Rings, Strings, and Other Things - June 2019

Rings, Strings, & Other Things

Volume XXXVIII 2019

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Staff Editors-in-Chief Brammy Rajakumar ‘19 Madeleine Munn ‘19 Emma Somers ‘19 Sahib Chandi ‘20 Art Editor and Coffeehouse Chair Meg Woodard ’19 Staff Cabell Jones ‘19 Julia Duarte ‘20 Katherine Chang ‘20 Brian Moss ‘20 Ellie Thornton ‘19 Juliet Lancey ‘20 Karina Dick ‘20 Virginia Ames Tillar ‘21 Avery Munn ‘20 Sarah Yue ‘19 Alexandra Kerr ‘21 Ella Davis ‘21 Peyton McNider '19 Faculty Advisor Charlotte Zito ‘99 Art Advisor Knox Garvin Printer Professional Printing Center Cover Art by Meg Woodard '19 Title Page Art by Cabell Jones '19 2

Editor’s Letter Dear Readers,

We present to you the 38th edition of our literary magazine: Rings, Strings and Other Things. The words in here are born of heartache, passion, faith, dedication. They are born of memory, calls to action, inspiration. They are born of writers, whether those writers would call themselves that or not, who let pen and paper reflect their world. The art and photography in here are born of the same great effort- thank you so much to those of you who contributed.

Here’s to the Sundays we spent in the editing room, wondering aloud about how to use the program we already had our hands on. We can only hope we did all of this work justice.

Here’s to Mr. Garvin, our art advisor, who is often the man behind the curtain but helped make this LitMag what it is.

Here’s to Mrs. Zito, for cheering us on and helping us learn; she makes us better! Most of all here’s to you, our artists, the brilliant creators you all are, thank you for giving us your work to present.

Readers, thank you for your watchful eyes and open hearts. Thank you for reading the words your peers so thoughtfully wrote. To our sweet Class of 2019, we hope you find your LitMag in a box or on a shelf somewhere a few years down the road. We hope you take it out, dust it off, and remember all the things and people that got you to where you are now. We hope you remember happy times at Norfolk Academy when you read the LitMag. To those of you with time left at Norfolk Academy, we hope you soak up everything around you. Let yourselves be taught and inspired as you prepare to leave the nest in the coming years.

To all of you- students, faculty, seniors, anyone- we hope you keep reading and keep writing! We hope you listen to the advice of Sylvia Plath: “And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.” Be outgoing and imaginative. Write it all down. We hope you love this LitMag as much as we do.

Madeleine Munn, Brammy Rajakumar, Emma Somers, & Sahib Chandi

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Table of Contents

“The Bridge” - Millie VanSlyke ‘22...........................7

“Wesleyan Drive, Winter” - Meghan Lawrence ‘20..........8 “Broken” - Anonymous....................................9 “Haikus” - Meghan Lawrence ‘20.........................10 “The Perspective of the Bird” - Shrey Vachhani ‘20.....11 “Tornado Waltz” - Marissa Mejia ‘19....................12 “Greenbriar Farm, Winter” - Nate Dickinson ‘20.........14 “Elegy to Lost Love” - By Gianna Jones ‘20.............15 “A Day in Swan Beach” - Ben Locke ‘20 and “Nice” - Jasmine Brown ‘20.............................17 “Summer” - Elaina Tenfelde ‘20.........................18 “Incidental Conjecture on Parents” - Madeleine Munn ‘19...............................................20 “Puranay Badal (With Very Rough Translations)” - Ali Zaidi ‘20..............................................22 “The House Filled With Blue Eyes and Scraps of Fabric” -Eliza Blythe ‘22......................................23 “Incredibly Vincible” - Anonymous......................24 “12-21-18” - Avery Munn ‘20............................25 “Frigid and Warm Mountain Top, Winter” - Sofia Wachtmeister ‘20.......................................26 “A World That Smelled Like Sunshine” - Juliet Lancey ‘20.............................................28 “To My Savior” - Anonymous.............................30 “*The Fine Print” - Kerri Thornton ‘20.................32 “Ode to Russell” - Solomon Duane ‘19...................33 “Hampton Boulevard, Spring” and Haikus - Michael Hostutler ‘20..........................................34 “Untitled” - Madison Kirkman ‘19.......................36 “To Live” - Sammi Jacobs ‘20...........................37 “Blinded” - Anonymous..................................38 “Strokes of Life” - Meg Woodard ‘19....................39 “Seasons of (Virginia) Beach” - Meg Woodard ‘19........40 “Plastic” - Shelby Brown ‘19...........................41 “A Sonnet for Uncertainty” - Samantha Farpour ‘19......42 “The Angst of Feminism” - Madison Kirkman ‘19..........43 “Brinkley Lane, Spring” - Shrey Vachani ‘20............44 “The Fly” - Jack Limroth ‘19...........................46 “Enouement” - Shelby Brown ‘19.........................47 “Night Bird” - Ali Zaidi ‘20...........................48 4

“Ode to Saturday Morning” - William Smythe ‘20........49 “The power of something unnoticed” - Julia Duarte ‘20............................................51 “Social Media” - Maddie Lester ‘21....................53 “Sri Lankan Born American” - Brammy Rajakumar ‘19.....54 “A Little More Purple” - Juliet Lancey ‘20............55 “The Educated Man” - Katie Post ‘20...................56 “The Roman Speaks of Rivers” - Patrick McCracken ‘21.........................................57 “Hamburger and Hermburger” - J.R. Herman ‘20..........58 “things as they were” - Anonymous.....................59 An Excerpt - Dylan Pausch ‘20.........................60 “Sometimes A Person IS” - Emma Somers ‘19.............62 On “Everyone of these boys went to work when the whistle blew, Noon, June 15th, Norfolk, VA” Photo by Lewis Hine 1911” - Grayson Glenn ‘19.............................65 “A Friend Named” - Balthazar Denk ‘19.................66 “Imagination” - Taran Jeevan ‘23......................67 “Everyone Told Me” - Anonymous........................68 “Bansiro” - Marissa Mejia ‘19.........................73 “There Is a Monster” - Toria Kauffman ‘22.............75 “Poem 2” - J.R. Herman ‘20............................76 “Company” - Laura Read ‘20............................77 “Music: We Need It” - John Paschold ‘22...............78 “An Incomprehensible Road Map” - Kendall Pagach ‘22............................................80 “people cannot travel through words.” - Kristen Tan ‘23...............................................82 “when the art becomes a crime” - Alexandra Kerr ‘21...83 “Monsters Hiding in the Dark” - Sarah Jacobs ‘22......84 “The Temporary Layer” - Sarah Bimson ‘20..............86 “Night” - Sahib Chandi ‘20............................87 “I’m Fine” - Ariana Jamali ‘20........................88 “Etude of Memories” - Katherine Chang ‘20.............89 Haikus - Katherine Chang ‘20..........................90 “My Grandparent’s Dock” - Ethan Sorrell ‘20...........91 “History” - Ned Lewis ‘21.............................92 “The Road We Travel” - Sammi Jacobs ‘20...............93 “Country Living” - Jack Whitmore ‘20..................94 “Realism, Not Pessimism” - Kristen Tan ‘22............95 “Call Me” - Emma Somers ‘19...........................96 5

“(untitled)” - Caitlin Johnson ‘21.....................98 “Cross Country Cruising” - Jack Whitmore ‘20...........99 “The Surface” - Cate Ware ‘22.........................100 “Distillate” - Leah Smith ‘20.........................101 “Climbing Sky-High” - Nicholas Rose ‘22...............102 “Lacrosse” - Jack Hall ‘20............................103 “Wonder of Amity” - Caitlin Johnson ‘22...............104 “Exigent” - Madeleine Munn ‘19........................106 “A Rose From Concrete” - Matthew Wetmore ‘21..........108 “Ophelia” - Laura Read ‘20............................113 “Implied” - Leah Smith ‘20............................114 “God’s Warrior” - Layla Compton ‘24...................115 “My First Dance” - Virginia Chandler ‘20..............116 “Searching and Searching” - Virgina Chandler ‘20 and Haikus - Guil Ware ‘20................................117 “They Tried to Build a Fence” - Toria Kauffman ‘22..........................................119 “Poem to Anonymous Love” - Rachel Buchanan ‘24........120 “Shore Drive” - Guil Ware ‘20.........................121 “Anaphora by a (digressive and ADD afflicted) Synesthesiac”- Ava Foy ‘20............................122 “Untitled” - Julian Burke ‘24 and “Iambic Pentameter Poem” - Conner Alex ‘24...............................123 “The Ocean’s Crashing Waves” - Ida Shapero ‘22........124 Six Word Memoirs - the Lit Mag Staff..................126

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The Bridge

By Millie VanSlyke ‘22 So you got hurt by someone you once loved.

Sharp, stabbing pain, Tear stains on your face, Crushed by the weight, Nothing more to gain.

What? They ask, Will you do?

Turn your back, walk away?

Cower in the shadows, a prisoner to your immaturity?

So you got hurt by someone you once loved.

Try to laugh it off, Think of them and scoff, Convince yourself you’ve had enough Of their games playing you like a flute.

Why? They ask, Would you stay?

They messed up, And now they have to pay.

But now, A big, black bridge blocks your hearts from smiling again.

Anger is a rock.

It crushes the weak, immature voices That scream out from their hiding places behind other peoples voices Accomplishing NOTHING. We people need to know that There is a way to combat Pain: F: Friendship is the sharpest sword a person can bear.

O: The Origin of a good thing should matter more than the end.

R: Your “Reason” is not good enough to lose a friend.

G: Gracefully, Generously, Grant peace.

I: Invite awkwardness into the room.

V: Visit old memories.

E: Everyone deserves forgiveness.

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Davi

d De nson

(‘23

)

Wesleyan Drive, Winter

By Meghan Lawrence ‘20 Winter for fear and paper, for gifts and white, For the neverending flipping of estimated answers, For reunions and warm embraces, and the December classrooms For empty desks and the ashes in the air, ah snowflakes!

