The Phoenix
The Phoenix 2025
A vacant paintbrush lays covered in ash Old photos lie in the trash. Smoke settles in under the darkness of night The Phoenix, preparing for flight. The fire fills writers’ souls with fire Artists reclaim their ability to inspire. Poems and paintings revealed by the flames. Deep in his bag, the Phoenix calls game.
Tobin Choquette '25, Editor-in-Chief
The Phoenix
2025 - Volume XL
EDITORS IN CHIEF
Enzo Bunag
Joey Bunag
Tobin Choquette
EDITORIAL COMMITTEE
Walker Bobb, Teddy Friesz, Justin Han, Joseph McPherson, William Milito, Ryan Scott
MODERATOR
Dr. Harry Rissetto
SPECIAL THANKS
Mr. Joe Ross, Mr. Matt Duffy, Mrs. Monica Buckley, Mrs. Shelly Farace, Ms, Molly Flynn, Mr. Ciaran Freeman, Mr. Steve Beaulieu, Mr. Andrew Bevilacqua, Ms. Sarah Blair, Ms. Kathleen Clark, Mrs. Teresa Jackson, Ms. Mary Kate Kimiecik, Mr. Bill Pierce, Ms. Kylee Piper, Mr. Joe Sampugnaro, Mr. Randy Trivers, Mr. Patrick Welch, Ms. Shannen Milletary, Ms. Emily Murray, JP Loyko ‘24, James White ‘24, Nick Gaston ‘23, Peter Mildrew ‘22, Liam Downing ‘21, Michael Kennedy ‘20, Henry Sullivan ‘20, Lucas Scheider Galiñanes ‘19, Ethan Tobey ‘19, Alex Gomez ‘18, Rylan Madison ‘18, Tommy Boyce ‘17, Quinn Aitchison ‘17, Luke Allen ‘16, Holden Madison, ‘16, Chris Hrdy ‘15, Kevon Turner ‘15, Matt Buckley ‘14, Joe Dahut ‘14, Christian Forte ‘14, Matt Druckenbrod ‘13, Dominic Plantamura ‘13, Andrew Richard ‘13, John Morabito ‘12, Aaron Clark ‘12, Daniel Sweet ‘12, Tom Robertson ‘11, Matt Weider ‘10, Johannes Schmidt ‘09, Will Felker ‘08, and all students who submitted art and literature for consideration.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Dedication
Question: The 2025 edition of The Phoenix is dedicated to this Gonzaga English teacher.
The Answer: Who is Ms. Kathleen Clark?
While she might be most recognized for her recent appearance on Jeopardy!, Ms. Clark contributes so much more to the Gonzaga community. In the Writing Center, she might be helping her students improve their writing skills. After school, you would see her coaching students in Speech and Debate or running an NHS chapter meeting. And even during the summer, you might find her assisting students with college essays. Ms. Clark works tirelessly to ensure that Gonzaga students grow to the fullest person they can be – whether by remaining a constant place of support or helping even the most timid students come out of their shells. Ms. Clark, Gonzaga would certainly not be the same without you.
622 Days
Jimmy Mulholland
I visited you today
Bearing gifts of flowers and your favorite jelly donuts
I told you stories of love, perseverance, and failure.
I spoke words of regret and sorrow for the times we missed out on almost two years felt like days and every moment I thought of you, Thinking how I could see you again
How I could express my guilt to you and my anger that masked these emotions I felt
But you did not care, You laid there listening
To every tale and emotion that I described and felt.
I hope you felt the hug I gave to the cold piece of stone marking your death which now held my tears in your name and birthdate
I whispered “I miss you” but no response was given it wasn’t expected
To hear “622 Days” read by the author SCAN the QR Code
Cease Fire Hayden Burnside
Life-ending
Results of creation spiral down Into the masses, Holding gravity against its will. A singularity splits Unfolding out Cascading shrapnel in shockwaves.
Dust collects in pillows Amidst The scorched and beckoning.
Suffocates my air
Pillages holes into my body Singes my skin
The burned and pluming Ash invades
Escaping through the thin bars That ring hollow in my mouth.
The cinders congeal
Dripping down my rosy esophagus. Running in cramped homes, The pestilence flows down Hallways of stringy crimson intensity And grabs for the touch of my heart. Holding my heaving lungs, The assailant inside Desperate for a hostage.
I collapse
Let my air vibrate Out and run
Fleeing for the innocence of life
While my blood slows and inaudibly weeps As death pervades
The atmosphere
She settles on my shoulders
Her talons, like the weighted pendulum, a bell tolling against my flesh
Collapsing me
She faintly chirps
Of the burgundy curdled, lifeless crashes
To hear “Cease Fire” read by the author SCAN the QR Code
Bullets Producing Body Bags
Aiden Williams
Why does my mother have to weep? Why does my grandfather have to bury the ones who were supposed to bury him?
There is a plague going on, And it seems ceaseless. This epidemic is stronger than corona. Its name… gun violence.
It’s no disguise.
Precious black bodies are dropping like flies in the midst of night. For the reason these black bodies are perishing is due to the cycle.
The cycle in which my ancestors built this country upon their cries. The cries that still echo today, in the streets where their descendants’ futures are denied.
How is it that an object that destroys our community can be so glorified?
Where we as a people feed into racist Europeans wanting us to be contained in this cycle, using bullets to create civil war amongst each other.
Ms. Nina sang about the black bodies swinging from the poplar trees.
Now in this generation, it’s those same bodies zipped up in luggages of grief. To hear “Bullets Producing Body Bags” read by the author SCAN
At the Wrong Time To Samuel Bryan Mercado
El Salvador’s scenic mountains, sky blue as could be. In the big city of San Salvador I saw you
We had a blast my cousins could tell you as well, we ate, we laughed, we hugged, and time flew just like that.
Moons fly by, seasons begin to change, suddenly your body starts to tremble, you fall in front of those who love you the most.
Weeks pass by, not a single clue of what is going around you. Tubes and screens around you, but you weren’t able to win the fight.
Your son is almost a doctor, your daughter just had a baby, your brother just got married.
Oh dear uncle, wish you could have seen it, or maybe you did from up above, or maybe you came back as a hummingbird, all this could be true, but the timing just didn’t seem right.
To hear ”At the Wrong Time” read by the author SCAN the QR Code
The Sounds of Northeast, DC
Justin Wallace
The sounds of screaming moms fill the air. On Saturday mornings, their voices rise over the whistles, pushing their sons down the field, telling them to keep going, keep fighting, like they have done their whole lives.
The bus brakes hiss at the corner, Rare Essence spills from an open car window, kids yell across the blacktop, their laughter mixes with the rumble of dirt bikes flying through the streets.
