again, but if you keep talking, and not seeing, then why try at all?

So why is it hard to open your eyes?

I am trying, I am here.

After Marc Chagall’s “Clock” Just see, and stop telling me what to be.

The pendulum swings, It is blind men who put this cloak on me.

Time passes I am here, It has played its song since it was made so stop acting like I’m not.

Tick tock tick tock With little Russian churches up top Monica Ross ‘15 And golden balls down the sides The pendulum swings, Time passes Tick tock tick tock Corey Naitove ‘16

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Chip Starr ‘15

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Jade Swisher ‘16

Ode To a Watermelon Oh watermelon what you are to me You have a beautiful round green body And when you are covered in dew You shine one hundred times brighter than the sun But it is nothing compared to your taste A sharp knife slices through your magnificence And then an aroma envelops your surroundings With a preview of what your flavor shall be The first bite is beyond words A substance better than ambrosia fills my mouth And burns through every vein in my body with pure perfection I finish you up but then I think of the wasteful evil people Who launch you out of giant catapults Or smash you with baseball bats It’s so unfair for you have no defense But those people aren’t here now And you are still supreme So tasty so delightful so divine I love you watermelon!

Jillian Wray ‘17

Lev Greenstein ‘16

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The Butterfly Butcher The butterfly butcher is coming to town He’ll wake up tomorrow, start making his rounds His soul is like ice, his heart is too cold But he’ll catch all the butterflies with kisses and gold They’ll all fall in love, they won’t even try Then he’ll burn off their wings, it was all just a lie He’ll tell them to go, he’ll tell them to fly But their wings are burnt ashes, They just lay down and die.

Anonymous

Lucia Finney ‘16

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Nina Harrod ‘16

Zoe Long ‘15

Anna Zhang ‘15

12

Maki Chung ‘16

13 Maki Chung ‘16

I Don’t Think They See I don’t think they see.

They have beautiful pinstripe black suits with patent leather shoes, A leather briefcase that locks automatically.

Their wives, dressed in large droopy hats with ten-inch heels from Gucci.

They don’t understand.

They are too endowed in money and good health and good jobs To even dream of helping someone else.

Can’t they see their deep, desperate look?

No. They are caught by the small dapple of shine illuminating from their 14 carat gold rings.

They have probably never had the misfortune of never having money spring from their Pockets, Not being able to find new clothes, Having to sleep on yesterday’s news because you couldn’t pay the rent, Not finding a good job because you don’t have access to a shower or bathtub.

I don’t think they see.

Cora Pokrifka ‘15

Amara Malik ‘16

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No Contact She makes her way towards me, her direction and purpose clear He looks at me with hungry eyes wanting, asking I want to step forward to take them both by the arm Wishing there was something, anything I could do Wanting to go up to them and ask, where are your sisters, brothers, and friends?

Why are you here now? Cold, lonely, hungry Street smarts, be smart I remind myself So I walk on eyes locked on the path ahead as she brushes by me So I walk on not smiling as he watches me pass No contact No staring Then I wonder, If I had given her a penny would she have been able to buy dinner?

If I had given him a dollar would he have replaced the hand he lost in the war?

What if? What if?

I remind myself No contact No staring Walk on Celeste McDonnell ‘15

15

Undertaken

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Anonymous

Cora Pokrifka ‘15

Maya Salvacion ‘16

You took me under So deep under I nearly drowned You took me and emerged me Six feet under ground I was emerged In love with you There was no getting out

I was surrounded By your beauty, and your charm You dug a hole, so deep, so deep inside my heart

Especially with your eyes which lured me in looking in them, there was no turning back

So, you took me under So deep under I was drowned Enclosed, Captured ... Undertaken

A Really Honest Letter I sat and watched from the screened-in porch.

I watched it all, as my father left with nothing but a twitch of defiance in his spiky red hair. I didn’t say anything. There had been enough words already: quiet murmurings in the kitchen and family discussions and little remarks thrown willy-nilly into my life. I just watched a spider amble across the thick white-painted door and rubbed my finger across the prickly webbed screen.

If you were watching, you might not even know where he was going. Terri jabbered and smiled at Dad and the officers just a tad less charmingly than she would have normally, and when Dad pecked Mom on the lips, it was just a little longer than when she came home from work. If you looked really close you could see a smudge of glossy brown lipstick on his chin, but besides that he looked normal. Pinto barked and when Dad shushed him there was an almost unnoticeable glimmer in his eye.

When he hugged me good-bye, I stayed as limp as a pair of worn-out 12 slim Levi’s. And then he was gone, looking straight ahead in the passenger seat of that green 1997 Jeep.

