The Stars Issue
Volume 15, Issue 4 March 2016
VOLUME 15 ISSUE 4 MARCH 2016
We are, each of us, a little universe.” NEIL DEGRASSE TYSON (1988-PRESENT)
When You Wish Upon a Satellite
Lightning bug Lullabies
A Slow Descent into Madness
I was I am
Her Eyes are Gold
the tale of the ever-wandering heart
Giants Before Stars
We were there once
he whO was elevated INtO the staRs
Genesis 11: 8
With Every Piece of My Soul
Beauty in Cosmos
Between the Lines
REBECCA FLETCHER BREANNA KETTLES
MANREET LACHHAR MITCHELL KOOH
Front Cover LENA YANG
Back Cover LENA YANG
ASHLEY HYND JOSEPH BRANNAN MEGAN COOKE SARAH CAMERON CYNTHIA YEH
AMANDA SCHEIFELE CARINA RAMPELT STEPHANIE SHOKOFF
MARIA KOUZNETSOVA REBECCA ALLISON ASHLEY HYND
REBECCA ALLISON PREYE T A
M STROME & CORA VANESSA HAVEN CHARIS HESKETH MADILYN BOZINIS
Inside Back KARA PYLE
EDITORIAL Editor-in-Chief Carina Rampelt firstname.lastname@example.org
Production Manager Anthony Haslam email@example.com
Literary Editor Breanna Kettles firstname.lastname@example.org
Art/Photography Manager Amanda Scheifele email@example.com
Promotions Manager Alexandria Schneider firstname.lastname@example.org
Web Editor Lydia Mainville email@example.com
Literary Intern Victoria Macedo
Art/Photography Intern Christina Manocchio firstname.lastname@example.org
Rebecca Allison, AC Anonymous Joseph Brannan, Jonathan Collie, Eric Dewar, Charis Hesketh, Donnique Williams
Caroline Alpert, Madilyn Bozinis, Sarah Cameron, Megan Cooke, Rebecca Fletcher, Cora Vanessa Haven, Ashley Hynd, Mitchell Kooh, Maria Kouznetsova, Manreet Lachhar, Andreas Patsiaouros, Kara Pyle, Nicole Rayskin, Matt Smith, Stephanie Stokoff, M Strome, Preye T A, Cynthia Yeh
ADMINISTRATION President, Publisher & Chair Bryan Stephens Executive Director Lakyn Barton Advertising Manager Care Schummer Vice Chair Abdiasis Issa Treasurer John Pehar Director Rafey Sattar Director Thomas Lillo Community Director Fred Kuntz Community Director Gary Doyle Community Director Angela Foster Corporate Secretary Emily Crump
CONTACT Blueprint Magazine 75 University Ave W Waterloo ON N2L 3C5 p 519.884.0710 x3564 blueprintmagazine.ca
The Stars Issue Do you remember the last time you looked up at the stars? Seeing the night sky has always stirred up memories for me—memories of happy times, of camping trips, of staying up too late talking with friends, of greeting the dawn after staying up all night for the first time. But also harder memories—memories of sickness, of insomniac anxiety, of sitting up into the wee hours by my grandmother’s bedside just before she passed. Looking up at the stars, you can see the memory of our universe. We do not see the stars as they are, but as they were: their light travels years—for some, millions, or even billions, of years—to reach us. Every time you look up at a sky full of stars, you’re looking into history. For thousands of years, people have looked up to the night sky and traced patterns there, tracked the movement of celestial objects in their courses. There’s something constant and comforting about looking up and knowing that action connects you to a whole human history—as though the stars somehow watch over our human memory as well as showing us their own. Yet constant as they seem, stars change. However, most change at so slow a pace you would need several human lifetimes to see the shift. What we can see is our own movement— the shift of the constellations with the changing of the seasons. And as the seasons change, so too does this little arts and literature magazine. By the time our next issue comes out, there will be a new staff and new Editor-in-Chief. As I write this note, I am filled with the memories of my past year with Blueprint Magazine. Being Editor-in-Chief has been one of the hardest and most incredible things I have ever done, and I feel so privileged to have had this opportunity. I give my sincere thanks to my wonderful minions—er, staff, our fabulous contributors, and you, dear reader, for making this year so memorable. In my first Editor’s note of the year I told you we all come into this world swimming. Now I’m going to tell you to keep shining—because in my eyes, you’re all stars. Until next time, dear reader, good night.