Then night comes, and the sounds shift. Gunshots crack through the air, followed by silence. Heavy, waiting.
Then the screams return.
Not from the sidelines, not from the joy of the game, but from a mother in the street, holding onto a body that won’t move, begging for a name that won’t answer.
The city keeps moving. The metro doors close, the beat still plays, but the cries don’t fade. They linger, hanging in the air, another echo in the night. To hear “The Sounds of Northeast, DC” read by the author SCAN the QR Code
The Air Betrayed You
For my grandfather
Bryce Gilbertson
Sword Wielder
i was lightning in our plastic sword fights a blur of speed with a dangerous pounce yet you were as calm as the cloudless sky using poised parries to protect from each strike
but the air betrayed you with sharp pains in your chest that made your keen Defense vanish
Piggy Backer
i stumbled to climb on you with my small limbs grabbing the holds until i perched upon your shoulders and flew, screaming and giggling with a primal joy as the cool fresh air whipped along my cheerful face
but the air betrayed you with a detrimental lack of airflow that made your Strength vanish
Chronic Sufferer
i can never forget the trembling sound of your soft wheeze from the air unfound the valiant effort from your last breath that tried to delay your inevitable death
but the air betrayed you your strong fighting spirit and instead flowed into My lungs
embedding a pain that could never depart
The Back
Towards Destruction Hayden Burnside
The tannin of the belt etches a pattern
Like a permanent lace
The Brain
When bludgeoned, The synapse bundle, like a violin’s strings
Plucked and played by bad musicians
A mighty orchestra of pillaging
The Lungs
The ensemble like percussion when the air is compressed
And the tiny packets of oxygen and flem cry
Reverberating out melodic waves of destruction
That ebb and flow
The placating, warm-flowing desire for rage
The Body
Of crimson and burgundy
Painted onto a canvas of muscled and toned flesh
Pulled taught by the ribs that jut out in emaciation
A battlefield on display of unleashed ferocity
The Voids
Cratering the canvas
The continuing lashings
Like a rocket
Pushing through the skin
As quickly as engines punch holes into the night sky
The Collapse
An arched body left
To ozze and puddle
Its gifts are given up to the ground
Surrounding the collapse
Appalachian Comfort
Jack Schwalb
Take a deep breath in,
Close your eyes, clean and crisp. The air cleanses your soul, the taste of old oak roots into your lungs, feet planted in fertile dirt.
Fresh grass, dirt, leaves and moisture seep into your sinus.
Feel the rock you are sitting on, the coarse surface, carved by the Eternal Craftsman’s patient hand. Feel the tree next to you, a fortress of splintered armor, a canvas of deep green velvet.
Open your eyes
The atmosphere aflame, the clouds, a hearth.
The world glows golden, sculpted by the great creator. Look from the cliff you’re sitting on down into the valley. God’s sawblade, the river carves, forming the valley slowly, patiently. A lush green sea flanks the river, covering the rugged old mountains. The sun falls through the edge of the world.
Primordial mountains hold you in their hands. A relic of the time before time began.
Breathe out
Turbulent Rings Kai Rock
Explosion on the track:
I kiss it’s face bumpy and scabbed by beatings of salt; torn up by ambition, the same kind that seeps out of my forehead.
Stride around the curve:
My feet spin between the lines, each placement quick and intentional as I march through a minefield scattered with little green bombs from well fed ducks.
Relax and pump the straight:
My tongue reaches out of my mouth as if I could lick the tall pine trees beyond the finish. Puffing and spitting at the thin white line ahead. A sunset burns in the sky, I race towards night like the sun, carelessly bruising horizons purple and pink.
Walk back and go again:
The old community track, dug out like trenches but sparkling with character like temples. There’s calm among the holler of birds, the slow slouch across a battlefield scarred by athletes of all ranks. I find peace in the quiet blasts of shooting winds on my face. In the quiet wars each person wages against themselves on those turbulent rings.
Betty Ann Michael Rock
October 26, 2006 you held my hand with love. October 20, 2024 I held your hand with grief.
From September to October of 2024, I found a strange sense of beauty. not just in yourself, but also in the process of embarking on your ascent. Your smile and shriek every time I walked in the room lights up my memories. I miss that.
I still have your hot pink lipstick stain on my black sport coat I still have a locket of your white hair encased in a ziplock bag I got when you died. I still have your spirit with me, but I need you to give me a sign that you’re still here.
It was a beautiful day when you left me. which was only appropriatelook at the beauty you gave to the world. Your spirit is gone from this earth and your ashes sit safely in my room, but that doesn’t matter because I hold you in my heart and my mind every day. and it will be every day until someone else holds my hand on my ascent. where we’ll see each other once again. And your shriek will fill the air and your smile will light up my universe.
You Came and Went Christopher Martin
Sun shining through the windows. Your yearly visit came in the middle of August.
Awaking midday to the sound of a roar. The noise getting closer and closer until it was gone.
You left my ears awaiting the sound of the roar. The wait continued to grow longer and you suddenly became a mystery.
The mystery of your absence came to light when seeing your pain. It all the sudden grew to something more than me.
After a while I came to peace with your absence. But trust me, I miss hearing that roar come down the street.
STOP!
for: Willie McCoy who was wrongfully killed outside of a taco bell in Vallejo,California on February 9, 2019
Jimmy Mulholland
1,2,3,4,5
How many bullets do you think it takes to kill a man?
1 Quick and precise yet may lack the firepower needed to put a man to sleep
2 an added measure to make sure that dead man won’t rise again
3 Is the magic number or so you would think Who knows?
4 Slightly Overkill but that man is big, he’s strong he could withstand some lead
5 Surely that’s enough One for each finger that dead man put up, when we raised our guns to his head 55
Wait stop, that can’t be right surely not in 3 seconds
that man may be strong but that shiny gold badge, that is much stronger and yet the world still says let that dead man be dead and let that cop walk
Fight Against Fear
Chase Peterson
In the stillness of night, a shot breaks the calm, Echoes linger, filling the air with alarm. Children’s laughter fades, replaced by the fear, As dreams of tomorrow grow distant and unclear.
Windows shuttered tight, hearts heavy with dread, A mother whispers softly, wishing for peace instead. On the corner, a gathering, faces worn and gray, Each story a reminder of lives led astray.
The streets once alive with the sounds of delight, Now hold the weight of loss, shadows in the light. Yet amidst the sorrow, a flicker remains, Hope for a future where love breaks the chains.
Together we stand, voices rising in grace, To banish the darkness, reclaim our space.
Outcast
Michael Rock
We are raised in this institution as Men For Others.
But what about the young man who doesn’t fit in?
What about the young man who sits by himself at lunch, tucked into the corner of the upper commons playing chess on his computer.
Whose phone stays silent, except for the text from mom, dad, or grandpa.