I should’ve suspected it. Dad was such a “tough” guy. He had a tiny tattoo on his wrist. I think it was a Greek letter. He even had an earring when I was little, a tiny gold pinprick like a cat’s

retracting pupil. It fell out in the pool one summer and he never saw it again.

He was even in the Marines when he was twenty-one. The flag flickers in the breeze right under the red, white and blue even when it’s not the 4th of July, and Dad always works in little snippets about it to the conversation. Like the fact that in the Marines, everyone is working hard to protect the two guys on either side of him more than he is for himself, and how our family should be like that.

Sorry, Dad, but I guess you forgot to think about covering us when you signed the draft last May. Mom worked at the U.N. offices in Washington, D.C. She was smart and pretty and had no idea how to crochet or cook or take in the hem of a dress like moms did in books. Dad stayed at our blue clapboard house in Alexandria, Virginia. He knew his way around an oven because he had been on his way to a chef’s diploma when his friend Paul left for the Marines. Dad had always wanted to be in the army, and he and Paul were really close, so he left to follow Paul and never did get that diploma.

Some of my friends thought it was weird that my dad was the one who cooked and did the laundry at our house, but I could never really picture it any other way. Mom couldn’t stand housework, and Dad couldn’t usually hold down a job anyway,

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because he was a little flaky and didn’t like offices.

Dad got the idea in an e-mail from Paul.

Apparently, Paul had been rummaging through a box of photos and found one of him and Dad on the day of their graduation from the Marines. The caption said, “Is it time for a second adventure?”

It was supposed to be a joke, because Paul worked in a big company that made computer chips and he had three kids to take care of. Paul was always teasing Dad about cooking and sewing and stuff. I guess the photo was supposed to make Dad laugh, because from Paul’s point of view, neither he nor Dad was in great shape to ship off to Afghanistan with the Marines. Dad didn’t laugh. He got that wild look in his eyes that’s excited, scared and I guess just crazy. There was only one person who looked more worried: Mom. I really didn’t think that we’d be able to survive without Dad. For my whole life, he’s been the strong lifeline that held the rest of us together.

Mom was at work from seven-thirty to six, and Terri and I were still in middle school, after all. Dad was doing everything, all the yard work and bills and meals. It seemed as if he was a hundred-meter piece of green embroidery floss, threading itself through the boards of the house, all of the furniture, and the hearts and brains of the people, too.

But since he decided to leave, Dad’s magical thread had been disintegrating slowly, and now it was as if each of us had a threadbare centimeter left

inside. The house had long-since been unwound: the walls literally seemed to be buckling with all of the weight on the inhabitants. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it just gave up one day, crashing down on us in an avalanche of cheap veneer furniture.

I was perfectly safe, I knew that. Here I was, sitting in my sun-porch, totally engulfed by the strong wiry screens and whispery breeze. There was nothing uncomfortable about the room. Nothing at all, except for the feeling that stuck to the walls like flypaper, just as soon as that puffed up jeep skidded around the corner. * * *

Soon after he left, we began to get the letters.

They shuffled in like peckish white-winged pigeons, preening unopened on my desk and nibbling at my mind. They were all from Dad, of course. Why was he so desperate for communication? He was the one who left! Didn’t he expect that he would miss his family just a teensy bit? Yet Terri and my mother certainly didn’t care, because they hunched over cheap dollar-store stationary, always scratching messages to him.

“Sally,” said my mother one night, after reading another enveloped novel from Dad. “Your Dad’s almost done with his training.”

“So?” I monitored her words, censoring all emotion from them.

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“It’s important, Sally. It means he’s ready to be...”

“What, Mom, sent away? Shipped off like a UPS box? Just say it.” The ferocity of my words was dimmed by the whiny tone that I had meant to suppress. Suddenly I felt like a little kid. Just a stupid little kid.

Mom sighed, but a few words slipped out as a trailing afterthought. “Yes, he will be ‘shipped off,’ or...”

“Speak up. I can’t hear you.”

My mother looked me straight in the eye and spoke in purposefully clear, crisp words. “He could change his mind, and come home.” She glanced away sharply. “I’m going upstairs now.” She paused at the doorway, and leaned her head against the frame. “Your dad misses you, Sally.”

Yeah right, I thought, so much that he would leave for the Marines with not a backwards glance and then try to muster up a little care for me.

“Just at least write him one letter, Sally,” my mother’s voice thinned and squeaked and broke.

“Please?”

So, just like the Grinch who stole Christmas, something shifted in my heart at that moment.

