Wordplay 2015

Just Buffalo’s Annual Anthology of Student Writing

Welcome to Wordplay Welcome to Wordplay 2015, Just Buffalo Literary Center’s annual publication of selected student writing composed during the previous year.

Just Buffalo Literary Center is a non-profit organization dedicated to building and strengthening our community through the literary arts. We use creative writing and literature as tools of inspiration, encouraging people of all ages to discover new ways of participating in the world.

Over a year ago, we opened the doors of the Just Buffalo Writing Center (JBWC). Since then the Writing Center has become the nucleus for all of Just Buffalo’s education programs which will continue to take place in school classrooms and community settings throughout Western New York. We envision the JBWC as a space where young writers can develop, explore, and create through the regular practice of creative writing. It is a space where those invaluable one-on-one conversations take place, where the mind can participate in serious play, and where the imagination is set free.

In Wordplay 2015, you will find a range of playful pieces in this year’s anthology, which showcases work from fifth graders through twelfth graders, including Herman Badillo Bilingual Academy and Highgate Heights, as well as the first poems ever penned by some students from Lafayette High School. It also contains the dazzling poems from the winner and runner-ups of our first ever Just Buffalo Writing Center Poetry Prize for Young Writers.

Poetry helps these young writers look differently at language, which in turn helps them refocus their attention on the world. Reading the work throughout Wordplay will give you a sense of how much attention, empathy, and hope these young poets have inside them. As always, it was an honor to have the opportunity to read these poems, and be wowed over and over again. I hope they wow you, too.

Noah Falck Education Director Just Buffalo Literary Center

JUST BUFFALO Wordplay VOLUME XVI 2016 Editor Noah Falck Cover Art/Page Design Julian Montague

Just Buffalo gratefully acknowledges the funding support essential to making our Just Buffalo Writing Center in Schools & Community and this publication possible:

Just Buffalo Writing Center Poster Joel Brenden

Just Buffalo Administration Executive Director Laurie Dean Torrell Artistic Director Barbara Cole Education Director Noah Falck Finance & Development Director Kris Pope Just Buffalo Writing Center Coordinator Robin Jordan Grantwriter Kathleen Kearnan Executive Assistant Lynda Kaszubski Just Buffalo Literary Center 617 Main St., Suit 202A Buffalo NY 14203 Just Buffalo Writing Center 468 Washington Street 2nd Floor Buffalo NY 14203

www.justbuffalo.org

New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew M. Cuomo and the New York State Legislature.

Erie County Cultural Funding

The Baird Foundation Cameron & Jane Baird Foundation Conable Family Foundation Eastern Hills Sunrise Rotary Foundation Garman Family Foundation Just Buffalo Writing Center in the Schools & Community are provided in partnership with the following:

Meet the Writers EMILY ANDERSON’s fiction and poetry have appeared in a variety of publications including Harper’s, Conjunctions, The Kenyon Review, McSweeney’s, Fence, Caketrain, Black Warrior Review, and Volt. Her first book, Little Novels, is forthcoming from Blaze Vox Books. She has performed at venues ranging from the Emily Dickinson International Society Conference to the men’s room at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago. She is engaged in a long-term collaboration with photo-video based artist Jen Morris; their video work has been screened in Philadelphia, Brattleboro (Vermont), and Santa Cruz de Tenerife (Spain). She holds an MFA from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and an MA from Bucknell University. Currently, she is a PhD candidate in English at the University at Buffalo.

SUSAN HODGE ANNER is a poet, playwright, and essayist whose work has been performed both locally and in New York, Pittsburgh, Indianapolis, and Washington, D.C. She is a Theatre Instructor at the University at Buffalo, an Artist-in-Residence with Arts in Healthcare, a member of The Brainstormers Theatre Collective, and author of the blog “What I know Right Now.” She is also a certified special education teacher and has taught workshops in improving written and verbal communication skills with students with physical, intellectual, and emotional disabilities.

ADAM DRURY is a scholar, musician, activist, and sound/performance-based poet currently pursuing a PhD in English at SUNY, University at Buffalo. His writing has been published in The International Journal of Ẑiẑek Studies and Umbr(a): a journal of the unconscious.

JOE HALL is an educator and the author of three collections of poems:Pigafetta Is My Wife, The Devotional Poems, and Utopia (forthcoming). With Chad Hardy, he wrote the book The Container Store Vols. I & II (SpringGun Press). With Cheryl Quimba, he wrote the chapbookMay I Softly Walk. He lives in Kenmore, NY. ROBIN LEE JORDAN’s creative nonfiction, fiction, and poetry has been published in alice blue review, H_NGM_N, Puerto del Sol, and Paper Darts. She received her MFA in Poetry from Oregon State University and is currently working on a mixed-genre collection. She is the Writing Center Coordinator at Just Buffalo Writing Center, and founding member of the grassroots community arts project (B)uffalo (A)rt (D)ispensary.

RACHAEL KATZ has taught at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, Summer Institute for the Gifted, and the Juniper Institute for Young Writers. She is the author of Any Berry You Like (iO Books, 2014), the chapbook Pony at the Super (Horse Less Press), the one-act playUndark, and others. Her work recently appeared in Lemon Hound, Wag’s Revue, Gigantic Sequins, Bat City Review, Paper Darts, and elsewhere.

AMANDA MONTEI is the editor of the literary journal P-QUEUE, and co-edits Bon Aire Projects with Jon Rutzmoser. Her poetry and fiction has appeared in The Atlas Review,Pinwheel, Joyland, Explosion Proof Magazine, Delirious Hem, and others.

Her critical writing has appeared in American Book Review, HTMLGIANT, Performing Ethos, Harriet: The Blog, and Ms. Magazine. She is the author of the poetry chapbook The Failure Age (Bloof Books, 2014) and co-author of Dinner Poems (Bon Aire Projects, 2013). She is currently a PhD student in the English department at the University at Buffalo. Her full-length book Two Memoirs is forthcoming from Jaded Ibis this year.

MICHAEL ALLEN POTTER holds degrees in playwriting and nonfiction from San Francisco State University and from The University of Iowa, respectively. He is the author of The Last Invisible Continent and founder of The Hydroelectric Press.

