Workshops 2025
FEATURING THE LITERARY AND ARTISTIC TALENTS OF LOYOLA BLAKEFIELD
Editor’s Note
Welcome to Loyola Blakefield’s “Workshops,” a literary magazine dedicated to showcasing the wide array of amazing talents that Loyola Dons possess! I want to express a special thank you to everyone who made this magazine possible, especially Cortez Washington ‘26, my co-editor, Mr. Harrison Weber for his guidance, the Loyola Blakefield Art Department, James Fanzone ‘25 for the cover-art, and of course everyone who took a chance and put themselves out there by submitting their art to this magazine (there is a full list of contributors at the end).
I am incredibly grateful to present this magazine to you, as the first “Workshops” to be curated by the Blakefield Creative Writing Club in partnership with Mr. Sean Flanigan’s creative writing class and the Visual Arts Department. This magazine is a collection of the inner dreams, passions, and imagination of the Loyola Blakefield community. There has never been a more important time for the creation and curation of art, and the influx of submissions (nearly 120 unique pieces) to this magazine affords me great hope; I am excited for what the future holds. I hope that each of you looking through this literary magazine finds a piece of art or writing that resonates with you. After all, that is the point of art, to connect with one another. So without further ado, please enjoy “Workshops 2025.”
With gratitude,
Conlan Heiser-Cerrato ‘26
“Breaking Away”
By Harper Rudolph ‘25
Interlinked together through metal loops Feeling the tension getting tighter. Wanting to be free, pulling the metal off, quietly and slowly wanting To be unnoticed. Not changing anything that they have going on grasping for reasons to want to hold on. One side breaking slowly, the other holding on tight not wanting it to go. If they break away, it will cause ripples through the rest of the chains. At last one breaks away.
“BoundbyColor”
by Evan Liberto ‘28
“Painted Porch”
By Cortez Washington ‘26
My grandma sat upright with her white rope She had gotten a haircut last weekend and her brown and grey buzz glowed with the rise of the sun She added three more full cups of Domino sugar to the chipped maroon mug Grandma was up bright and early and no one could ever ignore the rich smell of her dollar store grains She stepped outside onto our painted porch she admired the hickory leaves changing colors in the front yard She said that time always win I joined her on the painted porch and I heard all the colorful stories My great great grandfather was a proud enslaved man He fought for his freedom He was pierced in the side of his leg and he succumbed to infection when he would not get it amputated My grandmothers friend was a proud one thought he was invincible He robbed the corner store with his brother His brother shot a man who made sudden movements My grandmothers friend ate the charges and he never left the pen Time always wins I go to school and listen to my Greek teacher talk about the Painted Porch Stoa Pokile The ones that roamed there gathering in their robes they discussed civics and philosophy they were proud as well Later I saw a video of the historian who traveled back to Athens The Painted Porch is in ruins its surroundings covered in spray paint The proud modern artists left their mark I told my grandma the story of Stoa Pokile Time wins she said raspily in my ear
a prose poem is a piece that has obvious poetic qualities, including intensity, compactness, prominent rhythms, and imagery, but is composed in prose format
“CrimeScene”
By Anthony Mattar
‘28
Note from the artist: Crime Scene is a collage that represents themes of observation and disconnection through exploration of crime.
A collage is a art made by sticking various different materials such as photographs and pieces of paper or fabric on to a backing.
“The Wind That Blows Within”
By Noah Balog ‘25
I was a boy mesmerized by the sky
Wind is unpredictable
Gales are constantly changing
An uncontrollable force
Standards are irrelevant
Influences couldn’t control the wind
Every gust is unique
Freedom I once yearned
I was a boy who dreamed of being made in the image of the wind
The Sky is unpredictable
Air is ever expanding
A pre-decided future never existed
I am a man lost in his journey
Hung up on my past mistakes
Reluctant to move forward
Wishing I had done more when I was young and free
My life seems pointless without a purpose
Stuck doing whatever those around me wish for
Now I have lost all interest in the sky
It is just a background which I see everyday
The inner boy who once obsessed over the sky
He resides within me
Waiting for his hope to reignite
Wishing he moved like the wind within him
PaintingsbyVanceTyree‘25
“FoodDesert”
“In
the Dark Depths of Night”
By Aiden Cimino ‘25
“Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed and seven times sealed.”
-Elie Wiesel
In night we lay, forsaken, broke, and barren. Our bodies frozen, weak, and lost. We hear the guards walk inside the warren.
They slowly take them to a space foreign, and we know their bodies lie breathless with frost. In night we lay, forsaken, broke, and barren.
By day we toil on voltaic steel to not face sarin. For within the depths of night we know we are lost. We hear the guards walk inside the warren.
At night we awoke and traveled someplace foreign where death surrounded us in cold infernal frost. In night we lay, forsaken, broke, and barren.
We crossed into new ground, a place always barren. In this place, though, we knew we weren’t lost. In night we lay, forsaken, broke, and barren. We hear the Americans walk inside the warren.
“
Swamp”
By Jacob Tsakalos
“Ribbit”
By Henry Poe
By Patrick Dishon ‘26
‘27
‘27
“Eagles Mere”
By Anonymous
Back in the 70s, my dad’s side of the family built a house in northern PA. Apparently, this town has been in my family for generations, starting with relatives who came over from Ireland. The town was almost isolated, due to the trees and high elevation, and it was named after the lake it surrounded. Now mind you, this house isn’t like a lake or beach house, more like a little log cabin exiled a mile or two from the lake, in the middle of the woods. But nonetheless, my dad and all his cousins would go up together for weeks at a time. Supposedly, all 10 of them would fit into sleeping bags on the porch, while the parents took the two tiny bedrooms inside. He always talked about the fun he had going up to every summer, like swimming with friends on the beach, participating in the sports week’ competitions, hanging out at the rec room, and even sneaking out to abandoned buildings.