I was no longer angry. Just tired and sad and determined. Determined to write a really honest letter. * * *

Dear Dad, Since you left, it’s been a little different around here. At first it was big and bulky and obvious, as if a pearly snowstorm just piled up on everything in our house. Everything was icy, Dad. Even me.

But, Dad, I was angry! Angry at the way you just got a little-boy dream and ditched your other life, the one where you had a wife and two kids-kids who needed you, who loved you, Dad, even if we didn’t always show it.

Dad, now the snow that fell is mostly gone.

But sometimes I feel the dregs of it, in Mom’s burnt macaroni, or as I leave the kitchen after ignoring your twenty-first letter.

I don’t agree with what you’re fighting for. I know that Afghanistan needs help with their government, but... it’s hard to explain, Dad. It just doesn’t feel right for a big, rich country like us to be marching into their world and killing off their people so that the ones that survive will live a better life.

Maybe it all ties back to that thing from the Marines, about how each soldier watches the backs of the two people on either side of them? It sounds cheesy, Dad, but I think our world should be like that. Especially the United States. We’re so rich and powerful that sometimes it makes me feel sick, but it wouldn’t if we could reach out and help all other people, in other countries. We could help them in a peaceful way that promotes life, not death.

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Lucy Silbaugh ‘16

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Kate Wellhofer ‘16

When you left, you made me feel fragile, like how I feel when I’m wearing a brand new pair of white sneakers that squeak on the floor; when someone like Stella Boyle has to go and say, “Nice shoes, Sally. Were they on sale, or did you have to use your own allowance to pay for them?” I feel crushed, and my squeaks don’t sound like music anymore.

You’re right. We’re a family, and it’s our job to take care of each other. To watch each other’s backs.

We’re a family, and there are only four of us. It takes millions of people to hold up a world, but it takes all four of us to hold up our family. ‘Cause, gosh, Dad, if all of a sudden you leave, I don’t know anything anymore. Who will watch my back if you won’t, Dad? I can’t change your world, only mine. And we are a family. We have to look out for each other. And for me, that means answering your letters, I know.

I understand that you’ve left, and I understand that you think it’s the right thing to do. Maybe I will, too, someday. So, Dad, I guess I just wanted to say, I love you.

Sally

White

Lucia Finney ‘16

A girl walks in a field of white roses Wearing a plain white dress of cotton In one hand a brush And in the other A pail She bends down Speculating a little rose Wilting and dying And with her brush and pail She paints the dying flower And turns it into something new That girl walks on Her hair blowing In the cool spring breeze With her brush And her pail Looking for Her love The red rose Among the white flowers Maya Salvacion ‘16

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What I See

She can try to fix it The mistakes With layers of make up That covers up the truth, But sometimes that doesn’t even help She still sees that layer of ugly.

She needs someone To tell her she is beautiful She doesn’t need make up to be pretty Unfortunately she doesn’t have that Prince Charming.

That’s just in fairy tales and fairy tales are just stories.

Not reality.

Anonymous

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Lucy Silbaugh ‘16

I look in the mirror.

I see a girl, She kind of looks like me, But I see something different.

I see a girl that’s uncomfortable in her own skin.

Who only sees blemishes.

That can point out any mistake on her face in seconds.

My Pretty Painted Smile

What’s It To You?

A final check in the mirror before I leave for school...

What will the kids think of me? Will they think I’m cool?

I swipe on some colorful lip gloss... my painted-on smile, Hiding the pale, trembling lips beneath... at least for a little while.

I flash that sparkling smile... I flash that glossy grin, To hide the insecurities that clearly lay within.

As I make my way from class to class I smile my pretty smile at every kid I pass.

Cliques begin to form... my lip gloss begins to fade.

I hurry up and reapply it... that smile I had made.

It looks like no one noticed... it looks like I’m in the clear.

As the fresh swipe of colored gloss makes my painted-on smile reappear.

I don’t know how long this lip gloss tube can last.

So, I better find out where I fit in and I better do it fast.

One empty room to you, My other half gone to me, Torn from me, Flesh ripping, Tearing, A cold pillow, Your body heat warming Nothing, One less person To talk to, I’m the only one to respond, Question marks hitting my face, Stinging just as much as the last one, One empty room to you, My other half gone to me.

Isabelle Esposito ‘15

Anonymous

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What’s Wrong With It? It’s nappy or braided and out “What’s wrong with your hair?”

“I don’t know, what’s wrong with it?”

“It’s not straight.”

“Is straight the only kind of beauty?”

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

SMH, I think it was.

This white girl image has taken over.

Nappy is beautiful, you can work it too.

Is this why my skin is bad too? Because it’s dark? Mine’s lighter than yours, is that good?