When I place winter branches together, it is A period of terrified children and Christmas tinsel Wrapping around a tree, miniscule memories going away from me It is tunes of Mariah Carey being sung until aggression, And the smiles of children Cleaning their novel-invaded lockers; It is the taste of satisfaction and the sound of smiles in the ears that fill the faces of overworked, sleep deprived students, and the ruffling of tests with no stopping point or break in between.

There is the highway, like the weaving mind of our own.

I would travel down you, in the winter cold, and run free if you would only give me the grade I so deeply need.

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Broken

By Anonymous Before the rain even started Before the sky was shrouded in darkness Before the first cry was heard We were all the same Broken As a child I felt different But that was not a false statement As it is really quite apparent That we are all quite different However, it does not mean That we are to be broken The conquerors and the conquered Each is taken over Both of them feel the aftershocks They feel the pain And each of them is broken The bully is as much If not more victim Than the one he sought to oppress And each of them is broken The native and the foreigner Different as they are Different as they may remain And even though they may never cease This endless spar Both of them are

broken

David Denson (‘23) 9

Haikus

By Meghan Lawrence ‘20 Wildfires The fire kills the joy.

Gleaming smiles now gleaming flames; Bright future now burned.

Big Waves Water flows over Happiness is washed away Tsunami kills all.

Lauren Camardella ‘20

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The Perspective of the Bird

By Shrey Vachhani ‘20 Many a mountain peak in the distance, Rising above all life and existence, A massive crater filled by water lies ahead, Minnows and rays gliding on the seabed.

The big city skyline protrudes the landscape, Yet nature surrounds it, impossible to escape, The architectural pinnacles of humanity, Draw the insignificant people’s vanity.

The buildings that capture our admiration, And push the mind into a state of damnation, Are merely specks of brilliant gold, In the flowing Alaskan rivers, dull and cold.

Inconspicuous to the human eye, Like human achievement from the blue sky.

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Tornado Waltz Marissa Mejia ‘19 (Based on Roethke’s Work) I peek out the curtain To see the dark theatre, Hear the chatter of rain, See every creature.

Cabbage heads stare at me.

For music corn ears strain.

They all wait patiently.

To see me dance again.

My mother yanks me back.

“Get far from that window!

It is bound to soon crack!”

Reluctantly I go.

As we flee from the room, The soft music begins, Escalates to a boom With tornado sirens.

So I commence my dance, Chasse toward stage right, Without a single glance Leap, a glorious flight.

Then my duet partner Enters from stage left In a frantic manner And of color bereft.

I leap to him in fear.

He lifts me without pause, And together we hear The thunderous applause.

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Quick pirouettes and twirls I feel dizzy and small.

Around us the wind whirls.

I see my partner fall.

The strong wind carries me To his side on the floor.

I grab his head gently As we practiced before.

We hold this final pose As the music dies down.

At our feet a dead rose Has been thrown to the ground.

The curtain will soon close.

This long it should not take.

We can break from this pose.

My partner will awake.

Soon the audience leaves With the change of the leaves.

The curtain has not closed.

His eyes forever closed.

Molly Brown ‘19 13

Greenbriar Farm, Winter

By Nate Dickinson ‘20 Winter for the fireplace that sparks and crackles, For the creek that shuts during the cold months, For the snow that piles on the roof until it can hold no more, For the silence of frozen farmland.

Honks of geese echo through the trees Exciting you for the morning hunt, And making you grateful for the heat in front of you.

It is the chirp of hungry birds Awaiting spring and the gradual melt.

It is the glistening of ice That sits sturdily on the wide, still creek.

The heavy wind bends the lengthy trees Giving no sign of its end.

The beautiful snowflakes falling from heaven Covering every part of marsh, grass, and gravel.

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Elegy to Lost Love

By Gianna Jones ‘20 Watching her live is like watching a flower bloom No change can be seen if you keep watching But leaving and returning every now and then You can see how the petals have risen, How some bugs have made her their home How beautiful and happy she is without you to watch

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Lauren Camardella ‘20

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Nice

By Jasmine Brown ‘20 It must be nice-Truly connecting with a friend.

You’re too nice.

You’re being taken advantage of; You’re like a doormat, People just use you.

You’re so nice.

You would never do anything-Mean.

People like the idea of you, Because you are nice.

I don’t know you, Nor do you know me.

Nice.

What else am I-But nice?

It was nice getting to know you this year.

A Day in Swan Beach

By Ben Locke ‘20 My dad spent his hot summer days in Carova, Loving every second of his life.

He didn’t surf much but loved the beach.

One beautiful day comes around and he is outside Playing with his three-wheeler and dune buggy.

He sees clouds in his peripheral vision and looks up.

He feels rain drops and notices it has begun to rain.

Staying outside and not being afraid to get wet, He looks around and witnesses little objects falling from the sky.

It comes to his attention that baby frogs are falling from the clouds.

While observing this fascinating event taking place.

He is purely amazed.

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Summer

By Elaina Tenfelde ‘20 Summer for the careless laughs that pierce the heat, For the hugs that must last a year, For the late nights bleeding into early morning When I awake to attend my family reunion.

The meeting of my family brings me joyHope of laughter, love, and life Pepper my brain as I make the drive To Chesapeake.

I arrive first, hating tardiness.

Then come my sisters, Both zombie-like from their Lack of sleep, abundance of tears.

My brothers come roaring next.

They fly in on their bikes, Zipping through in a wave of Red, Green, Blue Red for anger management, Green for his spirit, Blue for insecurity and uncertainty, They form the rainbow of my day.

Finally come my parents.

Silent warriors barely tolerating us As we clamor and shout, They call to start practice.

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Agathe Renou ‘19 19

Incidental Conjecture on Parents

By Madeleine Munn ‘19 How do you write about your parents?

Do you tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, (So Help You God?) Or Do you carve it up With a scalpel Compartmentalizing And Cutting (But also maybe healing) Do you tell alleven the Pain, the Neglect, the Disappointment(even though it just hurts) Is it a book for all to read?

Do you weep with words, A fountain of unkempt mess?

Do you tidy it up for the viewer (Discretion Advised) Make it readable and soft, The lite version.

Is better easier?

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Do you tap into Anger, Rage, Fury One tap and down go All the dominoes.

They’d been stacked so neatly before… (at least they looked neat?)

Do you make it funny?

(It’s not funny) Laughing at your pain Make light of it in the way you flick on the lights when you’re home alone so you don’t have to be in the dark with yourself too long...

Yourself. The ultimate reason to try and blame someone else.

All because of them, despite them for them, without themDo you want to say you did it all alone?

(It depends) Did you really do it all alone?

(I don’t know anymore) The world is simultaneously cheering you on (like proud parents) and cutting you down (like unproud parents) Finally, (maybe) You just don’t write about them at all.

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Puranay Badal (with very rough translations)

By Ali Zaidi ‘20 Mai dil se tumko chahunga (I will want you from the heart) Mai phir bhi tumko chahunga (I, even then, would still love you) Pehli nazar Mein mujh pe jadoo ho gaya (At first sight, the magic was done to me) Mai phir bhi tumko chahunga (I, even then, would still love you) Naya pyaar houay naya intezaar (A new love or a new waiting) Mai phir bhi tumko chahunga (I, even then, would still love you) Tere bin kaise jiya (How did I live without you) Mai phir bhi tumko chahunga (I, even then, would still love you) Khud se be ho jayenge juda (I will separate from myself) Phir bhi, Mai tumko chahunga (Even then I would still love you) Sanam, tujhe dekha to ye jana (Dear, when I saw you I knew) Ke Mai tujko he chahunga (That I will love only you) Tere naam pe Meri zindagi (My life is on your name) Isliye Mai tumko chahunga (For this reason I love you) Jeene laga hoon palai sai zada (I have begun to live more than ever) Mai phir bhi tumko chahunga (I, even then, would still love you) Kya hoga na pata (Not knowing what will happen) Phir be tum hi ko chahunga (Even then I would still love you) Mai roshni se jahunga (I will go away from the light) Mai phir bhi tumko chahunga (I, even then, would still love you) *Inspired by the songs of Atif Aslam/Arijit Singh 22

The House Filled With Blue Eyes and Scraps of Fabric

By Eliza Blythe ‘22 Nana’s art-house overflowing with half-used watercolors and sunshine.

Mum’s sewing machine piecing together tissue paper patterns.

Grandma’s thimbles underneath her embroidery pattern.

Grandpa’s workshop covered with chunks of wood and handmade chairs.

Dad’s leatherbound journals worn with poems and stories.

Every summer since I was nine, I have spent two weeks by myself with my grandparents up in Scituate, Massachusetts. In the mornings I would attend sailing camp down in the harbor and in the afternoons I would accompany Grandma and Grandpa in whatever activity we deemed worthy of our time. Most of my afternoons were filled with exploring my Grandparent’s neverending 18th-century house and squirting my cousin with water guns, but sometimes I would watch my Grandma sew. My Grandma’s sewing room sits on the farthest wing of the house encased with windows that overlook her garden and Grandpa’s barn. I learned how to sew in this room. Grandma, my cousin, Luke, and I had just finished lunch and Grandpa left to go back to work when I found myself following Grandma around while she cleaned up. I trailed along upstairs and into the sewing room where she sat down in front of the sewing machine to fix a window curtain. Feeling my eyes on her, Grandma handed me the thick slab of linen and instructed me to finish it. The growl and hiss of the sewing machine made it difficult for me to hide my fear of its chomping off the tip of my finger. Despite my irrational worrying, by the time Grandpa arrived back from work, not only had the curtain been fixed but there also sat three deformed stuffed animals waiting for him. Since that summer I have expanded my sewing ability past stuffed animals. Now I mostly work with clothing. Along with giving me the ability to explore my own personality, sewing also allows me to express myself in a more creative and physical way.