Carina Rampelt Editor-in-Chief
COVER Stars by LENA YANG
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The word “stars” is so diverse in meaning that it would be difficult to attribute any particular “default” definition to the word. There are Hollywood stars, gold stars for a job well done, and of course the stars we see in space. Astronomy has always been a great interest of mine, which is why I chose to illustrate “stars” in the astronomical sense. Every year, my family would go to our cottage where there was so little light pollution that you could see the entire Milky Way. And seeing the sky from such a vantage point really showed me how fluid a multitude of stars can appear. That’s why the cover is a boat in the sky: we are living in a river of stars.
NEXT ISSUE Adventure On stands Summer 2016
You were made of star dust; nebulas brought to nothing in your eyes Told me I was all you could see; that black holes often have that effect That you wonder all the time; consumed by the circles of the universe You were made of star dust; nebulas brought to nothing by your eyes
Little bug, like the metamorphosis of each sunset, you are reborn as twilight glows to fade from bristling beetle to flittering lantern wafted on a dusk air Little one, grab life like a firefly pounce two-handed and wide-eyed with joy wait patiently for each magic glow, then release it like a dream, for if you hold too tightly It will die in your hand Little one, may your dreams be steadfast as the stars, yet dance when it seems like the sun isnâ€™t shining
Homesick MEGAN COOKE
Floating, Drifting like wood This body of water cradles me in its wide set of arms Surrounding me from head to toe The chill of the sea And the warmth of my muscles collide Crashing together like sharp rocks and the tide The feeling in my limbs drain Leaving nothing by numbness in its place Echoes of loneliness bounce off each wave And my body remains limp and frail Floating in the never ending sea The waves cover me like blankets And play the lullaby everyone longs to hear when placing a shell to their ear I nestle up into the waves, dreaming of home And this body of water rocks me to sleep Neither of us knowing where Iâ€™ll end up once I wake You are my home And Iâ€™m homesick
Her Eyes Are Gold
I wonder what it’s like, To see the stars as our sisters and wonder, If maybe we are the strangers, And no one was nice enough to tell us. That maybe in our attempts to stop the loneliness we have all inherited, It only leads us to perpetuate the struggle. To dream of times where we won’t be gone from ourselves, Or missing from not just our minds. I wonder if I were to run, How far would I get before anyone would miss me, Or notice I’m gone? If I kissed her would they riot and let me rot where I stand? If I ever believed I had caught happiness in a butterfly net, Would they cut it open, And let it bleed out between my fingers? I wonder what it’s like to have a friend, I have so few sometimes I can’t tell if they are walking in or out the door, And I don’t bother to get too attached in case they notice me. The real me under all these layers of lies and tales to make myself sound interesting. I don’t wear makeup, maybe I should, Maybe that would hide whatever it is that people see in me that keeps them away. The truth maybe. It’s not like I like it either. If I was colourblind, Would I ever get the chance to love the cosmos for their emptiness and wholeness all at once? Would I get the chance to see her, Dreaming about me, Thinking about what I am doing and who I am seeing, And when I’ll come back from the recesses of my mind? Would I get the chance to pull myself together? To clip off any unwanted fragments and let the best parts shine through the deadheading. They say it makes them grow better, They can focus all their attention on making prettier blooms, Not suffering in hopes of making the withered ones come back to life. Am I just an object to be looked at, but not to be seen, To be appreciated for what others want in themselves, But never really loved for who I am, Or what I have gotten myself into.
