shy talker .34 haunted house .36 the hygrangea .38 there was once a voracious rapier .40 the color pink .42 multiple poems .44 wine not .46 book store .48 checkmate .50 smoke .51 trigger .52 marital spat .53 train whistle .54 cruel .56 sweaters stuck .58 dangerous stars? .59 breathe .60 the inescapable suitcase .61 the gardener and the tree .62 wisdom teeth .64 liar .66 poems .67 untitled .68 untitled .69
70. the great commission
74. unrequited
75. the love-less cycle
76. spring
80. to the moon
84. does a young man really represent pride?
PHOTOGRAPHY SECTION
87. owl
88. ball
90. flowers
92. no smoking
93. no parking
94. rose
95. hibiscus
96. trees
97. fence
98. deer
100. cat
101. light
102. rain
104. piano
106. ok
108. red grey blue white
110. i have always been a storm
111. museum
112. temporary
Team Credits
Grace Roche, Editor-in-Chief
Ollie Courts, Assosiate Editor
Cate Wassenaar, Assosiate Editor
Catherine Busch
Margaret Reynolds
Caroline Tucker
On behalf of the whole team, thank you for reading and enjoy the 25th edition of Rhyme and Reason!
LETTER TO THE EDITOR
Dear Grace Roche,
Over the time I have had the absolute pleasure of being your vice president, I have learned a LOT about you. Not only because I read your poetry, which is usually quite personal, but because I have talked to you, laughed with you, and complained about art with you. All these things—yes, even the complaining—highlight some of my favorite memories surrounding you. While I write this letter, I am in the room and time where I write some of my best poetry. Latin class, when everyone else is still taking a test which I finished 10 minutes ago. (Absolute cinema) Getting back on topic, the main point of my writing this letter is to A: help complete the senior gift to the Rhyme & Reason president, B: thank you for trusting me (and Cate) with your baby, your pride, your sometimes-neglected, your Tuesday afterschool plans, but most of all, your club. R&R has played such a massive role in my high school career, having taught me to think critically, use InDesign, make horrifically complicated spreads, and have confidence in my work and writing. This is in part, thanks to you. Given that, I could not think of a better (or more poetic) way to complete my senior year (and my resumé) than to add “President of the HIES Literary Magazine ‘Rhyme & Reason’” to my list. I promise to threaten all the members on a weekly basis, and to add lots of memes to my slideshows. My final reason for writing you this letter is C: to meme on you about the last year, which has been crazy. (crazy? I was crazy once..) Not a moment spent rambling about Greek Mythology, Arcane, Dan-Da-Dan, or other assorted shows, books, or random stuff has gone unappreciated. You are awesome, and I will miss you, but also thanks, R&R is really adding the finishing touch to my resumé.
Peace out Girl Scout, Ollie (the takeover is just beginning)
LETTER TO THE EDITOR
A Letter to the Editor, Grace, your dedication and hard work over the past four years to Rhyme and Reason was so incredible and so appreciated. You are the backbone of the magazine, and we were so lucky to have you as our editor in chief this year. We will miss you and we wish you the best of luck in your upcoming four years at the University of Georgia. Never forget the amazing things you accomplished here at HIES for the magazine. Go Dawgs! We love you so much!
- The R&R Staff
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR
Dear Readers,
Thank you so much to everyone who submitted their art, whether it be writing or pictures, this magazine couldn’t be possible without you all, and I commend you for the courage it takes it put your work out there. Shout out to Dr. Swann and the English department for their support through our many troubles, we’re so glad you had our back. Thank you from the bottom of my heart to my incredible staff helping me through the craziness of senior year to still make an incredible edition, I’m going to miss you all so much and I’m so proud to leave the club to you all. And without further ado, please enjoy and thank you for reading Rhyme and Reason.
- Grace Roche, Editor-in-Chief
I’ve never been good at baking.
I don’t think I’ve ever baked something without leaving a bad taste in my mouth. It isn’t like I don’t want to bake, In fact, I wish I could bake more than anything, I want nothing more than to feel the warmth of something fresh-out-theoven.
But the recipes words blur together, and I don’t understand how to add all the ingredients together. Lately, I’ve been too scared to try baking again.
I Am Not A Baker // Ollie Courts
Last time I tried, I burnt my hands.
I tried running them under lukewarm water, Icing them, Applied all the creams and ointments, But no matter what I tried, The sting didn’t—couldn’t fade.
And I’m scared I’ll never be able to bake again, or even be able to learn.
That I’ll never be able to feel the warmth, And I’ll be left cold my whole life.
Walking In The Dark // Caroline Tucker
Walking in the dark
If I could see in the dark
Like an owl in the night I wouldn’t need my lantern I’d only need my sight
But I can’t see in the dark
And my lanterns light is gone So I’ll use the moon to guide me And hide until it’s dawn
Spoon River Anthropology
// Alexander Throckmorton
In youth my wings were strong and tireless, But I did not know the mountains.
In age I knew the mountains But my weary wings could not follow my vision— Genius is wisdom and youth.
A Response // Arielle Beverley
As age clipped my weakened wings, I learned of the world around me. The mountains gave me strength And although my wings were clipped— My mind gave me youth and power
Great Expectations // Ollie Courts
Sometimes I think I don’t even have my own name. That even the word people call me is just another way of drawing a line,
Of dragging a stick across the sand and saying: This is where you should be. This is where everyone else is. Why aren’t you here yet?
Sometimes I think my name doesn’t even matter, That all people take to mean anything are the numbers, Floating around my head. 100, 90, 89, 72.
Sometimes I think that what people tell me doesn’t matter. If someone says: You can be anything. If all I hear is: You have to be everything. Am I just another number, Another statistic?
Another point on the graph whose lines keep going Up And Up And Up.
Am I even a real person? Do I even have my own name? Am I just the “Great Expectations” of the people before me,
A combination of all their wishes, hopes, and dreams, Like a snowball rolling down a hill, picking up speed and size. See?
Even this poem doesn’t have its own name.
But does it need to?