Who never joined a sport or participated in the theater because of fear of being different and failing.
Who went on retreats all four years, excelled in all classes, served at the McKenna Center, but never came close to God.
Who never got invited to parties, outings at the mall, the homecoming reception or felt the taste of Rico on his tongue.
Who was always picked last in a group. An afterthought.
The introvert who never made friends in middle school and failed to learn how to socialize due to the Covid Pandemic.
What about the young man who came to this school looking for brotherhood, but graduated only with a diploma?
Irby Thompson
2076 Part 2
Adam Ford Redd
It’s 2076
My friends are gone
I’m all alone
And the world’s aflame
I’ve waited here
I’ve drank to fear
But peace did I not find
My only friend
The drink I’m in
Did little but say goodbye
In this then
I said amends
To those who I had cursed They laughed at me
Sang songs at heat
From flames did they burst This was so wrong
Why was it so long
The fear took hold of me
My lips were dry
My drank was gone
Now I had some trouble
Reality took hold
Its hands so cold
I knew I was in pain
For it was so vain
To think me safe
From all the world in trouble
Long last it passed
My friend returned at last I thought it all a dream
But now my friend was back My joy to last
Until the day was over
Reflections of a Lost Future Mirror Speaks to a Young Boy Chase Peterson
He used to stand before me, ball in hand, spinning dreams on his fingertips, feet light, eyes bright, a rhythm to his movement, a purpose.
Now he barely looks at me, his hands deep in his pockets, fingers curled around crumpled bills, earned in shadows, lost in seconds.
The court is empty, his sneakers untouched, traded for street corners and late nights, voices pushing him forward, daring him, telling him who to be.
Dice rattle in his palms, falling like broken promises, his future wagered in alleyways, his name echoing between streetlights.
I see the doubt, the hesitation, the boy still trapped inside the man he’s becoming. But he won’t meet my gaze— he’s afraid of what I might show him.
What He Cannot Outrun
Chase Peterson
He hides behind his palm, as if skin and bone could erase what lingers in the light, what stretches long behind him, what he cannot outrun.
The shadow awaits.
Fingers press against his face, pressed against the truth, the one he fears to name.
Darkness spills between the cracks, curling around his hesitation, whispering in shapes he won’t acknowledge.
He peeks through the spaces, half-hoping the world has changed, half-knowing it never does.
The shadow awaits.
Next Stop, New People
Christian Clarke
Deep below the hustle and bustle of the city
A line of steel train cars unite souls from day to night
Every day thousands of people take you from place to place, stop to stop.
From crowded stations where footsteps race
To silent moments where eyes meet face to face. From the tired worker, to the young student
To the lovers and the wanderers without a place to call home. This path never alone. It is a thread that ties us all together
In the hurry of it all.
It zooms by like the stories and conservations had.
All walks of life intertwine like the mother braiding Her daughter’s hair on the blue seats, trying to balance. Your windows show concrete walls and trees, It goes through dark tunnels or sunlit skies above We are binded by a thread, silent bond.
Much like the train zooming by, we never appreciate those there.
But we must, because they could be there for a mere moment.
Colby Fields
On A Writing & Walking Field Trip with Seven High School Students Exploring Langston Hughes Sites in Washington, D.C.
Mr. Joseph Ross
The city teaches us today with brick row houses and front stoops, bicyclists, the squeal of car brakes.
Hurried drivers watch us waiting on the sidewalk or writing on Hughes’ front steps, Bikes hiss by, their spokes sparkle against a grey sky.
My students gaze at Langston’s windows, wondering what poem began here, what poem ended here, what poem was tossed away?
One moment, these boys are a riot of laughter, shining with silly, colliding with each other. The next, they search the sky for wounds.
I watch them sitting on his stoop, these are serious boys, writing words they mean, seeking words that will be true in America.
I wonder about these boys. Where do they begin? Where do they end?
What loneliness or love will carry them?
God-bearer
A
poem from the point of view of every cross to exist
Jack Schwalb
I first held criminals, murderers and traitors. Then God carried me up a mountain. A nail drove through his hands into mine. I held God as he died.
I was used as a symbol of hope as well as one of persecuting that same hope. One of death one of life.
My nature changed. I become an echo of a deeper truth, yet used to shout lies. To kill, to persecute, a God of peace held in the forefront of war.
I was used to enslave, to divide.
I am still used as a symbol of God, but burned for the very purpose I oppose.
For those who use me, abuse the good news. The God I held isn’t in your presence and in your presence is just a cross. The cross is used for criminals, murderers, and traitors, he is in your midst.
Sunday School after Emily Dickinson’s “Some Keep the Sabbath Going to Church”
Jimmy Mulholland
I sure ain’t the some. I find my God in the man whose home lies on concrete and instead of the body of Christ I see the lack of bread in the endless line of hands
I hear the singing of choir from the millions of voices shouting in pain
I see the giant gold dome in the damp basement that many are made to call home
But I still wear my boots and serve those neglected by some who still keep the sabbath going to church
The Scholar’s Tale Teddy Friesz
Whan alle hadden herd the tale ytold atte laste, Ech preysed its wit and lough with mirth so vaste.
Oure hoost thanne spak: “A tale ful faire hath been shared, Yet now the sonne doth synke, and we ben forpared. The hour doth nyghe whan nyght shal clothe the skye, And we mot seken an ynn, er derk be nyghe. Thus litel tyme remayneth for ydel cheere— Who shal speken next, whos tale we now shuln heere? Come, sire preest, thy tyme it is to spynne A tale that myghte oure mery hertes a-grynne.”
The preest answerde, “Nay, lat me now refreyne, To telle my tale so soone were a greet peyne.”
Thanne spak a scoler, boold and ful of pryde: “I shal next telle a tale, so stonde aside!
A noble tale I holde within myn mynde to share.”
Quod thanne oure hoost, “Spek swythe, for toun is neere! Yif thou dost holden a tale within thy brest, Thanne lat it forth—delay doth serven lest.”
“My lordes,” quod he, “yif eere and marketh weel, For I a tale of fraude and gile shal telle. A riche ealde man in Lundone ther dide dwelle,
A man of meenes, whos wele no bounds koude telle. His name was Robert, yborn of Fortune’s grace, His faderes gold hadde set hym in high place. No soule it knew whan first his tresour layde, For generaciouns past the somme was mayde. His halles shoon with tapestries of golde so bryght, His wyndowes caste coloures with the sonnes light. Hors stod in stable, faire and wel-fed steedes, And servauntes hied to answere alle his needes.
And in that selfsame toun, yet poore in soule, Did dwellen a knave whos craft was falshede foule.
