Bishop Canevin High Schoolâ€™s Literary Magazine Fall 2019 __________________________________________________________
Letter from the Editor Welcome to the 2019 Fall Edition of the Bishop Canevin Oracle. The Oracle is the school’s literary magazine which showcases the best of students’ creative efforts in the fields of poetry, short fiction, topical essays, photography, and art. First and foremost. I’d like to thank all of our contributors who allowed their work to be included in this issue. I can personally vouch for the quality and high range of emotions contained in the works of this edition. Oftentimes, publishing one’s poetry or fiction is like exposing one’s heart to the world. This can be a very daunting task, so I would like to thank all the students who have allowed their works to be shared. A special acknowledgement goes to senior Lilly Chabala whose artwork was chosen for the cover page of this magazine. Congratulations Lilly and thank you for sharing your artwork. Another special acknowledgment must go to Mrs. Charlotte Smith, English Department Chair, who serves as Moderator of the Oracle. It is my hope that in the pages of this magazine, the students and faculty of Bishop Canevin may find something which sparks their interest, inflames their curiosity, or strikes a chord in their heart.
Joel Skelley Oracle Editor
Index of Contributors Class of 2020 Connor Adamski Antonio Battista Allison Berner Michael Caputo Danielle DiPaolo Timothy Durkin Ana Luisa Galante Bill Gamble Alyssa Pollice Joel Skelley Bri Tambellini Class of 2022 Alysha Cutri Abigail Deasy Bella DeMark Jhamil Fife Molly Frick Keshawn Harris Sani Jones Morgan Kindle Lauren Kirsch Mac Johnson Renee LaGrosse Ian Lecker Sophie Maida John Ridilla Cecelia Sciullo George Shorthouse Theresa Skindzier Ainsley Smith 3
“Perfection” By Antonio Battista She’s real Not a Barbie doll Or an angel after a fall. She has flaws. She is not perfect To the world But I love her. People may not like my love Because of the mistakes they see. They want to tell her who to be. She’s perfect, at least to me. I remind her every day. Artwork by Danielle DiPaolo
Why does the world care About what she is? Light, positivity, happiness She means the world to me. I wouldn’t change her At all.
Photo by Ana Luisa Galante
“No One Realizes” By Sani Jones No one realizes Everyone has something they don’t say Even when they may need to scream it out loud Trying to express the storm they may feel Each endeavor we go through varies Some go through the day not focusing on theirs And I guess that’s what makes them what they are. 4
Photo by Ana Luisa Galante
“Life’s Opposites” By Tim Durkin Sun Her energy is bright Her face filled with light With a force like fire She never seems to tire Every day she fills me with delight.
Photo by Bri Tambellini 5
Cloudy Every day I strive to be Half of what you think of me You think of me as a god But I disagree and just nod I am normal, can’t you see?