Don’t worry, the town still exists, and I also go up every summer. I used to hate the almost five-hour drive, but as you get older, it gets quicker. You would think I’d be jealous of my dad’s experiences, especially if you knew I often only go up with just my parents and grandparents, but nope. Instead, it’s a place for me to take a break from my worries. It’s almost as if time slows down in this town, and nothing back home matters anymore, but in a good way. The way I describe it to my friends is like it takes you back in time. There are no Walmart’s with huge parking lots, instead there’s a couple of little markets, with fresh food. Instead of hotels, there’s an inn, with a pub in the basement. And the best part is, no cell service, only a 15-year-old TV that takes DVDs.
Every day is peaceful, and either involves catching fish, or shooting guns in our backyard. When we hit the lake, not only do we swim out to the docks and talk to locals and other vacationers, but we have a canoe. Imagine you’re with your cousin on a canoe, with sun beating down bright on you, causing you to sweat as you get cooled off from the splash of the paddle. As you calmly drift away from the beach, the screams of excitement deafen, and the only thing you hear is nature. You look around the perimeter of the lake and see all the different varieties of cool little lake houses. And as you finally are about to reach your destination, you have to barely fit under a claustrophobic, cobblestone bridge, which used to scare me as a kid.
This is why I love Eagles Mere, it’s where I first learned to fish and canoe, and you always end every day with ice cream from the Sweet Shop. There’s even a cigarette vending machines and a pump of water straight from the mountain, where else in the world are you going to find that? And although my Pop-pop who made it most memorable passed away last, it still the perfect place for me. I am going to miss him out on the porch smoking his pipe, fixing something for my grandma though, he was quite the handy man.
“BrewersHill”
By Bennett Dieter
‘26
“MorningCatch”
By Tyler Brazier ‘27
By
By Ben Randazzo‘26
Spencer Belbot ‘27
“From Me, Who Loved You
By Eli Eib ‘26
Whose child is this Who cried alone
Left forgotten and neglected With innocence unjustly lost That warming blanket, set aside Torn to shreds from thorns of love
Longed for a gentle touch of Mary Yet she lets him go to an unfamiliar, to Find a new life in a world unknown a place further than the universe Everything he has to hold, to know it should’ve ended with a pill
To love it, to hate it, to debate it But love prevailed want. It was a moment in a life.
A life in a moment
That roamed from memory From hers and his Yet there it stands A sprouting hope Chanced only once It blooms The womb of evil Can birth Good.
This poem can be read three different ways: down the right, down the left column ,and across
By Henry Lancaster
By Oliver Korch
“LotusFlower”
‘27
“OUR OLD RUGGED AMERICAN HISTORY”
By Hunter Simms
‘25
I cannot speak for little Black kids in the South …but as a black boy myself, I wager that to those little Southern children with chocolate skin who live in little Southern towns filled with people of another color… to those little black children who know the narrative that placed them where they stand in that town and that placed their unmelanated fellows where they stand…
to those little Black southern children, I think it makes no difference what flags fly above them or what statues stand in their wake, For they know their history
They feel the eternal gaze of Robert E. Lee on their backs, Whether he stands in spirit or in statue…
So keep your icons, Your Old Rugged Elevations
Keep your General Lee’s, your Stonewall Jackson’s, Your blue crosses, and your red isosceles It makes no difference to us It shows us what we already know, Reminds us what we may have forgotten
Keep your Red Rebel Shrines.
Some will gaze up at them with twinkling eyes and reverent spirits. Others will jeer at them bleeding hearts and guilty stomachs We will look…we will watch…we will know.
This is our Old Rugged History: It is ugly, it is beautiful, it is violent, it is peaceful, it is Black, it is White, it is brown, it is green, it is free, it is bound, it is honest, it is deceiving it is what we make it, just as much as it is what we choose to see
This is OUR Old Rugged American History.
So you can keep your beloved General Lee standing strong, standing tall as long as our militant Malcolm can stand right beside him
“MarbledSteps”
By Cortez Washington ‘26
“Grit”
By Miles Moon ‘26
This photo was taken in the Loita Forest in southwestern Kenya of a Maasai tribesman
“Chasing the Light”
By Charlie Will ‘27
Like moths,
We stumble across into this world blindly, Destined to search for the light At the top.
They come in every shape wings wide or narrow, bodies small or big.
Some shine with bright, fluorescent colors, like flickers of a flame.
Others are soft and muted, earth-toned, quiet, overlooked, Some look ominous and menacing, Taken differently by others
But despite the colors, the sizes, the patterns of flight, we are all drawn to the same light.
The one at the very top.
The one we cannot reach, because of the invisible something that always holds us back
From what we can truly see
But some have reached it. They sit inside the glow, And yet they find themselves trapped, lost in a heat that doesn’t let them leave.
The light they chased now holds them in place, Their only goals have locked them in a cage they helped embrace.
But still, they persist. Still, they fly.
Still, they believe the light is worth chasing, Up until they die.