This William, knowen for tresoun and for gyle, Hadde begyled ful many with his cunnyng whyle. His tonge was slye as serpent in the grasse, And fair his speche, as thogh it blessyng was. Yet venym lay within his hert ful depe, And oon by oon, his preyes wolde he kepe. With robe wel-wrought and shoon ful clene, He semed a lord, his manere so serene. But underneth his smyling chere so blythe, Lay falshede keen, ysharpened as a scythe.
And whan he herde of Robert’s riche astate,
His herte was set upon the riche man’s fate. Nowe Robert nyste noght this vilaynes weyes, Ne how deceite in derke corners pleye. Thus stood he bare, unwar ‘geyn the wiles Of oon whos tonge was ysteeped in wikked giles.
Thanne William rood unto the riche mannes yate, And there he knokked, as oon who bereth weight. Whan Robert cam and bad the knave to telle, He bowede and spak: “Goode sire, I brynge thee welle.”
“The tidynges that I brynge be grete and ful of myght, And mote be told with care, in wordes right. Lat me within, and I shal make thee see A mater dire for Engelond and for thee.”
“Thanne entre in!” quod Robert, keen to heere, And bad his gest take sete and drawe hym neere. With warmth he servede drynke and spak with cheere, Yet William’s mynde was bynt on fraude moost cleere.
Quod William thanne: “Thou knowst Kyng Henry deed, And Henry V now regneth in Engelond’s stead. But marke me weel, for what I telle is dire: This kyng doth serve Sathanas with brennynge fyr!”
“Nay, sey nat so!” quod Robert. “This maistow nat seyn!”
“’Tis sooth!” quod William. “Marke me, and obeye.
For Henry, traytour to his faderes grace, Hath cast this land in shame and woful place. He whisprith poyson, herkneth the peples crye, And maketh the reem to falle in ruyn hye. And to feire Engelond ruyn Henry bringes. He seeks to give to cherles the rightes of kinges! The sooth of this no subget dar speken out, For al that knowen dreden the galwes rout. Yet I, through cunnyng, lerned his wikked deede— And now I come to thee, that thou mayst heede.”
“O wo!” quod Robert. “This shal Engelond spille! What devel dar posessen oure kynges wille?”
“Aye, Sathanas hym ledeth, of that be sure,” Quod William, feyn his preye to secure.
“This is nat al the sooth that I do bere, But marke me weel, and herkne with grete care: Kyng Henry, or he deide, his wylle he sealed, And there he named his sone—yit nat the heele!
For Thomas, duc of Clarence, was the heir, And nat this Henry, fals yond compare. But through deceite the coroune was mysplaast, And tresounes hand oure reme hath disgraced.”
“But how dostow swich tidynges knowe so weel?”
Quod Robert, halfe in doute yet heeld in speel.
Quod William: “Alle was marked by develes hande, And wise men knowen, yet daren not demaunde.”
Whan Henry lay in bed, ny to his deeth, The lordes whispriden among hemself ful breeth. They named Duc Thomas, wys, juste, and faire, For he allone was fit the coroune to beere. And yit, but months hadde passed, and lo! the wylle Bar Henryes name! Kanstow not seen the ylle? The develes werk, ywis, it shal be seene cleere, For Henryes reigne bryngeth noght but wo and dreere.
Thus, marke me now, and marke me weel ywis: This kyngdom falleth, but we sewe the bliss. And thou, goode sire, mayst helpe this cause dyvyne, Yif thou dost yive thy wele to strengthe myne. For I, with worthy men of noble state,
Shal right this wrong, or al be lost too late. With coyn and armes, we shal this tiraunt felle, And bringen Engelond ayen from helle!”
And Robert, simple man, dide thus byleve, And yaf his tresour with herte ful grieve. Yet William took the gold and rood away, And never heved a hand to werre or fray.
The moral, frendes, is playn for alle to see: A witless mynde is but a thrall to be. For wisdom is the light that maketh free, And folye leveth men in myserie. Thus taketh heede, ye folk that heren my song— Lat resoun leden thee, lestow suffren wrong!
Eternal Wanderer Patrick Manetto
The man handed Kelmen his canteen without the slightest hint of a smile. Kelmen accepted it with a large smile towards the other man. These village people were so strange in Kelmen’s view. At a time when the world was prospering, these mountain dwellers seemed to think it was ending.
Everything was ready to go. Kelmen fitted the canteen to his backpack and hefted it over his shoulder, beginning his long hike. The village had been the last civilization he was sure he would find. The map he had bought told him that it was only a few days’ trek from the place he sought - the Eternal City.
Many had told him his wanderings were vain, that men searching for fairy tales had fallen from fashion centuries ago, that with all the wonders of industry, humanity did not need magic. Kelmen did not believe what these men said. In his view, the world was not complete without something men could not understand, something magic. That was why he had given his life to the pursuit of anything unexplainable. His latest fascination was the Eternal City. Old books told of its existence, books Kelmen regarded as histories. He knew he was close. Only a few more days. After three days, the map proclaimed Kelmen a mile from his destination. Here he stopped and readied himself. He left behind all evidence of his wandering life and made himself look like a proper gentleman, the kind who ran factories and large companies, the kind his father always dreamed of him being.
Kelmen had decided that when he encountered these new people, he should present the best the new world had to offer, unless they repeat the traumas of the past.
The next mile was difficult and Kelmen took it slowly so as to not ruin his finely pressed suit. After some time he could finally see the end of the peak that would look out onto the Eternal City.
Cane in hand, he sprinted the last hundred feet, overcome with joy and looked out onto —
An endless sea of fog. Nothing more.
For some time, Kelmen only stood there wondering, how could this be. He fell to his knees and began to weep, his world broken beyond repair. He lost track of time as he sat there, tears running down his eyes, sitting in silence, no thoughts but one coming to his mind. One though. One question. How could he live in a world without magic?
Xavier Baugh
Marco,
A Grain of Sand
An Elegy For DeMarco Bradford Langston Davis
Do you remember us playing video games until five in the morning?
Do you remember begging our moms to get us McDonald’s before basketball practice? Do you remember us staying after practice for thirty more minutes, making our moms wait while we got shots up?
Hopefully, you do.
If you don’t, I understand because those were the old days. When we were young, we would talk everyday. We are both seventeen now and don’t talk much.
Wait no, I am mistaken. You are actually sixteen. You didn’t get the chance to be seventeen. You didn’t get the chance to go home to your mom that night. You didn’t get the chance to hoop safely that night.
You—my best friend since fifth grade
To the world, you are just a grain of sand, lost at sea
To me, you are the everlasting body of water that keeps my heart pure.