Does it need a name? Or will my writings speak for themselves?
If I follow in the footsteps of great Confucious, live by his words:
“It does not matter how slowly you go, so long as you do not stop”
Might I just keep walking? Foot in front of foot, one after the other?
If I follow a tortoise’s pace, might Aesop’s teachings apply to me, Beating the hare.
If my inky-black feathers and beady-black eyes wish for water,
Can I think my way out?
Pebble by pebble, drop by drop?
Could I write my own title?
Language Of Flowers // Anonymous
I could look at you for ages, Like you yourself hung the stars in the sky, Could watch you for centuries, Silent, still, soaking you up.
If I were a plant or some flowering vine, You would be the sun, whose rays cause my leaves to face you. How do I get over this? Over you? Because I don’t even know how to start up that mountain.
But this feeling, this love, is unrequited. I know that much.
A violinist loves the instrument they play, But I doubt the violin feels anything for the violinist. For you, I would create a symphony, Yet I doubt you would hear it as intended.
I would pick flowers out, poring over their meanings in charts and maps, Bluebells, acacia, pink camellias, red carnations, yellow tulips, A chorus of longing, devotion, hopeless love, lasting affection and concealed love’s hidden within their stems.
For myself, I would place long-stemmed roses, daffodils and sweet williams together. I will remember you always, unrequited love, grant me one smile?
The flowers say what I cannot. Did you know then, when you gave me that bouquet, That ambrosia’s petals whisper I love you back?
If you had, you would have gifted me yellow carnations instead. Rejection.
Atlas // Anonymous
A drive Building I hold I act
Trust me when I say I have a reason. A reason, for the hours spent working, sweating down my spine, burning my lungs, Nock and draw and lease.
There is a reason I spent those hours strengthening every part of me. Outside and in.
I have a method to my madness, drive that pushes me forward, forward, forward.
Step after step. Brick by brick. Building me up and tearing me down simultaneously. Atlas, holding the weight of the sky. There is a reason I have made myself strong. So that I can carry the brunt of the weight, Be it their bags or secrets. So that I can stand still in the wind, And serve as an anchor in the tumbling waves. hold the weight of the sky on my shoulders so that theirs do not ache. act as a shield so that the daggers, sticks, stones hit only me.
Trust me when I say I have a reason. I am strong so that they do not have to be.
Tracking // Anonymous
Trekking through the white-coated forest, Frost nipping at my fingers, gripping the rifle.
Nose and cheeks red, and the steady puff of breath. When the air comes out, clouds gather at my face, disrupting my vision.
Billowing white sheets of steam and fog and air.
Step by step I follow the spatters of blood in the white snow, The only color in this wood, vibrant against the shades of whitegreyblack.
One foot after another, I follow the trail, searching.
I’m lucky.
The snow hasn’t picked up, the trail yet to be covered by fresh flecks of ice.
My fingers sting—my nose stings too, I can’t feel my toes in their boots.
I wiggle them but can’t tell if my muscles respond. I step over the river, despite it being frozen over.
I don’t know if it would crack beneath my feet.
Nature is unpredictable, it is not on my side—nor is it against me.
The rifle nearly slips through my frozen hands, and I stumble to regain my hold.
I cannot afford to be caught without means of defense.
The sharp movement startles a pair of birds—dove, maybe—
And they flutter off towards the sky, screeching alarm. I could shoot them, prevent them from spoiling my approach, But I don’t. It’s not worth it, a shot ringing out will spoil the game just as well.
I continue onwards.
The path picks up, the red trickle becomes a splatter, Against a tree, that pile of snow, painted on that rock. I am closer to my quarry. I step quieter, light as a ghost. The forest is silent apart from me. Blanketed in a fog of calm.
Or is it apprehension?
Both are just as quiet. Somehow, my footsteps don’t shatter the illusion, And despite my movement, the forest remains silent. Not even my heartbeat can break the silence. I keep walking, one step in front of another.
Closer and closer.
I follow my trail as the ground turns downhill. There.
My path comes to its end.
About time.
It feels like my whole body is cold, And my hands have turned pale from loss of circulation. I stare past my nose, the air clear of any clouds to disrupt my view. The air is still.
I look down at what I’ve been following this whole time. Fingers still tight around my rifle, Frozen in a death-grip.
Greatly Obvious // Grace Roche
there is a word doc on my desktop titled “O Orion” it’s blank. it has been since i came up with this idea over a year ago I don’t know what prevents me from writing the poem or who. (is it myself? i fear so) whenever i cannot write i think of the poem the one about obvious poems obvious poetics like painted over glow in the dark stars in used to be childhood bedrooms i tried to write my own obvious poem once about a grand tree that grew around the power lines on a street it grew out a survival and i find that beautiful
whenever i cannot write i see a river in my mind that has run bone dry rocks exposed and fish dying it feels like a metaphor for my creativity it feels obvious. it feels stupid. it feels overused whenever i can write my every thought feels like a Plagiarism a line stolen from the great poets, from my friends, from my favorite songs i feel like all my good ideas cannot truly come from me because who am i? good? god no. i can’t be whenever i can write. i write in my head. and whenever i can write it down (on my leg on a paper on my phone on my laptop on my-) only a fraction of my words make it all my poems are 10 percent as great as they could be even this poem. which is finally getting written is half the words i remember thinking so i hope it’s half great enough to be more than obvious
Cate Wassenaar \\ Heaven
What’s wrong little one
Let me wipe the tears from your eyes
Take my hand and I will lead you
Whatever you want, whenever you want
This place, this kingdom is yours
You can be happy, and nothing will ever harm you
You are free and this sweet child, Is heaven.
Hell // Cate Wassenaar
Quit your whining kid
Nobody cares for you cries down here
Take what you can and lead yourself
Steal and barter and murder for all I care
This place, this monstrosity is his You won’t be happy, you will burn You are a slave in this game, welcome, To hell.
Rhythm And //Anonymous
Yesterday you told me your favorite color was blue.
That same afternoon I went to the salon and dyed my hair navy.
