Zephyr 2023

Home by Kaili Martinez-Beasley and Closest to Paradise by Kelly Miller..………….….….34

Poetry by Ava Balian

Poetry by Juliana Cvetanovic

Where I Am From by Juliana Cvetanovic

Poetry by Gabriella Mazal

Poetry by Gabriella Mazal

Photography and Art Gallery with Contributions from Kelly Miller, Darian Rouse, Gabriella Mazal, Carmela Guido, Kendall Mathis, Charlotte Kipp, Elin Smith-Freitag, Francis Feliciano, Jolie Reyes, Julia Rearden, Emmy Carovillano, Victoria Hui, Katherine

Fan, Valerie Garcia, Leah Felix, Mia Gonzalez, Ariel Tazewell, Genesis Batista, Gianna Sanchez, Isabel Pedersen, Isabella Le, Felicity Esguerra, Juliana Cvetanovic, Ammy

Peralta, Amber Greene, Ava Balian, Kira Hirsch, Ciara Latchman, Valeria Tapia, Allie

Jules, Jolie Reyes, Delaney

Cover Art by Victoria Hui

Special thanks to all who submitted and shared a piece of themselves for others to be inspired.

Sincerely, Zephyr staff

DEDICATION

Gabriella Mazal ‘23 and Kaili Martinez-Beasley ‘23

Throughout time, we all grow and develop into our own persons with wants, dreams, loves, and so much more. The early stages of life are often seen as coming-of-age stories that are later told and learned from by others. Such is the case with J.D. Salinger, best known for his coming-of-age story The Catcher in the Rye, which follows not only the highs of exploring and growing up but also the unfortunate, unavoidable lows that many face. The story itself follows the character of Holden Caulfield who is caught in the rut of letting go of the past, and embracing the unknowns of adulthood. He finds himself in many different circumstances: facing the challenges of love and the mystery that lies within it, moving on from the loss of his younger brother, the stress of school and pressure to achieve perfect grades, and just the overwhelming feeling of emerging into a world one is unprepared to enter. Holden is repulsed by the “phonies” of life, those he should look to for guidance because they are the adults who are supposed to know how to grow. However, Holden finds the answers in what he already knows from childhood, rather than looking for answers from adults, for they might not have found the answers themselves. The story depicts the trying times of being young and the toll they can take on one's mental health, but also how one is never too old to ask for help finding answers or how one is never too young to have the answers. J.D. Salinger, a man who did not seek fame or fortune from his writings, was merely trying to illustrate the complexity of coming of age whether it be as a child or as an adult.

One’s coming of age is often associated with their teen years. The period of adolescence is a pivotal time in which one discovers and grows into his/her identity. However, Bharati Mukherjee is an author who believes that coming of age is not designated to just one stage of life. As individuals develop and continue to have more experiences, thus making them wiser, they mature and become an evolved form of their previous selves. Though the individuals Mukherjee writes of are often immigrants or those trying to reconnect with their cultural backgrounds, the characters’ stories are universal. For example, Jasmine, the namesake of Mukherjee’s novel Jasmine, is an Indian woman trying to mend the split between her past and present self after an exile to the United States. Her trials may be presented through the lens of an immigrant trying to find the balance between assimilation and the reclamation of one’s cultural identity, yet her difficulties ultimately reflect a struggle that exists among all of humanity: coming to terms with one’s past without holding oneself back from the future. With her writing, Mukherjee makes it clear that one’s coming of age is not about rejecting the past, past mistakes, past traumas, and past identities. Rather, coming of age is about merging one’s past self with a more astute and assured present self. Of course, the time to experience such growth and evolution has no bounds; it may happen when one is 15, 27, or 52. Regardless of when it occurs, Mukherjee encourages her readers to greet all parts of themselves with open arms and accept who they are and will become.

Persona Poem - MayaAngelou

Rio Sorge ‘24

Heaven, I am your most worthy resident My hope and resilience Is the precedent For girls of color

Both old and young (And I don’t always rhyme Even though it’s quite fun)

I was silent for years But books spoke volumes Like the last light of love And pure as a dove With grace found in a ballroom I did face my fears

And I never stopped I gave and I gave ‘Cause I am the dream and the hope of the slave Gone but not forgotten, My son a gift My stories and truths Still guide and uplift

For unlike some people, I know why I am here To inspire, give hope From far and from near Gather ‘round and I’ll tell you All that I know Things that I learned Almost a century ago

I don’t know why the sun Must rise in the East Or why circuses must Harm an innocent beast

But I know how to survive And how to fly with one wing What to do in the darkness What each of us brings And I Know Why

The Caged Bird Sings.

They Creep

Kaili Martinez-Beasley ‘23

My eyes don’t lead to the soul. They have been Tethered with weary wild rope that twists Out of control and snaps like podded beans. Now, consciousness is trapped by blinded wrists.

I live behind my sight instead of with. I watch my life through broadcasted iris screens. Across the street I believe Truman drifts And too sees stiffly swaying flattened trees.

Nothing is sweet about fantasies that I hide in to escape reality. A deep hunger and numbness drive a raft Through drowning spaces; I sink so brutally.

Hmm, life’s a darkness God even resists. I know I fear and therefore I exist.

I know I fear and therefore I exist. The Question, Death, always hovers above; Is It today, the day my breath will quit? Is It worse to now be envious of?

Again, wishing the silence of my mind “..............................................................” Was optional. So sad the choice is void. Instead, the thought will fall into my grinds All crushed into a dust under decoys.

Decoys of notions bringing rational Worry, amassing pure agitation. Oh, it is seemingly impossible, A moment of repose, relaxation.

My odyssey, my life, exhibit ease; Allow the vocalization of pleas.

Allow the vocalization of pleas. Listen when I holler a sound akin

The weeping willows, standing at an ease, Shedding leaves like shedding loose tears n’ skin.

They Creep

Kaili Martinez-Beasley ‘23

The feeling comes as weeping angels. It’s Unseen and clearly known when it attacks. The beauty covers surface, but omit The down under, allure will not... She’s back.