Why is lighter and straighter better than dark and curly?

Because they’re minorities?

Because of what rules this society?

What else rules? Skinniness?

‘Cause I love my curves!

They make me, they protect me.

Dancers too… skinny as a stick Too bad my curves aren’t going anywhere Neither is my passion for moving on that stage.

In my leotard and tights.

So ‘cause I’m not skinny, I’m not fat… I’m thick, sweet caramel that’s so sticky it can’t move.

I’m not going anywhere.

Morgan Burrell ‘15

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Thirteen-year-old Born Thirty After you’re old, you can’t get being a girl back.

One chance.

Don’t waste it.

Alex Bailey, ‘15

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Lucia Finney ‘16

Don’t look at me like you don’t know what I’m talking about.

That skirt way too short for a girl your age.

Don’t look at me with your gloss-covered mouth and the colored skin behind your soul.

It’s masking it.

The true song that sings out from your mouth.

Why cover it?

The way it’s masked, it sounds like screeches and warbles that could be more.

You’re beautiful.

Why pretend you’re not?

And color your eyes a different color or decompose your freckles?

You’re not thirty.

You’re a girl.

Don’t waste it.

If you’re going to be old soon, why do you want it now?

madness that number that look how many ribs can i count? it’s stuck in my head i must get to it nothing else matters “what happens when you get to that number?” my shrink says she bores into my vulnerable emotions uncovering my deepest secrets because, who else can i tell how deeply i’ve buried myself into this disease? her glasses, halfway down her slender nose, she pushes them back into place and repeats a sympathetic look on her face “so what will happen when you get to that number?” the question troubles me i don’t know the answer because it has never occurred to me before 107 104 103.8 numbers decreasing pound by pound and slowly decreasing calorie by calorie how long can i last like this?

how long can i last on 100 calorie yogurt and plain salad? when was the last time i drank something? i don’t know i’m an empty, lifeless shell my mind a dull buzz of numbers curled in a ball slowly sinking into the pillows and cushions of the squishy sofa shivering in my sweatshirt starving i can’t remember being warm i’m always cold even though it’s summer i must punish myself push my body to its limits because i can’t trust it anymore i have to the huge purging spree it can’t happen again never again the countless calories probably making me gain weight as we speak the tears start to run down my face because that image looks so far away and i can never get to it only a dream in a crazy girl’s fantasy she leans forward in her chair closer to me the sweet smell of the mint she’s eating wafts

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towards me it makes my stomach gurgle “do you know how much you weigh?” she doesn’t wait for the answer to the last question i look at her i didn’t get to see my last weigh-in weight the doctor hurriedly covered it up before i got a glimpse i long to know that number every ounce in my body wants to know i nod my head for her to continue and then return to staring at the wall counting always counting “98” 98 she says i keep repeating her answer in my mind a sigh escapes from my chapped lips shock engulfs me my body becomes rigid 20 pounds since this all started i wait for the fireworks to come and the happiness that’s supposed to come from this from starving myself for months to get under 100 pounds joy a sense of accomplishment but i don’t feel anything i feel the same i feel like crap

i start to laugh laugh while i cry the tears really coming hard now i feel nothing i’ve reached my goal now what? i don’t know what to do now i don’t look the way i want to look but who knows what i look like anymore the image in the mirror just shifts and changes into my nightmare every time this isn’t what’s supposed to happen this isn’t my dream my shrink hands me a yellow flower tissue box i decline, preferring my sleeve to wipe the tears from my eyes my movements robotic she calls my name i look at her still sniffing a little bit only facing her with half my face her eyes are ice cold “you’re going to die” there was no wavering in her voice i guess that’s it now what’s left of my options i’m going to die hooked up to machines a feeding tube down my nose as still as stone because i wouldn’t have the energy to live

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Anonymous

Grace Armstrong ‘16

or care anymore waiting day by day to die praying how much time do i have left? months or years? i stare down at my hands and slump back into the pillows cupping my face in my hands shallow sobs come in fast and painful rip through my teeth i look at her for the first time straight in the eyes and through the sobs i say my voice barely a whisper sounds more like a croak than anything “I don’t want to die”

Pores

Large caves full of mystery and wonder.

You dive in.

Unknowing, you splash into all of my encaged secrets Held in a chest. You rip open my locks.

You discover my secrets and my weaknesses.

Hatred and disgust boil above your red demonic face.

Discrimination opens the door and enters your mind.

You throw out all of my secrets, Destroying me from within.

My pores are exposed, as vulnerable as a newborn infant.

Visions of others tear through the air, As if they were ripping the molecules piece by piece.

My pores, known only to me, small and sensitive.