The next day I grabbed a paintbrush and painted my eyes cerulean with watercolor.
Then I stood out in the deep snow until my nose and lips turned a deep shade of indigo.
I used my hands as a necklace to turn my throat azure.
I drank Windex to turn my lungs denim, so that I could breathe your color.
I hit myself with stones so my body could turn glaucous in bruises.
I finally paid attention in science class so I could learn how to build a time machine, And when I did, I travelled back centuries just so I could change the name of music.
I renamed an entire genre to ‘Rhythm and’
Just so I could have all the Blues you’d ever need.
Sī Mē Amātis, Servāte Mē // Latin
Si me amatis, servate me. labatur sub undis clamo;
Vox tacenda super fragorem;
Si me amas, serva me.
Clamo ultimum tempus, dum me aestus attigit; Clamo conor, sed iam non sum;
Si me amas, serva me.
Sed nescis quia pereo;
Abit in aeternum;
Si me amas, serva me.
Ad te enim sedem meam reliquimus; Pugnatum est in capite meo hoc toto tempore; Cum me amas, ego me servabo.
Mea bella mentis
Meae cicatrices invisibilis
Si me amatis, servata me.
Drachen // German
Und jetzt, ich sehen das Drachen. Am Himmel.
Klappklappe,
Klappklappe, Klappklappe.
Wie kann ist sein? Das mystisch Kreatur.
Tue ich Träume? Vielleicht, aber ich bin glücklich, meinen Wahnvorstellungen überlassen zu sein. Für mein Drachen.
Una Oda de Papel // Spanish
Voy a empezar al primero porque, no sé cómo describirlo
Porque eres más que algo puedo comprender
Eres un objecto de visión
No puedo describirte
Escondo en los imagines de chicos pequeños
Y adultos que recuerden
Su cada son blanco
Un blanco tímido
Un blanco, que tenemos luchar
Lucharte con lápices, lucharte con mercadores, lucharte con tinta
Porque no podemos comprender ti
Lados más fina de una hoja
Y una frente más grande del mar
Hay mucho que podemos hacer contigo
Nos podemos comprender
Podemos hablar sin palabras
Podemos salvar el mundo
Pero demasiado del tiempo
Olvidamos todo que puedes ser Olvidamos como usarte
Cuando los imagines se duerme
Tenemos miedo de ti
Porque estas una oportunidad
Una oportunidad que no podemos fallar
Pero no es razonable
Quieres que hacemos errores
Porque estamos intentando
Porque estamos aprendiendo
Untitled // Anonymous
Je confesse que quand je pense à toi et moi, c’est très mal ensemble toujours ou peut-être jamais probablement jamais
c’est parce que tu es plus parfaite plus belle plus belle et que je suis un mec toujours alors jamais probablement
Weiß Du? // Ollie Courts Weißt du, dass ich dich liebe? Ja, wirklich. Ich weiß, du fühlst nicht dasselbe, aber ich hoffe, du erlaubst mir zu träumen. Weißt du, dass du mein
Mittelpunkt bist? Du bist es. Ich werde mich ohne zu murren um dich drehen. Kannst du mich lieben? Würdest du?
Ich kenne die Antwort. Nein. Nicht so, wie ich es möchte. Aber mir geht es gut. Ich bin froh, dich zu kennen. Das ist Segen genug.
Shy Talker // Margaret 3nd Place HIES Poetry
My mouth is a Venus fly trap, It slams shut for tiny bugs, I’d love to talk but oh snap Goes my anxious mug, I just can’t talk-
To
you or him
Despite how hard I try, I always seem to shut up, balk, Without a reason why.
Margaret Reynolds Poetry Contest Winner
Haunted House // Grace Roche
2nd Place HIES Poetry Contest Winner
My love has become a haunted house once a home filled with warmth and excitement but now abandoned, condemned, and dusty a mere broken-down, shell of who they used to be. I walk the halls of their empty house running my fingers along the wall – remembering our brighter and happier younger days but I trip on the rotted floorboards – the sharp pain of rusty nails bringing me to the present the present where I am so helplessly alone. The skeletons in their closet snap and crack their bones at me the ghosts in the attic cry my name through the night the werewolves in the yard howl when I near the haunting chorus of my love’s words.
I find ghouls under the porch who reach for my ankles and sirens in the bath who sing my name a mummy in the basement even tries to wrap me up all the creatures painting an eerie portrait of my love. The vampire bares its bloodstained fangs at me and the zombie in the garden digs his nails in the dirt near my shoe the kraken in the pond pulls my paper boat under the waves with its tentacles when it dawns on me that these monstrous wounds are all that’s left of my love.
My love is long gone I realize now
These empty halls, full of mythical beasts Are all that remains Of my haunted house love.