Although the first time I learned how to sew on Grandma’s sewing machine is not the most significant moment of my life, learning how to express my creativity through sewing remains an essential part of who I am. Grandma taught me how to sew; Nana taught me how to paint; Grandpa taught me how to build; Dad taught me how to journal. They instilled in me not only a passion but a need for working with my hands and my heart. I believe in the cultivation of creativity.

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Incredibly Vincible

By Anonymous

In our cars we drive too fast We assume youth is meant to last Nights we spent out late None of these could determine our fate We live as though we are invincible.

Why learn from a mistake?

We always seem to get a retake.

Risk it is all we crave It will come as a shock when it takes us to our grave What could go wrong, though? We are invincible.

It takes only one event One thing to catalyze The End. Everyday is unique, Our lives are only one second of one day on the cosmic calendar of the universe

We are not promised another day?

Have we ever considered that?

Why do we continue to live as though we have ten lives.

A plague has infected our entire generation Of wishful thinking that we are everlasting We will one day see we are not invincible Life is very fragile breath by breath until The End.

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12-21-18

By Avery Munn ‘20 We’ve been driving for hours. Nonstop, and I didn’t even want to come. The blanket has fallen at my feet, on top of the countless books that have spilled out of my backpack. I look up at the felt ceiling. I can barely reach it even if I stretch my arm all the way up. I sit back and sigh. Why am I here? I’ve exhausted every possible means of distraction: phone, book, drawing, sleeping. It’s too hot to keep my jacket on, but too cold when I take it off. Typical road trip humidity, not helped by the smooth rain that has been drizzling outside for the past few miles. I wonder what state we’re in.

I sit up, but this time I turn around, sitting cross-legged facing the cars behind us. There’s one, a trashed red pickup truck. Two people sitting in the front. From what I can tell, it is a grumbling teenage daughter stuck with her dad, who is clearly uncomfortable with the silence between them. He keeps looking around, checking the mirrors, fidgeting. I watch them. They drive really close to our bumper. It looks like he is staring right at me. I wave. Nothing. Maybe they can’t see me. I wave again, this time for longer. Our windows are tinted. They get off at the next exit.

The next one is a small black car. Just one guy, driving very quickly. He looks like a zombie. Maybe a businessman. I bet his boring company sent him on a boring trip. He has a briefcase in the passenger seat. Loser. I don’t even want to wave to him. He moves to the next lane and passes us.

This one’s interesting. A large white van, similar to ours.

There’s a ladder on top. It’s a younger guy, maybe in his 20s.

He’s wearing a white t-shirt and sitting next to an older guy, who is talking his ear off. It looks awful. The guy in the passenger seat is eating a sandwich, and dancing to the music. The driver looks like he’s about to fall asleep. I salute to him. Nothing.

They quickly speed up and exit.

The traffic slows down. One by one each car lines up behind us. Three cars back, in the left lane, a small red car looks like it’s going to slow down, but it doesn’t. It runs into a gray minivan with faded headlights, almost like bumper cars. There is no loud crash, no huge reaction. They both just pull over and everyone moves on.

After awhile the cars start to blur together. It’s funny how each car matches the personality of the people inside them. It keeps raining for a few more hours. Eventually we keep going until we reach the city. I will survive the weekend. It’s just a trip.

And everything will go on. But I remembered that drive. I don’t know what made me turn around, but I did. We are all going somewhere, doing something. On a highway full of people, we are all lonely.

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Frigid and Warm Mountain Top, Winter

By Sofia Wachtmeister ‘20 Winter for bundling up, for the fluff of snow.

For the steaming hot cocoa, For cabins and skis, and the wooden houses With the abundance of scarves and hats These are the weeks of the parallel: Warmth in blankets around the crackling fireplace The stinging cold of the snow in the wind Blankets of snow clouds fill the sky, It is the comfort of wrapping fingers around the warm mug It is hunger in your stomach while coming off the mountain And devouring your food but tasting the regret of exiting off the slopes Over the city emerges a towering triangle, The Breckenridge mountain.

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David Denson ‘23 27

A World That Smelled Like Sunshine

By Juliet Lancey ‘20 when i was little i used to live in a world that smelled like sunshine. an infinite field speckled with dandelion memories. running downhill so fast you fall, the grass that reaching up to place you down safe. eyes up at an infinite baby blue circle above like you are all that exists, the leaves on the everchanging trees rippling in the peripheral, and if you thought big enough you would realize that you are floating. blue sky with white cotton clouds, unaware of the world turning the cool breeze, whispering adventure day in day out air like a crystal clear lake to swim in forever. staring out into the mountain of blotches of everchanging color a zoomed out picture of each individual leaf if you jumped, you know you would float like them. the feeling that words and sounds and the lines of black and white can’t yet describe 600,000 words and not one of them fits just right like this moment pools of happiness a glittering shimmering liquid gold tossed with laughter like rain drops on a lake, serene with a light breeze from the outside gently rippling the surface sounds of birds and feelings of grass stains

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the kind of thunderstorm that only happens here slipping down the hills and collecting in the valley. a flash of lighting and the kind of thunder that cracks giving you a moment to make your choice: to cover your ears or open your eyes. have you ever run into a thunderstorm? it's the kind where no is not an option and whatever chains were holding you inside suddenly break with the splintering of thunder. //this infinite world swirling inside of my glass heart. a snowglobe of laughter and leaves, bridges over rivers with round stones at the bottom catfish in a pond with a steady diet of cheerios an infinite horizon of blue and green reflected in the lake still reflected in your eyes hugged by the grass and lulled to sleep by the howl feet that never touched ground, only earth and when you inhaled your lungs shone with gold and the whole thing smelled like sunshine.

29

To My Savior

By Anonymous My eyes open From night’s unruly restlessness Legs and arms take their shapes and I swallow my daily dose of fear and doubt With no tears this time.

I allow my rebuilt limbs to lead me toward my hollow heart And so the process begins again With each step, spirits of the past and blurs of the future reach out Let us help No. I want to teach myself independence, self reliance.

The poison bubbles through my lungs, not long before I am overtaken Until I am seized back to reality and am given a second set of shoulders

30

On them, I dump my tears and bundles of sentence fragments Thank you for teaching me comfort and healthy dependency.

Agathe Renou ‘19

31

*The Fine Print

By Kerri Thornton ‘20 You are normal, they say, Nothing is wrong with you.

Still the same as you were before; Then why does it feel untrue?

Do not be ashamed.

Be proud, stand tall!

Believing such claims Is hard when the world wants us small.

Normal even though — Still the same despite — Simply used to join a sentence, although It seems not quite right.

But how will they ever truly accept me, When even I cannot wholly agree?

Lauren Camardella ‘20

32

Ode to Russell

By Solomon Duane ‘19 Russell works at Bethlehem Steel, sweat blending with iron, calloused hands gripping rusted levers, thick veins pumping as sparks fly, singeing opened skin.

Russell inhales his dinner, mashed crackers and milk, sore muscles flexing with every lift of the dwarfed spoon.

Russell’s body was once filled out, but now he lies on a bed, frail bones being eaten alive by toxins he once used to handle.

I never met Russell, or his cracked open hands, or his bruised back, or his Samaritan works.

But he lives on through his daughter, and through her son.

Russell’s heavy hands fall on innocent faces, coming home to four daughters, his frustration with the world’s hardships boiling like melted ore.

Russell’s wife is expecting, he prays every night for a son.

A strapping man to carry the Cordova name, ‘The Sicilian Jackpot’ he calls it.

Russell jumped in Niagara River years ago, his father’s belt marks riddling his body.

Biting water numbed the pain, and instinct kicked in.

Russell’s home is filled with the houseless, his car stopping for anyone, anyone, in need.

They say he singlehandedly saved a man dying, stuck beneath a truck.

33

Hampton Boulevard, Spring

By Michael Hostutler ‘20 Spring, for morning dew and cookouts.

For dusting off the porch, eager to escape from indoors.

For the long rainstorms and flooded streets, Sweeping away the plastic trash cans.

Large trucks speeding down the concrete, Rattling the foundation of the house.

The roar of airplanes overhead, Drowning out the blaring train whistle.

A lush median separates Hampton Boulevard.

The barrier of green life splits nature and machine.

Life grows between the paved deserts, Between the rolling tires of man.

Haikus

By Michael Hostutler ‘20 In between the cracks the sidewalk bares its life hope in a dark place Yellow boots withstand puddles in the driveway innocence kept dry

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Alastair Sterns (‘19) 35

Untitled

By Madison Kirkman ‘19 Daytime Light surrounds me In this enormous city I see clear as day Nighttime The darkness wakes up The light will come back again No one is sleeping.

Dreaming Feeling mesmerized The dream I don’t want to leave The city is mine

Meg Woodard ‘19 36

To Live

By Sammi Jacobs ‘20 The bold sun begins to fall behind the horizon, and we haul the sturdy stand-up paddle boards to the edge of the water.

The serene lake hugs our tired legs and we are refreshed.

Away from the rocky beach, we paddle into the fading sunlight.

Our memories are filled with late night adventures on Lake Champlain to the point that our minds are overflowing with the sweet smell of the sharp Vermont air.

Young, and bright, and eager, living is the only thing on our minds.

Sheets of rain fall on the Jeep, surrounding us in rhythmic tapping.

The fluorescent sign of the rundown arcade pierces through the darkness.

Ignoring the dingy nature of the building, we earn as many tickets as possible, laughing the whole time.

Our yellow summer days were shorter than they should be and further away than we would like.

37

Blinded

By Anonymous You talk to me and smile,

unaware that the joy you bring to me is unable to be rivaled Your words keep me warm

Your absence brings on cold When you cry, I can sense a darkening storm unfold Our voices are alike

Though, how am I to hear?

When you speak, all other noises disappear Your wittiness astounds

Your cleverness abounds And then you smile, and I am too stunned to feel the ground As you stand before me

The whole world stands behind All the light in your eyes is enough to make me blind

John Leo Luecke ‘19

38

Strokes of Life

By Meg Woodard ‘19 From the young age starting with the brush in my hand, Guiding the way stroke by stroke My tiny hand engulfed in yours.