“EveningStandstill”
By Lucas Richardson
’26
“GraffitaaRoma”
By Sean Quartey ‘26
“In 2020, We Will Have Flying Cars”
By Rocco LaCanfora ‘25
In 2020 We Will Have Flying Cars They said the future would be different. We dreamed of metal wings slicing the sky, of highways dissolving into thin air, of engines humming above the clouds. Instead, the roads stayed cracked and crowded. Instead, the sky filled with smoke and silence. A mask became the new passport. A screen became the new handshake.
The world moved, but not forward. Hopes stopped like cars in traffic. The future came, but it didn’t fly. We are still waiting for takeoff.
“A Prayer of Sorts”
By Ms. Terry Darr
I’m always on unsteady ground
Shaking wildly,
Screaming inside my head, You hear me.
Uncertainty everywhere
I’m cracking open,
Crying at the moon
Holding on tight, You are my rescue.
“BedlamSouthofBoro”
By Lucas Richardson
‘26
“MyBrother”
By Finley Mitchell
“SelfPortrait”
By Benjamin Velazquez
‘28
‘28
News of the Don: Mr. Bowers Highlight
By Nathan Liem ‘31
Loyola Blakefield in the year of 1978
Mr. Bernie Bowers of Pikesville, Maryland enrolled at Loyola Blakefield as a 9th grader in 1974. He graduated in 1978 before going to UMBC, majoring in Communications with a Minor in Education and Photography. After graduation, he entered a career of photography and his first job after collage was as a Medical Photographer at Sinai Hospital. After that, he moved to a job in a career in photography starting with his position at Sinai Hospital as a medical photographer then following that he had a job at Equitable bank as an audio vision specialist after that moving to a job at The National Retina Institute as a communications director before his job at Loyola, as the Director of Diversity Equity and Inclusion. This position involves handling all issues and taking care of the school with regard to diversity and inclusion.
Mr. Bowers is a Middle School Homeroom classroom teacher with Mrs. Sales, which is where I first met him last month when school started. As a student, his favorite sport was football, which he played here at Loyola. He was also the first black pitcher on the baseball team and the first black quarterback on the football team. Mr. Bowers is also a Fischer Program Director, a summer program for African American students. He liked Loyola Blakefield because back in his year, few African American students played quarterback, but here the coaches gave him a chance to try out.
Mr. Bowers had some wisdom for us to live by. He suggested that if you work hard, things will happen for you. He said it helps him to keep an eye on the prize. These reminders help keep his confidence up.
Regarding the current Loyola campus, he has seen significant changes among the faculty members and the facility. Other programmatic changes he has observed include more integrated programming related to the clubs, professional development, and curriculum changes.
Mr. Bowers has two daughters. One is a Broadway actress, while the other is a rocket scientist. He also said that if he had a son, he would be going to Loyola.
In summary, Mr. Bowers has spent much of his career here at Loyola. We are thankful for all his contributions to our community. Thanks for all you do, Mr. Bowers. Roll Dons Roll.
Sinai Hospital- med photographer
Equitable bank- audio vision specialist
Com director and Nat retina institute
Loyola Blakefield-Diversity Equity inclusion
“Old Jellybeans”
By Jooneso Kim ‘25
Waves crash, Days wax and wane But grandma’s old jellybeans remain. Looking back, they were delicious
As you used to eat them with us Remembering their glimmering, smooth shine a slight tip to slide into mouths, yours or mine I realize the years that’ve went by. Still they sit, not a shake not a tumble their connection would never die. forever latched, pristine and unified, I will love you like grandma’s old jellybeans.
“Storybook”
By Oliver Korch
‘27
“Below Freezing”
By Kenny Tyler ‘25
By Miles Moon ‘26
The house is below freezing Frozen clocks and Time Stops
People Coughing and Wheezing
Separate looking for warm spots
This coldness sticks
Like a tongue to a pole
A heat wave of conflicts
Yet the room is still cold
Frostbite slowly takes over my body
Paralyzed by the coldness I start to embody
When my heart begins to melt
Thought it doesn’t return the same
When frigidness of the house had left
I felt the home’s eternal flame
“TV Remote”
By Eric Chung ‘25
The darkness of this place
Reminds me of my mother’s warm Embrace. I am lost. Search parties are sent Out. My owner’s cushions begin to fly As if the gods have grown to anger. Without me, entertainment is halted. Without me, the screen remains a mirror. Without me, the absence of sound remains. Without me, the children’s laughs and the father’s chuckles cease to exist.
I solely am to be mashed and tossed and lost.
My life – if you can call it a life –Is unexciting and tiresome.
My only purpose is to be pointed then pressed. I am lost where I hope to remain.
An "object poem" is a form of poetry where the focus is on an inanimate object. It can be any object, from everyday items to special or unusual ones, and the poem explores the object's physical characteristics, emotional significance, and potential meaning.
“Swing Thoughts”
By Doyle Hahn ‘26
I once danced to a different beat, The thump, thump, thump of late nights and early mornings spent alone
Just me and an inflated orange sphere
The sphere that consumed my life. I lived for 13 years between a rectangular box. Recently the song changed.
New struggles, new surprises, new victories, a new rhythm.
From Thump, Thump, Swish to Ping, Thwack, Plunk
The Same feeling of the ball going in the hole, Just 10 feet lower now
Golf is relaxing yet stressful in a new way
So many things like racecars zooming through my head:
Don’t shank it, feet further apart, slow down, please be good, just hit the ball
Too much thinking now, unlike before where it was pure instinct
I enjoy the change yet miss my court identity. Like a competitive vase being glued back together
Golf fills the vase but I can still feel the cracks.