The Hygrangea // Kate George 1st Place Steve Marine Poetry Contest Winner
I just killed a flower
A sturdy base with delicate blossoms I didn’t mean for it to happen It just did I killed it with neglect
Left it sitting on the other side of my room
While I turned my back “I’ll get to it later, now I must work”
As if assuring my own beauty
Could somehow preserve its And then the awakening
What was once beautiful shriveled up on the table
Dehydrated Dying Dead
How easy it would have been
To sprinkle it with affection
Water it with love
Cast away the shriveled doubts
The weeds
This flower died of pride
Ambition Anger
Winner Electric lights instead of sun
Somehow killed by photosynthesis girl I hope somewhere there is life
In drooping green leaves
I killed a flower, I killed myself
Now all I can do is water and hope Hope for beaming blossoms
Lifted leaves, new life
I cannot stop my work For it is too much of who I am But so is this flower
Every moment I give to pages Is another I’ll give to plants
The pitcher sits awaiting Filled to the brim with joy to pour out
From now on my heart will be that pitcher
Let it water my soul and water the flower May it never run dry
There was once a voracious rapier
Lives, it would rarely spare
Forged of quality steel, durable and frigid
It caused every warrior’s heart to cease, both lenient and rigid
It punished the corrupt, slaughtered the weak
Anguish followed in its wake and turned the landscape bleak
The blade was the pinnacle of blacksmithing
The strongest of them all
Causing even the most dominant and ruthless armies to fall
Its first wielder was unrelenting and cruel,
A sadist pursuing his personal goals
Eventually, he was captured
His corpse left to rot in a humid cell
His spirit banished to the land of restless souls
He had no remorse
Harbored not a single regret
The man was the breathing antithesis of peace
Truly a formidable threat
Its second wielder was immature and brash
An irritation, similar to a mosquito or a rash
However, his skills with a blade were unmatched
Simply exquisite
The fellow in action was incredible
Definitely worth paying a visit
He lived a fairly gleeful life
One filled with great praise
Mostly free of strife
At peace, he lived out his remaining days
Its third wielder was calm
“When
There was once a voracious rapier// Harrison Bramble
Soft-spoken,
Determined to succeed
Over time she honed her abilities with the blade
In the face of an enemy, she would never concede
She was an expert swordswoman, but her sociability was subpar
It was difficult for her to form bonds
Yet she made many a friend with whom she could spar
She always attempted to defend the defenseless and incapable
Her resolve was unwavering and her spirit of steel: unbreakable
Her final moments were filled with bliss
Surrounded by an array of flowers
She admired them for their beauty and variety of shades
Mesmerized for hours
Its final wielder was an outgoing, uninhibited storyteller
Recalling a myriad of tales
He spoke of his many escapades around the world
His walking of numerous trails
In one such story, he had a duel with a man in a bar
The man being snarky and conceited
The two had an exhilarating spar
Unfortunately for the passionate storyteller, he was defeated
After his loss, the fellow told the boastful man
“Meet me again in five years’ time”
The man replied
“When we meet again my lance will seal your fate, your life will be mine”
They proceeded to part ways
Before leaving, meeting each other’s gaze
Neither one ever making amends
That’s how the tale of the rapier ends
The color pink //
All my life, I hated the color pink. Everything about it. I despised anything that resembled it. I resented pink for years. However, being a girl, pink is your partner-in-crime. You’re supposed to love it, identify with it, and be obsessed with it.
So, every christmas and birthday Became dreaded memories. As distant family members, Who were unsure of what to get, Defaulted to the norm. Pink clothes, Pink toys, Pink accessories, and I was supposed to be over the moon.
Pink is the symbol of femininity. Pink is what it means to be a girl. Pink is you. Whether you accept it or not.
It was not until adulthood that I realized why I hated pink so much. It wasn’t because of the way it resembled flowers, daintiness,
HIES Poetry Contest
// Lindsey Ponder
Honorable Mention or girlhood. It was because I hated what it represented.
Younger me looked at pink as a weakness. To be soft was to be weak. To be pretty meant admitting defeat. To be dainty meant not being able to truly live.
It was never just about the color. It was about the ties that came with it. If I start to like the color pink, Then I have lost.
Pink defines you Whether you want it to or not. Society associates you with pink, so you have to prove them wrong.
It doesn’t matter how much you actually like that pink dress, or desire to have those pink shoes, You have to lie if you want to survive.
To like pink is to be weak. Which is why when asked, I say, I hate the color pink.
Loud // Anonymous
It is so quiet, such silent, screaming, sobbing quiet, that roars in my ears like blood rushing through my veins. It is so quiet, and no one is speaking. No one is speaking, no one is speaking so why is it so loud. Why is no one speaking and I am screaming inside my head and it is so quiet and so loud and why is the quiet so loud? Why is it so quiet and calm and raging and loud in-outside and so much—nothing at all—is happening? How am I supposed to understand the words you are speaking to me, when everything is so loud, and your voice is barely a whisper? Why is it that even the quiet is louder than I?
Saline tears
Drip onto my ears
Clutching the covers I feel my fears I want to scream
But
no one hears
The pain I’ve felt For years and years
Tears in the Dark // Margaret Reynolds
Car Crash Heartbreak // Grace Roche
My heart is a mechanical organ That runs on fire and coal And drips shiny, blackoil when an artery does burst
My ventricles are full of gas
And my values leak exhaust
My veins rumble with an intense horsepower As bolts tighten my heart aches You twist the key in my engine
And our parting leaves me in a car crash heartbreak
God have Mercy on Me // Julie Luttrell
I hate ai. Everyday I go out of my way to avoid it. Still, it creeps up on me. Like the monster I heard about when I was a kid hiding under my bed. I’ve been writing my essay and I listen to lofi music to concentrate. After a few hours I stop and listen and I really listen and I hear the soullessness. I knew in that moment that for all the hours I spent trying to avoid AI in my writing, I failed. Miserably. Intrinsically. That was the first time I listened to music without an artist and a beat without a name. God have mercy on me.
Wine Not // Anonymous
Loving you was as if drinking You had the most floral bouquet, your But then I tasted something metallic, I noticed that the glass had cut my lips, Yet I couldn’t put the glass
The glass kept fracturing and my grip Till soon my hands bled I kept hoping I wouldn’t taste the pain I kept hoping I could let go of the glass and that I kept hoping it would I drank that sweetness, I begged and
But the sweetness was gone and A metallic, bitter, bloody
Disgusted with
the sweetest wine your flavor unmatched metallic, bitter, blood. lips, was cutting my lips. down, I tried. grip on it became tighter bled too pain over the sweet wine that I was spilling the wine not blood would get better as I clung to that first sip sweetness, every drop and prayed for more and pleaded, just a little more and all that remained in that broken glass was, bloody aftertaste that left me disgusted with myself and what I had done
virgin lips //anyomous
Book Store //
Cate Wassenaar
I saw my She was rushing She wore shorts and an oversize She was off in some She saw me asked me if I was If I had finally made I looked at her, put I took her “I’m so We don’t That relationship ended Friends are hard to come School was fine but the You were so so You have It’s a lot right
I’m trying my hardest to I want
The Bell Jar
Lighthouse
younger self at a bookstore today rushing around, I was reading all the titles oversize shirt, I wore summer dress and a sweater some romance section, I was stuck in history was still in that relationship, if I was happy in school friends and had a life that I was satisfied with put the book I was holding back on the shelf her hand, I didn’t know what to say so sorry” was all I could get out have a perfect life, not even close ended and left you so broken in so many places come by honey, they tended to leave you often pressure of grades broke you and made you sick so sick and it was hard for a long time. have a good life though, you try. right now but things will get better. to make you proud, make things better for you. us to have the life you deserve.