I wonder if the world will ever stop spinning so fast, That I might actually get the chance to squish my toes through fresh grass, The due caught on my painted toenails and just rest for a moment. I wouldn’t mind if I was on the bottom of the world or the top, As long as I was just there. They want me to be something, A big deal, To not waste my potential on things that might make me happier. I just want to find her, And let her tell me that everything will be okay, That my nightmares are just fairy tales that the thunder made, And the scars on my body are artfully drawn constellations, And that freckle underneath my eye is just as beautiful as the one on my hand, back, leg, And it doesn’t matter if my hair is blue, Or neon yellow, Or even if I’m bald, Because she will stay with me, She will love me, And my nonsensical intricacies and idiosyncrasies, (And I won’t feel so alone.) But for now, I’ll wonder what it’s like, To see the stars as our sisters and wonder, If maybe we are the strangers, And no one was nice enough to tell us.
the tale of the ever-wandering heart CYNTHIA YEH underneath the starry sky of the forlorn night a single lonesome wanderer journeys on trekking, encompassed with a cloak of blue in search for his true love seeking to find this love hidden deep within in good time a deleterious and intricate thing it be, time its occurrence shifting from day to night acquainted with the clock ticking within the wanderer journeys on surviving solely on the thought of love he meanders into the blue once in a moon of blue appearing as the interlude of time the sky uncloaks herself â€“ his one true love a failure to recognize this union of the night the wanderer continues to journey on seeking to find this love hidden deep within the outcry of his feelings within are nothing but coloured blue the gleam of the sun has gone on a once upon a time for journeying on, he will, through the night until he finds that love where the Northern Star points: love telling him to evolve the language within and speak to the night ridding him of feelings of blue stars fall, a race against time the wanderer must cease to journey on with such ignorance, sorrow will carry on unless he locates that love before the termination of time obliged to search within to extract the blue born amidst the forlorn night journeyed on; failed to search within for love, his heart transmuted to a midnight blue time stops; heart swallowed by the night
Cigfrie the Toxoad: Photograph Compliments of Rictin Trustle, Trustle Family Ranch, Rockfall Crick, Morea.
Lost Above REBECCA ALLISON Crane your neck. Worlds. Marvels. The dust beneath your feet. Above you, it shimmers. Imagination. Weaving images, myths and gods. Pointillism on an infinite canvas. Neck stiffens. Set upon the sky above. Lost to the wonders below.
Carol’s teacher once said that Orion was a summer constellation, and therefore could not be seen in the winter. Her teacher was an idiot. Lying in a half-finished snow angel she didn’t want to destroy, she found him by the one – two – three of his belt, and traced the form of a hero she didn’t know. The stars made silver threads between them that changed their form every time she drew them with her mittened hand. He was proud and strong. He was frail and afraid. He was battleworn. He was green. But he always faced away – poised to battle the darkness of the unknown around them. Orion was a hero with a face she couldn’t imagine, even in the moonlit cloud of breath that escaped when she spoke his name. He was a pale astral skeleton given form by the imaginings of a girl embraced by snow. Those fragile bones as soft, silver, and cold as the blanket around her. Carol’s teacher once said that stars were suns, blazing hot, billions of miles away. Her teacher was boring. The stars of Orion were the icy map of a titan scrawled upon the ocean of space – velvet, deep, unknown. She could follow the stars forever, an unending search for a hero in the bones of long-dead stars.
Dwarfs Keep Oh,
real, them and
don’t eyes don’t you
know? peeled. forget: massive.