Don’t look through that microscope; you’ll ruin me.

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Doug Garza ‘15

Rude Playground A stuffy room, filled with stuffy people.

Chattering on with meaningless words, about how great we were.

Outside, freedom is found in an old playground.

Heels flung carelessly from feet, dress shoes and jackets dangling from monkey bars.

For ten minutes blessed freedom.

Joyous shouts from children on swings, the sweet kiss of moonlight on our faces, the warm breeze playing with our hair.

For one night, freedom is found on a playground.

I’m not racist, but, I’m white.

Most of them are black.

I don’t want to be rude or seem like I’m racist.

I don’t want to jump ahead.

Ahead of all of them with their puffy coats with fur lining.

Nice shoes.

I’m wearing Asics.

Not stylish.

At all.

Just running shoes.

“They won’t mind,” my mom says.

“Just walk up, and ask for it.”

She makes it easy.

Easy as saying hello to your best friend.

Kate Wellhofer ‘16

Allie Slagter ‘17

I hold the “Ranch Dipping Sauce” getting the “Ranch Dressing Sauce.”

Is there such a big difference?

Is it the small difference that bugs me most?

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Nick Sperger ‘15

I’m Not Blind Connor Alexander.

The Fierce Leader of Men. You could say I was blessed with it, Or rather cursed or hexed, even jinxed.

Whether it’s really in the name, doesn’t matter.

These are my people, my friends.

Our house is disturbed and distraught.

My name means leader of men, Not savior, not messiah, For those who carry the burden are often labeled as such.

I see everyone, though Sometimes I turn my back to the ugly parts of our system, The fabric of us.

I act like I don’t see, Like I don’t hear, As if I’m blind and deaf.

“Lead with your actions, Connor,” I tell myself quietly.

“This isn’t the time, it’s not the place and you aren’t the one.

The charge isn’t yours.”

I can’t live their lives for them, Nor can I filter their words.

To those who follow my lead, We walk as one truth.

I won’t change for you, And you don’t have to change for me.

Connor Williams ‘15

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G C And the bruises on my legs‌. Purple and black

D Stained for a while

ABurning my eyes and my heart E- (F) (G) C But I am alive and I cannot dream of a fairy tale life

Butterfly C I am held down by my attitude E My looks / My brains / My clothes / My fears F But I will soon be free AG Like the butterfly that is flying around inside of me C As I lie down at night E Thinking about school and friends and boys

A life that I will live if I live that long Long enough to go to college or to graduate To sit on my porch Gray and old My grandchildren around me Baking cookies and muffins from scratch I want that life But I will wait Wait like the caterpillar in its cocoon Transforming Into the butterfly flying around inside of me I want to be free To make choices for myself As I lie all alone at night Dreaming of the boys that are impolite Pushing and shoving Wanting to be tough But inside of every one of them Is a butterfly Wanting to fly into the summer sky

F The tears spill The hatred comes out My eyes flash a brilliant shade of scarlet The night swallows me Eats me whole and spits out my bones Crumpled on my pillowcase CHORUS F

G Waiting for my prince to come and take me away C D Take me away to his ranch in the country

F With the tan and gold horses

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Claudia Sessa ‘15

Olivia Avery ‘16

A Shame You’ll ruin me, You’ll ruin anybody, Just for a little attention, For a little recognition.

Then someone will ruin you For the same rewards.

Then you’ll ruin that person Or someone else, To regain what you lost.

Sometimes I wonder, When will the cycle stop?

Nick Sperger ‘15

Aidan El-Dada ‘15

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Listen Lately, everyone’s been doing too much doing.

“Actions speak louder than words” “Make your voice heard” Sure, it’s great to do and say, But if everyone does and says, And says and does… who’s left?

Who’s left to watch?

Who’s left to listen?

No one!

If there are no more watchers And no more listeners Then the doers won’t know what to do And the speakers will have nothing to say.

Liam Archbold ‘16

Jess Vorse ‘15

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Ode to a Snowball Oh, my Snowball Amazingly perfectly round, wet Shiny, and glimmering, you sit content I crouch low to the crackly floor of the fort I wind up; my arm becomes an ancient catapult Preparing to toss you into the air like a bird, soaring I release, and you fly quickly across the deep blue sky You are shimmering like a gorgeous star, and I adore you Into my neighbors’ yard you soar, swaying in the breezes Wind propels you up, up, and soft, sweet air envelops you You could never get caught in tangled, entwining branches Oh snowball, you are too ethereal for lowly flora and fauna How could anyone even presume to be as gentle as thee?