Caged Eagle
To Gabriel (A boy enslaved at the Washington Seminary) After “Caged Bird” by Maya Angelou Kai Rock
A Gonzaga man “leaps on the back of the wind”, and “floats” freely through his hallowed halls. We fly high and win the gold that lines our pride. We command our destiny on the field, and in our boundless skies of opportunity. A Gonzaga man “dares to claim” each purple sunset.
Garbiel, forgotten to the sunsets, did not have the freedom of these halls, for his chains were too heavy for him to leap, and his body too dark to shine like gold. For Gabriel, Gonzaga was not a boundless sky to command, but the key bearer of a boundless cage.
A Gonzaga man “hails” his alma mater, singing “victory” as if promised by God himself. Our voices “echo proudly” through generations of victors. Gabriel sang too, but his voice cursed our alma mater. His dirge had no wind to sound hope any distance, as he was told his bondage was promised by God himself. Gabriel’s song never echoed with pride, but choked and died from the weeds in his garden.
Still, a Gonzaga man has a sensitive ear and can hear Gabriel’s echo today. In the voice of every person encountered in service, and in the voice of every songbird whose wings were “clipped” so that we could be the ones to fly.
A Gonzaga man remembers Gabriel’s sacrifice; part of his soul remains attached to our school. In each song of victory, We let his longing for freedom echo proudly. In each act of service and each flight high into the sky We remember that we float on air stolen from his lungs. A Gonzaga man for others loves his neighbor and works cheerfully for justice to give all people what Gabriel was denied: wings to fly.
Chain-Linked
For Dwight Jackson, rejected from hotel jobs until he changed his name to a ‘more apparent Caucasian’ one - then the offers came.
Bryce Gilbertson
eyes peer through the cold steel links pressing on the large building of opportunity deferred by echoes of chains my ancestors bore not long ago.
beyond the fence stood generations of white office workers in that building that walked right through the open door that was shut in my face before the interview
i walked the streets, strong resume in hand, watching smiles fade after looking at my name. i felt the weight of doors never opened to me, of pathways blocked, even before my first step.
because the fence that looms over the building is the chain-linked past against the present is the red lines drawn on neighborhood maps is the lessons never taught in broken schools is the job refused, houses forced to be abandoned
and it is the unshaken link to our unwelcome presence.
Conversation with Maya
Justin Wallace
Dedicated to Maya Angelou You and I walk on different grounds.
I step on paved roads, You marched through dust.
I hear praise in my name, You heard “Sit down.”
I see dreams unfolding, You saw them denied.
Yet, no matter the weight, no matter the chains
Still we rise.
Langston Davis
B-Lot
Bryce Gilbertson
crushed stone, black and gray, with tar strips dark and thick the scorching sun, the cool asphalt, where shadows stretch and stick to the simple eye, a parking lot that stretches far and wide, to the youthful eye, a mystical playground, where laughs and screams of joy bounce in the air.
four-square courts, labeled one to four, red battle lines drawn tight as your territory four players crouched, with eyes of fire, locked in for the king to start the game a hollow thud, the ball slams forward, and quickly ricochets from hand to hand a desperate dive, an epic save, and a final slam, can the king maintain his stand?
a soccer ball centered in the lot, awaiting a tsunami of frenzied kicks and punts large fences, shape the goals, for the intense rivalry of boys vs girls, as each side fights with all their might, the many defenders hold the line a final shot, a piercing strike roars to the goal, can it make it through all nine?
in the far-right corner, bases laid, chalked white on pavement dark, the kicker waits, feet firm and set, eyes tracing the ends of the massive lot the pitcher smirks, grabs the bouncy red ball, and spirals it with marvelous might a foot swings in a soaring arc, the ball flies, will it survive the outfielders on the right?
five tall hoops like sentries stand, their nets swaying loose and free a chorus of bouncing balls and squeaky shoes, the music of endless energy
knockout games from the free throw, relaying shots of luck and skill five on five games that rage on and on, who will deliver the final kill?
As the sun sets and the games fade, as the silence settles over B-Lot, will the rivalries it ignited be remembered? will the memories it created live on? or will B-Lot lose its playground magic and become just another parking lot?
Vultures
In the voice of an Immigrant Jimmy Mulholland
Imagine this America Birds preying. blue sky. endless desert. Imagine this, twenty-two, twenty, two, one. Baby on each back.
Imagine this, vast ocean. empty stomachs. sharp teeth, waiting.
See this America, land of freedom. land of opportunity. land of the many. see this hunched spines. burnt faces. low wages. see this red gazing eyes. pointing fingers. talks of aliens. feel this laughing men, in suits. plane engines.
vast ocean. blue sky.
feel this endless desert. sixty, fifty-eight, forty, thirty-nine.
Feel this America birds preying.
Mikael
The Poker Table David Fred
You can lose a life’s fortune but you may also gain one.
The green felt. A yard with pristine manicured grass, anxious fingers run across the tips of each blade.
Above, a light hums a golden glow casting shadows on faces masked with confidence.
Two smooth cards lay in front of you. Your fate lies with a queen and ten.
Call
The flop: King Eight Seven
There’s a chance. Fingers crossed below the table Foot tapping on the wooden floor below
Raise
The turn: Jack
My heart tangos with fate, it’s my turn to win. Time to cash out.
Whatever can happen will. Right?
I’m all in hoping for an ace.
Sometimes you gotta take a dance with chance.
The river: Seven
You can lose a life’s fortune but can never gain one.
It’s just stress
Elijah Maddox
The seemingly endless feeling
Accompanied by anxiety and sadness
Continuously building onto itself
Until the source is no more, until it’s no longer needed
It’s just stress
Overwhelming stress
Nail biting, head scratching, foot tapping stress
For having to handle a feeling that’s way to much
Creating a hole we fall into
Digging itself deeper and deeper so deep that we feel we cannot climb out of Boom, we’ve fallen Boom, we’re stuck
But it’s just stress
We seem stuck, but we’re not
There’s ways to diminish stress
There are solutions to make it worse no longer to improve your mental ability, reinforced and made stronger and providing the means for us, ourselves, to deal with our problems and gain focus
We can, climb out the hole
It was just stress
Solutions are found, within our hearts, in our minds, in our being Yea, we did that, we encouraged ourselves to find our own solutions
Lifted weights, evaporated stress
We have left the hole behind Buried it deeper than it has buried us
And now we’ve survived Survived the disaster that was
It’s just stress
Brayden DeVaul
Fire of Humanity
Ezekiel Jones
What is the nature of the unnatural?
That gift like fire
Brilliant and blazing burning.
What does its nature demand?
Is it to char the bark that breathes life into its executioner
Maybe to smother the existence of that which satisfies its hunger
Razing swathes of earth to erect temples of stone, bleeding into the soil with the unnatural?
What is unnatural?
To develop faster than nature can adapt its design
To remember it’s kind whose ember remains long after its light dies?