When You Wish Upon a Satellite BREANNA KETTLES I used to make my summertime wishes on satellites and passing planes. (I thought the sparkly “stars” were more powerful). I knew the rules, and said the rhyme, and without fail… Nothing. To be fair, I always wished for crazy things. Like super powers, or a horse, or to make the school basketball team. Totally unreasonable wishes to demand of a poor satellite who only wanted to give the world HBO, not deal with the heartfelt plea of a child. Today, I don’t have a glittering dot in the velvet blue night to aim my wishes at. Instead, I wish on closer lights around me. Phone. Ring. I wish the office would call and offer me a job. Professor. Like me. I wish I could meet you on an intellectual level and not sound pathetic. Cute boy. Talk to me. I wish you’d admit to yourself that you want my number because I’m hilarious, and adorable, and… And I can’t keep wishing on satellites. Even if it would be nice once in awhile, they don’t make wishes come true. I do. (Well, except for the whole super powers thing. That’s still in the works with Marvel).
Light Jumpers AMANDA SCHEIFELE See the sea my playmate Come up and fly with me And bring your star points five Climb up to feel alive Slide down my comet tail Into the sea of stars And weâ€™ll be light jumpers Forever more
Vincent, 1889 CARINA RAMPELT
one lonely candle burns in the window of the lunatic asylum. the sky slips into a silk chemise behind a dark cypress tree and spritzes herself with midnight oil tonight is ripe for dancing. the melody begins, hesitantly at first, then growing, pulsing filling the sky with golden light, and all at once burning in feverish swirls and twists and spirals, the stars turning incredible gymnastic feats, the moon beaming, swelled with admiration (sheâ€™s chaperoning from the corner, a glass of wine in her gloved hand) oblivious to the spectacle above, Saint-RĂŠmy-de-Provence tucks itself in, under the covers of night.
We were there once STEPHANIE SHOKOFF
Extended by circumstance into endless waters you’re searching for that happen stance moment of alignment. Whispers come to hear. Fruition is framed from the narrative of time having waited for the reaping. Thinking beyond the margin of convention, as people are designed by the times and their fashions. To set yourself on fire like a phoenix when we repair, we repair with gold we have created ourselves whole, my dear Socratic intent, out of the ashes of my former self, I AM heaven sent. When you should find a mirror to your soul, you are in a place you have never before known. The forests eyes are upon you, my may king, race from the stars, in light beams and wavelengths. Transcend this reality and be together on an unexplored plane. The alchemists, out of dust, have given rise to a star. Infrared wavelength, has truly seen me later, from the gathering where we met, drives me to my front door. we cross paths a few times more. See, we were there once, calling me home, now it is time. Out of the clock, tick tock so fucking contrived. It’s those eyes that haunt my dreams, calling me home, calling me home. Obsidian and strength, the heart only knows. These images flash before my eye, when we were there once, standing beneath the moonless night. Jupiter and mars united, if only, for a beat or two or three. when we depart, forever more in my heart. Shooting stars and sacred geometry, lavender farms and apiaries. Nova Scotian pubs and to different countries, oh I have traveled you with me.
When it’s over, I’ll catch a star beam, like pan, we fly to reach our Shang-ri-la. I know my wavelength and we’ll meet again, if not in this lifetime, then the next.
horoscopes Dear readers, We here at Blueprint have looked into the stars just for this issue, and brought back a special message for each of you. Please read and enjoy!
A stranger will soon come into your life. Beautiful, but dangerous, like a siren at sea. They only mean you harm. Do not go to them when they beckon. Or do. Iâ€™m not the boss of you. Do whatever you want.
This month will prove to be a debilitating trial for you. Remain vigilant. But also remember that horoscopes are not real in any way, shape or form - astrology is nothing but hogwash and fiction. Therefore ignore horoscopes and lean not upon the understanding of hooey.
Now is the time. Find your doppelganger. Fight them to the death. Wait, no - befriend them at the dance! I jumped the gun. Oh dear...
Looks like someone got up on the wrong side of the bed, Mr. Grumpy-Pants. The stars are displeased with your saltiness. Keep your crabby personality in check or itâ€™ll come back to pinch you later.