BELLA POYNTON was the 2013/2014 Ginsberg Artist in Residence for the Iowa City School District, and is currently the Playwright in Residence at The Dark Lady Players.

She has taught at The Springville Arts Center, Road Less Traveled Productions, The Horizon Theater Company, and The University of Iowa. Bella holds a BFA in Acting from Boston University, and an MFA in Playwriting from The Iowa Playwrights’ Workshop. Her full-length plays include Speed Of Light, The Aurora Project, Medusa Undone, Fat Girls In Space, and Pope Joan, plus numerous other plays, one-acts, and scenes.

CHERYL QUIMBA received an MFA in poetry from Purdue University. Her poems have appeared in Dusie, Phoebe, Tinfish, Everyday Genius, 1913, and Horseless Review. She is the author of the forthcoming poetry collection Nobody Dancing (Publishing Genius) and the forthcoming chapbook Scattered Trees Grow in Some Tundra (Sunnyoutside Press). With Joe Hall, she co-authored the digital chapbook May I Softly Walk: The Santa Fe Journals (Poetry Crush). Cheryl is the literary editor of Free Inquiry magazine, and she works for Prometheus Book in Amherst, NY. SHERRY ROBBINS has conducted creative writing workshops throughout New York State and abroad for more than 30 years and works with hundreds of students each year. She has a Masters in the poetics of ecstasy and two books of poetry, Snapshots of Paradise and Or, the Whale. Sherry ran her own letterpress for years, is a certified yoga teacher, and a multi-year panelist for the NEA’s Art Works program.

GARY EARL ROSS is a retired UB/EOC language arts professor. His works include the short story collections The Wheel of Desire (2000) and Shimmerville (2002); the children’s tale,Dots (2002); the historical novel Blackbird Rising (2009); and the stage plays Sleepwalker (2002), Picture Perfect (2007), The Best Woman (2007), Murder Squared (2010), The Scavenger’s Daughter (2012), The Mark of Cain (2014), The Guns of Christmas (2014), and Matter of Intent, winner of the 2006 Edgar Allan Poe Award from Mystery Writers of America.

JON RUTZMOSER is an artist, writer, and educator living in Buffalo, NY, where he co-edits Bon Aire Projects with Amanda Montei. His recent poetry has appeared in P-QUEUE, Concord Press #1, Drunken Boat, and Joyland. His critical writing has appeared in X-TRA, Prism of Reality, and ArtForum.com. He has performed at venues such as Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions and Nexus Gallery. He is the author of shhhh! it’s poetry (Insert Blanc Press, 2013) and teaches freshman composition at SUNY-Buffalo.

NEIL WECHSLER’s play Grenadine won the 2008 Yale Drama Award, selected by Edward Albee. Grenadine was published by Yale University Press and has been produced at Road Less Traveled Productions in Buffalo, SMU in Texas, and UNC-Chapel Hill. Neil’s adaptation of Ibsen’s Emperor and Galilean premiered at Torn Space Theater. It was the American premiere of Emperor and Galilean. Neil’s play The Brown Bull of Cuailnge received its world premiere in Toronto, presented by The Room. Neil has spoken about playwriting and literature at high schools and colleges across the country. Neil is the Executive Director of Against the Grain Theater Festival in Buffalo.

MAX WEISS is a Buffalo native cartoonist and songwriter whose work has appeared in Pukumber, Demonyms, and The Boston Hassle. He received a BA in English Literature and Art Education at the University of Vermont in 2012. He has self-released eight albums of independent music and performs locally as one half of the avant-garde pop group Welks Mice. His first graphic novel, Papa Time, is set to be published

by Hypnotic Dog Press this fall.

JANNA WILLOUGHBY-LOHR has been writing poetry since she was 5 and performing since age 12. She holds a B.A. in Entrepreneurial Creative Business Arts from Warren Wilson College. A Grand Slam finalist in 2005–2008 for the Nickel City Poetry Slam and a member of the 2006 Nickel City Slam team at the National Poetry Slam, Janna is also an editor for Earth’s Daughters literary magazine, the longest running women’s publication in the country. She has been performing with her band, The BloodThirsty Vegans, since 2008. They are currently at work on their second studio album. She also runs her own business making handmade paper and books.

Meet the Book Artists & Photographers JOEL BRENDEN is an artist and educator working within a broad range of disciplines including photography and bookmaking. A native of Washington State, he received his MFA in Visual Studies from the State University at Buffalo in 2008. His recent exhibitions include Beyond/In Western New York: Alternating Currents & Hallwalls Contemporary Arts Center. Find him online at thelessyousee.com.

KATE EBLING is an artist and educator from Buffalo, New York. She received her Bachelor’s of Science in Art Education with a minor in Art Therapy, as well as her Masters’ in Educational Technology from Buffalo State College. Kate has taught in both public and special education schools throughout the area, and has worked with CEPA Gallery since 2011.

NIKKI GORMAN is the Lead Teaching Artist for CEPA Gallery. Originally from Syracuse, NY, she received her B.F.A. in Photography and M.Ed. in Teaching in and Through The Arts from the University at Buffalo.

CATHERINE LINDER SPENCER is an award winning artist and art educator. Her work has been exhibited widely in museums and galleries throughout Western New York including the Albright-Knox Art Gallery, the Burchfield Penney Art Center, and The Castellani Art Museum. She recently completed a one-year fellowship program through the New York Foundation for the Arts. In addition to exhibiting in local museums and galleries, Catherine has participated in many public art projects including “Herd About Buffalo” and “Art on Wheels.” She is represented by Studio E Partners in Washington, D.C. Her work is in private collections across the United States.

6

Genesis Vaillant

ODE TO SPANISH MUSIC Streets. Corners. Bands.

You walk through the street.

Turn the corner.

You find a band playing tunes.

Beat. Message. Melody.

I hear happiness when the drums play.

The music makes me feel part of something big.

Makes me move inside.

It teaches me things.

Like what I want to be when I grow up.

Makes me think of my future.

The beat sounds like the beat of my heart.

Street music is part of me.

Grade 5

Herman Badillo Bilingual Academy, PS 76

Jada Allen

MIDNIGHT I see tall branches And night stars.