“Why I Am Still Here” By Theresa Skindzier In my life of pain I walk alone Until I see your face of hope You are my distraction from this tragic life The broken home The shattered time You brighten my soul as I destroy myself Postponing my ending death You make me want a future To inhabit earth To walk this world Because of you, I am not alone And I will live to be happy someday. Photo by Ana Luisa Galante
"Head in the Clouds” By Renee LaGrosse I don’t know anything I keep my head up in the clouds That way I don’t go messing around I keep my head up in the clouds That way no one can distract me I keep my head up in the clouds That way I don’t get stuck on the ground I keep my head up in the clouds That way time just passes by I keep my head up in the clouds That way I don’t get lost because I can’t keep two feet on the ground. 6 Photo by Ana Luisa Galante
“Basketball” By Alyssa Police An orange ball, so familiar to the touch. A court I feel akin to, an inexorable bond between me and hardwood. Two hoops, shining above the paint, like the torrid sun hung above my head. This is home. The tedious days spent away from it brings an almost insipid taste to my mouth, As though a part of who I am is missing, Although many nefarious events were brought down upon me like a hammer smacking a nail on this court. I could never seem to stay away from it. What was it that intrigued me so much? Was it the countless hours spent watching stars with their retinue step onto the court and battle until victorious? No. Perhaps the idea of the fight, and the victory combined intrigued me. Many thoughts corroborate in my mind about what the reason is, but none seems to feel right. It’s quite funny actually. I was always a supplicant towards my father, begging him to let me stay on the court. I became quite aware of physiognomy due to the countless faces he made towards me every time I said, “Five more minutes.” The reason why I did all of this I can’t tell you assuredly. What I do know is the feeling when I play is one nothing else gives me, and that’s why I will always play you, basketball. Thank you, Nike. 7
“Happiness” By Anessa Preteroti What does happiness mean to me? To the dictionary, it means ‘a state of being happy.’ When I’m laughing, I’m happy And when I’m happy, I’m laughing. To me, happiness is something you cannot put into words. Happiness is an inside job, A choice to make, When you let go of the bad And embrace the good. Happiness will become a habit. Welcome happiness and smile often. The world will smile with you. Photos by Alysha Cutri
Photo by Danielle DiPaolo
“Guardian Angel” By Renee LaGrosse When lightning no longer strikes, They told me I’d be safe. When evil spirits are locked away, They told me I’d no longer cry. But they didn’t tell me how hard it would be to die. They sickened me with their broken promises. They sickened me with their lies. For I was a young child. Now look where I am now. Up here it gets a bit lonely, But there aren’t any lies. Nor are there any evil spirits that make you cry. Up here nothing really happens, But it’s peaceful, and everyone gets along. Up here I have a home unlike before, When I was just a young child, Who received broken promises And was told disgusting lies. Now I am here to make a promise to you. When you die, I’ll be with you. You won’t be lonely, And you won’t cry. You’ll be surrounded by loved ones, In an endless summer night that hasn’t even begun. When you arrive up here, Fireworks will fill the air, As all who love you cheer. When you call out to me, I promise I won’t lie, Because I am here to make sure, That when you die, You’ll be in a paradise. So remember me, A child who was told disgusting lies, And who received broken promises, But, most importantly, A kid who will fight to make the world your paradise.
Photo by Danielle DiPaolo
“I’ll Give it A Go” By Alyssa Pollice “or walk inside the poem’s room and feel the walls for a light switch.” -Billy Collins Today’s the day. As I slowly crept up to the moribund room labeled 3453 on Floor Two, a capricious feeling settled within me, one only someone in my position could feel. It was an impetuous feeling, as if someone drove a stake through my heart. I vacillate as I put my hand on the long, grey door. Should I really open it? For what? I’ve known for awhile about the treatment she was going through; they had put her on hospice quite some time ago. As I stand quietly, a stern and somber voice astonished me. “Sir, may I get through, please?” A quaint old woman walked into the room, as if she had made my decision for me. However, she seemed to enjoin me into the room. As I enter the room, I see a bed, but not only a bed, but a still figure laying on it. Roses and tulips and different varieties of flowers sit beside her on her bedside stand, and I watch as the lady places another vase down, almost as if it is an advocation of hers. “Do you know this woman?” she asked softly. Reticent thoughts rushed through my mind like a racehorse in a derby. But I stood in silence. She silently nodded her head and dismissed herself out the door. As I crept eerily to the bed, I recognized the disparity between me and the figure, almost as if we were nothing alike. I noticed an epistle lying by her side, almost begging me to read it. I slowly reach my hand down and clench the epistle tightly. As I open it, a tear drops from my eye. “Forever in your heart and always by your side.” The efficacy of the letter was met, but I could only think of one thing. Why’d you have to go so soon? The dark chill of death, the chill of mortality, had been in the room.