You will be born anew, only to be held high by a baboon to be the onlook of hundreds of Tanzanian creatures. Music will cue and everyone will bow to you because you are the king. Tell your father to avoid stampeding herds of wildebeests.
Your sweet and artistic soul would be well-suited to making art. Or writing poetry. The stars want you to submit to Blueprint. Do iiiiiiiiiiiit.
As the only inanimate zodiac, you will crave the taste of brains and human flesh. Balance is important to you. Therefore enjoy a hearty breakfast of roommate everyday, and be wary of men named Negan and/or Rick.
Measure your life in cups of coffee. Bitter, sweet, and rich, your memories will warm you even in the coldest of starless nights. If you don’t like coffee, I don’t know what to tell you.
Celebrate. For you are a centaur, and that’s pretty awesome. Things are looking up for you, until they are not.
The full moon’s position—behind an ominous-looking raincloud—forecasts lousy weather for your stargazing date. Bummer, dude. Maybe go see a movie instead?
Your sapphire waters run deep. Bring a bathing suit wherever you go, and the water will find you, whether you like it or not. (The stars tell me this is not a threat, regardless of how it seems).
All the stars in the sky will align in a perfect heart, because you are a pisces and you are apparently always in love. If Mars makes a shadow though, you will be doomed to be forever alone with twelve cats.
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he whO was elevated INtO the staRs maRIa kOuzNetsOva
wheN i come home after each day Of never-ending hOurs-minutes-secOnds and ever-fallIng haIl-sleet-snowflakes, I see you In the sky wIth your three-starred belt, always the same, day afteR day.
yeaR afteR yeaR, you Remind me that Iâ€™ll always make It through thIs struggle-storm-wInter nO matter hOw much is left in the day-week-term wheN i come home.
A Slow Descent Into Madness MANREET LACHHAR
The descent into madness, he thinks, is a slow one. It starts when he’s young, looking at the night sky while his mother tells him stories about the pretty stars and hums him lullabies to get him to sleep. Then, all of a sudden, his mother is gone and he tells the stories of the constellations himself. But it’s lonely, knowing that no one is there to listen. Next come the lights. It will always be a source of morbid fascination, the fact that they creep up on him instead of being there all at once. Cameras flash at him from every which way and the light sticks to his eyelids when he closes them. He hopes for a moment to breathe, to see, but all he gets are spots in his vision and the feeling of being an outsider when he never asked for it. Soon enough, the flashes are paired with the sound of people always yelling his name. They tell him what to do, where to go, how to be. If he tries hard enough, though, it becomes white noise. It comes in handy if he thinks too much about the empty house, a father’s disappointment, his own loneli– Never mind. No one wants to hear that sort of thing from him, he knows. So he buries it all in a treasure chest in the corner of his mind. It’s not a dark corner, he tells himself. It has as many stars as the galaxy around him, and maybe one day he’ll let himself open it. (Maybe voicing the words will stop them from trying to stick to every crevice of his mind, release the tension between his shoulders that comes from carrying too much weight, coax the feeling of being safe out of wherever it’s hiding within him.) Until then, he makes do with the comfort of knowing that he’s always looking at the same sky, no matter where he is. Home is the Eiffel Tower, the Seine, the Trocadéro. It is walking through the dark streets at night, marvelling at the glittering of the lights and the twinkling of the stars. It is the “welcome back!” messages he receives and knowing every place in the city to get good cheese at strange hours of the night. He’s been to the prettiest cities in the world, but nothing is more exquisite than the smell of warm bread from the bakery across from his high school. Home is the girl who meets him for late night rooftop rendezvous to talk about nothing and everything. The one who ruined the stars for him when he mapped out the constellations of the freckles on her face and realized they were the greater beauty. That was the day he realized his stories had a listener and, if forced to make a choice, he would refuse to tell her in favour of listening to every one of her stories for the rest of eternity. Home is that girl, who waits for him on the darker side of midnight and lights up when she finally sees him. Her tired, drooping eyes are blue as the sky at sunrise, and she has a smile bright as the sun. And here, he can voice the words, ease the tension, let out the feeling of being safe, which became synonymous to being home and being with her at some point. It is a slow descent into madness, he thinks. But if madness is waiting for him, it can wait a little longer still.