The creeping feeling seemingly sustained In scheme. Revealing layers of anguish. Away She peels the cloak utterly stained With concealer so dreary light won’t switch.

The reason for my craze is Her alone; The reason my eyes don’t lead to the soul.

Night Light

Charlotte Kipp ‘23

I’ve NeverAsked For Much

Kelly Miller ‘23

All you’ve ever been was humble and respectful, doing what must be done. But, by all means, this was what you’ve signed up for. Wasn’t it? To be Conspicuous but displaced. To be live human waste. To be there with nothing to say. Disappointment is the price you pay for baseless delusion, for expectations empty but binding. Everyone, even you must look into yourself to reflect upon all the not-so-nice words, those Flamboyantly blasphemous ones that overtake your mind as you smile. The side that Goes on wishing to be heard. Would that shatter the first impressions? If you knew that desiring Honesty in people, seeking meaningful friendships far beyond contrived were Important to you, would I learn to accept yourself? Missing brain cells and all?

Just speak your mind, I say. But, you must justify why you say what you say before you say it.

Kneading into that head of yours that you’re so idealistic, so pessimistic, so... Languid. You just might start to believe it. I just might start to believe it. Is it so unseemly?

Might I interest you in this persona? The one that loves without bounds, the one that Nullifies all the verbal nastiness that I would never wish upon anyone. Or the one that taunts.

Oppression is a sickeningly beautiful thing but as much as it is tempting, that is nothing I want. Personally, what I want–what you want, is a very fine line that subdues excellence and Quenches the momentary yearning to be known. Frankly, I don’t care.

Really, I should say that a lot more. You is such a deceptive character because you cares.

*Sigh* I really need to stop using you when you knows I’m only talking about myself.

Talking to myself and my wants, my time to be selfish without a care in the world. This Universe I’m in contorts and distorts with every newsreel, with every trivial gesture. Yet, Very often I hear that humans are social creatures. Lies. I’m sure that I could thrive alongside Water, dirt, and seeds. That I can thrive along simplicity. Away from the complicated nuances Xeriscaped images of material wants and needs. I desire the immeasurable. Yes, I desire time. Something that no one else can possess, no one else can resist. I’ve been just, Zealous, and genuine! I have never asked for much why can’t I be granted this?

Dying Secret

Kelly Miller ‘23

Should I equate this crucial divulgence

To the loss of every secret I’ve known, And bask in your blue blight of irritance With all the other assertions you’ve shown? Like beckoning the last breath from that chest, Like ceasing that spasmodic finger tip, That secret, poached differently from the rest, Has bore you despair from these very lips. A flash of black zooms past dilated eyes To reveal the pigeon house on your plot. And in this moment, you should realize The tether that binds you within earshot. It is fruitless, hungering to be found, And (more so) flattering to be snuffed out.

It should be flattering to be snuffed out. Inform me, just who do you think you are? When you are the farthest away from stout. When you are the nearest toward sub-par. That secret binds you to your wretched tomb Ev’ry chip of that chisel, day or night–While in the corners of your mind, I loom With said chains deliberately drawn tight For I know of desire: your secret. Since our actions aren’t free of each other, It suits you to call me Inconvenience. But, confide in me to ease your shudder, Whether or not you stamp the methods used. Oh, must you go? Secret, how dare you?

Oh, must you go? Secret, how dare you? Whilst you settle in your despair, I chide. Despite my indulgence, I too am Rue As I am the sole act seeking your mind. Like sand, I keep your troubles eroding Until the day where it decides to share. When the sun sets upon your last morning And dries up all those pathetic tears, Just believe that real visions lay dormant. Shh. Not all that comes from me is a lie (It’s just harmoniously discordant ) Alongside you, is where this secret dies. From you, I have taken every last wit.

Her Hands

Francis Feliciano ‘25

“The Helping Hand”

“The loving Hand”

“The Nice Hand”

Those were just three of her titles

The words of the others determined her fate

“The Strong hand”

“The Too Nice Hand”

These words started to make her think about herself This was the beginning of the never-ending titles

“The Easy Hand”

“The Always Helping Hand”

Those were the words that made her question herself This was the moment she realized they got in her head

“The Big but Weak Hands”

“The Scar Hand”

These words broke her spirit This was the moment she fell in too deep

Titles and Titles that she waits for The words of others define who she is

The Hands of a young girl, afraid of not being the perfect hands

Those were her titles, a never-ending list of ways to feel trapped This was the moment she opened her mouth and finally began to speak

“

My hands are bruised”

“

My hand has scars”

“My hands are not perfect”

“They were never meant to be perfect” These were the words of a changed girl

This was the end of the never-ending titles

Time With Her

Francis Feliciano ‘25

Time is something that scares me Time is something that I can't control Can’t control when the morning comes Can’t control the moon or rain

But for some reason that all changes when I’m with you When I go to parties, I stare at the clock People blasting music as I listen to them talk They always seemed to be shocked when I say I got to go Even though they never realized I was there But then you take my hand And you just stand there Staring right into my eyes Then I realize

Maybe time is just an illusion in my head Because when I'm with you things make sense When you are there I feel less tense Being with you makes me calmer And I love hearing your laughter Time is something that makes me afraid But I’m way less scared now cause you stayed

Victoria Hui ‘25

Redwood

Kaili Martinez-Beasley ‘23

Watch the candle, the candle flicker at the bottom of the glass as if It knows its wax is weaning thin and that there’s A light wind from the dangling fan that would hang straight with the tinker of a nail. Nothing Can stop the final ash from falling off the wooden wick weakened by crinkling flames. ElseWhere there are weeps of its evaporated contents not content being away from their rightFul body, betrayed by the heat that brings it to life, yet still craving its burn. Don’t just stay here.

Zoom in closer to the curved bodice formed by molting limestone uplifted from an endless cavity as if It’s the beating heart -now murmur- of the candle aching for life and detesting its death cause there’s No way to know the sight of the dark when you’re born to clone the light absent from the nothingNess prying eyes try to avoid and cry when the satellite doesn’t appear in the night sky. Then, what’s left Are the few stars, once covered by the central blaze, that only provide a light glaze to The void that chooses to continuously take and never give.

