The Phoenix - 2012

THE PHOENIX 2012 - Volume XXVII Editors In Chief Aaron Clark John Morabito Daniel Sweet

Production

Matt Druckenbrod Dominic Plantamura Andrew Richard

Editorial Committee Jack Caudle Pat Healy Christian Forte Will Lawler Derrell Bouknight

Michael Ledecky Miguel Rivera-Lanas Billy Kilgallin David White Andrew Iscaro

Moderator

Dr. Harry Rissetto, PhD

Special Thanks

Ms. Jennifer Carter, Mr. Tom Baker, Mr. Matt Duffy, Mr. Joe Sampugnaro, Mr. Rick Cannon, Mrs. Helen Free, Mr. Erik van Versendaal, Mr. Allen L’Etoile, Mr. Brian Larkin, Mr. Kevin Jordan, Mr. David Villeta, Ms. Sarah Miller, Mr. Jamie McIntyre, Mr. Patrick Welch, Tom Robertson, Matt Weider, Johannes Schmidt, Will Felker, and all those who submitted material for consideration.

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We, the Editors of The Phoenix, would like to dedicate this year’s issue to Rev. Allen P. Novotny, S.J. (1952-2010), a strong leader, a great man, and a Purple Eagle.

Looking through Father’s collection of sermons and writings, we came across a composition especially appropriate for this publication: a poem written by our former president in 2003. It is only fitting that this piece be the first every reader sees, and we hope that it will charge the works of art that follow it with the same energy present in every syllable of Father’s words. We hope that by the last line, every reader will feel Father Novotny’s presence, understand his boundless compassion, and know his zeal for life.

Wind over the dunes:

weeds and grasses bending.

Wind upon the sea;

waves swelling and breaking.

Wind whistling through the woods;

trees bending and swaying.

Wind sweeping the beach:

sand shifting and moving.

Wind scouring the streets:

dust and paper flying:

Wind shaking the rushes:

seeds floating and dancing.

Wind moving in and out of your lungs:

breath rising and falling

The world alive with wind.

The world alive with breath.

The world alive with Spirit.

Wind and breath and Spirit

Moving as one,

Unbroken vitality.

Not just wind alone.

Not just breath alone.

Not just Spirit alone.

But windbreathspirit: God! 3

Table of Contents Poetry and Literature Johnny Ganssle 8 Rajee Dunbar 9 Jory Brooks 11 Maurice Holmes 13 Santi Juarez 14 Thomas Fergus 15 Phillip Helget 16 Thomas Fergus 17 Rajee Dunbar 18 Phillip Helget 19 Will Lawler 20 Anonymous 21 Matthew Myers 22 Jordan Franklin 23 Maurice Holmes 25 Phillip Helget 26 Kevon Bridges 27 Anonymous 28 Thomas Fergus30 Chris Gormley 31 Riley Cronin 32 Roberto Gorostieta 33 Maurice Holmes 34 Phillip Helget 35 Maurice Holmes 36 Jory Brooks 37 Roberto Gorostieta 38 Phillip Helget 39 Maurice Holmes 40 Matthew Myers 41

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John McGuinness 42 Phillip Helget 43 Jamie Bash 45 Maurice Holmes 46 Will Lane 47 Patrick Healy 48 Ronny Burr 49 Johnny Ganssle 50 Jasper Evans 51 Will Lawler 52 John McGuinness 53 Riley Cronin 54 Sean Evans 55 Sean Evans 56 George Lee 57 Walt Irving 58 Christian Constantine 59 Christopher Bugtong 60 Joe Clancy 62 Patrick Healy 64 Phil Bates 66 Jack Caudle 68 Christian Constantine 71 Phillip Helget 72 Jack Killeen 75 Ryan Morrisson 76 Ryan Howell 78

Photography & Studio Art Chris Brown 82 John Morabito 83 John Morabito 84 Andrew Woodhull 85 Bryce Lane 86 Patrick Healy 87 Jordan Person 88 Andrew Robinson 89 Connor Sharp 90 John O’Neill 91 Christian Forte 92 Patrick Bell 93 Patrick Healy 94 Patrick Healy 95

Alexander DiMisa 111 Patrick Healy 112 Christian Forte 113 Christian Forte 114 Patrick Healy 115 Christian Forte 116 Jordan Person 117 Christian Forte 118 Jack Caudle 119 Andrew Robinson 120 Jack Caudle 121 Matthias Kelly 122 John O’Neill 123 Photography Pd. 3 124

Aaron Smith 96 Christian Forte 97 Patrick Healy 98 Christian Forte 99 Andrew Robinson 100 Christian Forte 101 Christian Forte 102 Ben Stallings 103 John Morabito 104 Christian Forte 105 Alexander DiMisa 106 Andrew Robinson 107 Alexander DiMisa 108 Jake Mraz 109 Patrick Healy 110

Alexander DiMisa 125 Phillip Helget 126 Andrew Robinson 127 John Morabito 128 John Morabito 129 Gabirel Lane130 Andrew Robinson 131 Christian Forte 132 Patrick Bell 133 Andrew Robinson 134 Joseph Sweet 135 Chris Brown 136 Jake Mraz 137 John Morabito 138 Vince Kiernan 139

Brian Ott 142 John Morabito 143 Coleman Cunningham 144 John Morabito 145 Brian Abod 146 Marcus Rasmussen 147 Brian Ott 148 John Morabito 149 Andrew Woodhull 150 Ryan Polski 151 Brian Ott 152 Brian Ott 153 Pat McCullough 154 Pat McCullough 155 Matin Kelly 156 Jeffrey Thomas 157 Brian Ott 158 McKay Allen 159 John Morabito 160

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A Letter to a Young Writer When I first became interested in writing, I desperately wanted to be one of the greats. But after Shakespeare, what does ‘great’ mean? I’ve learned over time that my talent is thinner than I’d hoped, that a good poem is awfully difficult to write, and now, I’m pleased to have small parts, a publication here and there, an occasional chapbook. I’ve come to appreciate how great it is to be writing, that wisp of a thought that gathers me whole – when I begin in the dark and look up and it’s light – this is great enough. I recall in Advanced Composition class with Mrs. Barr senior year of high school my first experience with that nearly addictive daze in which the clock flies forward in two and three hour leaps. Poetry came in college, in Gary Sange’s poetry writing class at Georgetown; that sealed it for me: I’ve been in love with poetry these forty-odd years since.

Growing up in Indiana, I have in abundance that Midwestern love-of-theland. I love to drive alone in the evenings through the Maryland countryside, especially in winter when the lowering sun puts the trees in stark outline and gives the lie to leaves and the easy days of summer. It seems so honest, yet kindly too. I’ve rigged a little desk between the front seats in my car to jot notes and ideas, as on these evening excursions my mood seems more open and more able to take chances. There is something divine about the land and the sky. They seem by themselves to be an answer, though in an arcane language.

More and more I’ve come to understand the adage: ‘Life is short, art is long.’ Here’s a caution for young writers. Hold your work for six months or a year, step back a bit, and be sure of it before sending it out into the world of critics and editors. There are a lot of fine writers out there. ‘Fail Freely’ has become my mantra.

Sincerely, Mr. Rick Cannon

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Johnny Ganssle The Ballad of Seamus O’Shea Seamus O’Shea the fisherman, Could catch a fish at will.

He was the best fisherman ever to live Crowds came to watch his skill.

He swore he’d never kill a fish They’re too close to his heart.

He loved his fish. He loved his job.

His fishing was an art.

A rich man came to town one night Looking for O’Shea He said he had a fish to catch For quite substantial pay.

The man told Seamus of the fish And Seamus knew it well, For that same fish had killed his dad, The despicable fish, “Miguel”.

The rich man gathered the strongest men he could find They left at 5 A.M. sharp The only thing on the mind of Seamus O’Shea Was slaying that unholy carp.

As the boat drifted close to the home of Miguel O’Shea was ready to fight.

He cast his line, the weather was fine, But satanic Miguel wouldn’t bite.

O’Shea stayed determined repeating his mantra “Miguel, the bell tolls for thee” One tug of his line, it twisted his spine, Miguel dragged him into the sea.

As Seamus O’Shea sank deeper and deeper He pulled out his father’s red knife, Miguel tried to eat him, but quick Seamus beat him, And ended Miguel’s wicked life.

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Rajee Dunbar Day Dreaming As I sit back in my seat, as the teacher teach, I close my eyes monetarily and start to day dream The words of the professor fuel my dream Thinking of Aristotle, Plato, and Lockean things Natural Law, conscience, moral and amoral philosophies While still thinking about all of God’s prophecies The ethical and religious speeches replay in my head All leading to the same question: what happens when I’m dead? *Bell rings* On to my next class, English for conversation Works of Salinger, Cullen, and Twain give me much appreciation Is this my favorite class? that’s up for negotiation Because in history I have a quiet motivation So many styles of writing, romanticism I love the most And escape to the dark side with Edger Allen Poe A Sonnet to Science and Thanatopsis Is worth more than a regular synopsis *Bell rings* I pledge to the flag of the United States 3/5 of a vote counted by my race On ships and chains we were brought to this place Dred Scot Vs. Sanford we lost that case Tension between states, where is Henry Clay North vs. South until slavery fades away Victory by the Union R.I.P Abe Slavery will die and peacefully he will lay *Bell rings* Lunch 9

*Bell rings* On to chemistry Self-explanatory misery Dreaming and wishing I was back in history Periodic Tables, hydrogen and zinc Chapter 10 review and my pen runs out of ink Oh my lord this class really stinks *Bell rings* Mathematics equations X’s and Y’s Variable expressions dividing P’s by I’s Fighting the sleep trying to open my eyes Telling myself I get it even though I’m telling a lie No clue indeed This math aint for me!

