POETRY
THE CARDINAL REVIEW
THE DINER
Max Goldberg
He had never felt particularly human. No more human than the bleak cafe walls, painted in silent gray tones lit by the dimming buzz of the hanging light
He knew his skin, his shirt, his hair would crack and flake at the slightest wandering prod
Emitting a lazy sour smell of plaster which laid a fine dust over the room So prolific in the air, one would cease to notice after enough exposure
Maybe that was how he got there. At the diner. Staleness coating his lungs and throat creeping down, down, into his pores, into his boots yet still breathing easy
He didn’t feel particularly human and he wasn’t.
Stranger
MaxGoldberg
I am looking at a stranger’s body
I know the curves and valleys
But not what inhabits them
Every inch of skin is burned into my memory and yet
I am looking at a stranger’s body
I am housing a stranger’s brain
He uses my voice and my arms and my hands
But does not understand what they were meant for
We were born in tandem and grew in tandem and yet
I am housing a stranger’s brain
The disconnect between them drives out any sense of reality
I am beings displaced in time, in space
He uses her voice but she does not have words to speak
I mourn the loss of my mind, the lack of my body
I mourn the loss of connection between them
YOU WILL NEVER SILENCE OUR VOICES
They say, “Just be yourself.”
But what if yourself is a battle you can’t win? What if the mirror lies every day, And the laws do, too
Chains made out of paper, ink, and signatures- they lock me out of who I need to be I’ve been taught my body’s a crime, That my mind is "confused" when I know it’s clear as day. They call me broken because I won’t fit their binary. “It’s a phase,” they say
But this “phase” is a lifetime of feeling too much, or too little Policies claim to protect kids,
But where’s the protection for the ones who feel like they don’t belong? You’re killing us in the name of saving us. You think I’m dangerous? I’m not.
But the silence, the erasure, the laws they are.
Gender-affirming care isn’t a luxury; it’s survival. It’s my right to breathe in this body, To belong to myself.
Yet they strip away safety and call it “protection.” We rise anyway.
Through tears, through dark, we fight. But the fight never ends. They debate our existence like we’re just talking points Like our lives aren’t worth more than their fears. But I refuse to be erased
No matter how many times the world tried to push me down, I got back up They tried to define me, but I choose to define myself. No law, no judgment, no lie can take that from me. I am not a phase I am not broken. I am just me.
WITHERED AND MANGLED
Courtney Straw
Withered and mangled
A tree, whose branches are tangled Slouches upon a lonely hill.
She feels the wear and tear
Of criticism, hurt, and fear
That she nearly cracks with the blow of the wind.
She’s neglected by wildlife Being useless and trife Invisible in her wilting.
In the desert, all feels hopeless. Her branches won’t perch, no leaves and fruitless. She resigns to the pain.
Singing a song, A bearded man comes along. A stoutly fellow clad in denim.
“Oh no!” She thinks.
“He sees I am nothing.” And shrinks.
“Chopped down and burned will I go.”
But tenderly and merrily He soothes her branches gracefully With a touch of sadness and woe.
“This is not you,” he exclaimed. “Empty and barren, just an untreated stain. I shall cherish you and see how you grow.”
Day after day he waters And he nurtures. Though birds fly away, he steadily remains.
Some days hurt when he trimmed. Branches broke as she slimmed.
“Oh no! Surely I’ll be no more.”
She trembled and lamented.
“I am not the same” she vented. “How could he do this?”
But he came back again and again With his red metal watering can. Until one morning a bright little bud burst out of her ends.
“Oh my!” She thought. What satisfaction this little bloom had brought. And she delighted when the farmer came near.
She almost burst from her roots Like she was flaunting new boots To show him what she had become.
He looked close at the bud And admired it, standing in the mud. He grinned and said, “Well done.”
Never
knowing what the weather would send The man continued to tend. And blossoms began growing all over her limbs.
Her trunk finally stood tall. “Grow, my child,” he said in a southern drawl. “And your fruit will bless this land.”
So day after day she would just be. Be herself, be proud and trust confidently. Until one day the bright golden produce abounded.
And as her limbs hung low, It wasn’t for a withered glow, But all the fruit that was ready and ripe.
And he sat beside her Taking a bite, as birds flew near. She was enough as she was And just BECAUSE.