The candle chooses to ask “Can we End where we started?” to the beloved match. To end with the caress of a love that can devour every morsel of the soul with a prime power greater than the other’s infirmity, yet to meet Its match. Even God’s endless, divine oil can not withstand the smoldering anguish rising up From Denial that becomes realization and realization that becomes truth. The end to light is only right. The next step in the entanglement of a passion meant to be put out because where There is good, there is a finite resolution. Now the candle asks, “Can’t we End where we started?” because as it leaves its last leak, the flame’s touch is blown out, no longer left.

Now, only smoke hits the sides of polished, smoldered stone. If The candle could speak, it wouldn’t scream existential cries but wonder why there’s An unequal share of pain because a flame can be started between another courting pair if nothing Drips onto the hungry red eye of the thin wooden stick so ready to move on if there’s something else It can light. Another tip that is sanded all ‘round. Another thread that is oblivious to the pain of love ignited, and the agony that strikes around the corner.

City Skyline

Kelly Miller ‘23

“Higher! Higher!” my voice-cracked, Inaudibly, Sinking into the wrenching screams and whooping blades and–Oh no!

There it was again, the furious winds, carrying the equally furious cries Of melancholic explosions, inhumane surprises.

“Are you all seeing this?”

Hallucinogenic plumes of smoke obscured all vision, both near and far And the pungent scent of bitterness coated my lungs, placing upon me Some strange imaginative quality. With a foreign fervor about my tone, I asked: “How much closer can we get?” How stimulating, how intoxicating it was–This would be my best story yet.

Chip!

Chip!

That was no bird, but a bird of another kind, Chipping away at the American dream, The American way, The American pride.

“Are we ready?” said I To my right-hand man who registered those chirps as deafening booms, Reverberating within the singular hand cupped to his ear, The other steadying the camera in the rocking aircraft.

The sirens blared. The gasses stirred, Resembling the oppressive nature of the heavy stratosphere And as much as my enveloped toes were undergoing the most extensive chill, My face was still, taking in the minute matter that pricked at my eyes, The heat that spared no sliver of my face.

Down . Below, I glimpsed flashes of red and yellow lights, raging–Mocking the desolation of our Lady.

Sinful Nature of Man

Kelly Miller ‘23

Us-eless it is, trying to let it go.

Of course, but the strangle makes our hearts beat faster, One second after another. The young–

Not-hing falters except for when the one who calls is master.

You’re God! You’re God, aren't you? You're

You, an omnipotent being that berates, enslaves, and controls our breathing.

Of course, that’s all you’ll ever be. Our chestnut-brown eyes see the walking disaster

One day after the next. 'Cause

Not-hing will ever matter to you. It’s sick that those sacred words can never compare to these.

We’re only human…

Dust-ing away the pain from our hands,

The dust we are bound to be once the showers run us cold and God deprives us of what we need. Breathing becomes harder when below the ground: six feet. Faun-a.

Bones. And sweet, succulent marrow makes us human.

The-n why do you, God, limit my free will, my touch?

Grinding into our clay your vision for the lessons we must apply for the rest of our lives 'cause

Us-ing us is the only way you manipulate and materialize within the constraints of astrono-my.

Of-tentimes, our wrists burn with the lingering sensations of glamoured demons

One month after the other and all that is left is a somber, collective awareness. Don't Not-e, don’t tread, don’t fret but our hearts cry out for what you be-get. You’re some excuse of a Creator, passing our impressionable mentalities as st-out.

You recognize that

Of course, you do. But, you also know that these bruised ankles can only do so much. One moment, a test, the next–a means to our quick end. What

Not-ary are you? Who dictates our legalities, restrictive but as mysterious as the auror-a.

We’re only hu-man…

Trust-ing in an overly divine system that serves to–

To–your deathly glare makes our chests hesitate. What are we to do?

Man-kind has bestowed many tyrants, friends, and foes. The purple elixir of chance causes palpitations. What

A-n abomination when all, including you, plant us on higher ground, limiting us from pandor-a.

What our cages burn with is the malleability of our woes, while balancing the inflexibility of man. Do continue relaying this suffering to

To-morrow’s leaders and establish the feeble companionship, tethering us solely to the prospect of trust. Man-kind breathes to toil for no reward teased by the kaleidoscope of opportunity. We're

A-ll who acknowledge this love to be forlorn when tunnel vision is the only reality. It is not

What-ever we require, whether or not they are the basic amenities of life. Responsibility, beg-one. Much affection, forget. Amongst these intrusive thoughts, we can’t help but expect the fantastical nature of That, with which you coax and prod until we yield to you.

Out-side in the desolate world, you hijack our consciousness, making this existence pleasurable when you're Get-ting a disposable use of us, just another Christ being sacrificed in attempting the perfection we are not. Don’t coerce us with empty promises of spironolact-one.

Sinful Nature of Man

Kelly Miller ‘23

Demons of beauty, of prejudice, of grace, of My-steriousness, shun us, blind us–

‘Cause our very existence brings forth the audible quality of mouths screaming, teeth grinding, Touch-ing the deepest circles of Hell. The Human-e fingers of our kin turn against us in what should have been the union of our bones, A grand collection of ideas and colors, where we are all breathing. Need-less to say, our imagination too makes us human–and religion, a figment of our remonstrations at the Hands who send us away to burn, the hands of the skillful painter who coats our lungs with dust, Human ash, the cremations of your lost Virgin and hurt; because you are a vengeful, merciless God while we're These bendable objects, moldable like sod. This humble, superficial k-not

‘Cause-s such great terror, when all we can comprehend is our connection to you, the one Disaster who preys upon putting us to rest, ridding us of Breathing, seeing, feeling–and obstructs us with visions of you. You’re God, aren’t you? Well, you're sorely mistaken. By Scripture alone, you’re Master. We speak the minds of the people you have hastily cast aside. Some are old–not Young and they desire love, far beyond the singular, lonesome figure: one.