“Drowning” By Connor Adamski Down from the heavens you have descended Perfect, down to all your imperfections All thoughts of anyone else have ended Yet all I’m left with are your reflections Lost within an open sea of sadness Stuck drowning with no one to hold on to Driving on a road of my own madness The only one who can save me is you All I can think of while I try to sleep Visions of you constantly fill my mind You’re out of my grasp so I’m left to weep Still, there is no hatred that I can find Through the dark waters I am reaching out My thoughts are filled with you as I black out “Haunting” By Connor Adamski
Funny how it all started with a smile One glance and I was addicted to you I want a chance but I’m in denial What never began is already through Still that smile pierces all of the gloom Reminding me of that which never was Just a thought is enough to fill a room Driving me insane with thoughts of an us Why do I keep doing this to my mind Why can’t I imagine anything else Even though our fates are not intertwined I hold on to some hope within myself Haunted by not seeing it for awhile Somehow it always comes back to that smile 11
â€œProse Plusâ€? By Joel Skelley What may be the plight, the great stumbling block, of a prolific penman of prose, may also prove to be the muse which sings in the soul of even the humblest poet. Those most refined and intense elements of the human condition, which may never be described by the extensive and unpalatable static of mere prose, may quite easily be described by the lyrical verses of the purest poetry. Nonetheless, I deem it presumptuous to state that poetry and prose are mutually exclusive terms. They may initially be conceived as oil and water which puddle separately in the well of a saucer. However, I make the somewhat subversive assertion that, in reality, they are more like oil and vinegar, which may be combined with a degree of care and coercion. Therefore, we find lines which are technically prose, but resemble more closely the lilt and tone of poetry. We can liken this to the Holy Eucharist: the richness of Christ under the elements of bread. Any educated individual, even in a state of deepest lassitude, may craft a page which bears at least a passing resemblance to artful prose, but the highest level of alertness and enlightenment is required to create even mediocre stanzas of poetry. When faced with a question of the human condition, prose rushes in like a samurai, arms akimbo, while poetry is a graceful and diplomatic envoy: a trained ballerina or skilled halfback. Therefore, we must recognize that some situations call for laconic and rhetorically justified lines of prose. More often, though, the deepest desires of humanity may only be satisfied by the sweet Bread of Heaven: poetry.
Photo by Ana Luisa Galante
“The True Impact of a Poem” By Tim Durkin The name of the author was the first to go The once iridescent meaning now hazy and moribund. The efficacy of the words lost deep within the mind Never to return. How much time was wasted Just finding the meaningless meaning of that reticent poem? How could the author’s intent be truly known If there is a great disparity between him and I? Should such a single avocation be remembered? My mind began to vacillate. There had to be some meaning, something more Something to remember, something to learn. But these things always eluded me. I see it now, clear as day! Clearer than any poem has ever been! Poetry’s impact is temporary, How did I not see this? Don’t stop me now; I’m gathering impetus My words flow now, wild and capricious This is my epistle to the world. To every jail, hospice and school, This poem has made you all a fool. It forces you to do the work. Finding a meaning that does not exist. The final vestiges of the poem drift away in my mind. I watch them and smile.
Photo by Ana Luisa Galante
“The Life of a Microwave” By Connor Adamski It is dark throughout my home for hours. I have to keep asking the oven what time it is because my clock is broken. I ask him again, “I feel like it’s been a few hours; what time is it?” “4:30,” the oven replies, clearly getting sick of me asking the same question over and over and over. I think he’s just jealous I get used more. I put the thought of the oven aside and excitement fills my wiring as there’s only one hour until I can get going. 5:30 is here and I’m in my prime. I have an extremely satisfying time heating up a wide variety of breakfast foods, ranging from bacon to frozen breakfast sandwiches. This is what I love to do, cook for the family inhabiting my home. Eventually 6:45 rolls around and the next long wait begins, the wait for my people to return home from school and work. During this time, I try to talk to the oven but he feels like he’s above me. Does he not realize I am like him, but faster and stronger and I am, quite literally, above him?? I decide to stop trying to have a conversation with him and ask the toaster oven how she’s doing. Another cold shoulder. I wait for my family to come home. Finally! Some of my humans are home and I get a little more to be happy about as I get to cook a rare commodity around here – a mac ‘n cheese cup. This will be my last use of the day but it fills me with pride and joy to do what I do.