I see a flower Just a second from taking a dive, And the moon’s glowing, Tilted plants like a bent-over lady, Rocks covered in silt, And a sneaky shadow.

There are no birds.

Not a drop.

No animals. Why not?

No trash, the pond is clean.

Goodbye, so long to the stream.

Highgate Heights, PS 80

Grade 5

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8

Sol Estrada

IN ORDER TO TALK WITH THE HEAD (inspired by Jorge Teillier’s poem of the same title) In order to talk with the dead, Think not of words, but of silent murmurs that overtake the air, For how can one speak if their all is inexistent?

Think not of letters, but of the words printed in their diminished pupils, of the enlarged sentences they scream by tediously standing where you cannot see.

In order to talk with the dead, One must know how to wait for their repetitive arrivals, Like leaves return to their mothers after a lifetime, One must listen for their silent presence, They lie against the border of the threshold between the breathing and the breathless.

Grade 10

Hutchinson Central Technical High School, PS 304 Just Buffalo Writing Center

Cosme Hernandez

THE WORLD (after Zachary Schomburg) I see the sky moving slowly like time.

It is dark like a lonely night.

It is bright as a sunny day.

It is the world.

Lafayette High School, PS 204

Grade 12

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10

Jerika Andino

ODE TO MY NEIGHBORHOOD Like a picture frame the scenery reminds me of memories. They come to me.

With the sky, with the cotton ball clouds. Then I see the lonely tree’s sorrow that reflects my own.

The wind sounds like a ghost.

Grey. It smells like the sea.

Fish, salt. It knows sadness.

This sadness that moves me to look and gives me goose bumps all over my body.

ODA A MI BARRIO Como un marco de cuadro el paisaje me recuerda recuerdos. Vienen a mí.

Con el cielo, con las bola de algodón por las nubes. Entonces veo la tristeza del árbol solitario que refleja mi propia.

El viento se escucha como un fantasma.

Gris. Huele como el mar.

Pez, sal. Sabe a tristeza.

Esta tristeza que me mueva a mirada y me da la carne de gallina en todo mi cuerpo.

Grade 5

Herman Badillo Bilingual Academy, PS 76

Xaiveria Butler

EYES She stroked my hair and even though she was silent I felt her body contract like her lungs were about to give in I knew she was crying I looked up at her with those innocent 10 year old eyes and pleaded with her for an explanation with those eyes.

And before she ever told me, her eyes, with their mix of 4 a.m. tiredness and their sadness at what her lips were about to say, said everything.

Then her lips told me my mom was dead.

And again I looked into her eyes and they told me that I should be too.

Oracle Charter School /Just Buffalo Writing Center

Grade 12

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12

Andres Ortiz

SI TU FUERAS Si tu fueres el mar y yo la roca haria subir la marea para besar tu boca.

If you were the sea and I the rock I would rise to the tideline to kiss your mouth.

Grade 6

D’Youville Porter School, PS 3

Jonathon Colon Planell

ODE TO BASEBALL Fun. Active. Joyful.

Being chosen to play is like being full of luck.

Winning a tournament is like being the best in the world.

But nothing is better than having fun.

Baseball keeps kids active so their bellies don’t go round.

The smell of the grass before a game makes me feel like a champion. The sound of the sand under my feet is like chips crunching and the sound of the first pitch like a cannon shooting.

The sound of the bat hitting the ball is like

hearing a melody.

Herman Badillo Bilingual Academy, PS 76

Grade 5

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14

Jalissa Jones

NATURE The trees are blowing.

I see the side of my house.

I don’t hear one sound, not even a mouse.

I feel cool while the wind blows in my hair. When I took that picture, I stood there and stared. Some trees are dead and some alive.

When the wind blows the grass just lies. I see a street, pathway, bikes and cars.

And looking at the sky reminds me of stars.

Grade 5

Highgate Heights, PS 80

Toe Toe Lay

I AM A FREE MAN RIGHT NOW I see the world of fear.

That fear is red, the whisper of the world.

It said it is peace that we should bring.

If we don’t and never see ourselves in the mirror it is because of pride.

Lafayette High School, PS 204

Grade 12

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16

Darren Cameron

EMOJI POEM Housing the gift of a meal is a bright surprise.

A bright opportunity blossoms with sound cake starring the light crab, poor and alarming.

Hot death appears suddenly, but why, WHY my cat?

He spits his food out, it flies by faster than the money of the ill-spenders.

About time he went up over the rainbow, right past the Jukebox Diner.

Grade 9

City Honors, PS 195 Just Buffalo Writing Center

Germรกn Caraballo

ODE TO THE SNOW The snow is white like a smoky cloud. I see myself in the snow.

I look like a ninja dressed in all black.

I hear the trees moving.

They sound like a salty ocean. The street like a cake missing

a piece.

Herman Badillo Bilingual Academy, PS 76

Grade 5

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18

Delanie Alverio

IN PUERTO RICO FOREVER Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico, Puerto Rico.

The warm, light breeze hitting my face as I get off the airplane.

The trees and bushes greeting us with a dance in the wind.

The sun beaming with great joy.

My heart beating a song of happiness and laughter.

I will never forget the beauty, from seeing the shiny sun light up the wonderful mountains, to the songs that the coquis sing in the spotlight of the moon.

Grade 6

D’Youville Porter School, PS 3

Carson Feero

OBSERVATION OF GAMMA MODEL 11 SERIAL NUMBER 1542279035: A ROBOT AMONG HUMANS, AND KNOWN TO THEM AS “WALTER” Entry 35, Date 9/03/2501 The human known as “William” made strange noises all day. He sat in front of the television absorbing information and periodically spouted strange exclamations that at first made me think he was in some kind of pain, but when questioned, he insisted he was “laughing,” a concept which I have since done much research on, but still fail to understand. I will interview him on the subject once he has finished replenishing his energy via sleep.

Entry 36, Date 9/04/2501 I have interviewed the human known as “William” on the subject of laughter as indicated in the previous entry. The following is a transcript of our conversation.

1542279035: What is laughter?

“William”: Laughter is…well it’s when you—well not you, me and other humans, it’s when we make an…involuntary exclamation after seeing or hearing something funny.

1542279035: Define “funny.”

“William”: Something humorous.

Continued on next page...