The gentleness of it like the way you treated me.

Ever so calm, yet so powerful Growing older, getting bigger, My hand more fitting inside yours, Each stroke we make begins to form an image.

The brush flowing ever so quickly, Picking up like life does.

Steady now, Moving through life You were there through it all, Both the big and the small.

Brush strokes beginning to slow down, The masterpiece coming together, All that I have learned becoming one cohesive piece.

Slower and slower time winding down.

We can’t keep painting together forever.

One last final touch…

The masterpiece is finished, the strokes come to a close.

Encompassed in it, the rich knowledge, Handing for all to see.

Now I am ready to start again, This time, On my own.

39

Seasons of (Virginia) Beach

By Meg Woodard ‘19 Tides continuously flowing.

Moving along forever changing.

Wanting to remain here forever, Life moving almost too quickly.

A warm summer day, Skin turning red as a cherry flavored snow cone.

Hearing that faint tune of the ice cream truck, Grabbing that spare change Bolting out the door with no shoes on.

Or that crisp fall day, Taking a walk as the stiff sand crunches beneath your feet.

The dogs running around, So freely and so fast, Like they are being chased, Never wanting to leave.

Then comes winter, Sand lightly covered in last night’s snowfall.

Dragging your feet to make a message That is soon washed away, The cold air turning your nose As pink as your favorite childhood stuffed animal.

Back in bloom Spring brings a change of mood.

Warmer days approaching.

Birthday party under the tent, The barren beach becoming populated once again, High season is among us.

Time moves along, But no matter how much you change, My love will always remain.

40

Plastic

By Shelby Brown ‘19 we will forever deny we had braces, for it will only taint our perfect image. we will only rest satisfied when others buy into our lie of perfection. due to the pressure put upon our shoulders, to perpetuate our superiority in the genetic lottery. all flaws are arrested hidden deep within the deepest dungeons of the mind under strict lock and key. for they have committed the most heinous crime of all: showing others that, we too are Human. stumbling is an unforgivable sin, clumsiness is our arch nemesis. tears are a sign of weakness. and weakness signifies inferiority. never show them the real you, because the real you is wrong. to stand out is expected, but to step even an inch out of line is unforgivable. we all dance our part in the giant masquerade ball. so invested in our image that we fail to realize, our masks are glued in place. and we all become nothing but cold, shiny Plastic.

41

A Sonnet for Uncertainty

By Samantha Farpour ‘19 It is the oldest story in the world, One day she celebrates her first birthday, The next, plans for her future have unfurled, It’s clear that she is not planning to stay, For years in school she worked without delay, Until the years began to near their end, Plans for graduation were underway, So many applications she must send, A question never failing to offend; “What and who do you want to be?” they ask, Silence; and the inquirer condescends, Resolving that question is quite the task, Desperately searching for what she aspires, A little more time is all she desires.

J.R. Herman ‘20 42

The Angst of Feminism

By Madison Kirkman ‘19 Who decided women were not strong?

Who said they could never handle the hard things?

Who determined that Women were too dumb, weak, or sensitive to hang around society?

It seems we work for nothing even though, We marched, We spoke out and, what everyone thought we couldn’t doWe did.

We have always tended to other people’s needs under that white tent within the family cottage.

But in this big, modern day world, we tend to Ourselves.

Who decided that women could never embody strength?

Wouldn’t that mean we gave up?

We marched We spoke out and, whatever anyone said we couldn’t doWe did.

We were always fit for the battlefield because we fought our own battles everyday.

We cared for peopleperforming selfless acts protecting Us from the cruel society we live in, You know? The one that sought to break us?

What hindered our strength? and Why should anyone think we were defeated?

43

Brinkley Lane, Spring

By Shrey Vachani ‘20 The smell of purple orchids and grape popsicles fills the humid air, Rays of sunlight poke holes in the nebulous blanket of clouds, Rain is an eternal possibility, yet even occasional downpours Bring people relief of the persistent frigidity of winter.

Newfound energy fills the depleted tanks of children, Who eagerly await the end of a seemingly everlasting year, As they color the asphalt with splattered water balloons.

Tangy aromas float from the nearby lemonade stand and taste of nostalgia Returns long-lost memories to the neighbors during their yard sale, Loudspeakers playing Jimi Hendrix’s classics set a lively, relaxed tone, For the children and adults of Brinkley Lane .

44

Lauren Camardella ‘20

45

The Fly

By Jack Limroth ‘19 There they swim Tails peeking out of the water Like cycles from a Halloween movie Looking back to my dad He says, “Good cast” As subtle as a mouse in the forest My fly floats in front of them Strip…

Strip…

Set! Like a dancer’s feet during the tango The water explode in a shimmering mess And the fish disappear One however, with my fly in its mouth As the fight intensifies Like an old-fashioned tug of war Both sides have their moments Yet when my strength weakens The fish begins to reveal its power Like a knife in a gunfight The odds stack up against me Cutting and spinning through the water As quickly as a Kansas twister I watched this trophy slip from my grasp Disappearing under the surface As if nothing had ever happened.

46

Enouement

By Shelby Brown ‘19 I wish she knew, that little girl sitting in the princess chair wearing a cheeky smile and a lopsided tiara Always succeeding she glowed but in her small pond she stayed, unaware of the limitless ocean only miles away.

Her whole world only ankle deep she plays in the splash without the slightest inkling of how to swim.

Curiosity may have killed the cat but she’d die from not knowing.

47

Night Bird

By Ali Zaidi ‘20 The bird guarded that windowsill Waiting for what?

A love unrequited?

The perfect day that was never to be?

Yet the bird stated sitting still With eyes peeled open I glanced upon the bird Thinking upon past innocence When all worries Like receding waves were washed Away How serene is the silent night Where anxieties quiet whispers Are not The entire night Sleep runs from me As I chase after the remembrances Of what used to be

4848

Ode to Saturday Morning

By William Smythe ‘20 The sun crashed into the room in a flood of yellow chaos, illuminating an otherwise dingy little hold I hold so dear.

In a fitful stupor my mind wanders in and out of a separate realm, an unceasing annoyance taking me captive

to its own fretful agenda,

calmed by a newfound waft

of steam that flies itself into

the nose and the soul.

bright-eyed and gleaming

I rise with the cadence of the

glowing sun, now a prisoner

of habit and desire creeping down the ancient

steps like a young sleuth

and with a giddy heart that is unmoved in happiness.

The flashes of yellow light gether

To meet me on the floor in an

Aura of excitement, a throng of senses derived from the conductor, laboring away at his task and assembling his ingredients upon the kitchen table like a frenzied architect.

The whistling train ceases while he wipes his brow in a

fit of sweat, toiling in the steam and completing his mission In a seamless fashion, never complaining yet simply passing over the batch of lovely chocolate chip

pancakes

4949

Scarlett Baughman ‘19

5050

The power of something unnoticed

By Julia Duarte ‘20 Her madness is a melody waiting to fall apart in your hands So She sings herself back to tranquil thoughts, away from impending heartbreak And The beat of the song wove a second heart into the hole in her chest

51

52

Social Media Maddie Lester ‘20 It is not a phase, it is the future.

These days everyone is a user.

People of all ages are involved, Seems to be a problem that cannot be solved.

Access to all kinds of intel, Puts us under its spell.

Too many opinions at hand, Makes people unsure of where they stand.

All this information provided for you, Sometimes we wonder if any of it is true.

The internet is such a large force, We can forget it may not be a reliable source.

Sketches on p. 52 by Cabell Jones ‘19

53

Sri Lankan Born American

By Brammy Rajakumar ‘19 Our dining room table is older than I am. It sits on its knobbly legs, light wood like milk chocolate. Draped in a white tablecloth and covered again by plastic, the table is never empty. Laden with mail and newspaper, it waits for my favorite part of the day: dinner. The scent of spices fills the air -- a scent I associate with the watering in my mouth and the sharp pangs of hunger.

The food has a personality -- the aged smiles of my grandmother, the soft skin on the hands of my mother, the bony wrists of my software engineer father, who cooks fantastic shrimp, fried with onions and red chiles. It heals my throat and soothes my mind, easing my fears. The curries assure me that there will be a tomorrow, that she won’t stay mad forever, that the A minus can be an A plus next time, that my parents will be proud of me someday.

Soft rice and chicken pieces pool in a slowly growing puddle of curry. I dip my fingers in and swirl the food around. Eating becomes a multi-sensory experience. The rice melts on my tongue as I munch.

When I arrived at my first day of school, my mother walked me to my first grade classroom. Shy and overwhelmed, I wandered through the day, waiting for lunch. When the bell rang, I filed behind everyone else, twirling my fingers excitedly in my dress as I waited for my turn. Upon seating myself, I reached for a plate and was served -- but what was this? Why on earth was I being passed this...this cheesy thing? Mac and cheese? Ugh. Definitely not my favorite. My compatriots ate with relish, but I dipped my fork into the mess and brought it to my mouth with a grimace.

“Why aren’t you eating?”

“Oh, I...well...is there anything else?”

“You want a PB and J?” “A what?”

“A sandwich, with peanut butter and jelly?”

I relaxed. I had more experience and comfort with that from daycares, preschool, and snacks at home.

“Yes, but no jelly.”

I bit into my bland sandwich and dreamed of my curries.

54

A Little More Purple

By Juliet Lancey ‘20 the same rays that brushed your head in a bright halo all those years ago, as each day, she rose and you were a little bigger. same rays but a one day different you. arm raised over her head, night sky in tow like a speckled blanket of the absolute infinite, she yawns behind the horizon, putting down the pen and gently placing the pages together one last blow to make sure the ink is dried. unsure, she changes it, the paint swirling in the clouds her head turned, examining a little less red a little more purple. her yawn grows bigger and she becomes a semi-circle on the line where she touches the ocean falls behind the skyscrapers drops behind houses And sets over huts. with shadows of tribesmen, shadows of businessmen, shadows of the kneeled and shadows of the standing the sunset reflected in all of their eyes. so we all stop arguing and swinging and hurting and yelling and fists fall to our sides as we all watch the setting of the sun.