Faster, the throngs creak the doors to Hades. Louder, they devour the corpse of Cerberus. What lust, what pride do you think of?

“Go where you may find fulfillment,” we said to them. But to you God, we are the Devil, you’re not one of us.

Placidity’s Call

Kelly Miller ‘23

He holds them close and guides them right Through the troubles of the day and night. But even he, the catcher true, Can't keep the world from breaking through. The children grow and spread their wings Leaving the catcher in the rye for other things. Yet still, he stands, a faithful friend, Watching and waiting until the very end. For the catcher in the rye will always be, A protector for the young and the free.

Nasreen Defrank ‘25

Victoria Hui ‘25

Darian Rouse ‘26

War and Peace

Kelly Miller ‘23

Capital punishment is the result of capital sin. Animalistic eyes–maybe delusional, Dart around the simplistic room, Glide up and down, tracing cursive letters On a whim.

Who decides what is sin where there is no religion?

I raise my pen, outlining my deepest thoughts and stare at the paper–Where the paper was.

The walls are listening. And the closest thing to Him

May be the opulent eye of Big Brother

Because He sees my late wife and the imprint of my ring. I’m aware of this conditioning. Is that wrong? How can I take pleasure in a forced uniformity?

I take a lengthy sip at my bottle of gin.

I know this. I cannot fight city hall.

But, is it a war within?

A constant battle between my wants, my needs, And the stupidity of conformity–

It envelops me.

The walls are staring, itching for me to commit a sin.

Depression of the 1890s

Kelly Miller ‘23

Hey, HowAre You?

Kaili Martinez-Beasley ‘23

Are you okay?

Because it scares me that you don’t see the Codependency laced in the Deck of cards that outlines the next play in your internal fantasy for a relationship ravaged in “Ecstasy”. Though, I do not believe the definition of jubilation considered the presence of Friends that will not be left though they are bereft of common decency. Your boundaries are Guards and not limitations; they stop you from challenging an underlying anxiety that Hopes nothing will come to an end and you’ll be given the love you deserve to give yourself.

I hate myself. Well, more specifically, I hate that I can’t say this to your face because instead I Judge in a poem with a holier than thou attitude crippled by the same over-hashed disquietude Knowing that I rarely practice what I preach when I tell you that you’re Losing yourself in a cycle of overthinking and trying to overcompensate. Let me reiterate My intentions are not of malice, but worry. Remember, your worth comes in grand magnitude.

None of this is what’s worse because I’m selfish and I guess that’s what friendship is. One day has become weeks in which you barely utter- no, text- a single Paragraph to me, and I don’t want us to drift away Quietly. When I lay in bed, mute on the weekends, I am Reminded of calls that would ramble on for hours and how I used to Scowl at the time gone by because I did not have a Train of thought to go off of and I’d be tired out of my mind from persistent interaction but Under these current conditions I wish we had that old young ambition.

Very

Well then, that’s all I have to say. My heart strings are plucked and I’ll now cower because this is Xenolalia to me, and I have outstretched my capacity for already limited vulnerability. You’re amazing, it’s the one thing I want you to take away; till my breath’s astray, I say it with Zealous-y.

ANatural Progression

Kaili Martinez-Beasley ‘23

At the sight of sunrise, at the strike of dawn, Bones begin to rattle and birds start to awake. Chirping songs of praise to the championing star lead a symphony that quakes the Depths of the ground as rocks roll and rivers flow in their shallow banks.

Every hour invites the opening of fresh eyes who cry for the Fierce beauty of a tumultuous, disastrous, yet tenacious day that begs one to say if Gripping a new breath is the same as starting the act of a new play with pre-planned Happenings that are bound to go astray and scenes that change with the swapping seasons.

Icicles drip down from tiled roofs and the side mirrors and hoods of uncovered cars. Jutting from lawns are layers of snow that are blown onto sidewalks and muddied roads. Kids come out to play in a responsibility that is yet their own, and the Longer they don’t think about it, the better their lives will fare.

Mundane lapses by the come up of the moon are either soon missed or drive one insane. Nights provide moments of recluse but also let numbing thoughts loose, On their way to deprave their hosts in hopes of finding the meaning of an existence draped in Peril. Yet, peonies will still bloom, bringing color to what was once sterile.

Quietly, mice creep among forest trees or train platforms and their teeny feet Rattle the soil and steel below their begrudged bodies. They enforce not just fear but envy Since they do not ponder their day or their days but allow Them to pass with what we know as little thought only held down by momentous ideology.

Under even the harshest of scrutiny, ladybugs continue to dot their shells and flaunt their wings, Void not of awareness but a reason to care that a lonely watcher is there beyond its atmosphere. With the influence of such critters maybe we’ll see the beauty of decay. X-marks the treasure of a role well-played.

Yonder is a mountain that can not yet be seen. Zoom in on every raindrop, and maybe it can be.

sky blu blu

Kelly Miller ‘23

“day breakin” and it sounds like the finale’s beginning or the veil of cynicism which we are living i don't blame you, i blame the system. but it's just–you're always there to readily be the scapegoat to my weakness, my pessimism. deep-rooted complexions populate the soil deep-rooted complexions leave the school houses deep-rooted complexions are reflections of the women and children before and after me long after me once i see my chair.

“sun comin up” and i don't suppose you think it as much an ending as i do. i'm like some lamentin leaf, lonely, begging to be listened to but you'd think that rather cruel. deep-rooted messages walk here from home deep-rooted messages complicate my attachments to the fleshy mask of speechlessness they placed upon me, silencing me for good.

“the bird in the tre” i see it sometime. take me with you, but those feathery things don't listen, only you do deep-rooted future must wait for me as much as it can this pen take away what breath is left so this book and the words it hold can carry on my breath

Desolation

Kelly Miller ‘23

Breathe listen and feel the night’s lonely caressing Misty breaths mingle with your heartbeat, forgetting The way all attempts at evoking scent go numb, The effect erudite thought has without a tongue, What exactly can you say to challenge this fate? This life that makes hollow clunks, sifting through dry leaves Find a westward wind to thrust solace into spring Or shall solace be trampled upon? The breath morphs Into an echoing scream, into a boundless Landscape, bounded by the prospect of bringing forth The company of something new: mental progress But then again, why bother with the rhetorics?