I enjoy my new outdoor home, 6500 yards of quiet rolling green hills
“Cold Light”
By John Flukinger ‘26
Crystal marble shines from the reflection of the sun Lights glimmering, and the drops fall I step over the cool white ledge
There you are
Can’t breathe, you close my eyes
Open them and the sparkles show Can’t tell the sprites from the imps
Pain relinquished, to me you refresh Sparkles vanish, the loss confounds
But so does their very existence
It’s white, then invisible, then it bubbles up
To myself on my body all over I want to sweat, but you won’t let me You cool my minds deepest facets
You freeze me for a time of clarity
Thrown down, but my muscles will grow I work the face, while you work the mind
Water knows the show can’t go on But bubbles still cleanse the face
In repetition, missing direction
You try every day to set me right
The December dragon is alive
Many wrapped in your illusive warmth
But in your heat, you cannot speak Shattered mud reeks and drains
The only truth in pain
To one goal you show your name
And in cold you reveal the light
By Tyler Brazier
“RockBand”
‘27
“Two Musicians”
By Will Aumiller ‘26
Excerpt of “No Surprises”
By Anonymous
August 4th, 1995. 10:10PM.
As Lukas Benner strummed the final chord, of the final song, of the final show of the tour of his album made to memorialize his fallen bandmate, he looked around the stadium. He watched as the venue of tens of thousands erupted with cheers and applause. He heard encore chants echo throughout the arena they were stationed in. He looked back at his other bandmates, who were all staring at him. Chris, the new bassist who had replaced Alex, gave him a proud smile. Savior, the other guitarist, smirked at Lukas smugly. Payton, the drummer, came up from behind him and gave him a quick hug. Lukas turned around, and they both stared at each other. Payton smiled and motioned for him to make the final speech before the end of their tour.
He knew, even though they all could barely even drive, that their band would be memorialized in music history and talked about for years to come. In that moment, he felt like he was on top of the world. In that moment, his life felt perfect.
February 11th, 2014. 1:00PM.
Lukas had agreed 2 months prior to do an interview with a local content creator named Ron for their YouTube series On the day of the interview, he woke up at 11:30 am, as he normally did, got dressed, and drove to the meet up spot they had pre-planned. He sat down in the chair next to Ron, ready to answer any questions he had. After going through a simple introduction and a few brief questions, Ron chose to get a little more personal.
“So, how’s your life been these past few years?”
“Life’s been life ” replied Lukas while stretching, clearly trying to dodge the question. “Oh. Alright…” Ron replied, slightly confused, but taking the hint. “So, uh… how have the other members of the band been doing? When was the last time you talked to them?”
Lukas stared at Ron blankly for a brief moment
“Man, I honestly couldn’t tell you about some of them. I haven’t talked to Chris since we graduated high school. I’ve talked to ALEX more recently than I’ve talked to Chris. Well, kind of. I visited his gravestone for the first few years after graduation, but I haven’t been able to get around to it recently, just been too busy. Savior and I still message each other a lot, but we haven’t actually met up in about half a decade. At least he’s doing pretty good. I know he has a wife now. He married a girl named Natalie he met at our Phoenix show during our final tour. They seem pretty happy together, so, that’s pretty dope, I guess. ”
“And Payton? Are you guys still close?”
“Payton and I…” Lukas hesitated. “I mean, we stayed together throughout high school and college. We got married and moved in together in ‘03. We were both pretty happy together. Well, until three years ago. ”
His mind shut off. He couldn’t think about Ron’s questions. He was so out of it that he was no longer even paying attention to what he was saying anymore.
“Do you mind elaborating, or would you rather not?”
“Uhhhh…” Lukas stuttered, contemplating the decision. “I-I guess I can tell the full story…. One day she pretty much just… sat me down and told me she wanted a divorce Just like that She said something about wanting to, like, take some time and focus on herself? I don’t remember it fully… I’m not sure. It didn’t even really make sense to me at the time, but especially now knowing that she remarried, it makes even less sense to me It was never a public thing, but we still talked for a few months after the divorce until she found a new guy. She introduced me to the guy; his name was… Jeremy, I think? He seemed… nice. Payton and I talked for a bit after that, and I got to know Jeremy a bit. Last time I talked to them, they were doing pretty well That must’ve been two and half years ago now? God, it feels like it was so much more recent than that…”
“Why’s that? Do you miss her?”
“M-Maybe a little ” Lukas looked down guiltily and sighed “I know this might sound weird, but I check her social media… basically every single day. I actually… have alt-accounts purely to check her socials because she, uh… blocked all of my main ones. She posts a few times a month, and every time she just… always looks so happy with her new husband I don’t understand it I’m happy that she’s doing great, but at the same time… it kills me inside every time I see a new post from her. Every single day, without fail, I check her Twitter… and her Instagram… and every single day, I think about that moment where she told me she wasn’t happy with me anymore. If I could go back and just tell her that we could try to make it work, that I would try to make us both happy, I would do it in a heartbeat. Honestly… I miss her way more than I should. I still haven’t moved on from her, and I don’t know why. I should be way past our relationship… She’s perfectly fine, while I can’t even go one day without thinking about her. It feels like I have something wrong with me. This same thing happened with Alex, too, where I was on the brink of suicide. I mean, at this point it’s no surprises to me…”
Lukas sat up in his chair and looked down at his feet. His mind started racing as he poorly attempted to hide his panicked frenzy.