“A Pair of Shoes” By Bill Gamble Every day I wake up, and there you are, my other half and, soon after, you wake up. When our owner wakes up and is getting ready for the day, she goes through her routine and, just before she leaves, she puts us on. First you, tying your laces, then she puts me on and ties my laces. We may be shoes, but we are never alone. We may get dirty, or we may have to get a re-lacing, but that’s okay. It’s a hard day of supporting her and her busy lifestyle but it’s worth it to be able to rest at the end of the day, knowing that you’re next to me to the end of the line. 14
“The Present Gap” By Allison Berner They say that men and women are free and equal To men exploitation of the gap is a sin We live in a man’s world A male and a female are truly not akin There is a gap that must be expressed. A difference in biological physiognomy is considered a problem The same education, years of experience and occupation So why are men making more money in the same column? This problem is inexorable as a patriarchy remains through the nation. Nefarious men pay no attention to the issue “There is no gap.” “Men are superior.” Something must be done; there has to be a wave of new. Women of politics must corroborate, but it won’t happen in a year. If women stand together and be suppliant, change can happen Men are capricious where one minute they support and tear women down the next. Women are the Uncle Toms of society to men It is said that men rule families so they need the income. Isn’t it women who raise their children? Fairness is preached by the hypocrisy contradicts. All humans should get a fair and equally deserving pay, regardless of being women. There will be impetus for a change, females predict. One day all humans will truly be equal. That day may not come fast. If all girls fight, there will be a pull A pull to respect, and equality and prejudice will be left in the past. Women will have a voice and the wage gap will be filled. 15
“The Depressed Life of a Pencil” By Michael Caputo I sit in a box, crammed tight against other anonymous pencils which will face the same fate as I ---a useless, painful life of dragging my bottom against a white canvas, only to become shorter over time on both ends. I feel the box shake slightly, then it breaks open at the top, revealing a blinding light. I know my fate is near when I see a large thing reach its extremities onto me, carrying me out of the box. The thing puts me in a metal devise that shears my bottom to look like a sharp, dark protrusion. I am ready to live the life I call “repetition of shortation.” The days drift by as I perform my useless talent, over and over, until I am put back into the box, over and over. But my horrible life has become a little better; I have been snapped in half, thrown into the dark, plastic abyss where I hope to never see the white surface again, but to sit on a wasteland of other rubbish every day, all the time. That is my life right now and I hate it, but at least I am away from that white surface.
Photo by Ana Luisa Galante
“Autumn” By Theresa Skindzier The day was cool and the continuously shining sun was blocked by gray clouds ready to release their contents onto the ground below. There were clouds, the coolness, and a girl named Autumn. She was biking down the street, letting the coldness engulf her. Autumn was just a normal teenage girl going through her junior year of high school. Of course, that’s just what people saw on the outside. The weather didn’t bother her at all for she preferred it this way. Besides, she needed to get out of that prison of a house where it was like people fed off her downfall of emotions. They all seemed to mentally abuse her to the point where she couldn’t take it anymore. That is why Autumn is here today, biking down the endless road to escape the place that should feel like home. Here she is rushing directly away from that place of pain to an undecided destination, for she wishes to just to go on forever and not look back. Autumn has a complicated exterior for it doesn’t seem to match up with the rest of her. Her dark brown eyes seem to have a childhood innocence that left her years ago. They look down the long road that lies ahead and hold back tears with all their power. Autumn pedals further down the continuous street and finds herself coming upon an old empty park ground that looks abandoned. There was a pavilion on the verge of collapsing and a swing set stained brown with rust. Only one swing was still intact and attached to the bar above. Autumn had come here a few times before to sulk in her despair and try to leave the world behind her. She jumped off her bike and ran to the swing as tears started streaking down her face. She sat down and put her face in her palms, trying to let it all go and just black out all the hate. After years of a life like this, one would think she would have learned how to deal with the pain, but that will never happen. Being mentally degraded to almost nothing is a lot to go through. No one can do anything to help her, though, because 17