...---... REBECCA ALLISON
Hand me the tarot cards. â€˜Ology over â€˜onomy. Plant your words. The future written in particles. Thousands of miles, the distance to their dancefloor. Atoms mambo to the beat. Music falls in silence. No oxygen to translate. Gaseous balls glint and glow. Their steps, Morse code. Dots and dashes recorded and interpreted. Operators looking to cards and the sky. Fate scrawled in black and white.
Genesis 11: 8-15
I peered through the telescope. Saw 42 constellations. Insignificant. Connect the dot skies, a dollhouse of cosmic dust, alphabetic blocks CHO the messy floor of Godâ€™s playroom. His mother drunk on consequence never held him to her breast. Sent him to private school. On the way home he dropped his mason jar. Stars spilled out created the universe. Consequently, this is why we have plastic water bottles.
Possibility REBECCA ALLISON
I remember the dock. The summer night cools as the Cheshire smiles. Marshmallows cry off in the distance. Their last rites read by the whispering flames. Their tongues lap at the sweet offerings. The dim light barely registers. I scan the infinite canvas before me. Specks of dust, above as below. But interpretation alters perception. Heaven beyond the details. Worlds, journeys, and Gods weaved amongst the space. No monster in the dark. My dreams linger on the dock. The cosmos, mine to forge.
I was I am MITCHELL KOOH
I was here. Where were you? When day was new and night was long. With waters dark as the void in the eye of the storm. The light breaking. Light dying. And Man walked the earth. Where were you when I laid the foundations? Tell me. When the mourning stars sang together. I already know, but tell me anyhow. Tell me: who are you to reject me? Who do you think you are? I loved you I made you I saved you. You who cannot see. You were just an afterthought of me. Poor traitor’s kiss and lion’s den. You were nothing when I was. Was whole when you were two, three when you were me. Starlight weaves my tapestry, my filament of fiery blood, shedding white-gold plasma to warm the depths. You sang to me in infancy. My voiceless breath overwhelmed. You loved me as a child, the child of a lonesome cosmos. But then you cursed me on your wedding day, and that long, dark night of the soul. You killed me with a word. This far you’ve come, and yet no farther. This is where the proud waves stop. That sad old man, grown old and sad before his time. He loved me too, but his love stopped. He could not see the way to light, or where the dark resides. His faith was strong. It wasn’t enough. But he wasn’t lost. Are you? You hate me now. But who are you? You’re just like him; you’re both like me. But I was more, and you hate me for it. But go on. The fires rage, my body burns and fades a thousand times. You take the cup but fail to sup. Hidden amongst the rubbish and the clutter, you think to escape. You put me in a shoebox, hide me in the closet. You’ll forget me: you already have. You forgot who bound the chains of Pliedes, or old Orion’s belt. Who lit the stones of Ursa’s eyes, or set her cubs to roam. A dazzling flash, twinkle – and they’re gone. But. I was I am. I was. You give me tongues to say my name, and I use them all. I was ipsum esse subsistens. I was. Hallelujah I was. And all along, I was here. So where were you? You left me to die, but mother, can’t you see: I’m not done with you yet. And you answer to me. Canada—Kolkata
Star-Maker PREYE T A
She’s a storyteller, she tells all kinds, The lies don’t count though. “Unfair”, she thinks. School is lacklustre, but provides a solid career to fall back on “We have discussed this writing hobby for the last time”. But her mind constantly raging Her mundane existence is her inspiration, So her fiction lives a far more fascinating reality She never finds the right puns hard to write In the right parts of the right poems no less They take her heart away For they are her art, wailing on paper Because they are the words that she cannot speak, Parts of herself scattered on paper, a replacement for the tears. Her characters have the privilege of living a life Entirely driven by desire; with success, passion and love And a life where this is enough. We are storytellers We make stars in our works of art And we in every way, shine through them We just wait for the world to realize it.