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Jory Brooks The Journey The bus unloads at Gonzaga My walk starts with those three big steps To exit the bus I pull my hockey bag on my shoulder Backpack on my back, hockey stick in hand My walk has begun I walk with a purpose Although it is not yet known I’m walking just to get home My hands are freezing My hands are numb My hands are losing color I feel sorry for myself I’m mad that I can’t afford a car When all my friends have their own A quick glance at the homeless Perched around the street Makes me criticize my thoughts I realize how good I have it I realize how blessed I am I realize how lucky I am Left, right, left right left I’m a soldier marching I will make it My back aches But I continue I can’t stop 11

Buildings surround me Windows surround me Everything surrounds me I have almost completed the maze I am almost out of this cage So I continue to walk Union Station lies ahead I enter I go to the machines Purchase my fare card Walk down the escalator And board the train My walk has ended My walk is complete But my journey has just begun

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Maurice Holmes Chance If you gave me a chance, how would things be?

Would we last together, for all eternity?

Maybe we would be like the stars and make history But it seems like our love can’t be, it seems like the things I see Only lead me toward an empty street I just wonder what our love could be But you didn’t give me chance, so my dream will stay a mystery So I’ll leave things up to history I don’t care too much about destiny Because everything repeats itself there is no point in questioning Love and Reason are always wrestling Life is full of nonstop biking and peddling And by getting off you awaken your deathly being And your deathly being has no healing And your floors become your ceilings And your brain takes control of all feelings And your heart takes over life’s everyday problems with revealing and concealing And you start walking on your hands And you start drinking bottles instead of cans And you love your enemies more than your friends And on your parents you can’t depend You turned my world upside down because you never gave me a chance.

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Santi Juarez Garth

Two men walk as if joined at the side.

Arms gesturing, stuck hip-high.

Both men hunched over, en media res, in conversation; they pass me.

First two uniformed girls walk by, brushing me, their noses stuck in the phone.

One struggled to keep up.

They had ugly uniforms, black, screaming long sleeves.

Then seven more, three of them texting.

I turn my back and they’re gone.

None of us just enjoys a walk, not with phones, cliques, or other distractions.

I bet no one noticed that The flowers were beginning To sprout, or that the crane was swaying in the westward wind.

Wrong. An old fellow did. He looked like his name was Garth And he inspected each crevice, as if the world was new.

Will it take me till old age to enjoy the cranes, unless instructed to by a class?

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Thomas Fergus Tradition

So we’ll leave our marks here Engraved into this stone Walk down these hallowed halls Heading out to be on our own.

At first we crawled, We learned to walk, Then, sent on our way Because opportunity has knocked.

We’ve lived in tradition, And we’ve lived in harmony, Now we leave forever As one community.

We know we’ve had an impact, But we’ve also been affected.

Some mistakes have been made And memories were erected.

Now we leave in unity, Together we’ve sealed our fates.

Yet at least one thing still rings true: Tradition never graduates.

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Phillip Helget Fleeting and Fleeing into November Leaves Time is fleeting and fleeing Like the broken flakes of autumn Leaves in the November wind, Further dwindling to simple pieces Of debris that clutter and cluster in The pockets of young men and Old men alike, with their forever Fleeting and fleeing lives, Like the flakes of skin that swim Along the air currents of every next Fleeting and fleeing moment that leaves Behind a small part of who you are, Hoping that your footsteps are more Than just footsteps to someone who Realizes that footsteps weren’t meant To be followed, but photographed and Mapped in the direction of how Time is fleeting and fleeing From one person to the next, And how we all carry a clutter and cluster Of everyone else whose footsteps We have photographed in the wind Carrying the broken flakes of autumn leaves.

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Thomas Fergus There is…

There is power in our voices, A united song of praise.

There is power in our choices, The decisions to be made.

There is courage in our hearts, To live and let live.

There is courage in our soul, When it’s so hard to forgive.

There is hope in our eyes, Whenever we are praying.

There is hope in our minds, In whatever we are saying.

There is love in our actions, When we help out a friend.

There is love in their reactions, Knowing that it’s not the end.

There is strength in our thought, As we choose the right path.

There is strength in our unity, In a disaster’s aftermath.

Overall, there is power, In everything we do.

There is courage, and hope, and love, and strength, In everyone, including you.

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Rajee Dunbar Untitled Look me in the eyes what do you see My skin nor my appearance defines me Do you SEE, black and white, beige or blue You don’t know ME but I can judge me too.

The tattoos on my sleeves put fear on their mind The sagging of my jeans and how my earrings just shine.

YET, My words spark change and intellectual conversation My words create art immune from imitation But instead of looking with admiration and appreciation You link and join in retaliation.

Tape my mouth telling me not to speak Hands in chains my opinion I’m to keep So we smoke the pain away until our clothes start to reek Or we drink the pain today until our clothes start to stink.

Eyes red, low, movement no longer steady Back to square one I am no longer ready Free me, I am trying to break away But cursed by the struggles I face everyday

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Phillip Helget Top of the World Keep me on the tips of my toes, Never let me drop from this high, This new peak of rocketing thrill.

Never let it valley into flat-footed Walking along a flat mind set; I rather balance myself on a ball, This world is mine to run along.

Come dancing with me on your tips, And see how the world spins endlessly, Swirling colors and stars alike fill Our eyes with ribbons and glitter; Everything is ours for the taking, Anything you could possibly imagine, When you’re as high as I am here, Hover just above the highest peak, The stars are within my reach, I spin galaxies on my fingertips.

Nothing feels as high as this moment, Don’t let me down, promise me, And I will show you the world, The way the silver linings see it.

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Will Lawler The Unprepared Golf Hole It was a long hike that forced me here, Forced me to panting, stop and stare, At great rolling yet tattered hills, It is in sadness that I look at a fallen titan, Your browning grass is patched, Do you not realize your shabby attire?

Yes, your robe is akin to a beggar’s coat, New green mixed in with the pale waning, Why your grassy coat becomes thicker in the summer, And thinner in the winter I will never know, Great trees surround you like impassive sentinels, They must have protected you well, As their limbs lie scattered on the ground, You, oh great one are sick and dying, I could not look upon you without knowing, It is a battle fought countless times, You have been vanquished for a time, “I will return” I say striding off your sand, As a great man has said before, I have enjoyed this brief trip, For even in disgrace you’re potential is beautiful

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Anonymous Poem for the Triangle Fire Victims Sweet pumpkin heads of flame Bob around the factory floor The shrillest screams form bronze chains and bubble up to the surface Filling centuries - a nine-story pyre.

They kiss on the forehead, wave goodbye with their eyes Not quite silently praying, but starving And the sky taunts with blue just outside.

Now skulls smash upon sidewalks which erupt marrow with the phlegm and the blood The holy concoction on the sacred, concrete altar One day, when we scour these ashes for an ism We will remember you all and blush with cheeks of salvia and forsythia But if we cannot find a reason for your cinders I am sorry Sleep soundly, and know we will always birth, build, and abort But learn, never learn.

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Matthew Myers Cento: cen·to (snt) n. pl. cen·tos - A literary work pieced together from the works of several authors The art of losing isn’t hard to master; The Old Masters: how well they understood That nature, not art, might usurp the canvas?

And what shoulder, & what art, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, And coughs when you would kiss.

Anyway why are you so interested In the spirit-level, And the day that embraces it So late into the night, For I have had too much Of easy wind and downy flake.

Think not of them, thou hast thy music tooFor, having lost but once your prime, You’ll hear their feet -I tell the tale I heard told.

Listen closely: Do more bewitch me than when art Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note.

Streets that follow like a tedious argument Like a bird of prey, the profile of night Let us go and make our visit.

You cannot conquer Time.

Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, And for this, nature is never spent; Mithridates, he died old.

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Jordan Franklin Jonah the Fish Dude Story There was a hero boy named Finn in the land of Ooo And God came down to earth and told him what to do He said “Go down to Mexico and set them straight All this rage I’m building just won’t wait” He heard God’s message he heard His plea Yet he wondered what does this have to do with me Towards Australia he went the other way Thinking God will pick someone else to save the day A few days later he found he was wrong When God came right back just like in Ping-Pong He summoned a monster or a giant beast To him Finn’s body looked like a feast Now hero boy Finn was inside The belly of the beast and he cried For three days then his eyes opened wide And saw an angel standing by his side And said from God’s message you shouldn’t hide He built up the courage when he was shown That with God on his side he wasn’t alone Disobeying God was something he couldn’t afford Listening to the word of the Lord The very same God that he adored Stuck in the beast he pulled out a sword He swung and he must have hit a cord After throwing up blood the beast finally died And swimming in the blood Finn caught a ride Running at Mach 5 he arrived in under an hour Around no obstacle would he cower With God’s word in his heart he had the power And despite the smell no time for a shower 23

He arrived and explained the situation Didn’t think they would listen due to reputation But they listened to his surprise At first Finn couldn’t believe these lies Faced against death everyone gets wise Angered he ran away Under the gourd tree he would stay Sitting underneath the tree of the gourd No idea prepared by the Lord The next day the tree wasn’t there It was a trap by the Lord or a snare But Finn sat and burned without a care Almost as if there was fire in his hair Really soon after he fell to the ground With a thud so hard it made a loud sound Because redemption is what Mexico found And why they repented it just didn’t click And Finn did a little arithmetic There was a realization his view changed His hatred for Mexico was rearranged Moral of the story, God is right Following his word will lead you to the light And even though Finn wore his disobedient pants God gives everyone a second chance

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Maurice Holmes What Does It Mean?