Just Buffalo Writing Center

Grade 10

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20

Carson Feero

1542279035: Define “humorous.”

“William”: Uh…containing or…being composed of humor.

1542279035: Define “humor.”

“William”: Uh…something…funny?

The conversation went on like this for numerous minutes not worth transcribing as the only thing gathered was “William’s” lack of conversational prowess. I have decided to abandon pursuit of this subject for the time being. In the next entry, I will examine the process through which “William” and other humans prepare their “food.”

Lucy Handman

WRITER’S BLOCK I stare at the rush of words coming at me.

I try to catch them but they’re slippery like butter.

I feel elastic in the wind of their wake.

I chant them over and over until they become lyrical turning from dry earth to the consistency of ketchup.

They flow more easily now.

I long to join their world.

I take a sip.

The river washes over me.

City Honors, PS 195 Just Buffalo Writing Center

Grade 9

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22

Yerelis Martinez

ODE TO MY DOG COOKIE When my dog is sad, I feel sad like my heart is breaking.

When Cookie is sad, she sounds like she is alone in a cave.

Grade 5

Herman Badillo Bilingual Academy, PS 76

La’Veyuan Scott

THE WALK Walk. Walk your fears away and walk. Walk down the right sidewalk.

Walk your anger and rage away. Express your emotions and walk. Once you’re done, walk again. Walk until you are ready to run. Then jump and fly.

Highgate Heights, PS 80

Grade 5

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24

Asli Ali

A WORLD AT WAR A third of the world’s population is at war.

War… The reason my parents lost their home War… The reason Somalia will never be whole War… Something we’ve become too good at War… A loved one lost in combat War… A new day, a new battle War… Society’s self-secured shackles War… It comes in many different forms War… Destruction has become the norm A brother gone, A sister lost, A father never to return Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye War… It’s what we’re taught in this violence-ridden culture War… A generation consumed by malevolent vultures War… I’m scared it will never end War… These monsters will never mend War… their heinous, destructive ways War… A heavy price you and I will have to pay.

Grade 12

Riverside Institute of Technology, PS 205 Just Buffalo Writing Center

Jace Lovullo

MY EARS ARE ACTUALLY BLEEDING “Commander, come in!� Johann shouted through the radio static.

His trembling finger, slick with sweat, kept slipping off the button.

~ Electricity crackled and sparked on the slick floors of the abandoned house. Stepping over the exposed wires carefully, I made my way into the waterlogged dining room and stood there for a moment, hearing only the eerie sounds of the copper wires, and my own tense breathing. ~ Water trickled under the bridge I stood on, and I closed my eyes for a moment and focused only on that sound, not the flashing lights behind me or the notebook and pencil in my hand. When I opened my eyes the gentle, trickling song was still there, dominating everything, ironically contrasting the sight of the body washed up on the riverbank.

City Honors, PS 195 Just Buffalo Writing Center

Grade 9

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THE 2015 JUST BUFFALO WRITING CENTER POETRY PRIZE FOR YOUNG WRITERS We are delighted to present to you the 2015 Just Buffalo Writing Center Poetry Prize for Young Writers winner & runner-ups.

We Congratulate Gabriel L. Montone, winner of this year’s Poetry Prize for Young Writers, for “Naked Angel.” About Montone’s piece, judge Rachael Katz wrote: This string of “odes,” as it asserts itself in the wake of the Americana romantic, is a poem stunned with grief. A tone is sounded and sustained within the ecstatic depressive--something expected and icy true for adolescence--yet Montone sets himself apart from his peers by prioritizing the excavation of the feeling over the shrill insistence of the feeling itself. The speaker is slipstreaming through language, at moments losing traction but never lost: then just as readers feel the most dissonance, the most illegible space, and perhaps even the most discomfort, the poem cascadesinto an eerie and perfect quiet. There is a beat, a moment unglossed, a complete identification. While using the form of the lyric to set out the familiar building exegesis of a paradigmatic existential crisis, Montone skillfully explores a personal-political identity that offers critique and compassion in equal measure to a generation taught by “fatherless television nightmares.” With this poem, Montone reestablishes the poet as a purposeful outsider, a deep agent for social change, an anti-martyr to terrible beauty.

We are happy to announce these additional poems, also submitted as runner-ups: “We Had Stomachaches From Things Other Than Candy,”

by Cayli Enderton “Poecia,” by Grace Newman We want to extend gratitude to all the young writers who entered the first annual Just Buffalo Writing Center for Young Writers Poetry Prize. Not only do they provide us with excellent reading, but also show the range of talent throughout the Western New York region.

Gabriel L. Montone The 2015 Just Buffalo Writing Center Poetry Prize For Young Writers Winner

NAKED ANGEL for Allen Ginsberg & Paris Howell

Gabriel L. Montone

Oh, again I feel the squeal of tires and stagnant air, of purgatory and of divine. Again, the lines of observative blind eyes stand peering out at tinker plastic, and machinery.

Again, again, again.

A morning awoke in faint fog drifting simultaneously through ravines and tops of barren, lonesome, naked trees, still holding dew from dusk, still holding roots in ground moist and puddled in mornings moving, as it did through my mind growing endlessly plateaued in a sense of despondency and a lack of clarity.

Again, again, again.

The fathers with tickets and crocks, or CoorsTM logoed t-shirts and sun visors, the mothers with bags as large as hay barrels held by the povertus and battered immigrants fielded and saddened and in acceptance of the industries polluted treatment, or pill headed wives who filled their stomachs and children full of plastic capsules, and who found themselves on a trip of XanaxTM and Pino GritioTM, as they wait for their children to return from social brainwashes teaching them only to reveal themselves physically, to disregard emotion and individual expression, to seek primitive notions of sex, and affection.

Yes yes yes.

Oh, please, an ode, to the mothers who waited, hours on end past ‘curfews’, as their children found themselves in an alcoholic haze, unawaringly expanding the conformity and illusion of their culture’s privilege. And an ode to the fatherless television nightmares that taught them sex and ego and rightness and taught them not hide it. …Please, please, please.

The Park School of Buffalo

Grade 11

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28

Gabriel L. Montone

A final ode, a final ode, a final ode to a culture that taught me not what it meant to generalize gender roles, sexuality, race, and parenting, but rather underhandedly taught me how, how to do so and convince my self of its natural inhabitance in mind.