Breaths mingle with your heartbeat, forgetting How attempts at evoking scent go numb, The effect cultured thought has with no tongue, What exactly can you say to this fate? Find a wind to thrust solace into spring Or, shall solace be trampled? The breath morphs Into an echoing scream, into a Landscape, with the prospect of bringing forth The presence of something: mental progress So then, why bother with the rhetorics?

Breathe with your heartbeat, forgetting The effect thought has with no tongue, How can you stay true to this fate? Find winds to thrust Solace to spring Or, shall Solace trample? Breaths morph Landscapes through prospecting, bringing The presence of mental progress… So then, why with the rhetorics?

Your heart breathes and forgets All thought without a tongue Can you stay true to fate? Thrust Solace to spring Or, shall Solace trample? Why with the rhetorics?

Breathe and forget Thoughts with no tongue What is the truth? A rhetoric?

Missing Ingredient

Kelly Miller ‘23

Marrianne, my mother, in her adolescence, was a 15-minute bicycle ride from the shore of Jackson Bay Beach, living in a house of board (or what people there typically called matches box) on a hill tall enough that when the tide came over, she would be unbothered. Marrianne was a 25-minute ride from Salt River, riding on her father's motorbike, the only vibrant mode of transportation a fisherman's coins could purchase for land. Marrianne was a 20-minute ride from Lionel Town, the closest thing to a shopping district or as she would say today: "the closest thing to civilization" as her grand hat, adorned with flowers that were everything but hibiscuses, added to her foreign, Indian beauty--showcasing the unconscious twinges of an accent she'd obtained from being in England so long. This was what my grandfather told me when his daughter, Marrianne, with her high-pitched, twinkling, country tones, grew to frown upon her own people.

That was last Christmas, the last time she visited Jamaica, gifting my grandfather and myself a concrete home in the hilly vicinity of plantain and banana, pear, and orange trees (and the occasional mint, my grandfather recently pointed out), taking away the salty ocean air that we'd slept under for so many years where we washed our clothes, sought our food, rode out for entertainment, and let nature do the rest. He still talked about it, reminisced even, about the life he had to leave behind to pursue a better one, for me, outside of the domestic and survivor-ship skills he instilled and he knew my mother's actions were justified.

I partially wanted my mother to be wrong, though. I enjoyed waking up before the sun as the roosters in our pen made their morning calls, as the land crabs that my grandfather bought, scratched at the blue drum they were confined to, climbing on top of each other, as my little legs carried me to great heights, plucking the ripest ackee from the trees, as I picked through our white rice, taking out the black stuff. I reminisced, too... Even though the running water of the concrete house was nice to have. Since then, my mother had been sending money intended to furnish the home and pay for other necessities that we'd otherwise obtained on our own terms under our previous circumstances. But, that wasn't the case anymore.

I suppose that's what she meant when she talked about "a vocal artist’s pay."

As I did back at our little board house, I offered to go to the nearest shop to purchase what we needed but my grandfather insisted on going on his own. On days like these, I wanted my mother to be wrong so badly because she wasn't the one seeing him like this. With each passing day, he just got quieter, his charming and entertaining anecdotes no longer poured from his lips, stories I’d heard many times already; his hands were aimless, even while he tended to dinner for the night, designating a part of the countertops for his art, never stepping out of that boundary, as if the space around him wasn't at his disposal at all; and then, there were his eyes that he'd use to spend countless hours staring through the front window, barred by steel rods, as all windows were in my insular view of my country, convincing me that the setting sun was far more opulent than the black flat-screen in the corner, collecting dust. The following morning, a Sunday morning, there was a knock at the door.

As my grandfather opened the door, the first thing to reach my ears were the out-pourings of Christian hymns that I'd never heard much of near the beach, and this oppressively heavy humidity was never present either until now. There was a woman on the other side of the door, short in stature with a bright, sun-kissed brow. My grandfather has had his fair share of deception and thievery back at where he called Roun' A Hill, a place we had to pass through to get to our prior abode near the beach and I was sure that he saw no bad omen upon this woman’s face.

Missing Ingredient

Kelly Miller ‘23

My grandfather was very particular about his money rather, particular about separating his money from those pale, yellow envelopes that banks had put my mother's money in. So, when I saw him take out his tattered wallet, the colors fading from the comical design, and pulled out two thousand-dollar bills, I knew it was his money. And his money was from selling all the chickens, fish, and crabs we couldn’t eat or bring with us.

Outside the front of the yard, on a plot of grass, the woman stooped down on a plastic crate she'd apparently brought with her and began washing our tub of dirty clothes. In impressionable awe, I stared at her while I stood on a chair, trying to install a net in the open doorway to the outside world. This was the longest our door had been open since we had arrived here, about ten months ago.

Then, what peeled my attention from the laboring woman was the distressed expression my grandfather held for a moment.

In our native tongue, he held the house phone close to his ear and spoke, "Me did tell you, me don’t need anything like that."

He continued with a defensive air about him, "Me not so old yet! Me don’t know if me will ever use it."

Immediately, I knew it was my mother pushing something else onto him and my chest sunk at that fact.

A few Sundays passed and there, the middle-aged woman was at our doorstep again with her beautiful bronzed brow, shaded by a short visor on her plaited head. And though our bundle of dirty clothes was lesser this time around, my grandfather still paid the woman to wash our clothes again.

The night before, my mother called on the house phone and I picked up. She explained to me that because she wasn't able to "talk sense" into my grandfather, she wanted me to talk to him about getting a washing machine with the money she recently sent down for us.

That night, after he paid the woman and she hung our clothes to dry on the line at the side of the house, my grandfather and I ate dinner together. I was perched on a scarlet sofa while he insisted he sat on the rug.

"Jumpah…" I started, peering downward. That was my nickname for him. He hummed.