What does it mean to live?

To Breathe?

To Fly? What does it mean to exist?

To have lived, then died?

What does it mean to feel pain?

To have suffered and cried?

I couldn’t answer these questions, but I admit, I tried I feel alone in this world, within the truth I hide I miss elementary days where friends sat side by side I didn’t choose to go on this ride I never applied Destiny must be my guide But I can’t see its path due to my pride Those tears I cried earlier, all of those have dried That love that I never mention, well I’ve made these lines my bride And all my best men are hidden inside And all the brides’ maids are these badly written rhymes I thought love didn’t exist, but I’ve learned through time I don’t need a horoscope to tell me who I am, I don’t believe in those signs No one can tell me who I am, your opinions have been denied I write down the way I feel, these are my emotion’s reply And I believe that my heart knows the way, never telling me a lie So what does it mean to live?

To Breathe?

To Fly? Well in order to have lived, you must’ve first died What does it mean to exist?

To have lived, then died?

Well in order to exist you must be able to make up your mind What does it mean to feel pain?

To have suffered and cried?

Well in order to feel pain you must’ve loved through a lie!

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Phillip Helget Dollars and Sense If you go looking for dollars, you will find sense, Behind the magician’s ear, on the corner of the street, Between the cushions of your therapist’s dusty couch, When you reach into the dark sky, trying to find stars, Diamonds, and fireflies and collect glitter stuck between the Grooves of your identity; it will fill your nose, tickle your Brain, all seven sensations of your nerves, and you will sneeze Galaxies into the black caves of flashlights and hidden treasures.

Build a slingshot on the roof of your mind, on the tip of your Tongue; when mother isn’t looking, take your index fingers And your thumbs, peer into your homemade, paper kaleidoscope, Aim for the moon, fall short and catch the street lamp down The block, reason your way down its neck, understand gravity.

Don’t be in such a hurry, kid, take your grandfather’s old Monocle, put his pocket watch and all of its ticks into your Jacket pocket, sit down in the arm chair by the window, Lean back, smoke a pipe, and bask in your thoughts as they Slowly unravel themselves before your eyes in swirls of White clouds dancing in winter’s cold, midnight of stale air.

If you ever find a silver dollar, break it down into quarters, Give them to friends with the instruction to turn them Into nickels to give to their lovers so they can melt them Into pennies so their children can make their own wishes.

This world’s biggest questions are merely composed of Smaller questions with smaller questions and the tinniest of answers.

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Kevon Bridges Space Timeless dark dead space Scream whatever you want No one will know

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Anonymous A Letter from a Struggling Bird Dear World, I’ve dodged your bullets, your bolts of lightning, and your overbearingness, so now I want to glide.

I want to soar.

I just want to fly through the air with not a worry on my mind, for my worries are worth only a little.

Yet what I worry about is like a treasure, a jeweled rope placed around my neck, so that if I dare fly too high they’re able to yank me down with it, down to the slums, down where they think I belong.

I dream that one day the wind will flow through my feathers as I glide around cloud nine.

I dream that I won’t be held back by paper chains, which are grasped by George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and all of those other faces.

The world uses them as gravity, to slam my dreamer senses back to the ground, the wretchedly cold ground. they’re wrong though, you know, I’m not a dreamer.

I’m a realist.

It is really wrong that I’m haunted by how my parents, grandparents, and other relatives spent or didn’t spend their treasures.

It is really wrong that I’m looked at as just a number, a statistic, an amount of treasure that I will cost and another amount that I will offer through my hardships, my toil, and my troubles.

It is really wrong that 28

although my beak, feathers, and wings do exalt triumph, I’m read only by my cover, not by the pages of my book, my life story.

For although I look like an eagle, I might as well be a pigeon inside, a miniscule, mediocre pigeon, and I am tired of pecking on bread crumbs that litter the disgusting ground.

I want to spend, I want to live without the ominous clouds of winter hanging over me, ever threateningly.

Unfortunately, I can’t fly south and away from my problems, for it seems that they’re handcuffed onto me for life.

I dream that one day I can soar high enough without the waves and worries to bear me down, and in the worst case I’ll fly high enough that the sun will burn me, and covered in flames, I will plummet to the ground.

But like a phoenix, I’ll raise myself back up and soar ever higher, continuing my pattern of possible peril, for it’s my freedom to try and my freedom to die in life that separates me from all of those inanimate coins that litter your pockets.

If you throw a coin into the air, gravity brings it down, but if you gave me the chance, I’d soar.

I want to live life freely, so please, make me a promise and let go of my noose, let me be loose, let me breathe again.

Sincerely, a bird whose wings are breaking 29

Thomas Fergus Help Her She beats herself up inside And wears her heart on her sleeve.

She wants to know what it’s like To just stop and feel the breeze.

She’s been writing love on her arms To cover up the cuts.

She hurts herself to hide her pain, She’s broken, but so what?

She cries herself to sleep at night, And dresses all in black.

Deemed an outcast by her “friends,” She thinks there’s no way back.

Sitting by herself in the dark, She cuts through skin re-grown; Hot tears mix with blood, And she knows that she’s alone.

Asleep now, in her bed, On top of blood-stained sheets, She dreams of a place where she can go To escape this cruel defeat.

Awake, she lives on, But she says it’s just too much.

She doesn’t know where to turn, Or how hard the blade should touch.

When, the doctor tells us it’s too late, We guess her broken heart fell off her sleeve.

No one can understand how, or why.

But at least she can finally feel that breeze.

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Chris Gormley Snow Day Our shoulders ached We sniffled and shivered Sugar coated branches lurked above us Snow shovels stabbed like pikes Every inch of snow was heavier than the last It chained us to the ground The sun was tucked away, yet the barrage continued White sheets draped themselves over the world We headed inside knowing we had lost the battle We would attack again at dawn

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Riley Cronin To Be Free To be free Soaring high as an eagle among the clouds Adhering to no rules or laws To be free Running in the wind with nothing to stop me Sitting with no burden on my shoulder To be free To be free

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Roberto Gorostieta Free Verse Word by word, a rhyme is built and a story is told, Someone’s heart is spilled through paper and pen.

A life is created through that black ink and white paper, Once it’s said it can’t be erased; unless of course The Author has your name You write and write, think and think Only for a few words, that will be forgotten

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Maurice Holmes Life’s Desires Everyone wants perfection when perfection doesn’t exist Everyone wants affection; well I left that off my list Everyone wants a Hi-Five; well some of them deserve a fist Everyone wants to be safe but life is full of risks No one seems to speak through their actions, instead only lips No one wants to be runner-up so I guess I’ll settle for the assists No one fears their surroundings when danger is always amidst No one loves to be in the rain but everyone loves the mist I remember when everyone wanted to be bloods and crips But now a days, people are just striving to live past twenty six Now all these people and their problems are something I cannot fix I’m trying to get the pursuit of happiness, but I feel like I’m the rabbit to the trix Sometimes I feel like the kid left alone, the only one not picked Almost as if everyone’s on the best fieldtrip but I’m left home sick I’m about to go insane, my mind and sanity are losing their grip I’m the dog playing around but then loses his favorite stick Or the magnet on the fridge that has fallen because it won’t stick I’m living my life backwards as if I’m hiking before I hitch As you can see, my life is pretty screwed up and it’s hard to get out of this ditch I’ve done some pretty bad things and its true, karma’s a female dog I’m tired of everyone telling to go green; I am not Kermit the frog People are delaying me from my goals and these dilemmas I can’t unclog So instead of getting past them I just sit down here and I blog I mean what else is there to do; you must be stupid thinking I’m going to jog I feel like I’ve been trapped at sea and I’m barely hanging on this log So I want everyone to see my life, which is why when I die, I won’t log off 34

Phillip Helget The Fisher, the Fish, and the Dock I am the fisher with my feet hanging over the dock, My baseball cap fitted perfectly, and eyes wondering; My cares are only the bait at the other end of this line, My issues being the hook that snatches the life of my prey, But nothing has been biting, tricked into my dilemmas.

My eyes gaze across the water at the boats speeding by, The fastest thing I own is a kayak in my small shed; I don’t even own a single oar to paddle myself with.

I am the coursing fish taking nothing serious but nothing, Hot days don’t exist, but cold nights come often.

There is a shimmer in the shallow water, I swim to it, Sealing my fate as ignorance hooks into my jaw.