emotional abuse goes unrecognized. So Autumn just sits there as the rain starts pouring down, drenching her clothing with the cold droplets. A wind blows and she looks up, her tears blending with the rain upon her. Although she is already engulfed in water from the clouds above, she heads to the pavilion for some shelter from the storm. The inside is completely covered in graffiti and pictures. Here within, there is an explosion of color, although hard to see without much light. Walls are plastered with words o f d i ff e r e n t s t y l e s a n d e v e n languages. It is a tranquil haven from the storm, not only the weather, but also the one inside of Autumn. As rain pours down from the outside, she looks around at the artwork filling the room. Up on the ceiling in the rafters is written a quote which catches her eye. The letters swirl and the glittering gold paint form the words: “Age is a matter of feelings, not years.” “What is that supposed to mean?” she says aloud. Her voice echoes around the small building. She sits there on the ground for a while as the tears slow down and she contemplates the writing. “Want to know what I’m feeling?” she says loudly, her voice increasing in volume. “I’m feeling depressed and confused and just want this all to be over. So how old is that supposed to make me?” she screams as more tears strike down her face. The echo is stronger as it bounces around the room and slowly fades away. The storm outside has worsened as Autumn has been inside. Lightening from above comes down and strikes the rickety old pavilion. She hears it start to crumble as the walls give way. Autumn doesn’t budge, though; she just sits there as the building comes falling down onto her. Atop the pile of debris lay wood with gold paint and an indecipherable swirl of lines.
“Zeus” By Antonio Battista Once I was a young boy Who entered a new world. Strange men, vast horizons Opportunities not yet tapped It had all been rumors before I had no idea what was in store for me Nervous, excited, reticent to everyone I knew About what I really thought. Little did I know that I would enter and never come back. Years passed and I started to become bored At first it was exciting But then it became more of the same The old kids loved it, though. Maybe I just didn’t understand it. I came to understand that this was an avocation I shook my head at the men who lived and breathed Twelve words that rule their lives To them, this was a hospice for their moribund youth Sitting by the fire, drinking coffee and telling stories of their travels To the mecca known as Philmont Ranch. Eventually, the gods of our crew summoned me
And I appeared before a court of pubescent boys On a fatal Christmas vacation evening. They sent me an electronic epistle, telling me date and location Nothing more The Olympians liked making things more important than they really were. I was not the only one at the circus Some of the guys who biked along the journey to nowhere Were also present Zeus came before us and spoke Telling us we were equal But we all saw the disparity How could he not? Was he blind, dumb, or both? Soon enough new gods were given their seats At Olympus And I was enjoying my new privileges. I even make a few friends How did I do that again? Unlike the others, I did not sip the coffee And I was not oblivious to the problems Of our utopia. 19
Whenever Zeus changed bodies we went through a mid-life crisis Every year we vacillated And our numbers dwindled. The TLC became as capricious as Harvey Dent after his little accident One year we were Attilus; other times we were Barneys. Unfortunately, no one wanted to fix this And I kept my mouth shut. One night I had an epiphany And I realized that, deep down, I love this All of my friends were standing around me in khaki button-down shirts Countless memories flashed before my eyes I wept The clock was ticking and I had to make the most of it. Finally I became Zeus And my life changed I wanted to be the perfect leader Someone for the younger guys to look up to
Photo by Ana Luisa Galante20
I wish I could say my commands were an impetus And I had natural efficacy But Iâ€™m supposed to be trustworthy The plight of my predecessors became clearer every day And the Judas Iscariots lurk at every corner Just waiting to consume me when I trip. Some days I am invincible Striding around like a vivid god Other times I fall into the Pit of despair. The younger ones love me But the rest of the council hates me. I will continue to work until my time expires I think back to my time and grin. I have to think that, somehow, It all worked out. My cup finally embraced the coffee And I couldnâ€™t be happier.