55

The Educated Man

By Katie Post ‘20 Lao Yeh sighs as I ask about his childhood He sits down on the couch next to me and smiles “School was not something required,” he whispers.

“In fact, I wasn’t allowed to go at all.

My father, your great grandfather, was a professor.

But that was before the Communists took over.

Soon later, they forced him to leave his job.

The forced him to work on the farms.

I have no way to describe it.

None other than a labor camp.

I watched as he bent over the fields.

From sunrise to sundown, he worked.

Instead of nurturing the minds of the next generation, he broke his back digging holes in the ground.

And even when he had worked for hours, he would always come home with renewed energy.

He immediately set himself to teach us: my five siblings and me.

Even though we were not allowed to attend school, Father swore he would not condemn his children to a life without education.

Late into the night he would teach.

So late, that even I fell asleep on my books.

But my father? He would not rest.

I never saw the man sleep.”

56

The Roman Speaks of Rivers

By Patrick McCracken ‘21 I’ve known rivers, I’ve known rivers, old as the veins of marble quarried for the Arena.

Our conquests have flowed wide like the rivers.

I paddled the Thames when the New World was young And paid homage to the marble gods abreast the Tiber when the Old world was new.

I crossed the Rubicon by Caesar’s chance And sailed past the City of Alexander to aid the Egyptian Queen.

I stood on the river as Rome turned to ash in the mouth of the gods, thrice.

I stood by the river as the very foundations of man fell like the summer wheat.

I’ve known rivers, Our conquests have passed like the rivers.

David Denson ‘23

David Denson ‘23

57

Hamburger and Hermburger

By J.R. Herman ‘20 I remember how you would eat sugar straight from the packet, how we spent weeks planning every detail for Halloween, how when we ran out of things to talk about, I’d say, “So, do you like bread?” how we’d discuss universal domination, because world domination wasn’t enough, how you dared me to go on Da Vinci’s Cradle at Busch Gardens and how we both chickened out, and how you always made me laugh by trying not to.

I remember how you had said in third grade we’d always be best friends and five years later I remember when you said you were leaving that you were moving across the country saying we could still keep in touch, lying to ourselves that it didn’t matter that our friendship wouldn’t change.

But it’s not the same.

Conversations now filled with “Remember when we” or “Remember that friend I told you about” and meaningless questions How’s school?

What’s up?

Any summer plans?

But we keep texting these things, without fail, because we’re both afraid that if we stop we’d never start again.

58

things as they were

By Anonymous i wish i would see them as they were in beautiful things an epic poem of glistening dreams that three words might say it all might tie up our strings into neat little bows snapchat screenshots of faces on pillows saying “i love you too” like we really mean it.

Madeleine Munn ‘19 59

An Excerpt

By Dylan Pausch ‘20 Sometimes the screams stopped, but over time they became more and more hideous, as if the men had begun to shake off whatever paralytic substance the fiends had slathered on their blades. Towards the end I heard words, as men whimpered and laughed and begged for death. At last, the spectacle seemed to have stopped, and a hush fell over the crowd. I looked up, and saw that our guide was the last. Standing, though wobbly, he fumbled desperately in his vest for a weapon as the priest, his arms now coated in a vermillion liquid, reached for him, knocking the blade from his hand before he could move to either strike that vile thing or spare himself the suffering which was to come. My resolve snapped then. I could not allow yet another man to suffer such a cruel fate, though in all likelihood I would be flayed in his stead. I hurled myself into the amphitheater at the pair. The priest released my guide, scrambling backwards, which gave me enough time to reach the trembling man and slit his throat. Above me, the crowd swelled to an angry roar. Those in the lower floors leaped down, running with an unnatural gait towards me, only to be swept aside by a great black tail which lashed out over my head. The dragon, slowed by toxins and, as I finally saw, with the right side of his face burned so badly that the flesh had run like wax to seal his jaw, was nevertheless on his feet and glaring down at the fiendish things which yapped and snarled at him through one baleful red eye. Hastily flung spears rebounded from his thick scales as the firedrake rose up onto his hind legs and forced a whistling, shrieking half-roar through his fire ravaged lungs and ruined face. For a moment, I thought that was how the two of us would end, dragged down in the caverns and torn to pieces by these blasphemous things, though I must with great sorrow relate the inaccuracy of that conjecture. All at once, the yapping and the shrieking and the roaring stopped. The blasphemous dog things hurled down their arms and ran, shrieking, as something stirred behind us. I turned, and shivered, as I shiver now whenever I think of that foul time, and as I pray for the souls of those who fell. I have always been a pious man, always believed the stories, that the four came from beyond and threw down the old gods and the men who had in hubris followed them, and I doubt them not at all now, for I have seen the scars on that thing in the pit. How shall I describe such a thing?

60

Perhaps I cannot, for it shifted and twisted like a mirage, new limbs weaving into existence as it loathsomely gyrated and old ones folded together or reformed. I fancied I saw at once a face hidden behind a veil, and two gleaming, lilac eyes staring down on me. My first coherent thought was “dragon,� but it had too many limbs for that. When it rose up and gripped the ageworn pillars of that unholy temple I thought I saw wings, vast and shining in every color of the dawn, and also huge tattered silks or membranes, unable to cover even the variegated back of gold and scarlet and turquoise as it stared down at the dragon and I with those damnnable eyes. I think she spoke then, though I do not recall what was imparted. Everything is now, mercifully, a blur, but I think I was mad and fey, for I ripped at my own skin just to know how it felt as I laughed, and I rolled upon the floor as I shouted litanies from the Sanctus against Rhaeleres, that great she-demon who had come down from the stars when the world was but young and who had lain with the great worms of the north, the beautiful and terrible progenitor of dragons, and though I vaguely heard a response I was running, screaming, shrieking, glancing back over my shoulder to see her with her arms about the drake as he whistled and thrashed, and then I was out, pounding and pelting down the streets of that unholy corpse city beneath the eyes of a million fallen men, who stood sentinel and silent over me as I raved and swore that it had not been and must not be, as I plunged into the foul mire at the edge of the city, found it to be rotten blood and bile, as I laughed and carried on. I reached the wall and produced my pitons, and began on blind instinct alone to climb, climbed until I broke through the foul miasma which hung over the city, till their fires were but pricks of light in the black void and then nothing, climbed until I crawled out of the pit about which lies Tirradon, the Ringed City.

61

Sometimes A Person Is

By Emma Somers ‘19 Sometimes a person is Seismic activity The kind u measure from miles away The kind you see coming Without direction Without magnitude Before the shoe drops The kind you confront Face to face Full of fear and intensity and everything else The second before that first wave hits, that ground shifts at the collision You feel small A dead star before it explodes Fully aware of the force barreling towards you Fully aware it will knock you off your feet Fully aware of your own helplessness Fully aware That you are the silence before the sonic boom.

Sometimes a person is Acid rain The kind you welcome With open arms and wet feet All five toes splashing in each puddle on the sidewalk The kind that comes after a summer of sticky sunshine The kind you feel before the sky turns grey Believing in each humid hint One drop, Two drops, One gaze looks up to meet a waterfall of relief A shower of refreshment The kind that makes you feel like singing, The kind that makes you feel Young again.

But its September now And the places the sky’s happy tears fell on you have corroded The tiny stone dancers on top of your bird bath are Quite literally Half the people they used to be 62

Once again, each invisibility has gotten the best of you As chain reactions creep up your arm like Sinkholes Calling for all you used to be Sometimes a person is Some kind of breaking wave The kind that sweeps and swells The kind that fills you up greets the air and holds you higher In the sky Than you ever thought the ocean could touch The kind that splits dark blue caps with icy, whitewashed promises Cutting through air the second breathe takes over Body rising, stomach falling like you’ve never felt before A split second of the forever you’re always wanted The kind that is oh so much larger than life The kind you miss the minute they’ve left The minute they’ve broken The cap falls back into its trough, itself As if it was never anything more As if a powerless homicide-suicide the kind that is nothingness once again sweeps and swells are swept and swelled back Into all they used to be the kind that leaves you wondering If you were ever the greatness it made You see in yourself Or merely what’s left of the ride Sometimes a person is Radio silence the kind that crackles and whirrs As empty space sometimes does The kind that tells the story Of every broadcast before it murmurs sweet sentiments Raw remorse Lingering I love yous The kind that muffles every piece of itself 63

Bubbles its secrets at the surface equipped with tuner dial time bombs the kind that seeks every word but their own As if each crackling catch sinks the solemnity Frequency be damned The kind that sells out its space to settle its loneliness Sometimes a person is Sunken violets The kind you had strewn across the sky i wish i could have seen those hues as they were in beautiful things an epic poem of glistening dreams that three words might say it all The kind that might tie up our strings into neat little bows snapchat screenshots of faces on pillows saying “i love you too� like we really mean it.

The kind that, just as quickly as it came It goes The kind of words summed up to a series of pages Novelistic I look them over continuously The kind I want to Memorize But still there is no sense of possibility no hope for more no excited to hear Or speak or touch or breathe The kind that starts something new Only the old to be searched and searched again Sometimes a person is Everything Nothing Sometimes a person is Just right

64

On “Everyone of these boys went to work when the whistle blew, Noon, June 15th, Norfolk, VA” Photo by Lewis Hine 1911

By Grayson Glenn ‘19

I have no name, no face, nor house to call home, Yet I know all these boys as if they were my own.

Their grandfathers climbed upon my great branches, Their fathers played ball in the cover of my shade, And now the next generation gathers in front of me.

Just like their fathers and grandfathers before them, These boys head to work each morning, When the bell rings.

Among them are brothers, immigrants, and friends, Who, together, make Norfolk so great and diverse.

One hundred years ago I stood on the same plot of dirt, And I hope one hundred years from now I still stand tall and lively.