I am the sailboat with the ripped sail and no captain, The crab without claws to snap at distant danger, The fish line swaying in the water, retreating, going, Swaying yet again until I am blind sighted by teeth.

I am the dock. Come to me. Bring your worries, And cast them on a line and let the fish get their fill.

Swing your feet off of me and watch sunsets.

Come to me, I will always be here; I shall not move.

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Maurice Holmes Why I Write I’m not writing for popularity, I’m writing for the clarity I’m not writing for prosperity I’m writing because it’s preparing me I’m writing to let you see a brighter me I write so when you think of Holmes, Maurice, a poet is what you deem me to be Because poetically, I prophetically create my future systematically I write because it helps me release laws like gravity I write because my human savagery decreases with every rhyme you see I’m writing to create a better me I’m writing to let my emotions free But then I’m writing for you, no longer for me I write so that you know there are people like me Because when there are people like me, there are people like you Because the worst feeling of all is when you’re alone but life’s still going through I write for the few who think they won’t get a cue But here is a clue Your purpose in life is long over due And who else can be you other than you It’s like you trying to walk in my steps without wearing my shoes Those who try that are fake, they’re only fools So as I’m writing for me, and I’m writing for you I write for the two trying to be each other not knowing that’s not what they were sent here to do!

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Anonymous Why I Write You don’t sit down with the pen The pen comes to you To help you release and make it through But its proabable that I can’t write Cause my life’s too good, never been in a fight But its still possible cause my home is a mental hospital Everyone poppin pills, hyzaar, advil, crestor, adderall, vitamin b, c, d, Vicodin, perkaset, ambien, amphetamines, fish oil so we don’t spoil, can’t you see Its enough be tough, mom and dad fightin’, its rough Clashin like thunder and lightnin’ And words pouring out like a fountain I try to break it up but get caught in the middle like Malcolm Now I’m lost, so I’ll follow my impulse And swallow your insults So I go up to my room to get away Now I can’t hear what they have to say Cause I don’t care it isn’t fair Blast some rap some hip-hop All the sudden the voices stop And I just listen to the one The one on the track, his picture I tack, on the wall Hopin’ it don’t fall Waiting for my call But I’m caught in this blizzard like I was drafted by the wizards, John Wall Can’t do work even if I am skilled Scribblin’ all over the page it gettin’ filled Writin lyrical bullets, y’all not really gettin killed Write to release my energy The pen is screamin’ at others “Let me be!”

Now I can relax and sit back and take naps Cause I’m out of this cage put my mind on the page Shot my rage Out of my head Through the lead Into the line Write to live a good life, cause I’ll be dead in time 37

Roberto Gorostieta Found Poem Life Is Good.

It seems like I did so much today.

I don’t see how you can bring me to tears after all these years.

You better be careful what you say to me cause it might turn around on you.

I’d like to disconnect myself from the stereotype of our current generation and go read some Shakespeare or something.

The beautiful red rose he came to drop off at my house If someone asks you a question, and you fail to answer the question several times, something is up.

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Phillip Helget My Mistress of the Web The widowed black depths of her eyes made Holes and buried themselves in my skin, Spun webs in the empty cavern of my chest, Took my veins and my nerves and rearranged Them around my bones, making God’s eyes, Laid eggs in the bottom pit of my stomach; I could feel them hatch, feed themselves On my insecurities, spin threads into wings Strapped to their backs and try to fly up Through my lungs and tie my tongue Down whenever I try to talk of anything That came from the Core of who I am.

They have taken my muscles hostage, Paralyzed me as their victim, waiting for The venom to seep further into my ears From her lips of tantalizing notes played On each chord that has trapped my Heart within her grasp. I have nowhere To fly, nowhere to escape. It is at this Point that my body is hers to devour Whenever she pleases, my blood to end Her thirst; I am completely at her mercy.

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Maurice Holmes You Forgot You forgot where you’ve been so you don’t know where you’re from.

You forgot what you’ve seen so you don’t know what you’ve done.

You forgot who you were so you don’t know who you are You forgot that you shine and can’t remember you’re a star.

You forgot that you’re beautiful and that it cannot change You forgot you’re unique and no one is out of your range You forgot what you hear so you don’t know what to say You forgot why I’m here and it’s because I really do care You forgot that you’re my soul mate and love needs a pair You forgot what you’ve dreamed so you don’t know what to become You forgot how to walk so you don’t remember how to run You forgot when you wish upon a star that it’s never too far You forgot that life isn’t a game and not everyone makes par You forgot that in a life of normality it’s great to be strange You forgot that a heart is irreplaceable and can’t be exchanged You forgot life is full of colors so you’re only seeing black and grey You forgot the clock never stops ticking and it will never delay You forgot when love is in the air life never seems to be fair You forgot how many words you know so all you can do is swear Just don’t forget that I love you more than anything here or anywhere

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Matthew Myers Together The sizzling aroma stems from the Freshness of the distinguished grill that Blackens the meats, and the Glaring sun only adds to the radiant fires which He passionately produces.

The wait intensifies my desire For his renowned barbeque wings As that aroma diffuses throughout the air.

He wholeheartedly performs flip after flip after flip, Placing each wing down as tenderly as the meat.

The thought runs impetuously as I conclusively recognize the Reason for his true precisionMe. As to somehow makeup for Years of misguided omission, I offer A swift helping hand in preparing the Meal, and I notice itThere is a certain sizzle on my Dad’s Face as we luxuriate in exquisite wings Together.

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John McGuinness The Lion and the Lamb I was told that I should listen And hold back what I had to say.

I heard “you are a lamb: Let the lion have its way” The lion said that if I spoke He’d throw me in the trash.

He said, “against the lion, You’ll never make a match.”

The lion hurt our nation; The lamb stood in the crowd.

The lamb became a lion, And then he spoke aloud….

I tell you all to speak out loud: Yes! You will be heard!

Now I am the president; The people hear my words.

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Phillip Helget Cups red cups blue cups empty cups no cups for me I am the awkward kid with the soda can I am the guy who won’t let you call your Ex I am the guy who won’t let you take her upstairs I am the guy who drives you home every weekend I am the guy who sneaks you into your house I am the guy who makes sure you don’t smell like puke

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I am the guy who tucks you in when you can’t I am the guy who leaves the aspirin on the nightstand I am the guy who takes away the rest of your cups I am the guy who you beg to drink every weekend I say no you’re welcome sorry for being sober

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Jamie Bash The Watch The hands tick, never slowing Striking in endless rhythm Around, around, around they move Never hesitating Never thinking Never engaging in ditsy detours Just moving Time is money in the fluid streets There is no time to lark about These passionless creatures welded to their schedules Never altering Never changing Day in and day out The days grow grey Surrounded in this balloon we are visionless We float through the days, kept from our personal fervor All the while the seconds Tick, tick, tick, tick by‌

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Maurice Holmes Dreamers I’m tired of being a realist; I want to be a dreamer Dream my dreams and share them turning kids into believers Maybe I might dream a dream so well it’ll turn me into an achiever Too bad most of my dreams in life are only to achieve her

I want to be a dreamer; I’m tired of this realistic thinking Either your dream is a boat and it floats or it begins sinking I had a dream I’d changed lives just by letting my words sink in But that dream only lasted a second, went by while I was blinking

I want to be a dreamer, but with dreams come nightmares I have dreams of being a dreamer, hoping someone might care In my dreams of being a dreamer, my nightmares never fight fair But in my dreams of being a dreamer, my mind and soul become the right pair

I want to be a dreamer, hoping everyone will listen I have dreams of being a dreamer, it is my one and only mission If you dream of being a dreamer, please sign your name on this petition Because once we all become dreamers, we can start doing and stop wishing!

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Will Lane Hot Air Balloons The men take flight Dangling high in the air In a small blue basket Chained only to a big red balloon They do not shiver from fear Of the fact that only a flame Keeps them afloat They could be irritated Because of the lack of space In the small blue basket But the ride is short So they stay optimistic They share what they have They love each other The flame won’t burn forever So they make the most of it

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Patrick Healy Starry-Eyed In sweetest symphony, The starlet trembled against the starless night As hundreds upon hundreds stormed the deck.

Colorless clouds cried upon their arrival.

The crowd charged the davits, and the once civilized turned coarse, Desperate for a vessel drifting towards survival.

Yet the clock’s hands grew weary, ticking their final tock.

Souls shrieked as the bow turned a different course, Reaching upward into the heavens, Where those stars should have been.

Yet there were stars in the people’s eyes, Before they fell into the sky.

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Ronny Burr Nostalgia She held the picture with her open palm, slightly curling her fingers around the tattered edges.

She held the picture as if it were a crusty, old leaf about to break with the slightest touch.

Growing old and frail, the picture still held its color.

Growing old and frail, She still held her memory.

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Johnny Ganssle Liberty I watched the powerful storm Before I entered the stable I dragged my feet over trampled hay I heard her before I saw her.

I tugged Liberty out of her stall Her eyes ablaze as she reacted to the clouds With all my strength I held her back Her hooves stomped like pistons As the storm rolled in, her mane became fire Her muscles tightened, I dragged her out into the calm air On her hind legs, she screeched As the first strike of thunder cracked She ignited, breaking the grasp I held on her line She burnt the trail she trod, out of sight While she escaped, I saw a bolt of lightning hit the earth.