Yes! The same culture, that simultaneously scolded me for physical expressions of love and adoration for the ones who accepted my broken mind, and barred the weight of my mania, and upheld the pieces of my being and brought me back to a subjective state of my own sanity, the same culture simultaneously and unspoken condoned an assault of sexuality in binary functions.

“Sex is love”, the screens will say, “Sex is love, and we must love our neighbors” And All Lies Lead Our Blind Eyes Ashamed in agony – and –Sweating profusely.

-The culture that pulls the serrated tape-dispensing blade from these fragile arms and thighs is the same culture that placed its gleaming metal shined correction of body in between thumb and forefinger; the same culture that taught me racism but blinded me from my participation within it’s context; the same culture that taught me history was history, present moment secluded entirely; the same culture that was blinded by profit and American idealism took no notice to the imperial oppression, and the greed it created in the ripple of man’s socially destructive evolution; Who taught me dying alone is wrong And beauty is defined by the subjective rather than the subject And I find myself rambling.

The clock ticks patterns and waves like that of the butterfly’s wings as they flap, and I see a mother cry once more. Their words carry through adolescent minds, and they shout blasphemy at one another, hoping to cure and humiliate that part of each other they have gleamed at for years with eyes of sorrow and disgust they found within themselves as they stood stark naked and bruised as angst filled teenagers peering out at their bodies with self-deprecation and mistrusted virginity;

Grade 11

The Park School of Buffalo

29 pure in innocent oblivion.

Though then mirrored and recognizing flaws within mind exemplified and exstrenuated through flaws in body conjured up by magazine article covers and wealthy whites under the surgeon’s plastic tools of ‘beautification’.

Now, using their children as pawns and objects to condescend their lovers as they talk to one another through offspring resounding in mind a faint memory of words now unspoken.

I don’t want to die

But now I must tell of the surgeon’s blade and his bandages tightened around our bodies in captivity. Oh, he condemns and condemns, and fears the man with serrated smiles breaking the seal of porcelain smooth skin in hopes of understanding relief.

Our arms are grazed by self-‘beautification’.

Our own distraction, and alleviation of greater suffering.

Though, I – yes I! – Now deemed unstable! And psychotic! And damaged!

And broken neurologically too unfit for society; -Oh, society, beautiful society, gentle society, innocent society, brave new society; -“We must protect our fragile society from the likes of these barbarians, these monsters, who feverishly attempt to break down all forms of structure and tradition and heritage and language and writing and poetic subjective definitions conjured within their unfit minds. These barbarians with beauty in hand but vulnerability hidden under garments of cotton and polyester and cheap fabrics from the smoke filled disease ridden Malaysian industries funded graciously by blind eyes with obtuse notions of Nationalism and American assimilation. The barbarians are trying to diminish the integrity of our beautiful! innocent! society!”

They’ll say

30 The society that blames rape on the raped Poverty, on the povertus War on the victimized That blamed GodTM for both light and dark Condemning thieves to hell but rationalized thievery under titles Of totalitarian agriculture, AppleTM industries, and idealist laissezfaire capitalizm that blatantly rewrote history to fit fantastical imagery of the heroic American destiny, Being (and Being and Being and Being and Being) Medicated (and Medicated and Medicated and Medicated and Medicated) From birth to death – from dream to dream – in lazy attempt to distract us from substantial solution.

-(( I can’t stand my own mind )) Irony gleams as the barbarian’s blades bring only fallacitic beauty.

But beauty stands bare on balconies bellowing blasphemy from high windows, naked, and shouting at Mother Culture as her cranes tears veins from Earths gentle and innocent body. Alliteration must wilt.

Time, meter, rhyme pentamically dies in trying to describe the living lives’ creative (innovative) concrete conscious clutter as culture condones a constant collapse.

I must stop now.

Yet, the weight of thoughts under porcelain skull, fragile, fragmented; thoughts under dissident revolt, the constant contradictions, the war, the clatter of Nazist bullets and burst canisters under pressure; the shedding of wholeness, the ungoodbye to non-existent forms perceived in new eyes, now, illuminated by synthetic light; the slick sharp pain in pounding thoughts, cracking with spider webbed disturbances and the final climactic shatter, the final pieces of a brilliant mosaic mind, vibrate and ripple atomic delicate china plates of thought.

Gabriel L. Montone But we refuse to say goodbye‌ For all things remain unfinished, And all thoughts remain unwritten, And all gifts remain ungiven, When there was no end and there will be no beginning.

And we find ourselves awake at night awaiting

another morning in faint fogged precision of thought.

And we find ourselves running down a battered tattered road howling at a paper-thin moon.

And we find ourselves years down the line with tired eyes peering at lives through curved mirrors.

Is it then, in sight and in vulnerable fear of our tarnished hearts, That we realize we are all born Naked & Crying

And we all die, Quietly, Replenishing, the gentle,

Fertile arms of our Naked loving Angel.

The Park School of Buffalo

Grade 11

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Cayli Enderton POETRY PRIZE FOR YOUNG WRITERS RUNNER-UP

WE HAD STOMACHACHES FROM THINGS OTHER THAN CANDY I remember that last Halloween was colder than we had expected and we were underdressed.

Our hands shook even when we wrapped our knuckles into the cloth of our pillowcases.

My tie was tight around my neck but you were the one complaining about how the collar from your shirt was constricting you.

I laughed and told you this was why you shouldn’t wear clothes from when you were seven years old on a daily basis.

Autumn leaves made their way into our hair tangling in a ring in your short locks like a makeshift crown and scuffed along the bottoms of our boots.

The sky was a pen that had leaked all of its ink and the stars didn’t feel like wiping it up.

Touches of green lights flickered on and off rapidly on the porches of people’s houses and we slung our hauls like sacks across our spines.

The sidewalk was crowded with shadows scurrying along house to house and the sound of doorbells and chattering voices protruded the air.

We paused at the end of a block because your fingers were numb and you needed a second.

You cupped your palms together and took shivering breathes to warm yourself up bouncing up and down on the ball of your heel.