“Delete that.”
“Uh what?” Ron replied, puzzled. “I thought you just said you wanted to share.”
“I said delete it.”
“Look, man, I’m not just gonna delete a good story just because you said one dumb thing. If you want I can maybe just-”
“Delete the video right now, or I walk out of here.”
“I can’t just delete it. I’d have to-”
Lukas got up from his chair and made his way towards the exit.
“Wait! Just listen to me for a sec, please!”
“Be quiet, man. If you want me to listen, you’ll delete the video. It’s that simple.”
“JUST LISTEN FOR ONE SECOND,” Ron angrily shouted, silencing Lukas. “I can’t just delete the video without deleting a bunch of other content from earlier in the interview. If you want, I can promise that that segment won’t be included in the video. Does that work to you?”
“Alright man, chillax, I’m sorry.”
“It’s… fine. Just, sit back down, please.”
He sat back down and finished the interview with Ron over the course of a few hours, before finally leaving and making his way home.
“FreePeriod”
By Nicholas Oakley
‘25
By William Sauer ‘27
By Connor Doehne ‘27
Excerpt from “What Makes Us Worthy?”
By Tucker DeVack ‘27
I am not worthy to untie the strap of his sandals” (Luke verse 16) + As many Catholics know John the Baptist came before Christ to “Prepare Yee the way of the lord” + He was known by the people as the weird guy. The outcast. Why? Because he wore different clothes and ate different food all while living in the wilderness preaching about some soon-to-come Messiah. Little did everyone know that he was right in what he was saying. The kingdom of Heaven was near, and we should all get baptized and repent to soon be in the presence of the Lord’s son.
If you think about it, don’t we do that? Label someone as an outcast because of their way of life. Every day we tend to make up for these conditions that people must abide by for us to accept them. In some cases, this is fine like you must be baptized and go through a program to receive the Eucharist. We do that for a reason. To prepare people for what they are about to encounter in the Blessed Sacrament.
When it comes to a community you shouldn’t have to dress a certain way or like certain things. Once again in some cases it is okay, things in which things complement each other. You must be baptized to get confirmed.
You should probably like gardening to be in a gardening club. Conditions are fine. This is to improve the events that are taking place. if someone is in a gardening club but hates gardening and is miserable. That person will influence the rest of the group making it less fun for all.
In the case of John the Baptist, his people threw him to the curb because of what he was saying and the way that he lived. Of course, there was a group of people who followed what he said and got baptized. But at that time, you were even cast out if you followed him. We see that with the ministry of Jesus as well.
Most of the time someone is told that they are unworthy because they don’t meet a certain qualification. Take John the Baptist as an example. When he was baptizing people he said, “I am not worthy to untie the strap of his sandals.” He went on to say that one is coming after him that will baptize them with the Holy Spirit, the one who is to come who is much greater than him. Now of course we know that the man that he was talking about is Jesus who is the Messiah that Isaiah talked about around the seventh chapter of his book in the bible.
You might be thinking, “Well, Tucker all that is great in theory but when it is put into practice the Church is the exact opposite. The Church is filled with a bunch of hypocrites who preach one thing and then do something totally against what they said. The Church is just for a bunch of Saints, and Tucker, to be honest that doesn’t sound like me.”
I get it sometimes we can feel that way, sometimes I feel that way! It’s okay to feel like you aren’t as holy as you could be or aren’t ready to meet God. That’s not the point. The Church is a hospital full of sinners. Every single person in the pew is a sinner.
The key is though as Saint Fulton Sheen said, “I believe that possibly any sinner is capable of being a great saint and any saint is capable of being a great sinner.” This encompasses the idea perfectly. The Church is not working to push away all the imperfect people but draw them in and work on them so that one day they can be perfect.
You still might be thinking though, “Yeah, but what about the people that the church casts out the people are unworthy of being Catholic.” Nobody is unworthy of being Catholic, but there are conditions to be Catholic. There is a structure unto which the Catholic church was formed with certain foundational guidelines. Any government, organization or religion would fail without some sort of rules or guidelines.
When Jesus does eventually cross paths with John the Baptist, who is in the middle of baptizing people, he recognizes him right away. How do you think he felt at that moment? He is in the river baptizing people preaching about his God who is going to come down to earth, and then he sees him. Right there in front of him. The man that he has dedicated his entire life to is there before him. What does he do? He asks Jesus to baptize him. But wait what does Jesus say? John, you must baptize me.
If you could only imagine what John had felt in that moment. The man that he is unworthy of untying the straps of his sandals is asking him to baptize him. Woah. But we must remember that this is what Jesus does. He breaks the shackles of unworthiness he makes those who were once unworthy worthy again. What happens when Jesus was baptized? the Sky and the Heavens opened, the dove fluttered down and a voice from above proclaimed, “behold for this is my son in whom I am well pleased.” What a great honor it must have been to be able to baptize Jesus who is the son of man.
“Waterfall”
By Henry Porter ‘27
Water crashing down on mossy rocks .
My father turns to me and says words I cannot remember.
A memory faded by years passed. Washed away by the violent serenity of nature.
A red bird is perched on a tree.
Carrying a significance But lacking in relevance, To this memory drowned By time’s cruel current.
I was old enough to remember, But too young to cherish The memories I wish to have years later So, I cherish now and promise tomorrow,
My time to pass will not be filled, with nostalgic sorrow.