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Jasper Evans To the Stars and Back Launch day; the space men march Down the path to their ship.

The pearly ship catches the evening sun.

Wind slides the scent of rocket fuel and sulfur Across the crowd.

White plumes shoot from the launch pad.

Scarlett embers light the white clouds like Chinese lanterns.

Ignition.

The ship creeps up, off the launch pad; Towers of golden flames trail it.

The deep rumbling and belching of the engines Churns our stomachs.

The flicker of the boosters fade.

We turn to eachother And say “they’re gone.”

They will be back, Marching up the path from Their ship, Into the arms of their families.

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Will Lawler The Forgotten Oh, the men we call the great, What is to be their fate?

How we willingly cast them aside, As soon as the next great man comes, To be remembered at a later date, We reminisce over their deeds, Yet we don’t really pay heed, To the things that they have done, For of great men there are many, Coming and going with such speed, These are the men we call great, And we know too well their fate, To be replaced and to slowly wane, So commoners, what then for us?

Is remembrance for us too late?

Many men have passed before, And there will still be more, So we strive to be excellent, To rise above ourselves, To change our very core.

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John McGuinness The Ballad of 9/11 “Tomorrow I’ll be late for work, A long day it has been.

I’ll take my child to school, And then I shall come in.”

“Joseph, that’s fine with me For you’ve been working hard.

I really think that it is best To give you a reward.”

The next day I drove in to work And saw a cloud of smoke.

With panic I went closer, And saw my tower broke.

Horrified, I closed my eyes And heard my tower fall.

It was the worst moment I ever will recall.

With no clue what I should do I just sat there and cried.

If I weren’t late for work today: O God, I would have died.

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Riley Cronin Windshield Pounding rain against the windshield On a dark and gloomy night. Thirty miles to go.

Traffic congested as the drops of falling rain.

The back and forth of the squeaking wiper The thumping of the rain on the roof of the car.

Around me the tall white fence of a Yellow house on a corner. The while lights Of a church steeple. My destination is near.

But it is hard to see; blurred by the pelting drops.

Back and forth, back and forth The rhythm keeps me awake.

Only ten miles now left in this pounding rain.

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Sean Evans Haiku My cold feet, numbing Ankle-deep in salt water Sandy smooth delight

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Sean Evans Limerick There once was a boy from St. Johns Whose diet was strictly pecans They turned his skin white, Stole much of his height And now the boy plays with the swans.

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George Lee Cento: cen·to (snt) n. pl. cen·tos - A literary work pieced together from the works of several authors My black face fades and butts itself against the asphalt. She sees The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.

There is a garden in her face, Stooping in rhythm through potato drills And sawdust restaurants filled with oyster shells: Listen to it closely:

in the silent, startled, icy black language

of dark water, a prayer

to say this: I fell in love.

The Old Masters: how well they understood A little black thing among the snow: To weet their cork-heeled shoon, They tossed him, the portrait, from the tallest of the buildings.

Plunge them in up to the wrist; those lovely old men we children knew Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

That Father, faint in death below, He will not see me stopping here to sleep like a snow-covered road Under the sunset far into Vermont.

Remembering, with twinklings and twinges, I admired his sullen face and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold.

I've heard it in the chillest land— The garden is bare now, the ground is cold, And no birds sing.

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Walt Irving Double Dactyl Higgledy Piggledy Larry The Cable Guy Not very bright Only knows Bud Lite Looks very funny Like the Easter bunny Incomprehensible Not good at comedy.

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Christian Constantine The Island On a typical island of St. Lucia the sun radiates upon the tranquil, clear waters of the Caribbean Sea, causing the waters to glisten like a gem. As a young child, staring at the waters from the shoreline, the water almost looks surreal, far more real than a movie, I’m sure. I glanced down at the hot white sand that seemed to peer up at me through the gaps between my toes and I immediately came to realize the tingling sensation that consumed my bare feet.

I ran down and plunged my body, in its entirety, into the warm shallow waters, inking my head under the placid liquid to explore the world unfamiliar to me. The water was so clear that I could see everything on the sea-bed from the colorful fishes to the coral; it was almost as if I was floating in a glass box peering out at my surroundings. Soon running out of breath, I breached the surface of the water and returned to the world that I know best; looking at the sky there was not a cloud in sight, just the squawking of the seagulls above.

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Christopher Bugtong The Learning Years I spend Sunday mornings in my former middle school teaching preschoolers and kindergarteners about God and all His intricacies. It is a scene that I know all too well: the children are laughing along with the teacher as he tries to focus on the lesson. I do my best to be a good preschool teacher (I help when they struggle and smile when they succeed) and very little goes awry. Yet it is strange to be in such a familiar place, and to teach instead of learn. Regardless, I must figure out the lesson plan, and make sure the students get along, and overall hope that I’m doing my job correctly. A load of responsibility weighs down on my shoulders as parents watch, expecting me to lead their children in the right direction, yet their kids live as if nothing in the world matters. I often find myself reflecting on my experiences between those brick walls. As I watch my students color their worksheets while sitting in their little chairs, I remember the times I lived as if nothing mattered.

Our chairs were a bit larger while I attended that school since I transferred in for the fifth grade. The transition was quite difficult, a foray into the unknown. Blue and yellow plaster walls caged us in, and long unexplored corridors held foreign secrets which everyone but I knew. In reality, the building was much smaller than my previous school, but the new and unfamiliar shocked my good sense. Everyone was someone else’s brother or sister or cousin, or at the very least, friend. Each person had known each other for a lifetime, making the months I had known them seem insignificant.

I remember sitting next to empty seats at the lunch table having silent conversations with invisible friends; yet as time wore on, those conversations became louder and real people began to reply. Words were exchanged, laughs were had, and we moved on to the next day. Often times we bonded over mutual disdain for a teacher, and in other moments our crude senses of humor united us. From there the cycle repeated, building a stronger link.

There was no agreement, no induction, no ritual into this family of students.

They had not told me “we like you” or “you can be our friend now.” Yet I knew and they knew. We understood, and we became a family.

The years slipped by and I was no longer the outsider; the school became as familiar as home. The halls were no longer places of mystery, but rather 60

somewhere to hang our classwork. For a while, everything became fun and games for us; we ridiculed the teachers until we were caught and laughed at things that would have made others question our sanity. Our pranks and childish stupidity kept the laughter alive throughout our years together. And where the words fade and the actions blur, feelings of happy oblivion hold with clarity. No matter how silly and immature our antics were, I can’t help but think those moments were not fully appreciated. It’s true that we still had tests to take and papers to write, but none of it mattered. Happiness was the only concern. For the fleeting instant that was middle school, the walls were painted a warmer shade of blue.

There are times where I long for those far off days of unrestricted merriment, times I miss the friends that I’ve let go. I relive that bygone childhood in the intangible spaces of my mind, the desire to rewrite morphing into a grateful acceptance. But when I go back to that school every Sunday, it is no longer mine, not in the sense that I knew. No longer does my name adorn the work hanging upon the wall; Bobby and Jenna and Marie the letters say, names that mean nothing to me. That school belongs to a new generation, and now all I can do is treasure the memories: value the hardships that made me stronger and the friendships that made me happier. I was given the chance to live that part of my life, but now it is time to live in the present and create new memories worth cherishing. It was my time, but it is no more.

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Joe Clancy True Love As it should have been, the sun was shining brightly as David Thompson strode down the sidewalk, playing with the ring in his pocket and thinking about how lucky he was to have Sally Bridges in his life. As he reminisced, he passed by the bus stop that started it all. He stopped next to it, and he remembered stepping onto the bus and sat in the same seat he had on that first day.

The moment he noticed her sitting across from him, he knew. It wasn’t just that she was beautiful, and she was, but it was the way her long dark hair fell on her shoulders, it was the way she sat. She was perfect. She caught him staring, and he quickly hid his face, but he knew she wasn’t upset. She had seen him because she had turned to face him too. Finally he worked up the courage to say something. He moved closer to her, and he introduced himself. They talked the rest of the bus ride and decided to get coffee at a little place near their stop.

From their first time together, Sally seemed flustered, but the conversation flowed naturally. It was the highlight of David’s week, and he could not wait to see her again.

David smiled, remembering that day. He watched the inside of the same coffee shop through the window; dozens of people were interacting with each other, maybe for a brief moment, but every once in a while, a long, rich life would blossom. David turned, letting his hand linger on the cool glass before continuing down the street. He walked through crowds of anonymous people until he saw the steakhouse where he had had his first date with Sally.

That night had been magical, but it was more than just a first date. Both of them knew there was a connection, and neither felt the need to fill the awkward silences, as there were none. They shared intimate stares between conversations, and laughed the night away. David couldn’t believe how quickly he had fallen for this girl.

The walk to her apartment was silent. The two walked next to each other, sneaking glances whenever they could. David knew she would let him into her apartment if he wanted, but he was far too shy to go so far so quickly, so when they got to her apartment, he stepped in front of her, turned to her, 62

admiring her face under the streetlight, and kissed her. It was a short kiss, but it was electric. “I’ll see you soon,” he promised before setting to his own apartment. He remembered this beautiful moment as he leaned on the street light and looked to the apartment Sally had lived in. She had moved out twice since then, once because of rent, and once because of her landlord.