I shoved my hands in the pockets of the trench coat I had borrowed from your mom the one we had dug to the back of her closet to locate and found the outline of a lighter instead of the empty space I expected.

33

Cold air always seemed to lead to desperate ideas and we took turns flicking it on so the other could warm their hands over the flame.

The miniscule bit of heat somehow gave us motivation and we trekked on deciding on a last house.

You rang the doorbell while I rehearsed “trick or treat” in my head the same routine we had all evening.

The plump woman at the door started to smile but gasped at me reached out to touch my forehead.

A hushed, ‘oh my god, honey, it covers half of your face, does it hurt?’ and ‘who bruised you up so bad?’

It took you thirty seconds to push in front of me and inform her that no one had hit me no one had bruised me I was just born that way.

She stuttered apologies that echoed off her porch and down the sidewalk but you were already guiding me to the end of the block because you could hear me shaking with each breath and holding tears in the back of my throat like glue.

You let me cry into the back of your jacket because ‘I thought people were done reacting to me by now’.

Later when we were half asleep on your living room floor you whispered that you thought the most common human emotion was regret because sometimes you can’t take back mistakes as much as you’d like to.

But that was all you said before you fell asleep.

TV static in our ears the heat of your fireplace finally giving us the warmth we had wished for so bad and your arm strung across your mouth like you were afraid the other thoughts you had in your head might spill out.

Elmwood Village Charter School

Grade 8

34

Grace Newman THE 2015 JUST BUFFALO WRITING CENTER POETRY PRIZE FOR YOUNG WRITERS RUNNER-UP

POECIA The click-clattering of clean nails are trembling on the typewriter.

The letters are dirty piano keys; the virgin page is a threat, begging to be stung with a slow E-minor in the form of coiling letters.

Throw a coin into the inkwell!

See what will emerge from the black, disturbed by the ripples.

Careful; its grinding teeth may be sharp.

Banish it to the island of the paper before it wriggles away.

Bright eyes are strange flowers swinging to the waltz of space-backspace,one-two-three.

The clock hands spin heavy breaths into the raw blankets of night; the weaving is crisscrossed with erratic plow tracks.

Stanzas of spider’s footprints soak through the crisp apple-skin paper.

Sleek smears embroider the margins with desperate looped fingerprints A new world shimmers on the edges.

Grade 10

Nichols School

Minelys Manzano

WEATHER REPORT The snow falls from the sky like feathers from beautiful swans The ice looks like a mirror, the cold like my heart Get frozen and I can’t be alive The wind blows too cold for me to go outside to play in the snow.

D’Youville Porter School, PS 3

Grade 6

35

36

Zale Gaskin

DARK POEM ON RAIN (Inspired by workshop with Celes Tisdale) Dark thoughts have invaded my mind and forever does it blink. I was outside looking at the sky, remembering what is appropriate.

I looked at the beautiful blue world & I knew what I was. I knew what we were!

It was blank like an outcast trying to find his way in a world so cold that a fiery lake of devastation froze over.

We are like rain but we are acid. We are made up of liquid destruction that could easily wipe out a planet’s most valuable beauty.

Then, in a hint of wonder, it started to rain!

I stood there and like a bat out of hell the world was shut. I stood in a wake of death: confused, broken.

Grade 12

Hutchinson Central Technical High School, PS 304 Just Buffalo Writing Center

Cosette Botello

CLIMBING THE FORGOTTEN STEPS OF ROME’S STONE STAIRCASES Sunlight falls into me like raindrops or drops of love.

Stone staircases are enemies that make uncomfortable sweat the only part of adventure I seem to remember.

There are things that only traveling absolutely everywhere can help you learn.

1. The worst part of having seen all the most amazing things in the world at once is that all I can remember are the stone staircases.

The way the sun liked to burn into my eyes like a challenge of my will.

I saw works of art that those wiser than me have merely dreamt of for unfulfilled lifetimes and the only memory that was welded deeply enough into consciousness was how often my legs had wanted to collapse at the stone staircases.

How the early mornings of history lessons and structural amazements were easily infected by impending desires of being back in the effortless embrace of slumber.

2. Looking back on it now I feel selfish.

More than I usually do.

Like I should’ve tried to stay awake more often.

Like I should’ve appreciated it more than I decided to in the moment I decided I was too tired to see the beauty that was conveniently painted right in front of me.

I have seen fantastic sights of unfathomable works, places worshipped for hundreds of years where the sun only decided to shine on the ones it thought were good enough.

For a moment I stood in its light.

And I complained that it was too bright.

Frederick Law Olmsted, PS 156 Just Buffalo Writing Center

Grade 10

37

38 That my laziness could no longer take the radiant heat of my uncanny, eventful life.

But no matter how much I decided to complain, I still loved the way the sun fell into me The way no matter where you are it still feels like you’re not that far away from home But that the leaves on the trees were never quite the same color in a different place.

3. Sometimes my hometown still smells like adventure in the summer.

No one else understands 4. The biggest regret I will ever have is that I may never be able to go back We never realize how much we wanted to appreciate something until it’s over And we don’t have a chance of ever reaching it again How do we forgive ourselves for the places we can never go back to?

How do we forgive ourselves for the things we can never apologize for?

5. I have more than enough instances of taking things for granted to apologize for.

6. Maybe I am not the only one.

The memories we keep can be a result of the things we most enjoyed.

Maybe I, as many others have, only remember enjoying the work I did to get to the places that were most beautiful.

7. My memories seem too distant to know if I was ever compliant with other people telling me what was supposed to be beautiful.

Cosette Botello 8. When I think of how little of the things I can remember I hate how little time I allowed myself to remember them.

9. The sun was too bright to ever get a good picture of the tall buildings When I had finally given up I told myself that I’d never forget them anyways.

I spent months trying to cling on to memories of experiences whose nostalgia had melted away the moment I closed my eyes Thinking now, maybe they weren’t that important 10. I still loved every second of what I’ve done.

There is no bitterness in my recalling it now.

No matter the things I so easily bypassed I still look back on it fondly, with a smile and a blissful feeling in my heart.

So perhaps I didn’t forget anything important at all Because the only time I remember really feeling like I was on an adventureWas under a sun blazing sweat onto my forehead Dehydrated and exhausted With sore feet On a stone staircase.