The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Checkmate // Cate Wassenaar
I can’t play chess.
Maybe it’s that I won’t, not that I can’t I remember sitting on the cold floor playing The floorboards creaking overhead and the light flickering I remember the long list of rules on the floor I remember the smell of soap and laundry I remember the pieces being scattered The board knocked aside Checkmate.
Smoke // Anonymous
He leaned back in his rocking chair, looking at the sea
The last rays of sun were sinking, slowly
He lit his cigar and brought it to his lips
Inhaling ever so slow
His heart ached
His hair was greying and his joints sore
But nothing could ever compare to his aching heart
The smoke curled and created little pictures for him
Yet all he could see was her
All he could smell, taste, think Exhaling, he let her go
Trigger // Anonymous
If you ever put a gun to my head and told me this was the only way
I’d let you pull the trigger, no hesitation But if you asked me to hurt someone I love I’d turn that gun around
I’d rather take a bullet than be one I’d rather be torn apart in the jaws of a shark than be the shark
I’d rather be stung by a hundred bees than be the bee that stings
I’d let you pull that trigger
But if you hurt someone other than me I’ll be the one holding the gun.
Marital Spat // Anonymous
A noise
A word
A breath is all it takes Then they’re fighting And they’re spiting
Over stupid things like cakes And they promise that they love me and Each other Even still I’m not sure My heart wavers When they’re reaching for a pill love drug
Train Whistle // Ollie Courts
Sitting on a porch, waiting on a storm. I can hear too, soft on my face, tugging at my hair and clothes. this way and that, turning like ballerinas in the sky. grey yellow. For fear of fulfilling some old southern swear I can smell it on the wind. A hint of salt, smoke, warm, somehow comforting despite the knowledge be going off, and that train whistle isn’t a real train. sitting on a porch, waiting on a
the wind blowing—feel it clothes. The trees are twisting sky. The clouds, too, a milky southern cliché, I could almost smoke, the air is heavy and knowledge that alarm bells should train. I should not be out here, a storm.
Cruel // Anonymous
When did they become so cruel?
My friends?
Has it always been like this?
When I share a piece of the puzzle that makes me ME, I am met with knowing giggles—become the butt of the joke.
When did their smiles become so lilting and dishonest?
When did their laughs become so pointedly sharp, sticking me with arrows?
I have known I do not compete with the others,
I know I am always just a choice—never the chosen.
Forever the photographer, left out of the photo.
It comes as no shock to me that I am the artist, yet never the muse.
Have I lacked the effort, made no contribution?
When I realized that they liked something, did I not pour over videos after videos, convincing myself I liked it too until it worked, be it turtles or robots, music or musicals.
Do I not meet the criteria to be afforded the same privilege?
Are my interests so outlandishly stupid and frivolous that my closest friends can’t imagine sharing in my joy?
I truly wonder if I am even worth the trouble to them.
Am I making it up?
Has it always been like this?
Have I been so oblivious that I missed the warning signs, Or is this some once-and-done, chance event, blue moon that occurs only once, that I am overthinking?
Sweaters Stuck // Anonymous
Simple little sweater, cute pattern on the front, leaves, maybe. Greenish brown, the tag cut off. It scratched necks, and was too itchy to be kept. Better to cut it off, it is more comfortable that way. The neckline is a bit loose, and the sleeves a bit long, stretched from being worn and trips to the washer. Loose threads and string at the elbow that you know if pulled will keep going and going until all you have left is a pile of string. Bookshelf, covered in stories and drawings and colors. Trophies line the top, proof of all the people who are proud of you. You stand tall, ever if you don’t know it. You, my friend, are helpful, valuable, full of knowledge and wisdom. Subtle engravings line your edges, carved into the wood, painting pictures of flowers and animals out in the world. Each little dent and scuff mark have a story, and if someone took the time to listen, you would tell them all. If someone looked closely, they could see the green sweater hanging on the corner. Because that’s the way it is. That’s the way it has been. That’s the way it will be. With me hopeless hung up on you.
Dangerous stars? \\ Caroline Tucker
“Why are shooting stars allowed” I pondered this refrain
A little girl so serious
With a question certainly strange I asked,” what’s wrong with them, there a beautiful thing to see”
She stared at me horrified
And asked, “What if its shot hits me”
Breathe // Anonymous
And now, I struggle to draw even those shaky breaths, as air whooshes from my lungs, almost as if it is fleeing my chest, and I cannot see as black spots intrude my vision, blurring and blending. Or maybe that’s the tears that take my eyes and cloud them. I cannot breathe, I cannot see, but I feel it all. I wish I couldn’t. I feel each emotion, each thought like a dagger piercing my chest, sharp and hot and dull and cold. Both within and without, and I cannot breathe. Is the air thinner here? Do I struggle not because of my own weakness but rather from a lack of some vital oxygen? I watch people walk past me, wholly unaffected, and I know the answer. No. This is my own fault.