“The Fortune Cookie” By Antonio Battista Big Bill sat in front of his PC. He had been playing World of Warcraft for five hours; the aroma of Papa John’s and Mountain Dew lingered in the air, and dirty laundry littered his dorm room. It was near 11:30 p.m. Usually Bill would stay online until 3-4 a.m. gaming, but it was Wednesday, so he would quit around 2 a.m. tonight. He had a business class the next day he had to attend; if he missed it, he would fail the class. Bill began to equip his character, Lord Anon of the Lower Realm, for the next battle. Suddenly, Bill’s roommate, Luca, walked into the room. He was the complete opposite of Bill: athletic, studious, and an avid hater of video games. They rarely spoke, and the only reason they were roommates was because Bill lied on his personality test. “I ordered takeout from Empire Buffet,” Luca said. “I have some leftovers if you want.” “Just give me a fortune cookie,” Bill snapped. “I need the sugar.” Luca threw the cookie at Bill who snatched it greedily and unwrapped it. He gave it a big whiff before he ate it in one bite. In his excitement, he accidentally chewed the fortune enclosed inside the delicious treat. Bill dug in his mouth for the slip of paper. He wiped it off and read what he could of it. Seek friendship and you will find it. “Ha!” Bill exclaimed. He scoffed at the fortune and tossed it next to an empty pizza box. “Me? Friends? I don’t need ‘em. Anon is the only friend I need.” The beefy college student continued his virtual quest into the night. About a week had now passed since Bill read his fortune. In that time, his life had fallen to shambles. He had slept through his alarm and missed his business class, failing it. Luca, who continually grew tired of the mess Bill made in the dorm, asked to transfer to another room with his soccer friends. Even Bill’s parents stopped talking to him, disappointed their son was wasting thousands of dollars to play a video game. For the first time in his life, Big Bill felt truly alone, and his big
body could not fill his empty heart. It seemed as though Lord Anon could not give him the human contact he needed. Bill glanced over towards his garbage can. He noticed the fortune sparkling white among the brown blur of takeout boxes. He got up from his gaming chair and picked up the paper. He read it over and decided to give it a try. “What could go wrong?” he thought to himself. “I have nothing better to do on a Tuesday night.” Bill resolved to make a friend in the only way he knew how: he opened up Live Chat in World of Warcraft. Usually he kept it closed because of how toxic some of the members could be, but he knew he would have to take a risk if he wanted to get out of this rut. He typed: BigBill329: Anyone want to play so co-op? I’m level 42! A few minutes passed. Bill began to sweat. He waited; he needed to talk to someone. Five minutes turned into ten. He even went to the bathroom and came back. After 18 hellish minutes, someone responded. ArtyPartyXD: Sure. I could use the help. Bill leaped from his chair. He was ecstatic. It was a feeling better than biting into a piece of greasy pizza or leveling up. He quickly responded: BigBill329: Cool! I’ll give you my Discord and we can start playing. It’s BillyMania. A few seconds later ArtyParty joined Bill’s Discord. They loaded onto World of Warcraft. They played, talked and had a merry time. For the first time in a long while, Bill thoroughly enjoyed the game. He finally had someone to enjoy his hobby and at last his life was going in a positive direction. Bill and ArtyParty became great friends, and they even met face to face one day.