“SeaOtter”
By Brett Goetz ‘27
“TheatreonEutaw Street”
By Nolan Vogel ‘26
“HandsinSpace”
By Dylan Murn ‘28
“ABittersweetNectar”
ByNicolasSolano‘26
I.
Awarmgustbrushesmycold,shriveledskin.Itloosenscautiously.Thescentofcandlesandfrankincense livensmysenseslikeaparentnudgingachildawake.Hushedwhispersdanceandmergebetweenstone pillarsasthelasttricklesofcongregatescrossthethickwoodendoors.Myfeetmovethemselves,seekingthe hearththatkeepsoutthecold.Iwalktowardthenave,passingbythewaterbowl.Onlyafewdropshugits wall,they’reswiftlyscrapedbypassersby.Ijointhelinedownthemainaisle.Mygazecrawlsupthewallwith growingawe,theceilingdwarfsthoseunderit.It’sbalancedonthick,ornatearcheswithillegiblestories carvedintoitandendsinafractalcapthatwarpsandtintslight Ipeelmyeyesaway,backtowardthe shufflingline.Anelderlymankneelsinfrontofme,feeblyholdinghiscanewithonehandandcrossing himselfsomberlywiththeotherbeforetryingtorise.Hefaltersandbuckles.Igotosteadyhim.Hewaves meoffasheregainshisfootingbeforeslinkingoffintoapew.Imoveclosertothealtarbeforetakingaseat inacrowdedrow Ipanacrossthebuildingandlosemyselfinthedesign,onlynoticingthepriestatthe podiumafterthechurchfallssilent.Herocksonhisfeet,settingasteadyrhythmbeforeopeninghismouth whenallhundredeyesrestuponhim.Thegreetingchugsbyrobotically.Thechorusstartswithsong.Ifind myselfswayingtothesoulfultone,losingmyselfinmemory:Singtothelordanewsong,forhehasdone marvelousdeeds.Singtothelordanewsong,forhehasdonemarvelousdeeds.Alltheendsoftheearth haveseensalvationbyourGod.Hehasrememberedhiskindness.SingjoyfullytotheLord,allyoulands, forhehasdonewondrousdeeds.Hisrighthandhaswonvictoryforhim…
II.
Moses!It’sMoses!
Shh,youmustraiseyourhand.Please,Laura,goahead. Moses,becausehegotTheCommandments. Yes,verygood,andcouldsomeonerecitethemforbonuspoints?
Oh,oh,oh,itgoes:Don’ttakeanyGoREO.Raise.Your.Hand.DoyouknowwhathappnedtoMoses?
Uh,yeHediedinthedesert,awayfromthepromiseland,becausehedisobeyedGod.
…
Yes,Miguel? Died?
Oh.It’swhenyougowithGod.Moseshadtowaitbecausehe’dbeenbad. IwannagowithGod! Metoo!
Haha…verygoodkids,butfirstyouhavetobewell-behavedhere.Understand? Yes!
whatisit,Reo?
WhywouldGoddothattoMoses?
III.
The Choir chants, somber, pleading, exulting
Lord God, Heavenly King, O God, Almighty Father.
Lord Jesus Christ, only begotten Son, Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the Father, you take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us; you take away the sins of the world, receive our prayers; you are seated at the right hand of the Father, have mercy on us.
We praise you, we bless you, we adore you, we glorify you, have mercy on us.
Amen
The priest lifts his palms
Now, let us pray: For Alex and his family, that their souls may rest. For those affected by drugs and vices, that they gain fortitude from the Holy Spirit. For the poor out in the cold, that may they find the warmth of Christ. For those in conflict, that they may know the Prince of Peace. For those lost, that they may shelter in the Lord’s Grace.
Raise your hearts to the God.
A reverberating response
Lord have Mercy
All bow their heads
Christ Jesus we are sinner, have mercy on us and grant us everlasting life
IV.
For those, For those, for those…
Why?
“Where were you when I laid the earth's foundation? Tell me, if you understand.” – Job 38:4 “All this [suffering] is for your benefit, so that the grace that is reaching more and more people may cause thanksgiving to overflow to the glory of God.” – 2 Corinthians 4:17
The Mystery of Faith.
V.
You hold out your hands and consume it. And what happned when the priest blessed it?
I raise my hand
Yes, Reo?
It transmutes into the flesh of Christ
The teacher looks at me hesitantly before relaxing
Very good Reo!
I feel a tinge of pride, I don’t even need to stop myself anymore
VI.
Lord? Can you hear me? Am I doing something wrong? Do I have to pray out loud or in another language for you to understand me? Please, I can’t hear you, speak up. I don’t see you, where are you? Was your hand behind that nice man, or that lucky game, or that phone call, or… no. shut up. shut up. your not helping, just… stop. let it make sense
VII.
There’s a beggar on the road to church. His skin is shrink-wrapped around his face. His matted hair is stuck to his hands, clasped in front of a cardboard sign displayed across his chest. He’s praying as we pass him, he’s praying when we return.
I shuffle down the hallway, Chris walks up next to me
Hey, Reo, are you good?
Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but if you need to talk… well, y’know, I’m here I soften inside, slightly, it makes more room for nothing Thanks.
We separate at a junction, I regret my tone A bright new poster for the bible study group catches my idle eye, I roll back inward, noting it. I can’t decide whether it’s an outstretched hand or a mocking sneer. I let the two thoughts fester.