"Mummy say you have a bad back."

“So, you coming to tell me that, too?”

“She say you love to watch the people work for you.”

“This is what happen when you have two of the same kind of stubborn people under the same roof. Me tell her, me not taking that washing machine.”

“You sure you want to do that?”

“Me couldn't have you washing my dirty drawers, right? What is wrong with you?”

I chuckled, my single dimple rising at his sour face, his first show of amusement, though short-lived. “Then, why you don't want it?”

“You remember the woman that come 'round here on Sundays?” he continued. I nodded.

“That a how she make her little Sunday change. Why me would go take that from her when I can give it? Your mother can go keep that machine," he took a breath, "I don't want it."

Missing Ingredient

Kelly Miller ‘23

Within weeks of that conversation, December was upon us, marking the first year of our stay in the hills of Mandeville. On some mornings, I awoke in a sub-conscious frenzy searching for the scent of the ocean only to find that replaced with the early rising of my grandfather, brewing wild mint to start the day in the adjacent room. Regardless, we both knew that my mother was coming to spend her Christmas vacation with us and the days drew nearer and nearer to her arrival. Admittedly, all I could see was a visualization of the next grand hat she would lay upon her flat head of hair. And as I mentioned it, that was how she arrived at sunset, the beige color of her stiff dress with embroidered flowers swimmingly matched with the off-white color of her broad hat with the largest, delicately-styled ribbons that I had ever seen. Still, that much from her was expected. Her sunglasses, a thick frame with jewels and a brand name I’d never seen before, were discarded on the kitchen counter and she hugged us both.

Still, that foreign sound of England seeped into her words and it made her feel even more distant.

Leading up to today, my grandfather had been frequenting the shopping district at the bottom of the hill getting in touch with fishermen who had not too long come from the sea. "That a how you get the freshest fish," he'd say. And in addition to fish, he had wanted a live ram goat to drain. But, he had to settle with the frozen alternative and roast its head on a piece of zinc before announcing his art as a pot of mannish-wahtah. Yet, there was something missing. He let me taste it and I agreed. He gently cursed at himself, saying that the soup wouldn't have tasted any different if he was at home. And before leaving once more, he announced that he was going down the hill to retrieve another ingredient.

My mother talked about her work and her friends and her hobbies and her living situations but it didn't strike me as my grandfather's speech did. She had long ago lost the theatrical nature of Jamaican articulation. But, she was my mother.

"I was going to tell you this when your grandfather came back." Her smile was broad and recognizing that her hat was off, it was like I was seeing my mother for the first time… Those dark circles that concealer couldn’t hide, those that the application of mascara couldn’t help amplifying. My heart sank. "Look at these," she held out two rectangular pieces of paper, both with filmy appearances and black lettering. "When I'm leaving for England, come with me." My heart sank.

The mannish-wahtah was left lowly bubbling, bubbling, bubbling over the fire of the gas stove. My grandfather's art. Pride.

The clock struck twelve. The first minute passed. My grandfather had not returned.

Passion andApathy — Ill-Earned Vanity

Kelly Miller ‘23

To the sorrowful joy that glazed your face, To the waged hands that begged for your dark sun–The tumour that makes you my counterpart, The coin that associates us both as one.

There shall be nothing but cold and ashes: Like that of a wintery and damp campfire–That prioritises your curséd wrist watch, Like that of a brown, crumbling paper match–That transforms glistening hope to dense despair, Like that of a lackadaisical gust–

That bellows throughout your porous psyche, Like that of a vegetative being–

That shall be nothing under the full moon.

Oh, how those odious limbs breathe to take, And never to give graciously upon The passion whom God himself created.

Oh, how those hypocritical thoughts herd About your head demanding an entrance–Are you wise in permitting them entry Because you claim you lack some repentance?

Again, there shall be no show for your gaze. But, it will not hurt you to look inward. With the brightness of His benign beings, With His working hands pushing at your feet, So shall your will to act rise from beneath.

Charlotte Kipp ‘23

Safety First

Better safe than sorry is what my dad used to say When I would ride my bike on a rainy day.

I’d put on an extra layer of clothing Safer, but not his idea of knee padding. Be careful

My mom used to say when I jumped from bed to bed.

“We wouldn’t want you to fall on your head” so I took big steps from one side to the next until she was gone Then I continued to jump unafraid like a lion going up against a swan. I listened to what they said but took it lightly To me it was merely a suggestion not to be taken literally But then I grew up.

And saw the unsafe catch-up How is one to be safe in a world so dangerous Where small mistakes can do more than just scratch the surface I should’ve worn the knee pads.

She Was Only

Francis Feliciano ‘25

She was only 5 when she read her first book She was only 5 when she was carried around by her parents She was only 5 and only then did she feel excited to learn Age was only a way to make her feel strong and intelligent and she loved it

She was only 9 when she wrote her first essay She was only 9 when she was grabbed by the hair And thrown to the ground She was only 9 when they kicked her until she started to beg for them to stop Age was only a number that helped her seem scary, so they couldn’t hurt her

She was only 10 when she learned that things would get harder She was only 10 when she was told she had to cover up She was only 10 when she was told that she was too distracting for the boys in class Age was only a number that controlled her life

She was only 12 when she became scared to walk up the stairs in her school uniform She was only 12 when she was told she was too ugly for anyone to like her She was only 12 when they got in her face and told her things that made her uncomfortable She was only 12 when she felt their leg go up her skirt day after day Age was only a number that people never cared about

She was only 13 when she was too scared to look people in the eyes She was only 13 when she started to bite her lips from nerves until they bled She was only 13 when she was pushed into a place she couldn’t find a light Age was only a number that the girl stopped caring about

She was only 14 when she learned that life isn’t easy She was only 14 when she learned to trust no one She was only 14 when her image of the world was destroyed Age was only a number that made the girl confused She was only 14 when she learned to forgive and forget She was only 14 when she gave up on friendships She was only 14 when she stopped caring about what others said

She was only 15 when she relaxed She was only 15 when she finally started to enjoy things again

She was only 15 when she felt pretty

She was only 15 when she opened her eyes to a new world

Age was only a number to her but she was ok with being herself Age was something that controlled her and what she thought was right She has cried, fallen, stood up, learned, and grown to become the strong woman she is now

I Hate You...