The Inescapable Suitcase // Anonymous
The suitcase may look innocent—yet trust me, it is anything but. This wolf in sheep’s clothing (roller-bag) hosts a plethora of problems. This monster hides in my closet, waiting. waiting. waiting. What for? I have not yet been told, but I know it is always there. (waitingwaitingwaiting) This suitcase, my own personal Pandora’s Box, constantly hanging over my head, be it by a string, on a shelf, the overhead luggage bin. I cannot escape this creature. I am not paranoid. I’m telling you, please, you must believe me. This (not)suitcase will not leave me alone. I am scared to open it. Scared that everything (sadness, anger, jealousy, grief, hopelessness, fear, heartache, loneliness, frustration, hurt, pain, greed, wrath, ambition, blankness) will spring out at me, at long last freed from the behind zippers of the suitcase. How is it, I am reluctant to ask, that this bag can pass through TSA? I put it into a bin, like all the others, and as it passes through the machine why does no one react? Don’t they see it? Don’t they see the monsters waiting inside? All fangs and claws and impossibly-sharp teeth? I guess not. No-one ever comments on it how odd (how very odd) it is to lug around this thing everywhere I go. I swear it’s getting heavier over time, and soon (too soon) it will be too much to move, and I will sit there, wherever I stop, stationary, unable to move. And, I mean, how crazy do I sound? Some crazy suitcase chasing me? I mean, surely something is wrong with me. (how truly silly it seems) I wish I could let go. Just open my hand (oh, how simple it seems, how simple it could be) and let it fall from my grasp, rolling away. I cannot let go. I cannot let go of this baggage, stuffed full of my emotions. (oh, but I can dream of it)
The Gardener
Every day I see a tree
Standing tall among the houses
Along my road home is a wire
Running from pole to pole it never ends
The tree is in the way of the wire
Or is the wire in the way of the tree
But this tree, strong and full as it is Does grow around the wire
How does the tree know
To give the wire this broad gap Has it learned the hard way
and the Tree // Grace Roche
Or is there a gardener That comes each day to prune with care
To gently teach the tree
To grow in a way to stay alive
And now is there a gardener That will come for me
And teach me how to grow
Tell me to give the wire a wide breadth
To keep me tall and full And Strong.
Is there a gardener out there for me?
Wisdom Teeth //
Yellowing like old marble
Old pages
Decaying
Turning to dust
a thousnds times
I’m aging and browning and before you know it
I’ll be gone
Gone with the wind
The flow
the breeze
No I won’t stick that in my mouth
This “toothpaste” won’t fix the decay
The root of the issue
The problem
My teeth are turning I’ve got cottonmouth
// Anonymous
Sour
Like sulfur
I’m rotting inside and out
a thousnds times
All alone with tic tacs and mouthwash
Shoddy substitutes for what I need
Stuck in the nurses office with pamphlets
Surgery felt like the only option
Ripping the roots out
Cutting them out Away
But now I’ve got holes
Gaping Empty Bleeding
My stitches aren’t holding and no one is there to patch me up
Liar // Anonymous Are you a liar if you only lie to yourself?
I told myself I was strong, but I feel weak
I tell myself I’m pretty when I feel gross I tell myself I’m okay when I’m not okay I’ll tell myself it won’t hurt, but it really does I’m liar but only to myself Is that ok?
Yellowing like old marble
Old pages
Decaying
Turning to dust
I’m aging and browning and before you know it I’ll be gone
Gone with the wind
The flow the breeze
No I won’t stick that in my mouth
This “toothpaste” won’t fix the decay The root of the issue
The problem My teeth are turning I’ve got cottonmouth
Poems // Anonymous
Untitled // Kate George
Pain’s residue lays thin upon the glistening earth
Of grit and toil and beauty groping for the heavens
It’s season past, it’s hours spent
In the frigid, wind torn cold of empty peaks
Clinging to its post it guards its charge
In echoing silence under twinkling stars
Who look not upon the frozen heart
But gaze with love upon the soaring rock
But you, o sun with fleeting hour
You, o just star of golden power
Looked down with outstretched hand
And listened close to understand
Light triumphant lit the way
And from the white full green protrudes
Melted, free, with body fresh
And sprouts of hope creeping forth unafraid
Untitled // Jackson Mullins
Love is a feeling you bestowed upon a special person
The person becomes you’re everything They become you’re ride or die and for good reason
You trust them to always be there when you need something
You give them all that you have to offer
But sometimes they just need more
So you weep and weep and watch them from afar
Waiting for them to come back to fill the sore
So, you wait, and you wait
Past any normal time to wait
Waiting praying that one day
That one day after you pray and pray
That god will come and hear your prayers
And send her back to you but they don’t care
You friends will call you stupid
Make terrible jokes about you But even though all the hatred
The love still shines through
The Great Commission
Providence and it’s strange wind
Blew and blew without an end
It swept through wood and street and town
Carrying on its wings of sound
A score and three of gilded hearts
From the cave where all life starts
Out into the glaring sun of day
And further, further, far away
To a clearing in the wood
Where silence falls but birds sing of good
A clearing where aged trees spoke
And within the herd small fear awoke
As the colors of the scorching day
Sunk into the dark and fell away
In genesis a flickering flame stood
Yet as it roared ne’re ate its wood.
They feared not firy nor windy end,
But rather feared the waves that crashed within.
The darkness fell as angels fall
As candles smoke ‘bout a old carved hall
Commission // Kate George
Yet thoughts of stars and flames tugged at their will
For the world could ne’re make all spirits still. They began small fires of self content Out of the mounds of clay
Understanding not the precious cost of The fortnight swiftly wearing away.
Yet persistently the voice from in the wood called out -
“Draw near” it cried “draw near and see, See with some deeper sight
Look at each other, not the ground And learn to see the light”
The hearts were filled with heavenly fire, And first saw those they truly knew.
Tho lost within the wood, they felt the higher truth:
Lost and wandering though they may be Far more found were they in this small clearing Then among the trees.
With new sight they saw each other and they saw their souls.
They saw in pairs of gleaming eyes the deeper wants of hungering hearts, And began to draw their fires near And together wait for the promised daylight to appear.
Slowly they crept towards the flickering flame
With song and prayer and verse
Proclaiming with this newer sight: How beautiful was the earth.
The war torn boat, the castle fair
The open book, the empty chair, The music wafting ‘cross open green
That offered spirits something to glean, And when the rains fell cross the plane
Up lifted their voices and they sang
As longing hearts embracing pain.
Slowly, slowly, day by day
Joined together each small flame
And the hearts crept closer near ‘Till a circle round the flickering flame appeared. No more were they just bound by plight.