To communicate with complex cackles and shrieks
To mold a uniqueness so unnatural
Is it natural?
To express affection by locking lips
To be offended by a specific inraging finger pitched at a foe
To find an apex predator as appealing as its own progeny
To form a tribe out of tossing pig skin
What is the nature of the unnatural? maybe it’s just naturally unnatural
Comparable to nothing
Like fire; Unnatural by nature.
the way things go
Christian Clarke
Lie in the tomb, your inn’cent childhood dreams Memories of yore, now weight on shoulders Remember when your sly smile used to gleam Life, a fig tree, we are getting older
Don’t years march like shadows, a requiem? My parents set for me a steadfast stone Now cracked, I pond’r if perfect I still seem? Each passing year does chill, and friends have flown.
The world does shout with force booming and cries “Do this, Become that!” - this boulder rolls on; Like Sisyphus, I dream ‘neath heavy sky, And flaws grow closer as my youth is gone
Yet still, though disenchanted, hope I keep, No time for groaning, nor for endless sleep.
In the eye of a watcher
Hayden Burnside
Vehicles ellipse the body
As a veil blocking the ascension
Humanity refracts a low-lit glean.
The event horizon expanding out starts trickling down conciseness
Capturing its essence into the pupil’s round barrels
Drops, down shrapnel of rocks and edges, wind towards the watcher until an eventual cascade.
Keeping blood stagnant
Like a pond
As the belt of the synapses tightens down
A picture is wrangled and squeezed
Out from the ocean of visceralness flowing past
Flys attracted to still water
And emanating from the boy
Quenches the bullets
Firing clears the smoke out
A new sense pervades
Digs her gaunt finger across his spine
From end to end, with needles that dance up
Along its back and rush toward its target
Stabbing the watcher
An overflow of movements
Stories unnesting
The sensation of folding and a crumple
Delapate the watcher to his knees
The watcher is felt
Clinching for a reality
Distant from its euphoric and glutinous knowledge
From the cavities that carried breathless intensities
The firing clears the smoke out Like termites desecrating the unclaimed
The watcher is pervaded and seen.
Before It could cocoon For death And fly Away in beauty
My Brother Langston Davis
He holds his fist high because he has no fear. The bonds we formed, the love we built, and the trust constructed stems from what we preach.
The brotherhood Foundation is sturdy as a brick.
With my brother’s strength, I will not fail for he will have my back and I his.
steer clear. They fly high. They triss bliss. They earn stern. They not you. You hate you. You style vile. You flow low. You drink stink. You tune blues. This is true. But do you.
They bow proud. They Langston Blair
Colors of the Field
Elijah Maddox
Memories
Scenes of joy and anger!
The Green
The color of the field behind our house
The color of our youth and joy
The color of streaks on our clothes that made us smell of outside
The smell we always had no matter how long we were out there
The color in between the light pole and the little tree
Our forever goal posts and endzones
The Brown
The color of the dirt, the mud
The color of our skin
The color of our neighborhood
The color of our pride and dedication
The color we made when the ground was hit too hard
The color that disrupted the green when we tore up the field
The Red
Color of blood
The color of scrapes and bruises
The color our faces made when we got angry
The color of rage that filled our vision
The color that blinds and takes over
Trials and Tribulations
Justin Wallace
I learn to read people before they speak, to measure the space between who I am and who they expect me to be.
Sometimes I shrink to fit, other times I stretch to break the mold.
The Metro hums beneath me like a heartbeat, carrying dreams and disappointments between Southeast and somewhere better.
I carry my own weight in silence, trying to stay soft in a city that sharpens boys.
Barbershop truths, corner store wisdom, teachers who see me and teachers who don’t.
Friends become family. Loss teaches faster than school.
I walk with eyes open, not just to survive, but to live.
To make space where none was given, to be more than what they fear.
I am here, still learning, still becoming, still Black, still breathing.
Adams
John
Ballad of the Night Animal
Kai Rock
Shake! Tap, shuffle, groan. Hit play and feel your soul moan.
From deep in the belly, comes roaring the beat. Hear the vibrations stomping ear to feet.
Play me a tune from your catacombs underneath until we’re all possessed by the bone chill boogie that erupts from your teeth.
Don’t drop dead or drool into sleep, but let the blue moon ignite you alive! Let evening’s ebony monster drown you, and take a breath of the midnight jive.
Swing! Sex! Sing!
Waves of seductive gold, sparkling spit moistens the air, a rich drawl of new pop or old.
Drink the hypnotic light on the dance floor, a warm retreat from twilight’s shiver.
Feel the fire burn up every limb, and gallop whole heartedly into night’s ugly thriller!
“Nocturnal” is a short film I spent three months creating with a few friends at the end of last school year and into the summer. It follows a teenager who crashes his drone in the forest and stumbles upon the body of someone who has overdosed. The film explores how random chance shapes our lives and the risks of an unwavering search for the truth. Stylistically and tonally, Nocturnal draws inspiration from Brian De Palma’s Blow Out and William Friedkin’s Sorcerer.” - Alistair MacBride
TO WATCH “Nocturnal” SCAN THE QR CODE
To Listen to “Molly’s Lips” SCAN THE QR CODE
Monkeys with Typewriters
Braden Eggstaff: Lead Guitar/Vocals
Tom Brady: Drums
Percy Kyd Bruneau: Bass
Song Title: Molly’s Lips
Performed at Screaming Eagle Jam, 2025
We just started this year. We play grunge, alt/rock, metal. Influences: Nirvana, Alice in Chains, Slint
A Blur Christopher
Martin
All the things you see
The trees stationary, but to the eye they blur and flow. Green smears like paint strokes against the barrier between you and the atmosphere
The faster you move the faster your thoughts get lost in the vast air, a fleeting world with no true end.
The engine hums a steady sound of steel and drums. A faint noise as rubber meets asphalt.
All the things you see
A body of water, stationary, shining from the sun’s kisses above.
You keep driving
A city glowing in the distance, dreams that shine in the darkness. Yet still driving, lost in motion, the view.
You keep driving
Barrier broken, allowing the smell of manure and maple to travel into your nose. Deer in the near distance frozen.
Like they weren’t allowed to move.
But as the time went on you both vanish as time suspends.
You never stopped driving.
Omar Tulloch
I Rise, Still I Stand
After Maya Angelou’s “Still I Rise”
Chase Peterson
They thought they could silence me, but I have learned the language of my own voice. I am not the sum of their expectations, not the weight of their scorn.
I am the fire that flickers in the dark, the pulse beneath the surface, the quiet storm that no one sees coming.
I rise, not from the absence of pain, but from the depth of it.
I rise because I have known the earth’s cold grasp and felt its pull, but I choose to stand.