Kelly Miller ‘23

Sometimes I abhor even the thought–The clashing of lenses to thy satire, So that I pay the price for having not Been unfeigned to the most humble desires.

Have I the right to intimate bindings–To thou who stirred this sediment of love? To thou who bred the fairest of tidings? To thou who vowed the axing of thy glove?

Shall I be he who despairs in motive–To prey on the ailing and the fatigued? Like that of a love tailored corrosive, Oh, this sinful bosom of mine impedes.

Lest the wallowed walks of Purgatory, I wander with a reflection of me.

On Language

Kelly Miller ‘23

O thou mystic power in my aim I try To fathom thee. Thine own beauty proclaims Language is there to always teach. I cease to whimper, and no more repent Thine humble yearnings, or conjecture thy conventions. But, O, my arms, waive not in renunciation, Language is in thee, and with rightful assertion Would now notice thee, embedding those honourable mentions. Boldly would the caricature of the soul with mentality reflect, Then discover, then compromise the strength of all women.

Gracious queen, thine lines ne’er desolate, And realise the flow of strength’s song; Lo! now such togetherness represents, Displayed in the heart beneath my bosom. Possess me, Language, thro’ my beating chest!

Kaili Martinez-Beasley ‘23

Only a plane could connect the urban-suburban to the island I fail to consider home as I become more sick of home than homesick.

But not sick of the whipped cream, sometimes lemon meringue mixed, 5pm moon

Instead of the 10 am blazing, burning, breathtaking dune sun.

The brightening sun is open to inviting the migrain, militant heat that makes sweat so sweet, Yet fiercely competes with the numbing 20 degrees in the winter season that reminds me Of the reasons I can tightly bundle in layers of annual jacket snuggles.

Away from the solar there are even polar differences between the red, white, and blue of my mother’s mother’s home and my own.

Red and white stripes both wave hello to the bright white star(s) only a square or triangle away; each star is miles alone and one sits on its own.

50 stars for different states said to be unified/ but are divided /and one star which shares pride among all who preside within its 5 sharp and darting points.

I at times despise the national pride of the matte single toned tri-color flag of my “home”, yet I accept the pride which rises inside- heat in my chest as molting magma flows over both chambers of my heart- because in the flag that waves in the sky like the waves of its seas is a fight to be seen.

Your charisma and spirit will always be my home, but I can not say I physically own the landscape which sweeps across your feet. The weeps of the nymph like ghost roaming the castillo Is not mine to fear (dios mio) porque mi castillo es fortified por Pablo a Victorian ghost, A sanctified host.

Peeling hardwood floors replace the roofing spanish tiles and stripping white paint- adorned with tan lines of a mellow yellow- glazes the home’s outside view. Gold specks of prickly, soft sand contrast the always dying prickly, pointy blades of brown brass green.

I still wouldn’t say the grass is greener on the other side.

Not so New York brown stones, but New Jersey brown stones, adorned by burgundy undertones Deliver me to my grandmother’s current home.

Fire escapes running out windows, onto sidewalks, taunt the presence of the kermit green east wing doors that permit entrance to any guest who receives the buzz of the button bees. Tick, tick, tick the bank clock does not as it presides over the store sides and strip malls. Bustle in traffic and hustle in the streets among vendors selling golden brown- morsels of goodnessroasted chestnuts or shaved ice that mimics small shaved hairs but satisfies in flavors such as orange, lemon, and pear.

Home

Kaili Martinez-Beasley ‘23

My tall sterling silver buildings might not reach the height of skyscrapers, but their length and might enchant my eyes as I think of the businesses for which they home. And I can not forget about the circus tent domes that don’t contain trampolines and trapeze bars but piles and piles of salt.

Oh, and you can go grab a root beer float or a banana-yellow labeled malta at any of the 75 diners or bodegas that line city streets like the casinos of Vegas.

Speaking of Vegas, my Vegas is the countless number of traffic lights- fire hydrant red, hydrangea leaf green, and tart neon yellow- that loom over every unpaved street.

Pleats of every flag from every nation imaginable to man reign higher than those traffic lights and They bite at every inch -not centimeter- of my heart.

The presence of the marks of roaming souls reminds me of the Great Migration taken by my not so distant relatives attempting to find a spot in a pervasive nation.

I don’t have a San Juan, I don’t have a Ponce de Leon, and I don’t have a Bayamon, But I do have a Montclair, I do have a Bloomfield, and I do have a Passaic. And thank God I do.

Closest to Paradise

Kelly Miller ‘23

Love is memorable

Love is dedication

Love is warmth

Love is determination

Loved ones make a piece of you that was never seen before Loved ones are those you always adore Always wrapped in huge happy hugs

It’s hard to remain sad when you’re filled with love

It is an irreplaceable feeling

It shines so bright In a world of darkness

Love never fails to bring in the light Like a full moon in a dark evening night

People come and go Love is known to stall

But it’s always better to have loved and lost Than to never have loved at all

Ava

Balian ‘24

“Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.”

Forrest Gump, Winston Groom

This ridiculous Anxiety that wraps his arms tightly around my body

Making me fear the results of my choices.

Every step I take is every chance I get to discover something new.

Like the rain that pours, every tear that falls.

Every flavor is a different opportunity

Oh Anxiety, let me be, set me free, in a world where I can see.

Caramel, Cacao, Cashews, and Coconut found inside

It's all good for me!

Fear of the unknown is what life is for.

Surprises and happiness will wait for you.

The falls will make me stronger and will lift me up like sunlight always does Dear Anxiety welcome to my new life, You will not control me because I won.

Snapping 3, 4 I don’t need you anymore ‘cause

Juliana Cvetanovic ‘24

Where IAm From

Juliana Cvetanovic ‘24

I am from maracuya, mango, and Medellin. I am from arepas, aji, y los Andes. I am from fruits and flavors I never forget Because I was Paisa first!