No more were they alone blessed with sight. At last around the central flame
They were bound together by calling same.
To coax the eyes to shine with silver, And go to the others to deliver
A message old, a chorus new,
A tale of love and the death it slew
And to seek that love against all odds
And to one day see the eye of God.
Together bound in precious fate, They cared not of the passing days
Until at once with thunderous sound
Their central flame became unwound
And split across the score and three
Striking even the voice within the tree
And these twenty and three flames were sent away
Far from the blessed cay,
And with them went the blessed way.
And so the fire inflamed their hearts
And so their lives could finally start.
Sharing in the friendships true, The commission of flame given anew.
Unrequited // Margaret Reynolds
Mirror mirror on the wall
We parry back and forth
We toss emotions cross and I reflect for all I’m worth
But now you’re sending warmer tones Colors tinged with red But I’m
not ready I’m not cool
With being more than friends
Repetition Repetition
Every crush and every fling Repetition Repetition Really makes me want to scream Repetition Repetition
Cause no one love really sticks Repetition Repetition
Oh what opportunities I’ve missed Repetition— He didn’t like me Not him Nor him Or that one, You, Repetition Repetition My bruised heart It’s red and blue
The Love-less Cycle // Margaret Reynolds
Spring // Lindsey Ponder
Spring
There are 92 days in the Spring 92 days of Blooming flowers, Warming temperatures, And, of course, Pollen. There are 92 days in the spring and yet it goes unnoticed. As the colder months pass And with the excitement of the upcoming summertime, No one sits to enjoy the spring. They don’t live in the moment.
When we - as all humans sometimes doget caught up in the past and future, we miss what’s happening around us. As people imagine their upcoming family trips, Summer camps, And beach days,
There are seniors desperately waiting for that next chapter. That new season. Urging the days to move faster so they can turn a new leaf. Leaving behind family, Friends, And teachers.
There are 92 days in the spring and yet no one seems to pay them any mind. There are four seasons in a year and yet spring seems temporary. Not temporary like unimportant, But temporary like that feeling when you rush the ending of an essay for that 11:59 submission Or temporary like when you skim those last 15 pages of your reading because “nothing new will happen.”
But that is not the case here.
As we near the end of our 2nd semester at HIES, Even though nothing new might happen, That is when we should live in the moment. Those moments of routine.
Those 92 days of Spring might seem like a transition. A passing period. A road to a future destination. But it’s not just a road. It is a rollercoaster. One filled of memories, emotions, and new experiences.
There are 92 days in the spring. So don’t spend those days constantly desiring a new season
Or an unexpected change. Dwell in these 92 days because - next yearThey’ll look completely different. And you’ll look back and wish that you did.
To the moon //
“I love you to the moon and back” is what you say to me. Then, you expect some sort of reward, but why would you deserve one?
The moon is 238,900 miles from earth. Meaning, your love for me is limited. 477,000 miles to be exact. Is that my worth?
Am I meant to settle for that? For your words that lack meaning. I am told that I am loved daily, But, those are just that, only words. I don’t feel anything.
I don’t feel loved. Not one bit. And especially not thousands of miles of it. But you claim that I should. That it is my fault that I don’t feel the love. That you are doing everything right.
// Lindsey Ponder
Everything you are supposed to do. Everything that you need to do. That you need not change anything.
But why must I be the one in the wrong? Is it wrong to feel as though I am not being loved enough? Words can only go so far. It is the actions that take you farther.
So, when you say you love me to the moon and back, I don’t believe you.
Because if you truly loved me, both mentally and physically, There would be no number large enough to calculate your love because it would be infinite.
But it’s not. Your love is superficial. Your love is measured by miles instead of time. Your love is limited.
And I deserve more. I deserve more than to be loved I deserve someone who will go Who will travel to another galaxy only to fall short because they know To perfectly calculate their love I deserve someone who will love Who, after 477,800 miles, doesn’t have to question if they Who, will not say I love you to the moon But rather, I will love you until the end of time.
loved to the moon and back. past that. galaxy in search of another planet know that no distance is far enough for me. love me endlessly.
have any more love to give. moon and back. time.
Does A Young Man
Does
a young man really represent pride?
Is it not shown by all of us humans?
We see it in those who think they won’t die, Believing they can dodge life’s conclusion.
Really Represent Pride? // Harrison Bramble
Perhaps young men are too reckless. Icarus did fly too close to the sun. But humanity favors the restless The world can always be freer and fun.
People consider pride a sin and fault
And yet I witness it every day. It’s not a quality I would ex- alt
Though it is something that will always stay No, pride’s embodiment isn’t young and rude But a reflection of both me and you.
Owl // Daniel Weaver
Ball // Daniel
Daniel Weaver
Daniel Weaver
No
Smoking // Daniel Weaver
No Parking // Daniel Weaver
Rose // Daniel Weaver
Hibiscus // Daniel Weaver
Trees // Daniel Weaver
Fence // Daniel Weaver
Deer // Daniel
Daniel Weaver
Cat // Daniel Weaver
Light // Daniel Weaver
Rain // Daniel Weaver
Piano // Daniel Anonymous
Daniel Weaver Anonymous
OK // Ollie Courts
I’m not sure when it happened.
When I stopped doing things.
Was it a conscious decision, one I weighed the pros and cons of,
To gauge based on a list of variables?
I can’t remember.
I’m not sure when I stopped crying.
When I looked in the mirror at a tear-stained face, And decided that my cheeks would be dry, and my eyes wouldn’t sting.
I’m not sure when I stopped saying ‘I love you.’
When I choked on my own words, heavy in my throat,
And answered with a simple ‘you too.’
I’m not sure when my room stopped being messy. When piles of clothes and books and month-old homework were cleared away, And left behind an emptiness I couldn’t shake.
I’m not sure when I got out of that Slump. Because if I look at myself, I can’t tell if I really am.
If the pills are doing their jobs, if the body I have is healthy,
But I can say this, with true certainty: I am happy when I am with my friends.