You drift and sail, skimming along small gusts of wind However, soon, you are declining and descending fast You are decreasing and dwindling and diving now You are plummeting and plunging right now Now, you are tumbling and tripping fast All traces of dignity are gone now You fall upon my head SMACK! Eleanor Avril ‘16

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Tatiana DiBucci ‘15

Procrastination A cranium conundrum; The whizzes and whirls and sparks that should be hydrating you Are left dry and empty In the desert plains of your mind.

You look at the ticking clock, Its twitching moustache, Slowly releasing you into painless stress, The minutes dripping away, Leaking through the floorboards.

You want so desperately To be pre-occupi – Look! A glint.

The shiny laptop, like a glistening, pleading, juicy apple.

So tempting, so…

You already have its lights illuminating on your face.

You open Word.

And then, as the minutes flutter away like colorful butterflies batting at the air…

The quick sparks and whizzes and whirls hydrating your mind, But in a senseless way…

You’ve successfully wasted your time with this poem.

Cora Pokrifka ‘15

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Ben Forman ‘15

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Nick Sperger ‘15

Nina Harrod ‘16

Ben Mass ‘17

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Ode to NoodleTools I am writing an ode to NoodleTools, Which is something devised by mules... or fools.... or devilish ghouls, to be used by terrible schools without any rules about how annoying a program can be... and so they use NoodleTools.

Now I’m sure you can see that at school, we should no longer use NoodleTools, which was most certainly devised by mules... and fools... and devilish ghouls.

Please, no more NoodleTools!

Henry Pitcairn ‘17

You might think my poem is done, but I can tell you for sure that there will be plenty more and it will all be a bore.

NoodleTools really stinks, almost as much as the music played at ice rinks or the smell of a squid when it inks.

Alex Kats ‘16

When I attempt to create my notecards, it tears them to pieces and it rips them to shards, then my pleas it disregards, and promptly discards my precious notecards.

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Title: What’s

the Matter with OOBLECK?

Statement of Problem: What is the state of matter,

For OOBLECK--the scientific batter?

Hypothesis: Now if I had to place a bid,

I bet I’d bet on some liquid.

Although I believe it won’t be 100 percent,

I do feel strongly liquid makes me content.

Materials: * A Ziploc baggie--sandwich size

* 30 milliliters of corn starch--if you are wise

* An undisclosed amount of water, which does not have an aroma

* A graduated cylinder with a college diploma

* ... And a slice of wax paper is what we would advise!

Procedure: 1. Op’ning your baggie is how you’ll begin.

2. Now take your cornstarch and dump it all in.

3. Measure out 15 milliliters of water in your graduated cylinder.

4. Now pour that water in your baggie and try not to blunder.

5. Close your bag.

6. Squeeze your bag and compose your bag.

7. If your creation seems too thick, add more cornstarch to make it denser.

8. And out on your wax paper is where dumping your bag should occur.

9. Play with your Oobleck!

10. Figure out its state of matter... this project isn’t just for the heck of it!

Eli Russell ‘16

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Olivia Avery ‘16

An Account of the Plains The loveliness is vast. Vast as the deep blue sky.

The grasslands sway in the warm breeze.

And in all the region there is gold.

The land stretches out like an ocean, With the sea not far away.

The kingdom is the strongest for miles.

And in all the region there is gold.

Their king is wise as no other.

The people dance with joy, Each day, As no other people do.

And in all the region there is gold.

The animals, The Lion, His kingly stature, His mane of magnificence, Can be seen watching Over from His perch On the far rock On the north side of the land.

And in all the region there is gold.

Carley Felzer ‘17

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Matt Yetter ‘16

Shards Broken Glass, I hear your scream of pain.

The clink noise, Then comes the chattering painful echo.

I hear your scream on my bathroom floor.

You touch the marble with a bang.

Almost like a knife, The cold, cool touch Then the roaring red pain A million of your little shards are air-born They look like tiny rain drops.

Your raindrops of glass are neatly dispersed.

I feel I am you.

I feel broken, I feel pain.

The marble looks crystallized.

You look like sugar coating the floor.

I still picture that creamy marble And your sugary glass, scattered on top.

The full-length mirror behind me mocks my sadness.

Is that even me?

Or just a dream?

If only it was.

If only, if only, I commonly say.

If only you didn’t break.

Vienna Vernose ‘16

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Winter

The snow is falling fast and quiet. The world is an icicle. Beautiful.

Fast Forward: Three days later: The world is gray. Beautiful.

Rewind: Three days ago: Four children run screaming from a house. They push each other down and start to play.

Fast Forward: A pessimist, otherwise known as man, walks down a gray street, wearing a trench coat of his burdens.