IX
So, how do you feel?
I-I don’t think I can describe it
Me neither
Do you just wanna?
Yeah, that’d be nice…
I can get some coffee too if you want Oooo, sure, that’d be great
Um, so do your parents?
No, they’d kill me
Really?
Yeah, I mean, have I told you what happned to my uncle?
Oh, right I’m so sorry you have to deal with that Thanks, um, it’s fine, so what about you?
Mine are great, I mean we have our issues, but I love them
So are they not-
No, they are, I mean, I am? Maybe uh, I’m still trying to figure that out
Oh, have you talked to anyone about it?
… no? I mean, who would I talk to?
Anyone you trust
I have people I trust, just not with this, I don’t trust anyone with this
Well, wanna talk about it now? We don’t have anything else to do
… yeah, thank you
X.
The chorus ends and I come back too, regaining my bearings. The congregation stands, book in hand, flipping to verses, and reciting them. I take a bible from the pews and glide across the pages, navigating its delicate pages like the palm of my hand I glance at the passages on the board and sigh, it’s the same ones I remember from the last time. I absent mildly read through Ecclesiastes instead. The rest of the service goes by, just like it always has. I shake off the church’s warmth as I leave. It was never that cold outside.
“Oasis”
By Joonseo Kim ‘25
By William Sauer ‘27
“Callus”
By William Scholtz ‘27
I grab the cactus with all my might
Knowing that it is what is best for me.
Every cell on my palm
Erupting with agony. I snatch it again.
Knowing what to expect I receive the same
Torture as before.
A third time I seize the cactus
Knowing a third time it will torment me.
But it only aches, As I focus on each prick.
It’s been weeks,
Knowing the pain I’ve been through To get here.
I hold the cactus in one hand.
Accepting the suffering I’ve had To feel nothing at all.
“GoldenDome”
By Cortez Washington ‘26
“DimLightBulb”
ByJosephMolina‘25
Therewasamanwhowasreadytogiveup, Helaidinhisdim,hopelessbasement Ponderingifhewillseetomorrow. Allhehadleftwasadimlightbulb.
Themanlookedupandsaw itwasreadytodie, readytogiveup.
Butdespiteitslowpower, lowenergy, thelightbulbcontinuedtoshine.
“Traditions”
By Patrick Dishon ‘26
We wake at the break of dawn as the warm sun seeps through the creaking blinds, Thawing us until we are ready to embrace the day that only comes with the Christmas season
We go to the same family-owned tree farm and are lulled by the nostalgia, Then jarred by the realization we have one more year until the tradition falls apart
We inform Santa about the material gifts we dream for, I give in to pacify my parents and shield my blissful sister from the harsh reality
We take advantage of the complimentary steaming apple cider and hot chocolate, Melting away our taste buds with every sip
We drive home in a car seeping with Christmas music and holiday spirit, Preparing ourselves for the intense labor ahead of us
We lug the dead, yet enchanting, piece of timber into our home, A piercing pine smell penetrating the nostrils of all who enter
We adorn the house with tacky décor, this months façade from the hardships of life, Trying to ignore the pain and unpleasantry that invades our minds with each sunrise
We eat a warm meal together to complete the absorbing and fatiguing day, A time-withstanding film droning in the background
We lay around in the living room, Tree lights set the room aglow; They give a sense of hope for the impending year, And temporary moments of joy from the cruel world we live in
Keeping us trudging through our draining lives, the neglected familial joys of our year.
“The Worm”
By Langston Outlaw ‘27
The worm awaits in the cold hard contours of the Earth
Never asking for help or crying
Patiently, pathetically waiting
For the cool lukewarm rain to come save him, but once the worm gets a taste of the satiating rain he desires more from the Earth’s cold soil gorging on this rain until he can no longer breathe He tries to escape the water and exhales from the heart of Earth becoming vulnerable too scared of what may await him on the outside of his comforting home of dirt, his solace he allows himself to drown in the cathartic water rather than seek freedom his overpowering fear of vulnerability
“HouseandSky”
By Bennett Dieter ‘26
“A Pen Borrowed from Ryan Beveridge”
By Brady Hake ‘25
I hold a pen that isn’t mine Passed from Ryan’s hand to mine. I wonder what it wrote before An ordinary tool with a history vast
Blue ink bleeds at the edges of letters, telling of its journey before me. Ryan's pen, not just any pen, his grip left marks I can still see.
Objects become carriers of ourselves, this simple instrument holds something of its owner, the way he writes, the pressure of his hand.
In the space between his thoughts and mine, this pen bridges lives that rarely intersect. When I return it, a small exchange happens something shared that neither of us planned.
By Dilon Mack ‘27
“Golf Ball”
By Edward Webb ‘25
Scratches, cuts, letters, and lines. A tiny moon hit around by a club. The further it goes the happier the owner is. It travels from beaches to grassy hills in the span of seconds. From time to time even goes for a swim to never return.
Constantly hit for someone else’s pleasure, they get mad when it shows some imperfections. As long as no one sees the inside it can be used for forever. Its name gives it value, you better hope for the one that starts with a T.
By Alexander Buckler
“I.F.T.H.