Lulo, fresa, y guanabana

Mix with water and crushed with ice.

I am from the mountains where the llamas live. The fresh air in the morning was Nirvana. I am from perfect weather all year round. Bogota is the city that never sleeps.

I am from playgrounds and a brother I long to see. I am from another continent, An immigrant and a citizen. Like a cloud, I sailed across the sky.

I am BTS Army and running with a basketball. The world smiled down on me.

I am from my new home and my memories of old.

i see you looking at me or rather through me because you have not seen me in years sure you are seeing me physically but you have no idea who i am am i me am i mom am i aunt am i your sister you don’t know but i guess that’s ok because i know in that moment i am who you need even if that isn’t me but no matter what, i will always see you see you for what you were and what you meant because this isn’t you but merely what’s left and that will always be more than enough.

Mazal ‘23

Gabriella

i think i realized it a long time ago realized you didn’t want me i don’t know exactly when i knew or when you started to feel that way maybe it was the whole time and you thought it was better to lie regardless i was ok with being unwanted until i heard you say it…

Don’t let go please whatever you do just hold on think of all the memories we’ve made all the new ones we still have to

we can take on the world soar above the trees laugh at the wrong moments stare at the sunset swing on the playground like kids again

we have so much more of the world to see so please i beg as you stand at the precipice of -a last today or a new tomorrowDon’t let go

Gabriella Mazal ‘23

Gabriella Mazal ‘23

PHOTOGRAPHY ANDART GALLERY

Filtered Storm

Kelly Miller ‘23

Darian Rouse ‘26

Kendall Mathis ‘23

Gabriella Mazal ‘23

Carmela Guido ‘26

Kendall Mathis ‘23

Gabriella Mazal ‘23

Charlotte Kipp ‘23

Charlotte Kipp ‘23

Braveheart Texas Ranger

Elin Smith-Freitag ‘25

Elin Smith-Freitag ‘25

Near-Away Dream

Kelly Miller

Francis Feliciano ‘25

‘23

Jolie Reyes ‘24

Julia Rearden ‘26

Naturally Melancholic

Kelly Miller ‘23

Converging Identities

Kelly Miller ‘23

Kendall Mathis ‘23

Emmy Carovillano ‘23

Heaven OnceAgain

Victoria Hui ‘25

Solitary Shroom

Victoria Hui ‘25

Leah Felix‘25

Katherine Fan ‘25

Valerie Garcia ‘25

Francis Feliciano ‘25

Mia Gonzalez ‘25

Victoria Hui 25

Genesis Batista ‘23

Ariel Tazewell ‘23

Gianna Sanchez ‘23

Elin Smith-Freitag ‘25

Isabel Pedersen ‘25

Isabella Le 25

Felicity Esguerra ‘25

Juliana Cvetanovic 24

Ammy Peralta ‘24

Amber Greene ‘24

Ava Balian ‘24

Ava Balian ‘24

Ammy Peralta ‘24

Juliana Cvetanovic ‘24

Kira Hirsch ‘24

Ciara Latchman ‘24

Valeria Tapia ‘24

Allie Jules ‘24

Jolie Reyes 24

Amber Greene ‘24

Ava Balian ‘24

Delaney Lima, Faculty

Delaney Lima, Faculty

Page Note

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Notes

A persona poem is a poem in which the poet speaks through an assumed voice. In this poem, the assumed voice is Maya Angelou.

This poem is an abecedarian poem, which means the first letter of each line or verse begins with successive letters of the alphabet.

This poem is a Shakespearean Sonnet, the variation of the sonnet form that Shakespeare used comprised of three quatrains and a concluding couplet, following the rhyme scheme, abab cdcd efef gg.

16

This poem is a golden shovel, a poem that uses a verse, stanza, quote, etc. to order it’s lines. The last word of each line in each stanza is the next word in the song/poem. The song verse used is from the song “Evergreen” by Ryan Beatty.

17

18

This poem is a persona poem, a poem in which the poet speaks through an assumed voice.

This poem is a golden shovel, a poem that uses a verse, stanza, quote, etc. to order it’s lines. The last word of each line in each stanza is the next word in the song/poem. The song verse used is from the song “My Demons” by Tears for Fears.

20

21

This is a poem about the Protection of Innocence, one of the themes in J.D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye.

This poem is a persona poem, a poem in which the poet speaks through an assumed voice.

Page Note

22

23

24

25

29

32

Notes

This poem is an abecedarian poem, which means the first letter of each line or verse begins with successive letters of the alphabet.

This poem is an abecedarian poem, which means the first letter of each line or verse begins with successive letters of the alphabet.

This poem is a persona poem, a poem in which the poet speaks through an assumed voice.

This poem is an incredible shrinking poem, a form that develops as you remove words from each subsequent stanza.

This poem is a juxtaposition poem, which places two unlike ideas, passion and apathy, side by side to highlight their differences

This poem is a Shakespearean Sonnet, the variation of the sonnet form that Shakespeare used comprised of three quatrains and a concluding couplet, following the rhyme scheme, abab cdcd efef gg.

33

36

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This poem is a mentor poem takes the structure and rhyme scheme of another poet’s poem and using it to make it your own.

This poem is an adage poem, which centers on a short, familiar and memorable saying.

This poem is an adage poem, which centers on a short, familiar and memorable saying.

Editorial Board

Editors-in-Chief……… Kaili Martinez-Beasley ‘23 Gabriella Mazal ‘23

Copy and Layout Editors……….Genesis Batista ‘23 Kelly Miller ‘23

VisualArt Editor……… Lucy Sierra ‘23

Staff

Genesis Batista ‘23

Emmy Carovillano ‘23

Kaili Martinez-Beasley ‘23

Gabriella Mazal ‘23

Kelly Miller ‘23

Lucy Sierra ‘23

Valeria Tapia ‘24

Darian Rouse ‘26

Special thanks to Victoria Hui ‘25 for her cover art!

Advisor

Ms. Beverly Cardino