A pickup truck speeds by, splashing him with yellow slush and water.

The man mutters curses to the driver, long gone.

Rewind: Snowballs fly through the air. An igloo begins to take shape, a fort, a barrier for the warriors.

Fast Forward: The gray man continues to walk down the street, kicking at the blackened snow, the charcoal snow.

Rewind: A woman opens the door to a house and steps outside, shivering. She calls her children inside; there is hot cocoa waiting for them, she says. They trip over each other, running for it. After all, the snow is slowing down anyway.

Fast Forward: The man in the trench coat still strolls, marveling at the beauty of the day.

It’s cold.

It’s gray.

It’s slushy.

It’s the kind of day that I live for.

The aftermath of a rainbow.

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He shouts to a business man carrying a briefcase across the street.

What do you think of when you think of winter? Trees like icicles? The crispness of the air? The magnificence of the perfect white snow covering the grass? What do you think?

The man with the briefcase turns and shakes his head and walks on, staring at the concrete sidewalk.

The gray man chuckles.

I see the cloudy skies, dull cold, yellow slush, blackened snow.

I see the charcoal snow, and it’s beautiful!

Carley Felzer ‘17

Kerry LeCure ‘16

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Everything To Lose (JOHN and BILL, two office workers, are on the roof of their office building. It is morning. JOHN is trying to have a heart-to-heart with BILL, who hasn’t gotten much sleep.)

(Lights fade in.)

JOHN: Have you ever just stopped and stared into the abyss? Just looked at a sunset flaking like filo dough behind the trees?

(Beat, BILL nodding off.) I have. It really makes you think about the meaning of life.

(Beat.) Have you?

BILL: (Rubs eyes. Is very tired.) What…? (Looks around in mild shock.) The roof? Why are we on the roof? It’s not lunch break yet…

(Beat.) This must be a dream.

JOHN: Maybe life is just a dream. In the eye of some other beholder we are unaware of…

those geese, the ones over there in the long V? And the black thick skyscrapers befuddling humanity with their height? If you look closely, you can see where the scrapers just brush the bellies of the birds, a symbiotic relationship where they each live peacefully in the sky. Or, possibly, frenemies in some sort of frivalry, each wanting the sky for themselves…

(Beat, BILL staring at him.) Isn’t that too good to be true? (Pause.) My life. It’s a mess. I’ve veered in the wrong direction. I don’t know why I work here, in a constricting cubicle. I always thought my work would be a refuge, a sanctum, a holy temple. It’s a living hell!

B: (Slowly waking up, the sun a little too bright in his face.) Why are you bringing me into this? If you wanted psychological help at seven in the morning you should’ve asked someone else. I’m going back to the Girgenshaw project.

J: What? No, don’t go away.

BILL: No. I didn’t mean… never mind.

B: (Starts walking away.) You can’t control me.

J: No, truly. Look out onto the skyline. Do you see

J: (Stops BILL, brings him back.) We’ve been working

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on that project for three months day and night and have gotten nowhere. All that we’ve accomplished is slowly drifting off into less and less sleep. Our office is horrible.

B: Look, I couldn’t care less about the project. I just need to get by. I don’t have anywhere else to go and I won’t be bothered with all your moaning and groaning. At least our office has a vending machine and… well, yeah… it has a nice vending machine.

J: Their coffee tastes horrible, our boss is a moron who sometimes screws up on payday and gives us the wrong check, and the swivel chairs don’t swivel and they constantly fall apart!

B: The coffee may be a little watery, but Mr. Felderman is trying his best, honestly. And you’re not supposed to be swiveling anyway. That’s how the chairs fall apart in the first place. If you’re so upset why don’t you just quit? You’ve apparently got nothing to lose.

J: You’re right. I’ll quit. Today.

B: (Starts to leave again.) Wonderful. Goodbye.

J: Can I have five dollars?

B: (Turns back around.) Huh? For what?

J: A road map.

B: (Sarcastic, exasperated tone.) Really?

J: I’m getting out of here, figuring out my life. All I need is those five dollars that I don’t currently have to locate it. (Spacing out.) Maybe I’ll gradually emerge around winding roads that wisp around deserted highways and classic diners!

B: What? No! You could easily go to Google Maps on one of the office computers and print one out right now.

J: Why would I want to? That makes us lose all of the adventure and excitement and activity. Do you really want everything you’d ever desire at the click of a mouse? We’ve lost all the excitement of finding what we can’t exactly locate by foot. There is no such thing as a mystery anymore. Everything is so planned, so expected, so organized. It’s too much.