I am the roots that grow in defiance, the leaves that stretch toward the sun even when the sky is full of clouds.
They cannot hold me, though their hands tried, and their words tried, I rise not in spite of them, but because of all they believed they could erase.
I rise, still I stand, and I am not broken I am simply becoming. And every step, every breath, is my declaration that I will rise, again and again,
Until I am free.
The Back
Towards Destruction Hayden Burnside
The tannin of the belt etches a pattern
Like a permanent lace
The Brain
When bludgeoned, The synapse bundle, like a violin’s strings
Plucked and played by bad musicians
A mighty orchestra of pillaging
The Lungs
The ensemble like percussion when the air is compressed
And the tiny packets of oxygen and flem cry
Reverberating out melodic waves of destruction
That ebb and flow
The placating, warm-flowing desire for rage
The Body
Of crimson and burgundy
Painted onto a canvas of muscled and toned flesh
Pulled taught by the ribs that jut out in emaciation
A battlefield on display of unleashed ferocity
The Voids
Cratering the canvas
The continuing lashings
Like a rocket
Pushing through the skin
As quickly as engines punch holes into the night sky
The Collapse
An arched body left
To ozze and puddle
Its gifts are given up to the ground
Surrounding the collapse
Phoney Desire Bryce Gilbertson
i remember the birthday, my 12th, where i believed i was an unfortunate kid.
i was late to the tech world and was Jealous of my friends who were able to have the iPhone.
upon receiving it, i gravitated to it with joy from my young glowy eyes, anxiously waiting to use all its complex features.
from messaging friends to watching YouTubers the iPhone was the dream of the young kid, and as a kid, i hoped for my chance to obtain it, as the iPhone was desirable, because it surely would give me all the joy in life.
Yet the iPhone was not.
while I thought the year with my phone would be the best the iPhone brought Ruin ruin worse than the great flood which had crashed down on Noah’s ark.
the physical strain on my pupils, from how they stared at the screen, Scrolling for hours and hours on end until they Burned and i could watch no longer.
my iPhone use pushed my family away as all that mattered was seeing the next video
the perfect video that i had to find needed no family if I could have the entertainment from my iPhone.
Hooked. Hooked and Torn. Torn away.
Addicted. Cursed. Isolated. Lonely.
the despair of the phoney desire
crashing upon me like the waves of a tsunami.
the trap of the iPhone that unmatched desire in my life.
With the Phoney Desire, we separate from reality to our bedrooms, leaving our beds for meals.
With the Phoney Desire, we search for videos that give a dopamine rush. careless of the time spent wasting our daily lives.
With the Phoney Desire, our health, our friendships, and our families are being demolished into Ruin
With our Young Minds, we need to escape from the trap, and cure the Phoney Desire once and for all.
Boom!
Just a Tree
Elijah Maddox
They fell and were slammed down
All for the ball
All for a touchdown
All for the satisfaction of victory
But I’m just a tree
Zoom!
They flew down the hill
Feet, bikes, and sleds
The breeze from their speed
Giving me joy and satisfaction
After all, I’m just a tree
Doom!
Ouch.. the pain I’ve caused
One kid climbed up me
He fell, scratched his back on my branches
Blood, pain, regret
It wasn’t my fault, I’m just a tree
Tomb!
Forever just watching, never being able to participate never being able to move from this spot
Forever here.. the spot I grew, the spot I’m bound to die
My tomb, my birthplace..
Because
I’m just a tree
The Final Hour
Jack Schwalb
A fading light that drops golden rays upon us the inevitable end that completes the bright hours. Whatever the day leaves behind the golden rays turn to ash to bloom again
The cycle of life continues, for the sun will rise again
The sea reflects the vibrant eventide, mountains become blazing beacons or daunting shadows the dunes lay under their golden blanket, snow-coated evergreens savor the last bits of warmth
These final pure moments are ones of reflection and hope, freedom and cleansing, repentance and repairment, for the day is done.
An azure line of colors as the sun drifts the atmosphere aflame, golden inferno turned to coal. From the thresholds from yesterday through the future’s edge, uncertain yet assured
The day has ended and been created anew
Grandma’s
Armor Kai Rock
1. Helmet
Your head a curly crown, adorned with multi-colored curlers; sparkling jewels from the far reaches of your domain. The folds of your hair like the folds of your brain. You wield the title reverend doctor and intelligence made you queen, of your Black congregation.
2. Breastplate
Life giving and deep flowing river of God. As I look upon you in the pulpit Sunlight and love spill off your skin nurturing growth. You worked for the people, letting all the afflicted lay cooing comfortably against your breast like I did as a baby.
3. Leggings and Boots
How did you walk so far?
In your youth you would walk up and down the streets of Baltimore to school and swim in the pool like you walked on water; then you’d go and preach, knowing personally who could. You went to Morgan State University and excelled in your studies. You walked up hills that many believed were too steep, marched firmly on, chin tilted the skies. You earned the right to strut for finding your beauty and strength, and for your trust in Christ who strengthens you.
4. Sword and Shield
Words, your go-to weapon Family, keeps each other safe like a shield. Michigan Park Christian Church is just one of your families, and your sermon empowered its people to “put on the full armor of God”. You revealed their shining armor and showed them their inner strength. Nana, you’ve passed down to me a big helmet, wide breastplate, and large boots that I’ll try my best to grow into.
Joaquin Sullivan
The Maelstrom’s Majesty
Danny Nicholson
The sky darkens over an orderly town. Wind sweeps through its uniform streets, Batters its clean homes.
The few people out in the street hear a sound like a demon’s scream, And they feel rain assault their skin and seep into the fabric of their clothes.
They smell a charge to the air, a herald of terrible power.
A flash of light splits the air and booms loud. The sound of the thunder explodes from the source, and the people run to their home with the taste of ozone on their tongues.
The majesty of the storm is seen in full.
Time Langston Blair
Pen and paper paint me as a villain. What does your illustration look like?
A face slowly becoming unrecognizable. Skin fades like old paint on a wall.
Maybe you miss me, Maybe you hate me.
Majority of your childhood without a father. I wonder how big and tall you’ve gotten.
Your gaze illuminated my world. Your grin ornamented my life.
I wonder if you can remember the smiles the laughs the love.
I heard you’ve started to talk. What do you say about me?
When I finally get out, What will you say to me?
My time is running so I’ll just say, I’m sorry.
Will you forgive me?
Joaquin Sullivan
The Ocean’s Lullaby
Christian Clarke
Above there is the sky, a tapestry of bright bubbly bouncy white clouds filling the background ethereal azure, the ocean hushingly humming its endless tunes of long ago.
I taste the salt in the air
A tangy brine that clings to my skin and lips. Seabirds cry out and swoop, flapping in flocks.