Frederick Law Olmsted, PS 156 Just Buffalo Writing Center

Grade 10

39

40

Jessica Lopez

ODE TO BUFFALO I see two people walking and cars driving down the street.

There is lots of snow on the sidewalk. The snow feels like ice cream.

Trees everywhere with no leaves. Shadows clinging to the street. Houses everywhere and people walking on the sidewalk to go to stores. Snow melting.

There are shadows.

A father and son walking.

Grade 5

Herman Badillo Bilingual Academy, PS 76

Ryan Dowell

EXPLAIN It was a bird but it flew away.

Tree doesn’t have any leaves, but it’s growing today and I hope it never goes away. This explains how my day was and what I’m afraid of.

Highgate Heights, PS 80

Grade 5

41

42

Olivier Ngarukiyintwari

LIFE AND ITS WONDERS Here’s to the world, to the homes, the cars, life, family, church, god and religions. Here’s to friends, a good time and trees; here’s to clothes, to newspapers, to books, to brushes, and so much more. Here’s to games, to music, to beats and audio; here’s to gym and to innocent people.

Here’s to death, to heaven, to water, and tasty food for us to eat. Here’s to haircuts, to edge-ups, to dancing and to the flags, to the smart, to the prisoners and to the cool technology, to the fat, to the skinny, to the rich, to the poor, and to the windows, to the lonely, to justice, to crime.

To evil, to good, to boring, to empty space, to lawyers, to people with jobs, to drums and to clouds and sky, to the weak, to the strong, to injustice, and to Mrs. Hall.

Grade 6

D’Youville Porter School, PS 3

Deshawn Dade

WINDOWS VS. PEOPLE Windows and people so clear easy to see through easy to read easy to decipher and understand Some big some small some new some old some whole some broken some dirty…so so dirty so much dirt Yet there’s a story in that dirt each speck holds a story but the dirt blocks the light from shining through Everything hidden; so damn dark, man I don’t understand. I can’t see through this.

That window is wanting to be cleaned by someone That person is wanting someone to view their specks, to listen to their story and understand, to help them wash off their dirt.

To be seen.

Hutchinson Central Technical High School , PS 304 Just Buffalo Literary Center

Grade 12

43

44

Jamile Cruz

ODE TO MY SIBLINGS My sister is hugging my brother. They are smiling.

They say to me sweet and pretty words. Like that they love me.

When I am with my siblings, I feel happy.

We play hide and seek outside.

My favorite hiding place is the small tree in the yard.

My siblings hide under the green chairs.

ODA DA A MIS HERMANOS Mi hermana esta abrazando a mi hermano. Estan sonriendo.

Me dicen palabras dulces y bonitas. Como que me ama.

Cuando estoy con mis hermanos, siento feliz.

Jugamos escondite afuera.

Mi lugar favorito de escondida es el ĂĄrbol pequeĂąo en el patio.

Mis hermanos se esconden debajo de las sillas verdes.

Grade 5

Herman Badillo Bilingual Academy, PS 76

Mymona Rahman

BUNNY IS HER NAME The doctors said she was very small

she looked like a newborn bird

in my mom’s stomach.

One day her heartbeat got slower and slower My family and I got scared

she was gonna have to

come out.

Then came the best moment of my life.

I saw her

beautiful face so small so tiny

she was 1 pound

13 ¾ inches.

D’Youville Porter School, PS 3

Grade 6

45

46

Hannah Nathanson

LOVE IS NOT LOUD You have heard the buzz of its sign illuminate the night, You have heard the busy streets surrounding it, everyone has heard the name of this hotel muffled into movies.

Often paired with breakfast in bed and the color red, it tells success stories like a grandma speaks of golden childhood and sob stories like the words that slip out of empty beer bottles.

You have heard the baby blue jeep that arrived late at night only to be turned away in the morning, You have heard the vibrant colors flood in every weekend and the cling-cling of high heels leaving, You have even heard a minivan with an empty passenger seat moving in for a while, But you have not heard the hotel five blocks down, for no one has spoken of the wood panels that cover it.

No one has told you that the beds there are better than your own, because they are not.

They are rough at times-too hard then too soft.

You will never hear the lost baby blue jeep that is currently screeching around the corner, finally finding the much awaited neon lights highlighting a two for one room deal at this late night hotel.

It parks-condensing into the headlightless night and two yellow lines, The radio that was turned down all the way anyways is turned off, sent into a state of unconsciousness like a mom’s guiding hand slapped away.

Beside the blue jeep rests an empty parking spot, Pink painted nails floating over, The color is so precious that it has been here before, It has never stayed for long- just passed by with family on a way to something better, spent a lonely night or two when it needed an escape from the cabinet that held it.

Grade 9

City Honors, PS 195 Just Buffalo Writing Center

.

Still, as it enters the door and AC covers the color familiar feelings make the fingernails tingle, Uncomfortable at first, but pink perseveres deciding it can make it work for as long as it is allowed to stayEither that or until squeezing itself into too thin sheets becomes it’s only form of self identity, and then perhaps pink will leave but for now it is here.

Pink has passed the black BMW that is nervously blasting an 80s song, the car is new, but it does not smell as fresh as this ancient hotel.

Ten yards away rests a rusted pickup truck taking up two parking spots, the tire went flat, unexpectedly stuck.

Passing by now is a new set of sneakers and an old hand-me-down pair, they’ve seen the lights many times, but now the glow is brighter than before they never knew you could get a two for one deal, but it’s too good to turn down so they turn in to buy two separate room keys.

The nametag behind the desk is a fox but the owner is a dove No deer hang on the wall like the ones at the famous hotel, deer are for backyards.

It will not smell like your dad’s cologne but of him making cookies.

The streets surrounding it are practically empty and the neon lights are fading.

You’ve never heard the name, And you will never hear yourself coming But one day you will wake up in this hotel And you will hear your heartbeat playing your favorite song You will hear your laugh singing lead vocals And you will know You have arrived.

47

48

Christanley Ortega

ODE TO THE GAME BATTLE RUN When I enter the house, I start to play.

There is a park inside the game.

There are people running, jumping.

When I am playing Battle Run, I feel soft music inside my mind.

When I play Battle Run, I smell my mother’s food in the kitchen.