David continued on until he came to a park he needed to cut through.

Sally loved this park, and they had spent so much time there. He remembered when she had wanted them both to take up jogging; she said it would be a healthy way to spend time together; she was too nice to say he had been getting out of shape. She would run past him, even turning around to mock him. As quickly as he ran, David never caught up to her. Their races were just one of many little things which made her so special to him.

David continued through the park until he got to Sally’s new home, North Bridge Apartments. He had to do this. Almost shaking with fear, David walked up the stairs to the third floor, and made his way to the fourth apartment. David rang the doorbell and got down on one knee, taking the ring out of his pocket. He saw the doorknob turn, and when the door started to open, he took a deep breath. “Sally, I love you, wi...” he started before the woman screamed “You monster! Why do you keep following me? Why are you trying to ruin my life?! Go away!” She slammed the door shut, and David collapsed to the floor. He stayed there for a long time, at least ten or twenty minutes.

When he finally stood up, he did so quickly. He dashed to the door and began leaping down the stairwells. He had to get away, had to think. He did not know what was going on, but it was very bad. He leapt for the final landing, but fell badly on his ankle, tumbling to his face and sliding down the last set of stairs.

David stood up shakily, his ankle gave him nearly no support, and felt his nose. He pulled his fingers back and saw blood on them. He was bleeding pretty badly. David limped out the building tilting his head back and clamping his hand to his face. “Sally screamed at me. She called me a monster,” he thought. David’s ankle suddenly gave way. He tumbled into the street, barely able to stay on his feet, and then he saw a bright light and heard a piercingly loud noise. * * * David’s eyes fluttered open. “Oh, you’re awake. Let me get you some lunch,” said a cute nurse. Oh, it’s Sally. I always loved her bright red hair.

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Patrick Healy Words I Wish I’d Said Bang. Everyone in that cafe watched as my silverware and I hit the floor.

I clutched a leg of the table, trying to stand, but instead I brought the plate with my shrimp pad thai crashing down to the floor with me. At this point, some citizens in the establishment stood and sought help. The other people just clutched their seats, some out of confusion, some scared, and some not wanting to miss the show. And boy, was I putting on a show for them: spasms struck my body, awful gagging noises erupted from my mouth, and my face emitted a scarlet red. By now, some genius had figured out I was choking and proceeded to give me the Heimlich Maneuver. It was too late though, unfortunately, for my entire life began flashing before my eyes as I lay upon this black and white meadow of tiles.

At first, I only saw the good things I’ve done—the diplomas, the trophies, and even the few times I helped the elderly cross the street. I reminisced of my first soccer game where I scored a hat-trick, although one of the goals was on my own team. Not that that own-goal mattered though, for I was only six and just enjoyed playing soccer with my friends. These positive pictures paraded around my mind for only a short instance though, for soon after came the rest of my memories--the fights, the failures, and especially, the screaming matches I had with seemingly anyone and everyone I’ve encountered. Clogging my mind to the point of suffocation, these deplorable memories overcame all.

Why did I never fully try in school? From a young age, I had always maintained an academic prowess. I enjoyed reading stories, memorizing the multiplication table, and even attempting science. In about fifth grade though, I began to move away from academics, somehow losing my interest in the world and all that could have been mine: if only I had fed my academic prowess through school. I ended up starving it instead. Looking back, I wish I asked for help earlier, maybe I could have stopped whatever mental offset had a hold on me at the time. Maybe I could have done something with life.

Why wasn’t I friendlier to others? As I walked the streets, I was always intrigued by those that greet strangers with a smile or a classy “hello.” I originally thought these people, these greeters, saluted strangers simply for a similar response. Eventually I realized they weren’t just asking for attention 64

or pandering for a “hello”: the greeters saluted strangers simply because they could, because they were alive, well, and kind. Looking back, I wish I exclaimed “hello” like them. Maybe all the doors in my life wouldn’t be closed if I had only opened a few myself.

Why was I always shouting at my parents? They didn’t shout at me as nearly as much as I did at them, heck, they barely got mad at me. I treated them awful, probably putting them through hell and back, yet they always loved me in return. Looking back, I wish I told them I loved them more.

Maybe they would have said it back, but I can’t be fantasizing over words I never said to begin with. That’s silly.

Suddenly I felt my throat closing up as my uncontrollable body flopped around. People were standing over me, shouting, always shouting, but I couldn’t hear them. My body weakened, and the world around me began to fade away. I thought back to all the words I wish I said—the helps, hellos, and the I love yous—and regret flooded my mind as death slowly overcame my body. Maybe I should have told the waiter about my peanut allergy.

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Phil Bates Revolver For as long as science and reason have been pillars of the human identity, we as a race have sought to prove the existence of God. God’s reality can; however, be shown in a way simpler than science would dare provide. The Beatles’ album Revolver might be the long sought-after proof because from its lyrics and rhythms ring many key qualities we, as Christians, associate with God. Obviously, Revolver doesn’t close the book on the existence of the Almighty, but rather, it is a thirty-four minute treatise on the divine attributes, of which there must be source. The album’s message, as with most of the Beatles’ music, is love. Its cross-cultural musicality represents love’s universality and illuminates its omnipresence. Finally, it represents the purest forms of emotion, barely muddied by human imperfection.

Revolver’s core message is similar to the teachings and ideals of the Church. Songs like “Love You To” command the listener to create love, and in “Here, There and Everywhere”, Paul McCartney sings that “love never dies” and “love is to share.” It would be hard to find any statement more in line with Jesus’ message without literally quoting Matthew and John (the other John). Building on love, Revolver weaves a seamless garment using the threads of social justice and anti-materialism. The “Taxman”, satirically presents an unjust tax collector in order to show how unjust social institutions can be. And in “And Your Bird Can Sing”, John (Lennon this time), speaking almost as God himself, says, “When your prized possessions / start to weigh you down / Look in my direction, I’ll be ‘round.”

Revolver is a musical amalgam of different times, places, and social contexts. An homage perhaps to the universality and timelessness of God. Be it the honky-tonk, 1920’s style piano in “Good Day Sunshine” or the classical Indian sitars, tablas, and tambouras of “Tomorrow Never Knows”, the blending of times and cultures is obvious, nay, impossible to ignore in the music. It goes beyond simple instrumentation. In fact even the chord structures, rhythms, and harmonies reflect numerous cultures and times in history. Revolver does not erase differences between cultures, but rather embraces them. For God’s love, like the song, is here, there, and everywhere.

To our knowledge, the Beatles were human, so Revolver represents the best of human emotions – love, loneliness, and happiness. “Here, There and 66

Everywhere” is a distillation of Christian love: the unending, omnipresent, unifying bond among all people and/or between two people. Also, there is no image of loneliness more powerful than that in “Eleanor Rigby”, nor any canticle of happiness, lyrically or instrumentally, more joyful than “Good Day Sunshine.” These representations, though still humanly imperfect, are highly refined models of human emotions; a clear indication that a higher being must exist beyond the realm of human comprehension.

The artist’s unattainable goal is to open an audience to being. While Revolver did not reify the divine, there is still a reason it sits on Pope Benedict XVI’s IPod labeled “Kingdom in Expansion.” Three reasons actually: love, social awareness, and action on a global scale.

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Jack Caudle Children Get Older, I’ve Gotten Older Too You’ve got to be pretty freaking dumb to walk down a staircase with your eyes closed. So I guess I’m pretty freaking dumb. Every Christmas day, I wake up before the sun rises, and take this fool’s journey to our living room at the bottom of the steps. There I finally open my eyes to the soft glow of the Christmas tree’s light, I gaze upon the shiny red, green, and gold wrapped gifts sitting beneath the tree. It’s the biggest cliche for kids to go and shake their gifts, but I don’t, I’m content to just sit cross-legged in the hall and stare at the gleam of the tiny lights of the tree shining on the carefully wrapped gifts. Eventually, I get up, dig my gifts for the family out of their secret hiding spots, and place them under the tree and in the bulging stockings. Then I’ll watch whatever Christmas specials are playing at this dark hour, and wait silently for my brother Ross to come downstairs and join me. We’ll sit watching Rudolph or Merry Christmas Charlie Brown, and he’ll pester me before I let him go to wake up our parents.

For the past few years, this is how Christmas morning has gone. In years past, my little tradition was much more gift centered - I had to get downstairs and see what I got; no regard for who got it for me or other courteous notions like that. In more recent years however, it has become less and less about the presents.

My early Christmas seasons were spent in our old house where my parents lived before they had Ross or me. We moved when I was very young, perhaps three, and in all honesty it feels like a lifetime away, but I can remember a few snippets of the holidays there; we had the tree in the starkly white living room, and my parents would still wake us up then, and carry myself and then baby Ross downstairs, where we’d have the time of our lives going through our presents. My grandfather, Pop Pop, who the rest of the year had quite a short temper, would come dressed as jolly ol’ Santa, and we’d all have a family picture taken with him. I remember in particular he was one of the few Santas my brother and I weren’t frightened to death of. In those years, Christmas was just about the presents, and in those days it was all about wooden Thomas The Tank Engine trains, which still bear the bite marks of our affection.