At this spot I get to watch these boys grow, From the dirty, shoeless adolescents they currently are, Into the successful young men I know they will become.

As these boys’ lives flash before their eyes, And minutes feel like seconds, I hope they can come back to me, The unlikely overseer of their childhood, And find peace once again.

65

A Friend Named

By Balthazar Denk (‘19) I text you saying girl I want more than just a friend I thought you felt the same but that’s not what you said Now I’m feeling lost and I’m wishing I was dead I don’t know going on but I want you in the end You get me and I thought that I got you But I don’t see it how you see it from your point of view I don’t know what’s going on girl I ain’t got clue Now I’m feeling down I’m feeling really really blue You text me saying when are we going to be right I tell you I don’t know it is still a might But now I really miss you at night I wish it was true that we never fight You say you care but I know that’s not true Everything you say is sticking like glue Now I’m really scared of something new what if you never even really knew I text you sayin girl I want more than just a friend I thought you felt the same but that’s not what you said Now I’m feeling lost and I’m wishing I was dead I don’t know going on but I want you in the end

John Leo Luecke ‘19 66

Imagination

By Taran Jeevan (‘23) We are all just a dot, A little bundle of atoms, Small in the grand scheme of things, What is our purpose?

We are just the imagination of some other being, Dolls, Toys, Why us?

We are the comics of another world, Movies, Novels, What is life?

The giants look down at us, All we see are mountains, The sky, Are we just creations with no meaning?

We are the ants of reality, We are bees, We are small, Who created us?

Each one of us is large to an ant, We are giants, We matter, But how?

We shall never know, But one thing is certain, We will always change each other’s small insignificant lives, But why?

67

Everyone Told Me

By Anonymous I’m 16.

And everyone says that I have my whole life ahead of me.

This is the time for short shorts. This is the time For sleepovers and all nighters and charcoal face masks that keep your pores simple and sweet, just the way life is supposed to be At 16, when my whole life is ahead of me.

Just like the cars I’m not quite old enough to drive Down those roads less traveled by To the parties my friends are just dying to go to, filled with smoking guns of those livid teenage temptations To this image netflix fed into my head of high schools under strobing concert lights and bleeding emotions That don’t match the drunken words of the boys And the girls That I think I know well enough when I pass their stark stares in the hallway Tonight I dont know them at all.

I always wonder why I don’t understand the appeal, why I can’t smell the attraction of red solo cups, as solo as the souls who fill them, as solo as I insist on keeping cheap excuses in my back pocket, explanations for why the atmospheric pressure of I’m 16.

And everyone says that I have my whole life ahead of me.

This is the time for short shorts. This is the time For sleepovers and all nighters and charcoal face masks that keep your pores simple and sweet, just the way life is supposed to be At 16, when my whole life is ahead of me.

Just like the cars I’m not quite old enough to drive Down those roads less traveled by To the parties my friends are just dying to go to, filled with smoking guns of those livid teenage temptations To this image netflix fed into my head of high schools under strobing concert lights and bleeding emotions That don’t match the drunken words of the boys And the girls That I think I know well enough when I pass their stark stares in the hallway Tonight I dont know them at all.

I always wonder why I don’t understand the appeal, why I can’t smell the attraction of red solo cups, as solo as the souls who fill them, as solo as I insist on keeping cheap excuses in my back pocket,

68

explanations for why the atmospheric pressure of said parties singes my nose But my job is to be young and dumb I’m eighteen in september and all of a sudden I find myself preparing for a chapter I don’t quite recognize Where did twelve years go Where will I be And why does the world want me to know?

I just learned how to draw my cat eye without looking like an actual cat I bought my first crop top yesterday, I began drinking coffee two months ago and my ears are still pierceless But the water at the oceanfront is getting cold, And I shop for jeans instead of shorts.

The college counseling office keeps calling my name I am told that I am more than a grade on a piece of paper, That seconds count more than hours, That this is the time to seize the moment Hidden the carelessness of our face value SATs, ACTs, all the Ts really, messed up scenes inside my head that dull the constant whrrrr inside my caffeine infected brain That slow the gears and bring me back down to earth While i send off my best work, my best numbers, to be judged at 30 seconds per cover letter because 100 is as high as you can go but theres always extra credit why cant you do the extra credit and be better Better better better Better is a neverland.

Where they count my hours and report back to me how I may or may not be good enough Good enough for this idea that I could someday possibly, just maybe oh please be more than a number, a candidate, an applicant, on those goddamn graded pieces of paper That I am an achievement.

Because they need their believers their try hards, their sucks ups with their change-the-world fevers Am I an over achiever?

Striving for the youth I don’t have time for and the adulthood that seems so uncertain

69

Because this is the time to seize opportunity To reflect and become, while were still young To cram all the living I have into these two legs, still bronzed from a summer abroad Before arthritis and complacency set in And before winter, when i am paper again Denials and acceptances alike, its all just paper Is there still time?

For fireworks, for an unending struggle to find some lively fulfillment Because I am 18 and I do not fear death Only what is to come.

I have waited for this day, that the fear of death fades To see why i live Daydreams of beachy jeeps and salt filled hair and the stars I jot down on paper Are only the start of this page Because I’m anxious to see if the world was ever more dream than it was a reality My reality That will only exist when I click submit on November 1st Because 18 is the time to seize the day.

I’m 22.

I can buy beer without using my fake ID And treat my sister to rose and champagne on her birthday But I’ll be out in the real world soon And beer is only a distraction from the applications for job interviews and flyers that fill my college dorm, A little dimmer since the light above our mini fridge went out A little dimmer than it appeared freshman year A bartender from the Backstreet Boys blasting bar across the street from my Philosophical Literature class Shoves my friend out the door at 2 a.m.

The maroon strap of her tight teensy dress, cheap like vodka, hanging limp off of one shoulder, Her hair a frazzled, mess, consuming her face, hiding her streaky, mascara filled eyes alongside the bourbon Her breathe a mixture of the cherry wood bar top, tequila and the remnants of a night she won’t remember The bartender tells her to grow up and slams the door.

She is 21, after all, she has to be ready for all the things we think we expect,

70

And I am faced with the fact that i am older, old, What is old?

All these things i thought I would never be More successful than sinking sororities and seeking shelter in senseless sensitivities I look in the mirror and see someone who isnt real But what is more real than the wrinkles riddling themselves across my profesors face And in mine I see bright blue eyes marked with mascara a little more conservative than it had been applied six months ago Lipstick a little less bright, more neutral, and studs instead of hoops But if there is nothing I cant do than why cant i do anything And what am I waiting for I’m 30.

I drink a little too much bourdeau at the “alumni” dinner I eat alone And my uber driver, a traumatically tenacious man in his mid fifties, listens to me spill my problems across the backseat Proceeding to make me text my husband or boyfriend or significant other or, whatever, that I am home safe at 32b, my snug apartment complex He tells me to slow down, live a little, and reignite my ambition, So I can remember the joy of being naive.

“Remember when your job was the be young and dumb?”

The incredulously insightful driver asks, And I tell him in my bubbly drunken slur that he is too invaluably intelligent to drive the likes of me, Mundane and unoccupied, Around in honda odysseys But the next morning I wake up and eat the same breakfast, avocado and toast, I run my usual route and drive the same way to work Because 9 to 5 is comfortable, Reliable Controllable Deniable I am too old to be young and too young to be old Responsibilities, Electricities and utilities and endless capabilities Cannot afford naivety’s hostility

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Toward comfort’s ability to filter through lifes dreams Senility is only for those who dont know their own agility In past and present I look back, like said driver asked, But all I see is a blurry rushedness Intervals of stops and starts Waves and oscillations of anticipation and nostalgia For who I used to be And how everyone told me to live.

Audrey Neumann ‘20

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Bansiro

By Marissa Mejia ‘19 As a child, I fantasized about a whole new world.

I named this world Bansiro.

I do not recall why I gave this name to my world.

Perhaps I simply enjoyed the way its name flowed Like the waters that filled it, Or maybe Google Translate had told me That it meant something meaningful In a language I had arbitrarily selected.

However, I do remember Bansiro itself.

My world consisted of beautiful beings Who sprang from nature.

The wispy white clouds Clumped together to form men and women Who had voices that sang from the mouths of birds.

The roots and branches of trees Bent together to form boys Who wore clothes fashioned from leaves.

The buds of flowers Bloomed together to form girls Who donned dresses made of pretty petals.

These beings laughed, danced, and played Like perfectly happy children; However, Bansiro remained Quite far from perfection.

Evil loomed on Bansiro’s horizons And threatened to convert its people to darkness.

Thunderstorms replaced the dreamy clouds.

Poison ivy engulfed the trees.

Thorns grew from the flowers.

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Every time a war between good and evil broke out, I would visit Bansiro and save the world, And peace and happiness returned, just like that.

Bansiro helped me escape from reality.

I traveled there every night in my dreams.

I flew to this secret world during class.

It became my safe haven during times of trouble.

I wonder what is occurring in Bansiro now.

Is everyone happy?

Has darkness taken over?

I would never know.

Sometimes I try to visit Bansiro.

I wish to be whisked away to the land of my dreams So I close my eyes and count to three But I only see my dark eyelids.

Laura Read ‘20

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There Is a Monster

By Toria Kauffman ‘22 There is a monster who lives Under my bed.

I saw him last night When he poked out his head.

His teeth glow in the dark, And they light up my room, And they make sinister shadows Like in a dead pharaoh’s tomb.

His And Not But

skin is so hairy, it appears to be blue. a dull shade at all, a rather vibrant hue.

His ears flop around And always get in his way.

They seem to hear everything During the day.

I have not seen my pup Since I saw this strange beast.

I wonder if he ate him As part of a feast.

He is scared of the cat.

He does not like her at all.

When she comes near, He dashes into the hall.

So did my pup When he was still here.

Last time he saw her, He ran into a paint can that was near.

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J.R. Herman ‘20

Poem 2

By J.R. Herman ‘20 They say good things come to those who wait So I waited And waited And waited.