With Every Bit of My Soul I picked up my phone to text you, But I can’t text you anymore. And I thought back to the times when you would let out your frustrations At the couples who’d play the ‘game’. Who should text first? And we’d laugh at them together. We’d laugh at all the little things. But I’m not laughing anymore. I’m waiting for you to text first.
You promised you’d always be here. Why make a vow you couldn’t keep? Didn’t realize that ‘always’ came with an expiration date. And I need someone to talk to, But there’s no one Who gets how much it fucking hurts. They give me sympathetic looks, Some crap that ‘time heals all wounds’. I don’t want to heal, I want you.
You gave me no warning at all. Didn’t have the guts to face me, Instead, ended everything over a thirty second phone call Are you sure that it’s what you want? Let me see you. Hear my name on your lips again, See you smile, I want to hold you. Please just give me just one more day. Give me a chance to make you stay.
I’m not able to feel my legs. Not one to wander aimlessly, However, I can’t seem to be able to do anything else. There’s no stars in the sky tonight, And it’s pouring. The cemetery on my left Reminds me of a horror film. They buried someone yesterday. Was missing you too much to go.
M STROME & CORA VANESSA HAVEN
All I want is to talk to you. I want to show up at your door and talk to you and tell you how much you meant to me and how sorry I am and how much I wanted to stay with you. I miss the way you felt like home and the whole world was a great adventure because of you. I wish I could say this and hold you, but you know I can’t.
I know you’re hurt, but what can I do? I am too, and even more, I’m lonely. I can’t let you comfort me, I can’t even go looking for you. And the loneliness is eating me alive. It darkens the ether of my veins and tears my soul into tiny bits and pieces. The sun shines all around me but all I can do is be stagnant, stoic, wishing that I could go back to you now.
I want to hold your hand. I want to curl my fingers into the fabric of your shirt, rest my head on your shoulder, and say everything will be okay. But it won’t be. Touching you was something that I took for granted. It spoke all the words I couldn’t say. Now, I have to hope that you’ll know all the things I felt for you, because these cold hands can’t tell you anymore.
It’s dark, but that won’t stop me from looking for you, regardless of where either of us are. Because my spot in the night sky will always shine on you with all the glitter in the cosmos and from here, I’ll watch you as you look at my gravestone and hope that I come back. And I want you to know that I wish I could, too. But I can only stay on my star and miss you with every bit of my soul.
The Unknown CHARIS HESKETH
The unknown scares me And the thing is I usually don’t get scared It’s like jumping into space Where you can feel nothing there I feel like my dreams will not come true That the universe will bet against me And that makes me feel so blue Like I can’t live in harmony So all I can do is believe And hope that the stars will guide me Maybe the unknown will be great, who knows I guess life is about always being on your toes.
Beauty in Cosmos MADILYN BOZINIS
Remote incandescent body, Fixed luminous point in the sky. Held together by your gravity, Visible to the naked eye. Youâ€™re perfect. Gathering and gathering all pressures. Collapsing and collapsing despite itself. Swirling and swirling into creation. Time and time and time and time. Your long life shows us short beauty. Can I measure from this far away? When I donâ€™t understand her company
Between the Lines DONNIQUE WILLIAMS
Creased pages and bended spine. What once was yours, now is mine. I open up this gifted book flip the pages, carefully caress the places of indentation of denotation of connotation. Each note a gem a new found land. I reconstruct in shallow scribbles the image of this man. This book where spirit, soul and desire meet and lay upon me all potential opportunity. I hold creased pages, a bended spine in hand searching for a message that will stand. I search these pages for footnotes of emotion. I search in these spaces between the stars, hoping their mysteries will reveal what was left unspoken.
Volume 15, Issue 4