FEAR
Courtney Straw
adorned in a shiny biker jacket appearing tough and undeterred.
His mere presence threatens the regular loiterers.
In this place though, their ails are not treated with a drink, but with worthiness
They are remembered for their humility and transparency, a surrendering of their will
When he walks in with pomp and pride fully seen, but completely masked, he allures each person with comfort in uncertainty.
But as the drink sets in, his fallibility is exposed. Not so tough and ever so breakable. He barely stands as he teeters out the door.
Those that stay wonder if he shows any true power. Here they are known.
Out of that threshold he loses all credibility. Fear is just a spectator. The authentic are a true spectacle.
with a deafening glance at the bartender, adorned in a shiny biker jacket appearing tough and undeterred
His mere presence threatens the regular loiterers
In this place though, their ails are not treated with a drink, but with worthiness
They are remembered for their humility and transparency, a surrendering of their will.
When he walks in with pomp and pride fully seen, but completely masked, he allures each person with comfort in uncertainty.
But as the drink sets in, his fallibility is exposed. Not so tough and ever so breakable. He barely stands as he teeters out the door.
Those that stay wonder if he shows any true power. Here they are known
Out of that threshold he loses all credibility
Fear is just a spectator
The authentic are a true spectacle
LITTLE TIGER
Little tiger, Muscles tendered
Eyes a cerulean blue
His chin rising proud above the sunshine rays of the morning.
Little tiger, Stumbling down the ridges of his territory Slow rambles through the his jungle Low-lying in boredom.
Little tiger, Finds his target
The faux rat nestled between two cushions He slithers.
Then he’s distracted by me, And I look at him.
Little tiger, With littler paws
And fragile ears And plumage emanating from his tail.
Little tiger, So elegant
The pinnacle of backcountry beauty Scraps of life clipped out of his mane.
Phoenix Shanin
Rolls off the couch.
Little tiger Returns to his hunt Finding his rat again Struggling to fight back.
Little tiger Watches as his prey Scurries away.
Little tiger Releasing the hunt Forgoes my bed And waits by his food bowl instead.
THE AIR FEELS COOL SOMETIMES
Jack Howard Gregersen
The air feels cool sometimes
Like my hair when the fair winds move in line
I moved away from the lovers the brothers and city
Out of tune, astray, hundreds of hours of missing I got the chance to go back
Say goodbye to ones I left
Someone in particular, my mind played back and back
The fun in us was mystical, my life made light from black
She was my connection
An anchor that I threw hoping someone soon would catch it
She marked a line in my old life, looked in, and helped me out
The sharpened spike of what life was like took in and tore me up
The air feels cool sometimes
No more dreams and lies, today, this day is mine
I’m here right now, those days of dreaming back will be the past I made it here with hope, it stayed, and it drew me back I saw her, now, this chance is here, but I shuddered with fear
I then said, “how my panic veers that path, burdened with tears”
I pushed aside the lies I’ve lain about my life and pain
I looked outside my eyes did lie on her and walked her way
The air feels cool sometimes
I said bye to all my friends in my old life
I flew back to my new house, my new life, and on the way to school I noticed that the air around, the air outside, it’s cool
The air feels cool sometimes
TERRIBLY
i miss you terribly.
it’s a wretched thing, clawing at my insides with spindly metallic fingers the feeling washes over me and i am caught in the tide of it you dole out small pieces of lemon pie for me coated in powdered sugar cherry blossoms burst with color, softly painting the streets when the petals fall it’s an isolating feeling, mourning someone who is still there how can i become who i was a year ago? how can i bring you back to me? your smell of cloves and warm embrace i miss the days when i could kiss you i wish i could have done it more
BREATHE
Why do you always cling to these broken facades? Memories; flawed, Yet something to cling to when all is falling apart
I know who you are. Yet inside it is something you’re not. If it broke, Would it expose your fragile heart?
If only you hadn’t tried to hide in the dark for so long. If only there was somewhere you’d belong
What if you’re lost? What if you’ve been lost for so long, you forgot?
A memory, Star-crossed You would live again, But at what cost?
What if the form you find, that finally feels right, Is a lie?
Who’s to decide If your broken, If each night you cry
In your sleep, Begging to be someone who can breathe?
But if you yourself Have never felt that pain, .