Until I realized that Sometimes Nothing Comes to those who wait.

So I stopped waiting.

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Company

By Laura Read ‘20 Guests, did you say?

My word. You know what you must do.

Tidy up the kitchen if you will, You left the plate broken from yesterday.

The pieces on the floor and the papers on the countertop They’re overdue, put them away.

Put some makeup on over that mark, dear.

You have dreadful red circles, look at your sleeves!

Turn on the stove, dear.

The fine china, take it out.

Do you have time to run to the store?

I want flowers on the table.

The yellow ones, if you can find them.

My tie, where’s the blue one?

Placemats and silverware, a rich stew that’s been simmering.

Make sure to brush your hair today.

These forks are dirty, dear.

Have you cleaned them before?

You can wear the diamonds this evening.

I don’t want a word.

Darling, we have company tonight.

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Music: We Need It

By John Paschold ‘22

Berthold Auerbach once said, “Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.” Through this quotation, readers and myself are able to see how important music is in our lives. Most of us every day pop in our headphones and jam out to our favorite tunes, like “Sicko Mode,” “Mo Bamba,” or one of my personal favorites from the Tower of Power, “You’re Still A Young Man.” But is music highly emphasized in our schools? Absolutely not. When schools have to make budget cuts, music and arts programs are normally the first to go, which is unfortunate, because music has many positive benefits.

For example, students in band and strings are less likely to abuse substances, according to NAFME.org. Also, many creative jobs are opening up in our economy, and music is an outlet for some that helps prepare them for the creative world. Music shouldn’t be a burden; it should be a necessary skill for all students to learn.

In my life, I’ve been inspired by three teachers who I’ve gotten to know well. I actually spelled out these stories in an email to my current director, when I was emailing about music programs in college. The first was Curtis Brown, who was my band teacher at HRA. He taught me the definition of good music, which is not rap and garbage that is spilled out on our radios today. Mr. Brown pushed me to stay on trumpet when I wanted to switch to the oboe, because I had talent. He also allowed me numerous opportunities to play in advanced ensembles, like the pit orchestra, and those experiences I highly value today.

When I played in the pit for the first year, I played alongside a professional musician named Christopher Ward, who is the band director at Berkeley Middle School. Mr. Ward was actually my private teacher for one lesson (I should’ve done more), and I was and still am impressed with his upper register work. Getting to play with pros at an early age pushed the standard for me, I believe, and even now I strive to get better.

The third and final one is Mr. Englert, who I didn’t know well enough until he recognized my talent on the trumpet. He took me under his wing almost as soon as I got here, and we learned how to improvise through jazz classics, such as “Four”

by Miles Davis and “Lucky Southern” by Keith Jarrett. He also allowed me the opportunity to play in the pit and also take a solo at the Winter Concert, which boosted my confidence for future chances like that.

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combines all of the subjects into one. Think: musicians count off measures, like in math, when you would count off numbers. Music history is an important part of learning music, and memorization of fingerings and tempos is important, like retaining information for a big test. Music is a universal benefactor, and musical instruments teach kids discipline, because the instrument challenges them. My directors have always been a positive force for me, as they have pushed the limits of my potential and challenged me to do better, and I hope I can do the same as I plan on pursuing a Masters in Music Education in college.

Works Cited 20 Important Benefits of Music in Our Schools. National Association for Music Education, 21 July 2014. https://nafme.org/20-important-benefits-of-music-in-our-schools/. Accessed 13 March 2019.

Quotes. National Association for Music Education. https://nafme.org/advocacy/what-to-say/quotes/. Accessed 13 March 2019.

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An Incomprehensible Road Map

By Kendall Pagach ‘22 So what is love?

People today have kicked its meaning in the mud Like an old pair of boots It sits unused As we carry on with our silly antics We step on the worldly emotion It’s hard to find love in the pinwheel of life It’s elusive, tricky, it hides in covert spaces It lurks round corners It sticks under beds In your heart; It’s a fickle emotion And how does one find it?

Is it Where your can feel your heart beating a steady metronome Where the wind caresses your face gently Where the crickets are singing in the hot summer sun?

Or When you exemplify excellent traits When you express your gratification for those that guide you When you readily receive a well-deserved promotion?

Or During the arguments, the bickering During the annoyances of your family During the let-downs and the mess ups and failures?

Bu no one gets a ticket for parking on the wrong side of the road and thinks about love, No one receives a promotion and thinks about love, No one goes outside to bathe in the sun and thinks about love, Not one gets fired, goes to school, sits down for hours working, tireless, and thinks about love.

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So does anyone really use it?

Maybe it’s A newborn baby wrapped up in a blanket of warmth Letting go of the man who is so important to you because he decided he’s ready to die Being ready for change But for change with the most meaningful things in your life Maybe love is in the happiest moments Maybe you find it in the saddest moments Maybe it’s where you are surrounded by the people who love you most And they hold you when you laugh And when you cry But who am I to say?

Cullen Campbell ‘21 81

people cannot travel through words

By Kristen Tan ‘23 talk, talk, talk all day but do we even know of what we speak? our words are a stained glass window, and we cannot see the through the walls. all we do, is look closer, zoom in, until rembrants and monets are but a brushstroke of color painted by chains and chains and chains of syllables. we never stopped sitting down to play telephone, even if we think we’re too old for silly games. all we do is whsiper, is giggle, from ear to ear to ear until rembrants become monets become muddy water on a page.

Allison Comess ‘20

pictures are worth a thousand words, but we paint them with less than ten. people thik of me across the world things that i am ot and never told them.

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we’re looking at landscapes through stained glass windows. we hear of an ugly color and for it, we hate the work. so we never go outside to see and we never visit the museum. but we are rembrants and monets are much too complex to be seen through a game of telephone.

when the art becomes a crime

By Alexandra Kerr ‘21

when the art becomes a crime the whole world shrieks because the thing, with no boundaries, becomes the thing we must not speak about. where do we draw the line between art and crime if everything I say has limits. but, then my daughter, the one with the different skin weeps for her people, the oppressed she thinks, “it’s my fault” for being in this country that the whole world is exploding on the internet social media. It outlashes at the smallest things, yet, people coming to her defense makes her smile.

Her art.

His art.

Their art.

Our country’s art has been diminished. artistic freedom and freedom of speech has been taken away, and as a writer and artist, we yearn for the power to speak what we feel and we mask our pain with our words. when the Art becomes a crime the whole world shakes, fearing a loss of imagination of creativity. social media is the most toxic of them all. let it steal these imposters’ souls, they deserve it. but, don’t let it steal the art that America creates. when art becomes a Crime give the world hell to give hope that we can change do not censor the truth.

Give respect to thine elders, Give respect to thine peers, Do not censor the truth. when they say art is a crime, tell ‘em art is the only truth left in this hyper-political world, who lack in the right judgement of why American is America.

The internet is a thing to promote, but It’s a step back if all anyone can do is promote good, and hide horrible hatreds and harms that hinder the happy as skeletons that escape the doors When The Arts Become A Crime I stop trusting, my daughter weeps for the bloodshed of those for our freedom, Social media erupts.

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Monsters Hiding in the Dark

By Sarah Jacobs ‘22 The student standing in front of the class, Desperately trying to speak over the rapid fluttering of his heart and the dread weighing down his tongue.

But he can’t speak because he’s terrified Of painting the words engraved on his heart on A canvas for the whole world to see.

The girl walking home alone at 11:53 pm who swears that man in the grey Marvel sweatshirt With the white converse and the baseball hat has been following her for the last 5 minutes.

She takes a deep breath and holds her head up high, As high as it will go with the weight of the unknown dragging her down.

She takes one step after another into the darkness, hoping the monsters will stay hidden in the night.

The small child, paralyzed by panic as people pass all around him, He’s lost in Times Square.

The only square he knows is the one in his coloring book That’s colored red Or was it blue?

Who knew there could be so many colors exploding all at once?

Overwhelming him Encompassing him.

He’s a minnow in a sea of sharks, If only he could swim away.

Swim to his mother who still thinks he is right beside her the mother who doesn’t even know he’s gone

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The boy hiding under his homeroom desk Trembling, eyes closed.

Because there’s screaming and there’s crying They’ve heard gunshots There’s people dying.

This cannot be happening Because shootings only happen in the news It can’t be true, this must be a nightmare.

And he’s praying, Please God, just let me wake up.

Can you hear the tremble in their voices?

Their desperate attempts To calm their beating hearts Slow their rapid breathing Trick their brains into thinking that Everything is ok.

Everything is ok.

This fear Coursing through their veins Like an alarm system ringing out loud, Screaming there is danger here Without fear, Would we never know the end was coming Till we were crushed by the tidal wave?

Are we saved by our sweaty palms And beating hearts?

And how often, Is this fear rational, Sensible.

Or is it just shadows and monsters hiding in the dark.

And how do we know whether these monsters are real?

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The Temporary Layer

By Sarah Bimson ’20 A layer of white fell silently.

Its soft whispers how old in the dark… yet they are quieted by the yelling.

The stillness excites all: mittens are joyfully expectant to be worn and each sleeping beauty rises with hope. all who are young hide their load they gather in warmth… storming the streets with happiness The day has to end.

The quietness diminishes. in the television says to get out our books.

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Night

By Sahib Chandi ‘20 I can’t help but wonder What lies beyond the dark In moments of introspection Why The nothingness never fails to show me meaning, When the blank, silent darkness Never fails to be a light in itself.

David Denson ‘23

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I’m Fine

By Ariana Jamali ‘20 A simple phrase, Used too often, To describe those feelings We bury deep down inside.

Escaping the reality Of what we don’t want to believe.

Drowning out those voices, That tell us the truth.

Someone notices our pain, And speaks up, Just to be shut down, By those words: “I’m fine.”

Two little words with such an impact, Trying to keep our emotions intact.

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Etude of Memories

By Katharine Chang ‘20 After dusk, the dark blankets of the night sky cradle me.