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Moving to our current house was awkward at the time. Ross and I were still very little, and the old house was all we knew. In the new, bigger, house we shared a room at the top of the stairs together, which, at the time was fine. Our first few Christmases here were the endlessly stereotyped ones you see in commercials; Ross and I would awake at some ungodly hour, and go and inspect each year’s haul together. In the dancing shadows of the sunrise we’d debate who had the bigger gifts, marvel at the half-eaten cookies on the mantel, and argue quietly about when to wake our parents. It seemed nothing could shatter this wonderful tradition we shared.

I believed in Santa until I was about eight. My parents worked very hard to make sure Christmas morning always had that air of magic; the nibbled cookies, sooty footprints on the fireplace.

Yet, one faithful day in mid-December, while eating breakfast at the kitchen table, I look up from my cereal and ask my unsuspecting mother, “Mom, is Santa Claus real?” The question catches her off guard. She had been focused on writing Christmas cards, and my inquiry completely threw her off. She looked worriedly to my little brother eating his breakfast, and was relieved to discover that he’s not paying attention.

She then turns back and says, “I have something to show you.” My mom leads me to the office room, a cluttered room of our legal, medical, and school papers. She rummages through a filing cabinet and pulls out a faded piece of parchment backed with red construction paper. She hands it to me, with a look of both happiness and regret, as this is what I consider to be the formal end of my childhood.

“Read this.”

She hands me Yes, Virginia There Is A Santa Claus, which, if you’re not familiar, is a newspaper editor’s response to a little girl’s inquiry to The New York Sun regarding the existence of jolly old St. Nick. He explained to her, and now me, that even if there isn’t a magical old elf who flies around the world delivering gifts, Santa thrives in the hearts and minds and spirits of people; even those who claim not to believe. When I look up from the letter we don’t speak, she just gives me the biggest hug I can remember ever receiving. This is how I plan to break the news to my kid on that fateful day.

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But as time went on, the significance of Christmas morning grew less and less important. Sure, I still was thrilled when I got something good, like my laptop a few years ago, but now it is not apocalyptic if I get a pair of socks.

The focus of Christmas has shifted from that one special morning to the entire month of December. I wear a Santa hat to school every day of the month, I refuse to listen to anything other than Christmas songs while in the car, and I’ve even mapped out a list of twenty-five Christmas specials that I have to watch over the course of December. Half of me wants to stay the little boy I was and re-experience all the joy and wonder I felt then; I still try to recapture the magic of those first childhood years. The other half knows it’s impossible to do this, and last year, this fact was underlined.

I only got two or three hours of sleep last Christmas Eve, and when I woke that Christmas morning, I was exhausted. It was still early, so I figured I’d be able to reawaken before my parents woke; I in fact slept like a rock.

I awoke to my father opening my bedroom door, and blinding, unfamiliar sunlight streaming through the window and was blinded by the unfamiliar sunlight; I’ve never slept in on Christmas before. My dad smiles at me. “Well this is a first,” he chuckles. I sit for a moment, still in shock, and a bit angry at myself for forgetting to set my alarm. I manage to say; “Yeah I guess it is.”

You can only live in the past so long; nostalgia has a lifespan. Last year, this realization weighed on me as I plodded downstairs and sat down to watch Ross open his first present. But then, as I began to tear into the wrapping myself, I realized that I can make new memories to enjoy, and this discovery cheered me so much, I didn’t even complain that what I’d unwrapped were socks.

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Christian Constantine The Homeless It was a cold morning; and the sun was barely visible on the horizon. A man was awoken by the sun’s glare as it hit his face. He rose up from the bench that was his bed and sat for a while trying to figure out what troubles he would face today. The man’s face was covered in filth, and wrinkles had formed from the years of stress. The man was covered in tattered blankets and ripped clothing. His hands were inside gloves whose finger tips had become nonexistent as the years went by. The shoes he wore were held together by numerous types of tape. People walked by him and seemed to cover their faces to prevent smelling the stench the man exuded. It was a sad life for this man and after a while of sitting in thought, he went off on his daily journey to find food and drink.

The cold from night never left that day and the only warmth the man received was from the walking up and down of streets searching for food.

Going trashcan to trashcan and asking all the early birds for spare change he walked block by block around the city. When he finally tired, he made his way back to the bench where he rested and begged. The bench was in a busy district that many people went through. But he was well known to be there and he was avoided by many for he disgusted people with his lack of hygiene and desire for their money. But even those who did walk by him did their best to ignore him as they just looked the other way and paid no attention to the man in need.

When he finally gathered enough money for a decent meal, he went to his usual place for it was cheap and filling. The workers did not like when he came in because he had the tendency to drive people away from the place.

He did not care because it was usually the only food he would have all day.

He enjoyed the music and warmth that the place provided and since it was a cold day, he stayed much longer than usual. When he finally realized the employees wanted him gone, he left and went back to his cold bench. This is where he remained for the rest of the day and when the city had cleared for the night, he covered himself up in his blankets and went to sleep only to wake the next day to the same routine.

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Phillip Helget Just Another Drink The white walls of the office were nearly silent except for the heavy ticks flaking from above the white window that peered out into the parking lot three floors below. The heavy brown door opened and through it appeared the lab coat, thick white beard, and chicken-wire glasses that composed the doctor himself. He had in his hands an opened manila folder, flipping through the sheets in it as he crossed the room and sat himself down on the other side of his polished and yet cluttered desk. The doctor rubbed his lips together, nuzzling his beard as he flipped from page to page.

“Well, it’s pretty straight forward,” the doctor began as he put the folder down. “It’s liver failure.” Everything else said from that point forward was nothing more than white noise throbbing in blurred rings through one ear and out the other. Ivan nodded his head at what seemed to be random points to him, but always seemed to allow the doctor to continue on his rant of large and mispronounced medical terms. His head began to sweat in sheets of thick bullets sprinting down his neck. He rubbed his sweaty palms on his jeans over his knees as he stared through the doctor’s forehead and into the parking lot beyond. He watched as cars came and left from the parking lot as the hands on the clock behind them chased each other in circles like a pair of snails. The fibers of thick dust caught in the sunlight seemed to scream a constant pitch against his ear drums as they floated by.

“What we’re looking at is a maximum of eight months…” he caught the doctor say. His head jerked toward the lab coat figure just long enough to make out that phrase before his attention was stolen by the glare from the chicken-wired glasses and silence retook the air.

Ivan stood up from the red cushioned chair, ignored both the doctor and his jacket on the floor, and stumbled through his haze and through the door. He passed the nurses, the patients, and all of the hopeless faces trapped amongst the white lights, white walls, white floors, and white coats on his way to the automatic doors separating the world of deadly whites and the world of constant colors. The green breeze from the trees blew against his face with the golden, violet, and deep salmon scents from the tulips planted along the walkway to the parking lot, cooling the beads of sweet hanging from each pore. He walked through the parking lot to the curb before the busy street. He stood on 72

the edge, his toes inches over, staring forward as he allowed the bustling tones from the passing cars to reawaken him from silence’s grip.

His eyes were now open, his ears receiving, but his head still swam in the flood that had come and tried to drown all of his senses. His head was still dripping with sweat, and his breath thickened into deep gulps of desperation.

He continued down the sidewalk, past his usual bus stop, until he reached the convenience store on the corner.

He emerged from the store, brown bag in hand, and continued on his path down the sidewalk. The cars roared past him, sirens and headlights, but his attention only focused on two aspects: what hit his lips, and the idea that his days were dwindling. The two seemed equal to him. With his thoughts racing faster than the blurred lights streaming to his left, he walked, he thought, he drank, until the concrete turned into soft blades of grass. It was at this point that he had reached the park, just in time to watch the sun begin to set, to watch the sky dye the pond a new shade of algae.

He sat on the park bench, alone, scanning the scene of the youthful laughs playing tag on the jungle gym, listening to the pigtailed song coming from the swing set, and following the trail of ducklings as they wobbled past his feet.

He kept his drink at ready, sipping when he remembered to. He watched as couple by couple passed by, enjoying picnics, walking the dog, jogging even; he couldn’t help but look down at the ring on his finger and succumb to flashbacks of his deceased wife. The two had met in college, on the steps of the library, as sophomores. Married in the August after graduation, their son came the following June. They named him Timmy and dressed him in all the native clothing of wherever their many travels took them. They settled down when he was five, bought a white house with a lawn in Vermont. Timmy was twelve when the crash happened, nineteen years prior to Ivan’s news. He had visited their graves, still talked to Timmy like he was a kid, as if they were playing catch, and his wife like they were still in college, like lovers should.

The brown bag, and the bottle inside it was now empty, he picked himself up and made his way back to the street by lamplight. He kicked pebbles down sidewalk, mumbled to himself jokes from his twenties, and chuckled as those who passed by looking on with concerned looks. He came to his favorite blinking neon lights and followed them down the street and through the door to Paddy’s Pub. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of nuts decaying in old beards. He found his familiar stool second to last at the bar. Salutations 73

were traded and the first of many brews were poured.

He sat in the shallow light, sipping, gulping at points, slipping the burn that once made him forget down his throat with ease. In one ear rang the doctor’s words “eight months.” In the other rang the soft lullaby that his wife had sung to their son; it was in French, and he always enjoyed it, regardless of the fact that he never understood the language. His eyes became red and puffy, his lips quivered at points, and he had a sudden case of the sniffles, all common symptoms to the late-night disease that kept the men lonely together in that cavern. Images flashed before his mind, memories that he had sworn to forget, and so he drank, one pint, two pints, and his third.