“That Night” By Joel Skelley Who could sleep that night? Who could not resist his rest, as though he were a moribund man fighting the throes of death? That night when all tragedy and fortune seemed to intertwine, That night when neither gospel nor testament, epistle nor creed, could save a man’s soul, That night which saw the impetus for storm and desolation, That night when every couple was Samson and Delilah and every town a new Gomorrah, That night on which even a canopy bed was a grim and unkindly hospice, That night when trusted confessors became reticent and counselors terse, That night when disparities and inequalities, pains and penalties, were dwarfed by greater evil. Who could not be afraid that night, as though he were abandoned by his maker, As though he were David before Goliath without God on his side, As though he would leap from highest heaven and no angel would break his fall, As though he were alone, without master or redeemer, without comfort or balm, Who could sleep that night? “Disparity in Miniature” By Joel Skelley At the bottom of the glass, sunken and immobile, under the yoke of tedium and the lash of productivity, lie the working poor, their physiognomy stark and bleak, 23
akin more to a beaten mule than a well-fed workhorse, but not without spirit, and not without determination. At the top of the glass, fattened and self-serving, claiming not to be nefarious, though perhaps a bit capricious, lie the rich, the Babbitts, the haughty bourgeoisie, surrounded by their retinues of sycophantic creeps, with mere insipid minds, not deserving of their place. But you cannot serve both God and Mammon, and we know God will arise, and tip the glass and cast them to the torrid depths below, and each mule will be a workhorse then, with each workhorse being equal in the garden of the Lord.
Artwork by Theresa Skindzier
Acrostic Poems from the Sophomore Class PittSburgh’s pride Six Time champions Born in steEl TEam of the ‘70s Play at Heinz FieLd Immaculate Reception Since 1933. John Ridilla ‘22 Scoring in my job On my way to the goal Coming down a defender Chasing after me Everyone shouting “Shoot!” Right into the net. Ainsley Smith ‘22 Splashing around Wet in the water while I am in the pool. Making splashes and Many more. I love my New swim Goggles. Cecilia Sciullo ‘22 Home Open and inviting Universal Safe and warm Everywhere. Jhamil Fife ‘22 25
Swing, run, score Pass, set, spike Open yourself up to new things Relax and have fun Teammates are just like your family Support each other like it’s the last time Bella DeMark ‘22 Chick-fil-A Has the best chicken In Pittsburgh. Popeye’s Chicken is alright, but can’t Keep up with Chick-Fil-A. Everyone knows it’s the best. No fooling. Keshawn Harris ‘22 Swiftly and Obediently he passes to the team Captain whose Clever play Ended the game in a Remarkable way. Morgan Kindle ‘22 Like a quiet retreat I’ll find a new friend to meet. Books, of course, are these friends Return them to the desk to again lend. Always remember to not have sorrow because you can Ready yourself to come back tomorrow. You’ll always be able to borrow. George Shorthouse ‘22
He loves us Justly and unconditionally. The kingdom of God is open to Everyone who wants to be a part of it. He offers Salvation to all. At the end of time, he will Unite us all. He died on the cross for our Sins because he loves us all. Mac Johnson ‘22 The soft Click A different world Mirrors of the past Hidden insidE a photo The Real truth revealed The shAdow of the past is real. Renee LaGrosse ‘22 Down By the river Can’t get acrOss. If only I hAd One of ThoSe…. Ian Lecker ‘22 Beloved school Incredible teachers Sophisticated students Hopeful faculty Optimistic principal Polite staff Caring administration Amazing equipment Noble beginnings Excellent education Valuable people Incredible lunches Neat classrooms. Sophie Maida ‘22 27
Try not to unDerestimate it Sometimes it’s Out of our hands It rains over as we crUmble beneath It can sometimes feel like being Blown away in the dust But I guess That is part of living. Alysha Cutri ‘22 Dribbling on the Soccer field On my way to the net I Cook past my defender Who Chases after me in a sweat Everyone in the crowd cheers as I score Our team is now the new thReat. Lauren Kirsch ‘22 Reel, slip jIg and hornpipe Are dances I have leaRned Each one uses a dIfferent shoe Front Slices, birdies, and butterflies Are a few moves that I Have to do. Molly Frick ‘22 ENding the day a tIme to collect your dreams takinG a break from life Having a moment to relax after a long day Finally geTting some rest. Abigail Deasy ’22
Photo by Ana Luisa Galante
The Oracle is the literary magazine produced twice yearly by the students of Bishop Canevin High School, Pittsburgh, PA. It features artwork...
Published on Dec 15, 2019
The Oracle is the literary magazine produced twice yearly by the students of Bishop Canevin High School, Pittsburgh, PA. It features artwork...