(IFoundTrueHappiness)”
By Jameson Fanzone ‘25
“Duck,Duck,Goose”
By Nicholas Oakley
‘25
“Caramelized Onions”
By Landon Janvier ‘26
To make something sweet, you must endure a time of pain first. He stands at the counter, knife in his hand, the onions sit there waiting. The first cut is sharp, and within seconds, his eyes sting. Tears well up, blurring his vision as the sting continues to rise. It isn’t sadness, just something the body does when confronted with reality. He kept slicing, though it hurts, knowing it is the only way forward. The onions fall into the pan, hissing as they meet the hot steel. He knows better than to rush this tedious process. Caramelizing takes time. Minutes turn into what felt like hours as he stirs, watching the crisp, white pieces soften, lump, and slowly turn to gold. The bitterness fleets, replaced by something rich, warm, and luxuriously sweet. Their now amber hue clears the pungency from the air and the pang from his eyes. He feasts on the sweetness born from pain and patience.
By Cullen DeVack
‘27
“An Ode to the African American History Museum”
By Cortez Washington ‘26
I have not touched its walls since I was young
I believed that the stacked crown would always be there
the layers peeling revealing what cannot be undone
With every day trip to the city of cherry blossoms my grandfather held his mirror up to my face
Commanding me to hold it up to my brothers
Ivory interior projects its light
My tongue tastes cocoa on the lips of beautiful people that walk by
The sad thing about the past is its dependence
the truth’s universal spread does not happen without powerful dedication
nutrition is snatched from our teeth
This has always been a privilege.
An ode is a poem that addresses and often celebrates a person, place, thing, or idea. Its stanza forms vary.
“GraffitiaVenezia”
By Sean Quartey ‘26
“HandofAfrica”
By Dilon Mack ‘27
“Us, Interwoven” (A Broken Sestina)
By Conlan Heiser-Cerrato ‘26
Grandmother told me she is no longer afraid of death— the strands of yarn that do not fit in her tapestry, discarded with the wave of a calloused hand. She wanted me to know that everything continues on towards the breaking river, off into many rivulets, all giving themselves to thirsty ground.
How quiet the Earth sounds as it continues to spin off towards some forgotten, foreign ground. It all sounds so imperfect, to be split into many parts until the color of one ’ s own tapestry spills and stains the nighttime sky, a starry death. Why must we let such darkness take our hand?
Red-coated birds swoop towards the ground and beseech soil for blessings; mother’s hand offers up a few worms, to only know the physicality of death. That is what grandmother spoke about as she continues to weave, pointing out the many intersects in her tapestry; she now lives through her singular body, not the many.
Somewhere, a needle cracks silence, rips the tapestry, laid so perfectly on the table. Like the cries of many babies, so fresh and new to the world, unspoiled ground. We have since ripened and blossomed, prepared for death. Yet still how the sun rises and reaches a hand across the horizon, how light continues.
You are swimming in the splotches of a dead man’s hand, journeying towards the finger-tips, the blemished skin continues endlessly before you. His scars dance like tapestry, but what have you found, how many stories can you tell? Why is he buried in the ground? You are breathing in the stench of fateless death.
This life is twisting between alone and many, up towards the leaving clouds, so far above our ground. In another, my grandmother has already left and continues on towards the hazy ends, there is no need for death.
All that she has now, is her free hand clenched, holding tightly onto the unfinished tapestry.
Grandmother said she no longer fears death it continues in her hand with those red-winged birds and the many pieces of sky. Our tapestry eventually eaten by the ground.
a sestina is a poem with six stanzas of six lines and a final triplet, all stanzas having the same six words at the line-ends in six different sequences that follow a fixed pattern, and with all six words appearing in the closing three-line envoi.
“WORKSHOPs 2025" Team
(inorderofwhentheyfirstappear)
Jameson Fanzone ‘25
Harper Rudolph ’25
Benjamin Edwards ‘27
Evan Liberto ‘28
Nicholas Marsteller ‘27
Cortez Washington ‘26
Anthony Mattar ‘28
Noah Balog ‘25
Vance Tyree ‘25
Aiden Cimino ‘25
Patrick Dishon ‘26
Jacob Tsakalos ‘27
Henry Poe ‘27
Bennett Dieter ‘26
Spencer Belbot ‘27
Tyler Brazier ‘27
Ben Randazzo ‘26
Eli Eib ‘26
Henry Lancaster ‘27
Oliver Korch ‘27
Hunter Simms ‘25
Miles Moon ‘26
Charlie Will ‘27
Sean Quartey ‘26
Rocco LaCanfora ‘25
Ms. Terry Darr
Lucas Richardson ’26
Finley Mitchell ‘28
Benjamin Velazquez ‘28
Nathan Liem ‘31
Jooneso Kim ‘25
Oliver Korch ‘27
Kenny Tyler ‘25
Eric Chung ‘25
Doyle Hahn ‘26
Andrew Cirincione ‘26
John Fluckinger ‘26
Will Aumiller ‘26
Tyler Brazier ‘27
Connor Doehne ‘27
Nicholas Oakley ‘25
William Sauer ‘27
Tucker DeVack ‘27
Henry Porter ‘27
Brett Goetz ‘27
Nolan Vogel ‘27
Dylan Murn ‘28
Nicolas Solano ‘26
William Scholtz ‘27
Joseph Molina ‘25
Langston Outlaw ‘27
Brady Hake ‘25
Dilon Mack ‘27
Edward Webb ‘25
Alexander Buckler ‘26
Landon Janvier ‘26
Cullen DeVack ‘27
Conlan Heiser-Cerrato ‘26
A special thank you to Loyola Blakefield for sponsoring and supporting the Arts.
Loyola Blakefield High School