How do you know you could live like this If it wasn’t a game?
Who do you see
When you look in the mirror each night? Is it your blood you bleed?
Is the only truth in your life in your dreams? Are they all you believe?
Is this what you need, Or is it all some cursed lead that you heed, Only to bring you a memory of someone you can never be?
Are you just a shadow in the breeze? A machine? Could you ever lead?
Maybe this is all you’ll ever be, Doomed to chase the faces you believe Could set you free
Remember me. Please
MISSING GRANDMA
Josh
A thin white stick in her hand
Made the air fuzzy like a cactus, And she inhaled as if it were contraband. The old outdoor couch housed us
While her fingers ruffled my hair
Like skeletons traveling through tall grass.
Casting a rod into her lake of murky memories, The same stories kept getting caught.
But she smelled of cookies and brownies, And to her, I always flocked
So it was okay, I would lie here a little longer.
Poem
Sitting here by the shore, lost in my thoughts, I can’t help but feel what the night has brought. The moon hangs high, a glowing ball of light, Turning the dark water silver, oh, what a sight!
In the stillness, I hear waves gently lapping, While the stars above twinkle like dreams on a map. It’s just me and the cool breeze, my heart in a race, I’m floating on feelings I can’t quite place.
There are two in the canoe, gliding with ease, Singing some ancient tune that dances with the trees. Their voices, like magic, weaving through the air, A melody of freedom, no worries or care.
I wish I could join them, escape from the grind, Leave behind work and all that’s confined Here by the lake, everything feels so right, Under a canvas of stars, painted black and white.
The shadows around me seem to whisper and sway, Echoes of laughter from the games we used to play. I think of my friends, our plans, and our dreams; it makes me realize life isn’t always what it seems.
So here in the moment, I’ll hold onto this peace, Where I can just breathe, let my worries release. As the paddler floats on, with the night as his guide, I find my rhythm with the lake by my side
DISSOLVE IN THE FOAM
dissolve in the foam let blankets of salt seep into my skin my body an imprint on the sand that fades with ocean waves envelope me in the sharp cold only dying stars light the way as i drift far from shore home at the bottom of the sea the sound of water crashing clears away scars and fresh blood filling wounds with blue and green replacing bones with smooth glass tossed by the currents as salt falls from my eyes laid soft in cotton sheets i wish for release and to be taken by high tide
CHRISTMAS
Needles from the Christmas tree fall freely to the floor. They land lightly on the cold concrete.
The lamp shines gently through the room.
Out the window, a silent, snow-covered street. A baby sleeping peacefully.
Laying in gentle hands.
Supported by a strong foundation.
Swaddled with safety.
Comforted by Dad's warmth.
The fire hums as smoke escapes through the chimney, And into the snowy night.
A white Christmas.
The melody of a song murmurs in the background. A father's warm embrace.
Content crowds the area.
The room, full of life in the form of lullabies and love
ROUTE 2
Maddie David
I rode the public bus home during my sophomore year of high school
I kept a pair of earbuds in the pockets of my jeans just for the ride home
Listening to gentle music and watching all the different kinds of people
I will never forget seeing an older woman with a bouquet of flowers
They were wrapped neatly in paper with a small twine ribbon
She switched between looking out the window and smiling at the petals
I wondered where they came from and what about them made her glow
She got off the bus and looked as giddy as a child on Christmas morning
Another day, I had my earbuds in and saw a man lying down across two seats
His legs hung off the chairs and into the aisle of the bus like a roadblock
I walked past him and saw his broken-down flip-flops and a small piece of tin foil
I still wondered where he was going on the bus or if he needed a place to stay
There is no way of knowing what is going on in people's lives
Maybe someone could be having the best day ever after being gifted flowers
Or maybe someone had no way of knowing what would happen in the next few hours
FAKE BOY
Kai Callaghan
The bloodless boy, flat-nosed, cries out in pain, but he receives no answer, only a firm tug on the head and hands to dance him around with his legs together again, making the crowd laugh and cheer by hammering it in that this is not a real boy.