It’s all too clean, too average. Do you know how much integrity a five dollar bill has? It’s been passed through the many hands of thousands, millions of citizens, all who have given this meaningless piece of paper purpose. They used it to buy sushi, or a book, or gave it to a charity fund. It now has a world of experiences behind it. Why can’t I have the same integrity as that five dollar bill? Why can’t I go and hunt down a real map located somewhere in the

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city? Because you won’t give me the money.

J: I don’t want your money. (Hands money back to him.)

B: (Aggravated.) Is the money all you want?

B: (Hands it back to JOHN, agitated.) Yes you do.

J: (Beat.) Yes.

J: (Hands it back to BILL, calmly.) No. I don’t.

B: (Handing JOHN the money.) Here. Take it. Maybe now you’ll shut up.

B: (Hands it back, more agitated.) Yes. J: (Hands it back.) No.

(JOHN processing what BILL said.)

(Beat.)

John, you’re living in la-la land. This is reality.

The average day doesn’t consist of purpose and meaning; it consists of hot trash and the homeless men on the street. You and I, we’re bottom-feeders.

We are nowhere close to Utopia. Just take the money and leave me alone. I’m not gonna fall into your psychotic breakdown.

(Beat.) I have no fallback plan. Just this job. I keep denying its poor quality, but I know it is. I wish I could do better than this. Oh well.

B: (Hands it back, more agitated.) Yes. J: (Hands it back.) No. B: (Crumples up and throws money on ground.) You don’t know what you want! Take the money. I don’t care what do with it. You can burn it if you want to.

(Kicks toward JOHN.) Just don’t give it back to me.

(Starts walking back downstairs to office, JOHN stops him.)

(Pause.)

J: You have no direction, Bill. Everyone needs an inner compass to even out our self-doubts. It’s not about the money anymore. It’s about saving you.

J: No.

B: Saving me?!

B: No, what?

J: (Sits down with BILL on floor of roof, NOT OVER LEDGE.) Come with me. I know you don’t know

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what’s truly fulfilling in your life. None of us do, unless we take the first stride towards improvement.

B: My life doesn’t need improvement!

J: Let’s quit our jobs, together.

B: You must be joking.

J: No more stupid bosses and vending machines and Google Maps. Just adventure. Just letting go instead of breaking down. Just analyzing the symbiotic relationship between skyscrapers and birds.

B: Are you deaf? I thought I told you no. I don’t want to hear all this stupid mumbo-jumbo anymore.

J: It is not mumbo-jumbo!

B: And I’m not breaking down. I’m just coping. (Sits at a different angle, angry.)

J: I can help you – B: You cannot help me. You will never be able to.

How many times do I have to tell you – we’re not living in a fairy tale. Happy endings don’t usually exist. You’re a nutcase to think that everything will be fine if we just go on a road trip and forget about our responsibilities!

(Beat.) It boggles my mind to think that you just don’t get it. I’m not leaving. Never. This is the one thing in my life that I have at least a little control over. I can decide what to eat, how long to be working on the Girgenshaw project every day, what I wear to work. That’s good enough for me. Why isn’t it good enough for you? (Exits down the stairwell.)

J: (Stares out.)

(Pause.) My god. What’s the point?

(Beat.) If I can’t accept my life the way it is, then how can I survive?

(Looks out in specific direction.) That’s just a bird.

(Looks in different direction.) That’s just a skyscraper.

(Looks out in different direction.) Those are just people and that’s just a taxi.

(Beat.) I’m not exceptional. Nothing is exceptional.

Miracles don’t exist.

B (From offstage.): You coming?

J: Yeah. I better get back to work. (Exits down the stairwell.)

(Lights fade out.)

Cora Pokrifka ‘15

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Dandelions “I wish to never again wish for anything, that I can make my own wish come true without help.”

And with my lips rounded, I blew.

All the little seeds flew, To make another person like me Wish.

Vienna Vernose ‘16

Emily Israel ‘16

I am standing here My purple slippers consoling my feet.

A big, puffy dandelion Is gripped in my hand.

The milky, sticky fluid drips out Of the bottom of the stem.

I look at the dandelion’s seeds, So full and luscious, Just waiting to be wished upon.

Then I think about how something so inferior, A weed, can give me my dreams.

I think, what to wish?

The eager weed almost says, “hurry up.”

The thoughts run through my head.

Do I wish for Love, My parents to be friends, To bring my grandmothers back, To have more money, For my friends and I never to fight again, To stop world hunger, To stop animal abuse, To get amazing grades?

There is so much to think about, So much I could wish for!

All by the power of this weed in my hand.

I thought about it.

And the words escaped from my mouth:

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Abington Friends School Middle School