The smell of her food stops my game.

Grade 5

Herman Badillo Bilingual Academy, PS 76

49

ODA AL JUEGO BATTLE RUN Cuando entro a la casa me pongo a jugar.

Hay un parque dentro del juego.

Hay personas corriendo, brincando.

Cuando yo estoy jugando Battle Run, siento una mĂşsica suave dentro de mi mente.

Cuando yo juego Battle Run, huelo comida de mi mamĂĄ en la cocina.

El olor de la comida se para mi juego.

50

Jose Iglesias

LIFE IS STRANGE A lot of people are different some are brainiacs from the library others are the hipsters from the office I see the fighter from the streets I am just the kid down the creek,

like I said

life is strange

Grade 6

D’Youville Porter School, PS 3

Jackie Vu

RUN I’m just David, the normal guy, but I gotta go toe to toe with guys who’ve got a foot on me.

I never knew I had a Napoleon Complex.

Go ahead, call me an underdog, but I know I’m gonna win.

I have faith in my training, never a day off.

Thank God for earth, wind, and rain.

Thank the devil for turning it into hell, tempest, and ice.

If I survive this, then I can survive anything.

The man with the gun said “ready, set, go!” but I heard “let there be light.”

I shine like the North Star, let me guide you, the race is never over, but the dudes who use to tower are just babbling, and I just keep battling.

David, the normal guy, will never get a break, even as a King, he’s missing Corretta.

Spilled blood of a lamb to obtain victory, I’m a disciple of a criminal; I think he’s on death row, but in spirit he’s a voice of a nation.

Hutchinson Central Technical High School, PS 304 Just Buffalo Writing Center

Grade 12

51

52

Ivaneliz Ruiz

ODE TO NAIL POLISH The polish

is lined up like buildings

in the city.

Colorful polish

looks like a rainbow in the sky.

When I wear

nail polish I feel like a butterfly.

When I paint on the polish

it sounds like waves crashing

into the shore.

When I see

the polish it looks like

shadows on the back of a scary building.

The polish is a shining golden armor

near a building abandoned and

taken over by zombies.

Without nail polish

nobody would survive.

Grade 5

Herman Badillo Bilingual Academy, PS 76l

Samuel Cedeno

WHAT IS IMPORTANT I don’t know what people see on the outside but I

know that it’s not

the same as the

inside, people are awesome just how they are, people don’t need to be

like others, so

just be yourself

La La La La People may say that you are ugly but just be your

self, if you like

something, do it, not everybody likes the same stuff…So be yourself.

D’Youville Porter School, PS 3

Grade 6

53

54

Xavier Misla

ODE TO MY NEIGHBORHOOD Wind through my coat.

Cars. Sun. Houses. Signs.

The cars like cells in a prison.

The sun like a falling meteor.

The houses look like clones.

Snow cold as Neptune.

Mountains of snow.

The street empty as the Walking Dead.

I hear silence like death.

A voice. Come home!

My house is as comfortable as sleeping on the clouds.

See you in the summer!

With trees like the gift of God. Oxygen. Fruit. Shelter.

Grade 5

Herman Badillo Bilingual Academy, PS 76

Ellen Chapman

FOUND POEM (using text by Shel Silverstein) If you are a dreamer come in ‘cause little Peggy Ann Mickay is sick and only one quarter of love has shown up today The raindrops are missing from the roses I must remember to get rid of the boiling lake 1000 miles wide and to tell the wild geese it is time to go I could say life is just a bowl of Jell-O but the optimist fell 10 stories and we can’t figure out what’s wrong with Mary Jane There’s a genius on level 24 And the dreams just keep bringing us more

City Honors, PS 195 Just Buffalo Writing Center

Grade 8

55

56

Trinity Thomas

THE BUS STOP With a bus stop you can go anywhere.

To New York, the park, and all places. So go on a journey or around the world and travel. See what you see and be creative and imagine that you are a cowboy or cowgirl.

Pretend that the garbage is not on the ground.

Grade 5

Highgate Heights, PS 80

Zi Ram

EVERYTHING IN THIS PROMISE In the last days I wish to make a hole in the sky My only tools will be the desires of humans from the soul.

It must carry fire for spirit. The language of the land will be a gift.

If we are not in it.

Take note best described from grace.

Once we knew everything in this promise.

Lafayette High School, PS 204

Grade 12

57

58

Stacey Vazquez

ODE TO MY BIG SEASHELL FROM PUERTO RICO My seashell looks like a beautiful pink dress.

It has curves. It is as shiny as the sun.

In it I can hear the wind and the waves.

It smells like the beach. It has spikes, bumps.

Eye. Mouth. Lines. Veins like streets.

On the other side, my shell has little black Dalmatian dots. It has orange stains.

My shell looks like a scary monster, a rooster face, a skeleton. Like a ghost floating around the house.

Shark teeth. It makes me think about Puerto Rico and my family who taught me that when things are a different shape, they are still beautiful.

From the inside out.

Grade 5

Herman Badillo Bilingual Academy, PS 76

Index Asli Ali

24

Minelys Manzano

35

Jada Allen

7

Yerelis Martinez

22

Delanie Alverio

18

Xavier Misla

54

Jerika Andino

10

Gabriel L. Montone

27

Cosette Botello

37

Hannah Nathanson

46

Xaiveria Butler

11

Grace Newman

34

Darren Cameron

16

Olivier Ngarukiyintwari 42

German Caraballo

17

Christanley Ortega

48

Samuel Cedeno

53

Andres Ortiz

12

Ellen Chapman

55

Jonathon Colon Planell 13

Jamile Cruz

44

Mymona Rahman

45

Deshawn Dade

43

Zi Ram

57

Ryan Dowell

41

Ivaneliz Ruiz

52

Cayli Enderton

32

La’Veyuan Scott

23

Sol Estrada

8

Trinity Thomas

56

Carson Feero

19

Genesis Vaillant

6

Zale Gaskin

36

Stacey Vazquez

58

Lucy Handman

21

Jackie Vu

51

Cosme Hernandez

9

Jose Iglesias

50

Jalissa Jones

14

Toe Toe Lay

15

Jessica Lopez

40

Jace Lovullo

25

59