He paid his tab for it was the end of the month, charged it to his credit card. He stumbled heavier than ever, for his body seemed to be made of lead, and he had consumed more than even a man of his disease is used to in those short hours. He fell against the bus stop outside the bar, rested his head against the pole and stared down at the edge of the curb. He slowly and carefully slid his toes to edge, just so they hung inches over. With one arm still holding onto the pole for balance, he raised his head to acknowledge the passing traffic. The colors seemed as blurred his thoughts; he swore he saw his wife’s face in a passing window. He reached out for her, nearly fell into the street, but his arm refused to leave the pole. He coughed and gagged, dazed and confused by the lights, his mind was drowning itself in chemical self-pity. He let go of the pole, took his toes further, until the point where he was chasing the lights.

He caught them or them him, either way, he rested his head against the pavement for the last time, with a woman and child leaning over him. He could swear they were his wife and son, and so he called for them with his last breath, talked to the boy as if they were playing catch, talked to the woman like a lover should.

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Jack Killeen Plot: Exercise 1 Ivan Ilych’s life had been most extravagant and most ordinary, and therefore, most terrible. Ivan has always been a man that lives life on the edge; he stared down death on a daily basis. Ivan had made his money through teaching English at a school in Washington D.C. He was now sitting on a lump sum of money, with no schedule for the rest of his life. Ivan spent much of his time hunting in the grasslands of Africa. He had an armory of guns that he would use to hunt the biggest and scariest game of Africa. Ivan was known throughout the world as one of the best big game hunters. He was a professional; he never made mistakes on his ventures. However, as he was hunting lions from a hang glider, Ivan experienced some trouble. The wind beneath his wings turned into a sudden gust that was unbearable for his glider to hold. Ivan began to careen towards the hard floor of this barren land. Ivan hit the ground with a loud thud. This thud could be heard for miles. It silenced all the roars of elephants and cries of monkeys. As Ivan lay in the tall grass waiting for his senses to be at full strength, a lion pride quickly approached.

This was not any lion pride; it was the group of lions he had just been hunting. As the king of the pride walked toward Ivan, the rage within its eyes was like fire. Ivan lay motionless hoping to calm the lion so that it would not rip him to pieces and make him dinner. The lion circled many times, as if he was wondering what to do with this helpless man. Then at once, he pounced on Ivan and slashed the back of his head. The lion then left with his kin as Ivan lay in a pool of blood. Once the lions were out of sight, Ivan put a tunicate around his head and headed for the nearest camp. From there, Ivan was airlifted to a hospital in Washington D.C. As Ivan awoke from a long surgery, he learned that he had very little time left on Earth. The lion had done damage to his brain which affected Ivan’s entire body. Ivan did not know how to control himself. Ivan was not afraid of death, he just wanted to make sure his life was complete before death came knocking. Thus, his first thought was not of anger or pity, it was rather of wonder: what would he do with the remaining months he had left. Ivan thought for a while and then realized that he must give back to the land that has given him so much. Ivan began frequent journeys to the grasslands of Africa where he would help care for and bring necessities to the animals of that area. The population he had once decimated was now being rebuilt by his very own hands. As Ivan fed the lion pride that had taken his life, his eyes slowly closed and Ivan’s heart stopped beating.

Ivan’s life ended surrounded by the roaring elephants and howling monkeys.

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Ryan Morrison The Porch I was fortunate that it was late in the day, when the summer sun was not searing my skin. I had only another hour of sunlight, but I knew that I would have to spend it outside of my grandparents’ beach cottage in Connecticut. The hideaway key was not under the barbeque grill, where I remembered it, so I would have to patiently wait there until someone would let me in. There weren’t many places to sit and wait at this cottage; it was small and simple, but it had a wonderful, timeworn wooden porch where I had spent many hours over the years. Today, however, it was not welcoming.

Nor was the house.

The porch was disproportionately large for the small cottage it fronted.

The paint was weathered, and the floorboards were sagging from years of traffic. It had faded white paint on the stair risers and on the columns that framed the rails, which were missing a few pieces. It didn’t have the look of a perfect seaside cottage, but it exuded a lack of pretension that could only come with a family retreat.

As I looked around the porch, I saw a pile of seashells that I had collected years ago with my sister. I remember Grandma picking out her favorite ones at the kitchen table, asking me, “Ryan, where did you find these beautiful shells?” Smiling I responded, “On the beach, Grandma.” “I’ll make a necklace for you if you want,” I suggested. With the biggest smile she exclaimed, “I would love one!” The fishing line that I used was not jewelry –grade material, and I’m sure it was awful, but at the time, I thought I had created a masterpiece.

On the other side of the porch was a pair of worn flip flops, like the dozens of flip flops that Grandpa had set out front to help Grandma keep the place a little less sandy. They reminded me of the flip flops that Grandpa used to throw into the air over the water, so that I could make a heroic catch before crashing into the waves. “Spectacular dive, Ryan!” Grandpa would yell, as if it were the best he had seen.

The porch was basically the central repository for all that we did together.

Bathing suits would dry over the railings from our sunset swims, which was about the only time of day that Grandma and Grandpa felt comfortable being in the sun. The long handles of crabbing nets would be propped against the porch. “We caught dinner, Grandma!” we would yell as we cycled up with our beach booty. “Whew! I was worried that we would go hungry,” she would reply.

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I was getting hungry myself. It was dark now, and the quiet chirping of the crickets were the only noises I could hear. I could see lights on in the other houses along our block, but I felt that someone would let me in or answer the door any moment. I wasn’t used to an unceremonious arrival at the cottage. Over the years Grandma and Grandpa would somehow sense when our family van was about to pull up, and they would be waiting for us on the porch with open arms. Today was different, however.

I’m convinced that there isn’t any good way to leave this world. Grandma passed away after a brutal, three year battle with breast cancer. Although Grandpa missed my Grandma dearly, he was ready to live another ten years when an unexpected complication from a routine medical procedure reunited him with Grandma only a year later. It was the first time I understood mortality. It was the first time that the old beach cottage appeared to be just a cottage and the porch seemed to be just a porch. My grandparents radiated warming love and happiness that the tiny cottage captured and stored for our family. When they both passed, the accumulated love and happiness was drained until the cottage was empty and no longer felt like the safe haven it had always felt.

When my mom and dad finally arrived, we paused for a moment on the porch. They looked around and smiled at each other, and then at me.

Grandma and Grandpa would love to see us here. We kicked off our flip flops and headed in.

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Ryan Howell Stormy Seas Through the rivets of rain cascading down the cabin window, the first mate could barely make out the ship stalking them, their white sails a stark contrast against the stormy skies. The young boy, no older than 13, had been ordered by the captain to stay in his room and watch the other ship, and he was grateful to be out of the torrential rain. He had not, however, expected the sickening suspense of not knowing what they were sailing into, and he wished he was back on deck. His imagination played havoc on his nerves to such a point that every pitch in the surf shot bolts of terror across his body, holding it in a vice-grip. Suddenly, with a lurch and the sound of hundreds of boards creaking, the ship climbed a massive wave, changing the view of the horizon to that of the turning water they had once been sailing on. He braced himself on a support beam and gazed intently at the ocean surface, horrified by its violent motions. Waves crashed against each other with a sound resembling the boom of cannons. Veins of white foam whirled around each other in the ship’s wake and, with the addition of rain and spray, the ocean appeared to be boiling. He nervously ducked his head under the wood frame to try to get a glimpse of the sky, but when he could not, he gripped the support beam even harder, his knuckles turning as white as the foam in the ocean. He was lost in a coma of fear; conscious only to the ship’s movements, but a drop of water from the leaking ceiling broke his trance. He raised his head to look at the source of his disturbance; the boy wondered how something that could kill them so easily could at the same time be so tame and harmless.

With another sudden lurch, the ship leveled out on top of the wave, and the view of the ocean was quickly replaced by the sky. He relaxed his grip slightly, happy the arduous climb was over, but before he had a chance to brace himself for the fall, the boat pitched forward. It gained tremendous speed as it traveled towards the gaping maw of the sea, causing the first mate to fall backwards and tumble into the wall. The ship smacked into the water as though it was solid; the sound of splintering wood made his heart drop, and he could see the cold claws of death drawing close. When he could, he got up and staggered to the window to attempt to gauge the ship’s condition by any debris. He watched the wave move on in its path of destruction; the wind sprayed water as though it was smoking. His heart sunk even further at the amount of debris being carried off by the wave, and he thought he could 78

make out a person, his frantic splashing almost unnoticeable amongst the spray. He slumped down into his hammock and buried his face in his hands as if praying for a miracle to save them from the water’s lethal embrace. He remained in that position for a few minutes until, through his fingers, he noticed water seeping through the space under his door. It looked as though someone was gradually laying a clear, thin sheet over the floor, small channels appearing as it went between the spaces of the floorboards. He stood up and frantically ran to the door, sending water flying with each step. He reached the door and, unlocking it, it swung open violently in the path of a torrent of water. He was too late.

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