ROOTS COVERED BY THE TIDE
I wandered far where waves collide, The ocean called, its pull my guide. The shore seemed lost, the path unclear, Yet something whispered, drawing near. I am the ocean, wild and wide, A restless heart, the waves I hide I crash and pull, I rise and fall, A force untamed, I lose it all You are the forest, rooted deep, A quiet strength, your secrets keep. Your branches stretch, your leaves they bend, A silent love that will not end. I pull away, I slip from view, Like tides that leave the shore, but knew That no matter how far I roam, The forest calls me back to home. The ocean roars, it crashes loud, A cry that echoes in the crowd. But you, the forest, listen kind, Your silence speaks, it heals my mind. Together, we face the endless blue, The waves, they roll, but I'm with you. Your heart the wind, your love the shore, With you beside, I need no more. I’m lost without the strength of you, Like ocean waves and forest trees, Through storms, through tides, through endless seas Together our friendship forever remains more than these
Kaelyn
A DOCTOR'S MACHINATIONS
Sam
Do you ever look for what fills a person? Gives a body something that the words life and soul can only glean the faintest glimpse of? I have, yet… why can’t I find it?
My blade pierces skin, slices sinew, and lacerates ligaments to reveal succulent ruby flesh leaking scarlet ribbons, but nothing else. Neatly packaged, it lays there, muscle plainly visible within the skin that has been opened to reveal its inner workings like a parcel of steak on a butcher’s cutting block.
One would expect something higher than an ivory frame and sanguine pistons in something so soulful as a human, but all my blade finds is flesh and bone. I lament as I carve that there should be something more in here, something that separates man from inanimate machine. Oil-slick blood is all that I find.
In the chest, I feel the beating of a drum but cannot hear the whispers of the song it is playing for. So I am powerless but to contemplate how greatly its tempo points my intellect to the ticking of a timer slowly counting down.
I extend my arm to cut deeper, but my joints creak like long abandoned hinges in need of repair, screeching in a machinal agonal gasp. My brow is covered in wet, dripping like a broken contraption, grease-like droplets shining as they land upon the earth.
Even as I try to save the life in front of me, I can’t seem to find any life at all.
But, even so, I try to fix this broken thing.
My tools search inside, probing for the cause of my patient's pain, diving deeper into the awning carmine chasm, but for all their efforts, nothing is found. I look down onto my workbench only to see a machine that is failing, falling apart, crushing the soul I could not find inside.
I know that it is slowly breaking in ways that I can never fix, the same way I too am breaking. So I, machinist of man, look upon my failing frame and wonder if it too is my fate to be killed by my decaying cage, or if there is no I at all, simply a machine making its way toward malfunction.
I, the doctor, the butcher, the mechanical machinist, the man, know that soul or not, my corpse will rot, never rust. My search will end when l die a patient on another man's table, either carcass or broken machine.
THE PATH
Sam
On path untraveled a boy did walk. To see sights unseen, holding joy without reason. A new world before him with wonders untold. Ever onwards toward the future, he ran past the seasons.
On path unraveled a man did walk. Whose eyes had seen much, with much more to see. Many burdens he shouldered yet freedoms he possessed. Towards triumph and tragedy, tomorrow's totality.
On path untraveled an elder did walk. Forthward he wandered though abaft his gaze. Trapped was he on the path he had chosen, Waiting in silence for life’s light’s final rays.
On path well-traveled Death did walk. Watching a boy, aspirations unfettered. Following a man whose steps were shackles. Embracing an elder holding naught but regret.
In death’s embrace the man did halt. Laying still where all paths lead, Staring at nothing and all he had walked. Finally, knowing what it’s like to be freed.
SHATTERING THE STORM
Oh goodness me, how the pressure grows
Building deep in the dark bellows
Promising a putrid stain
Withholding is a horrid pain
I know that with the smallest slip
Smaller than the slightest pip
That I would burn a crimson red
And sorely wish that I were dead
So I did run away from those
Who would stare with crinkled nose
And Whisper, in their cursed speech
Everywhere the stench could reach
I saw a sign from heaven's hand
Th t i t d t i d l d
Sam
Surrounded by a bustling crowd
It was released oh-so-loud FRRRRRRPP!!
Escaping through the loosening door
The pain was gone forevermore
NAMED CONTRIBUTERS
Max Goldberg
Courtney Straw
Jack Howard Gregersen
Phoenix Shainin
Kaelyn
Maddie David
Sam
Kai Callaghan
Josh
POETRY