The warm damp sand slips softly under my toes. These rocks of old, fine grains now; and a scent of seaweed and tide rise. The wind caresses my skin and hair with each gust.
The sun, the celestial orb of life, have rays which soak everything The bright yellow peaks halfway over the horizon
The waves roar the ocean’s untold song as they crash on the shore Bringing the secrets of the deep and wide to the surface. It’s ebb and flow, heartbeats, creating a relaxing rhythm.
As I get closer to the ocean, everything begins to merge into an alluring harmony: the cry of the seagulls, the hushes of the wind, and the whispers of the waves. Standing on the sand, the water pulls me in and all my worries are washed away.
Under the Stadium Lights
Justin Wallace
The turf hums beneath my cleats, warm from the day’s sun, rubber beads bouncing with every step, a whisper of the game to come.
Floodlights fly high above, their glow cutting through night’s breath, casting long shadows of teammates stretching, waiting, breathing.
The scent of sweat and cut grass tangles in the crisp autumn air, a chorus of distant cheers, the echo of whistles, the chant of the crowd.
The metal bleachers tremble as fans stomp, voices rising like a storm, rolling over the field, thick with the weight of expectation.
The wind tastes like adrenaline sharp, electric, alive.
I hear the clap of hands, the pop of pads, the call of the huddle.
The ball snaps, time bends just me and the man in front of me.
A flash of movement, a turn, a chase, a collision.
The world erupts, then stills, then surges again.
Under the stadium lights, I am weightless, breathless, endless.
Caleb Quartey
What Does it Really Mean to be “Black and Proud”? Allen Mbuyamba
A white friend of mine once asked me:
“Why don’t you smile during the Black History Month assembly?”
This question startled me as I had no proper rebuttal
I watched him hold his chin up and chest out when we read Jefferson or sang Mozart in Ms. Bader’s class
I saw him stand tall and proud when we recited the Pledge of Allegiance
I seen him smile as brothers joned about who had the darker complexion
I vow the next person who asks “Why don’t you smile?”
I’ll look them dead in the eye and say “my skin smiles for me”
In Wind and storm
Through land, war torn
The Cold Front Adam Ford Redd
Great volleys of bullets spray
Through men well worn
Great bodies of bullets lay
The Breeze, its freeze Has taken ahold
The men they know Will not long hold
Their position is flankless
The walls are gracious
Yet nothing can stop the cold
The war it continues
The battle it looms
The men, their hearts are strong
Yet they know they won’t stand
If the cold hits the land
They fire their volleys
Their shots little miss
Yet this does little
For war never ends
One push, then two Are made for the fort
The men, they too, are the only support
This battle is endless
The war is merciless
The enemy, they too are weakened
The cold has no side
Its deadly blades strike
Down both defender and siege
Both forces they fall
While the cold sweeps through it all
The battle, its days are numbered
They stand on the wall
The men through it all
Their bodies have long since fallen
Yet the soul that’s left
Remains warm from the breath
Of ever remaining ambition
They knew it the end It took hold of them then That the walls no longer would stand
Yet amazed were they when They looked over the land And no man was in sight The cold bit them then
Those great soldiers
Those great men
They watched the land at peace
Everett Eckart
Christopher DiLorenzo
Dewey Beach and Funland Olof Hunnius
At noon, the sun climbs high, Like a lantern in the endless sky. Skimboarding, swimming, we dive in with glee, The ocean’s song as vast as can be.
Dolphins play in the distant blue, Like whispers of the sea, old yet new. Boats drift by, silent and slow, As we watch the world ebb and flow.
The laughter echoes, light and clear, As fishermen cast, and friends draw near. We share a pizza, simple and sweet, A taste of summer we can’t beat.
Ice cream melts beneath the sun, A treat for all before the day is done. Then Funland’s lights begin to shine, A world of joy, both yours and mine.
We roll the dice on skeeball and toss, As bumper cars crash, a playful loss. A haunted house filled with eerie sounds, As mystery and fun abound.
Fries and funnel cake, tastes of delight, As the day fades into the night. Our time here, a story to keep, In Dewey Beach and Funland, memories sleep.
time flies faster than they’ll ever know minutes feel like days weeks like a year
Pea Brain Jimmy Mulholland
So little time yet here we stand our claws burrowed deep into this ancient piece of wood
our eyes see the towering buildings that seem to have no end
they see the grandma who sits on the same bench every day dropping for us her daily bread
they see the bystanders who throw stones at our heads laughing saying “stupid birds”
so maybe we are just dumb birds wasting away our life
sitting on a rotting wood pole taking the endless world in.
Hudson Spencer
Your
Bloomy Valentine Allen Mbuyamba
I love you dear,
More than you knowI adore how you accept, receive, and cherish me these petals you stroke this style you embrace my opening you savor
On standby I layYour touch all I crave but darling don’t grab me too tightI’ll prick your hand and die in it.
About
the Artist: Kai Jones
“What inspires me is the will to express ideas, any ideas, beauty, concepts, and myself to a wider audience in hopes of helping others see the world through a new perspective. I think a lot of things are beautiful and I know some people might take that for granted or overlook that beauty that we see everyday, so I want to highlight that in my art, and hopefully express that beauty to other people so other people can look at the world in a different way. A constant will to change something in the world inspires me to continue creating art.”
- Kai Jones '25
Kai Jones
Kai Jones
Kai Jones
Lucian James
Irby Thompson
Lucian James
Aidan McGee
Xavier Baugh
What happens when a world gets too small
What happens when a world gets too small when all energy is focused on a few novel people writing your story before your eyes
family pushed to outskirts
when weekends become routines and it becomes more difficult to contemplate yourself with out we when you planned a grand future dreams of bathing in sun while speaking Spanish with a stranger you thought you knew
When 3 days apart felt impossible but 3 months become reality
How do you pick up time spent on a world so small
Mission
The Phoenix, established in 1979, serves as an annual collection showcasing student artistic and literary works.
Policy
The Phoenix is an after-school extracurricular activity that works independently from other school programs. All student content is welcomed and considered for publication. Throughout the year works of art and lit are submitted by our 940-member student body and selected for publication by editorial staff members. 1050 copies are produced and distributed to students, faculty, and staff.
Colophon
The Phoenix is printed by Graphic Visions in Gaithersburg, MD. The cover is 80# gloss white, #1 sheet, aqueous coated, prnted 4/4. Text is #70 gloss GV house brand. Binding is glue perfect. The staff used Adobe InDesign and Photoshop. Typefaces include Euclid for body text, artists names and pagination.
Gonzaga College High School 19 Eye Street, NW Washingon, DC 20001
c/o Dr. Harry Rissetto 202-336-7100
hrissetto@gonzaga.org
The 40th volume of The Phoenix was published on May 12, 2025