I am happy with my life. Slump or no Slump.
I am content with where I am, and even when I have regrets or wishes, I am still OK.
I don’t know where I am going, or what I am doing,
But I think I’ll still be OK.
I’m not sure when it happened.
When I stopped being sad.
Did I ever really stop, or did I just learn to be happy too,
To stop and smell the roses along the path?
I can’t remember. But that’s OK.
Red Grey Blue White // Anonymous
Red Grey Blue White
Cold, cold, cold,
Was it always this cold?
The battle is over with, yellows and greens and purples and guts galore
Stain the battle field red red red
Just like me,
Sinking and swimming rich red, red, grey?
Busy celebration, wild relief.
But my colors stop moving. Frozen in place
Where is my heart?
Where is my brain?
My fingers, my hands.
They move.
But not the right ones.
My hands are not made of metal, iron, or steel.
Back to the core, my s-sp-s-heart.
Down, down, down.
Wires strangle me as I move.
Around my mind, tendons, spi-sp-[error]
Where is my helmet?
Down, down, down.
I could shake it o-of- out
Push past, back to the red red grey
I feel something soft, outside the wire
Soft but cold.
What is this?
This is where I was, but this is not me.
Where did I go?
This is-i-was n-n-me
[Error]
Panic seeps into this metal frame.
But I it-its-am still Is not me
red grey grey
I push against the wire, iron hot around my re- grey face and run around my metal coffin,
Wrapped slowly around and around, choking me-m-it gone.
Screaming my name, but n-ot-n- [error] in my voice.
I am not talking.
The world begins to rock, nice and slow.
Not down, out.
Air
I open the-th-my vents
And feel nothing.
Squeeze my-m-their hand
grey grey grey
It’s so cold in here.
Was it always so cold in-i-[error] here?
It’s not cold.
I need my face. Air.
It’s cold but I feel hot.
[error]
It is not cold.
I can feel it, something rushing from its-it-i-my head to i-my fin-fi-digits.
Away from this cold. It’s not cold anymore.
[error]
It was never cold.
Over the grey grey grey, around the wires, past the pipes, up the steam, through the metal. grey grey blue?
Up further and further.
Past the wires, past the soft grey cold, And around where my sp-s-heart is-is-i-i-i-was.
Back to it-my face, face?
Everything is blue.
But its n-notn-ot- [error] supposed to be
Make it red.
I lift i-my hands
Wrap them around -my face
Slide my digits under the blue, blue, blue
And pull.
Creak, crack, splinter, scream
It falls to the ground
Happy faces look my way
Not anymore.
One worried, Hey, worried.
I’m not feeling too hot.
The world begins to rock, nice and slow. blue, blue,, white
I Have Always Been a Storm // Anonymous
On Monday I am the thunder that rattles your windows,
On Tuesday I am the soft droplets of water that still drip down from the trees,
On Wednesday I am the torrential downpour that leaves you running inside for cover,
On Thursday I am the dark clouds slowly covering the sun, On Friday I am the strong wind that makes your papers unable to sit still,
On Saturday I am the lightning that lights your path in the dark of the night,
On Sunday I am the rain that washes you clean. You say I am as serene as the ocean. That I’ve always been as calm as the fish that swim in its deep waters.
But instead, I’m the wind that makes the ocean unrelenting. I’m the hurricane that causes the fish to become distraught. You tried to figure me out, but in doing so you forgot that:
I have always been a storm.
Museum // Anonymous
Behind the glass sits a delicate plate
Perhaps it once held food or maybe it was just used for decoration
Behind this pane sits a babe’s rattle, rusted with age I wonder if it was loved or if it just sat in a corner on the floor
Behind that one is a child’s wooden horse
It is covered with dust and the coarse hair used in its mane is patchy
And there, look, a young adult’s schoolbook
And oh, a woman’s wedding dress, yellowed with age I wonder if her marriage lasted or fell apart like so many today
And what about the photograph with her and her child
And the plates they ate at.
I wonder what their lives were like, what converstions they had
Alas, I do not know
This is only a museum.
That word pretty much sums up life
From birth until death. Things will come and go and nothing lasts forever although, sometimes, it may not seem that way.
Let’s try thinking about it like this. Imagine you’re at the starting line. The line that signifies the beginning of your highschool career and, ahead of you, lies the dreaded mile.
The only thing on your mind being the finish line and that sense of relief that you’ll feel after completing those 4 laps of hard work, those 4 laps of staying committed to your goal
Those 4 years of your time here at holy innocents. That line will be a testament to your journey and will validate everything that you have accomplished. But, -
Just like a mile,It will soon end.
The friends that you ran with during lap 1 may leave you Or you may simply outrun them.
That test you stayed up late studying for in lap 2 will be long forgotten by lap 3.
And that sharp pain in your side will pale in comparison to the euphoria of those final 400 meters -
As we all join together for the end of our mile, The end of our shared journey. Its important to recognize what we are all feelingBeneath the overwhelming joy to finally complete
Lindsey Ponder
these long four laps, we’re all scared Whether it’s to leave our friends, or the only school we’ve ever known, we’re all hurdling towards this unknown yet inevitable fear of leaving our home. -
Holy Innocents’Home to friends, Role models, Teachers, Classmates, Lunch time jokes, and shenanigans that all make this place unique
So, as a message to all of you, Don’t be scared Because, as with everything else, This -too Shall be temporary. The pain, Sadness, And fear Will soon subside And simply become routine.
Temporary isn’t a bad thing, It’s just a part of life. Everything is temporary. And - in order to move on, We must set aside our fear. Go into everything 100% Because once your journey ends, How ever many laps it may have taken, You don’t want regrets You don’t want to have to wonder what if I did this or that. You’ll want to give your best
So,just like any dedicated runner on the track of life, let these endorphins give you the motivation to kickstart your next marathon And, next time, try slowing down a bit.
Taking more time on each lap, Cataloging even the mundane things. Make your mile feel like an eternity because - at the end of ityou’ll look back wishing that you did.