Eyes slightly closed, The stellar lights of streetlamps pass me, illuminating the otherwise inky roads.

I touch the chilled glass of the car window, exhale, And trace mindless patterns, fading away in moments, As clear raindrops chase each other like rolling tears.

Earbuds in I wander into my cosmos of dreams and the past.

I hear the reminiscent escalation of the drums and recall sensations of euphoria.

The suspension of the violins swells like the soft downpour, The fairy twinkles of a piano and harp tug at the strings of my heart, The final chords of an electric guitar revive neglected memories.

We stop at the crossroad, with red and green lights flashing, and the rain pounding down harder.

And I look out the window one last time, As the song’s finale ends with that finishing chime.

Sahib Chandi ‘20

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Haikus

By Katharine Chang ‘20 “Cherry Blossoms” Sweet scent, blooming pink, Petals sail the wave of breeze, Descending like snow.

“6 A.M.” Dew shrouds the fresh grass, Birds chirp to their morning tune, As the sun stretches.

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My Grandparent’s Dock

By Ethan Sorrell ‘20 In the summer, the waters sway as the sun reaches down to give them a hug.

The sea air, seafoam, reaches out to touch our sunburnt cheeks.

The hooks strike the water, and the throwing net captures our happiness as it slaps the water.

The mullets sing as they fly from the calm sea and the boards cry out as we run up and down the long stretch of planks Tranquility sits with us and fills our hearts with the yellow rays of joy The clouds, the color of bliss, cover the ball of yellow in the sky occasionally and the sounds of laughter fill the air.

The dock is peace and the dock is better times.

As the day ends and tendrils of sleep begin to creep across the sky, The stars envelope us, and we fall back onto a bed of new memories.

Photo by Warren Warsaw 91

History

By Ned Lewis ‘21 Victims of history forgotten Their despair far in the past No one cares, it’s all ok now But how long can that last A careless joke, a thoughtless meme Once again brings back the pain It’s just satire But it leaves a stain It’s just a like, just a share But fake news spreads without a care It’s just a joke, but it causes a tear We can’t work together, no one wants to share We repeat the errs of ancestors Their lessons ignored We become the aggressors We are condemned for sure History goes to the victor Free to alter and erase The evidence too great to ignore But we must not forget our place

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The Road We Travel

By Sammi Jacobs ‘20 There we go, off into the distance Riding away from our troubles on the highway, a never ending serpent of bleak gray with white dotting its rough back.

Our old truck rumbles alongit has faced hardship, been tested, but still survives.

With others like us by our side, our truck continues along its path of Time.

Rotting and rusting, its beauty fades as we travel along the concrete.

Many different cars use the highway of Time.

No matter who visits, they always leave, but there the highway stays.

As we become a mere speck that is distant, we hope to preserve this single instant.

Laura Read ‘20

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Country Living

By Jack Whitmore ‘20 Driving North going 75 Country roads, winding at every turn, Pulling in the drive, grass is tall.

Pull out my side by side and my dirtbike, Driving through the trees, deer scatter away.

Life couldn’t be better, out in the country.

Birds flushing left and right, 2 down, Maisy retrieves.

Set up camp, cook, eat, and talk.

A simple life that I love so much.

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David Denson ‘23

Realism, Not Pessimism Kristen Tan ‘22 Lake Disappointment, Western Australia: where I was (figuratively) drowning when I heard the news that I would not be going to Italy on the Odyssey school trip. I had gotten off the bus with a smile on my face on the last day of the semester. I had waved goodbye to Veronica, who gets off at my bus stop. I checked my phone as I got into my aunt’s car and saw that I had a new email with the subject, “Odyssey Program,” and immediately knew that the admissions were out. My eager eyes glazed over the email but came to a sharp halt when they read, “Unfortunately, you were not chosen to participate on the program this year. I know you must be disappointed, but we simply had too many qualified applicants for the number of spots.” The smile I was wearing was instantly torn from my face and I began to cry. For weeks, everybody had been telling me, “You’re going to make it!” After hearing that enough times, I couldn’t help but believe it. I was waiting for an email with the subject, “Congratulations!” My expectations were too high for my own good, and I knew I had to change my mindset.

I promised myself that I would maintain high hopes and low expectations to curb disappointment as much as possible.

Disappointment is constructive and aids in growth, but I don’t want to make it unnecessarily worse with high expectations. I live

by Ingrid Michaelson’s lyrics: “The higher up you go, the further you will fall.” It sounds pessimistic, but it isn’t. The key is to find the nuance and separate hopes and expectations: hopes encourage hard work, while expectations promote idle waiting. The word “expect” comes from the Latin “expectare”-- to wait. One expects a train to arrive or for the sun to rise in the morning; we sit and wait for those things to happen. Goals and achievements cannot be waited for. On the other hand, hopes motivate and inspire. Hopes are not trains; rather, they are the summits of mountains illuminated by alpenglow, waiting for you to climb to them. They will not bend down for you.

It took a few tears and a lot of pain for me to realize the difference between expectations and hopes. I am still learning how to separate them effectively, but I truly believe it is the right thing to do. I am fine-tuning the lens through which I see the world and simply trying to avoid drowning in Lake Disappointment.

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Call Me

By Emma Somers ‘19 I meet a young woman in a cafe, She looks just like me, and scoops back her hair With the same unkempt, calloused fingers, the same white knuckle grip of cold hands As she pulls back the dull brown chair, Those knobby legs screech.

She straightens, I recognize the same flushing rush of rose in her cheeks at the drop of this clattering disruption, At the small, chattering gazes so attracted to the noise she makes taking her seat Pleasantries aren’t her thing.

My mouth is open to ask her name but her tongue twists faster She up-downs me with a smirk, searching for anything in me that evokes more than some plastered smile she knows I must practice in the mirror.

She’s good, makes clean, sharp cuts with every backhanded compliment.

She sounds like my voice in a mirror.

Hits in all the right places, Sarcastic undertones speak volumes for her subtlety, Light eyes that stare just below my gaze, react to every twitch of my ever pressed grin.

Red lipstick I never wear, for fear of demonstrating an overconfidence, or lack thereof She chomps at the bit.

Hey and how was your day Tough? Yeah, me too.

If pressure doesn’t break you, what will?

See that smile, what’s under there?

Are you worried, are you worrying?

I recognize that look, love, Have you lost? What war was there to win this time?

What battle, what fight? Confide every plight Maybe you’ll break tonight, what’s that, you might?

Take flight, away from here, every night, come to me These friends can’t fix you, they’ll say relax, why are you so uptight?

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Are you worried, are you worrying?

I recognize that look, love, Have you lost? What war was there to win this time?

What battle, what fight? Confide every plight Maybe you’ll break tonight, what’s that, you might?

Take flight, away from here, every night, come to me These friends can’t fix you, they’ll say relax, why are you so uptight? blind to anything but love.

To anything but what you deserve, right?

But I’m not blind and you know we’re tight.

Don’t lose sight of what’s important- you haven’t, have you?

Maybe if you tried a little harder, They wouldn’t be so quick to catch onto the fraud you really are.

An interrogative ordeal, is all that sums us up.

But the still unnamed woman, she thinks the louder she speaks, the less I can feel her right foot tapping the tile beneath us an inconsistent, flighty rhythm.

Look at you, little shell of yourself, you Retorts roll off her tongue as if every syllable might be an attack As if her only interest in conversation is self-preservation As if, all of a sudden I might reach across the table, with one touch Shatter the glass she wraps around herself Crumble her into tinsel, distort each quality like a broken refraction Of every step she wants to walk ahead of everyone else Of every day spend peaking over shoulders, Waiting for the world to catch up And reveal her for who she really is.

I ask her one final time for the truth, Call me anxiety.

She smiles, boasting teeth almost as off-white and misaligned as I fear my own would be.

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(untitled)

By Caitlin Johnson ‘21 The past Becomes muddled The truth, obscure One man’s victory,

Another’s suffering unjustified Some heroes were villains that were

Regarded with pride Receive the witness The honest And veracious Behold the entire scenery Not just the reflection There are two sides to every story Without unvarnished insight

The torment of cultures never comes to light

Concealed trespasses never reveal themselves

Forgotten lessons are never grasped by the future The future The unknown yet predicted Daunting for some Yet promising for others Doomed to repeat the ancient blunders and atrocities

Can such a fate be avoided?

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Cross Country Cruising

By Jack Whitmore ‘20 Free spirited lifestyle.

Cruising down interstate 6, Passing mile markers by the second.

My dad by my side.

Don’t know where we’re going, But headed west.

Free spirited lifestyle, Weeks of journey.

Leather on our backs, Boots on our feet.

All we’ve got is what we’re carrying, Free spirited lifestyle.

J.R. Herman ‘20

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By Cate Ware ‘22

The Surface

I walked along the beach while the cool sand seeped between my toes.

The morning felt cold and windy. I listened to the pounding of the waves as they crashed onto the shore. I walked silently with my friends, clenching my board so the wind could not take it. I came to a stop when the camp instructors looked out at the waves. The waves looked like hungry giants. As I was not very experienced, I hung back and let the others go before me. Because I had missed out on the surf yesterday, I was eager to jump in once the others started paddling. Although the massive heights of the waves made me feel uneasy, I decided to dive in.

When I stepped in the water, shivers flowed throughout my body. I jumped over the first wave and began to paddle hard. My fingertips flowed through the water, and my arms continued to move back and forth. When I came to each wave, I turned on my back with my board on top of me and waited as it washed over. Climbing back on my board, I continued to paddle as fast as I could. “One, two, three, one, two, three,” I thought over in my head as to find a pattern while I paddled.

I sat about half way out, and I could see the instructors and my friends right ahead of me. I continued to paddle. When I lifted my head, ready to flip over and let the next wave pass, I realized this wave looked not like the others, tall and powerful. I had little time to think and went with what I knew best. I flipped over onto my back and felt the wave pound my board. Before I knew it, the wave had taken the only thing protecting me. My board dragged behind me, dancing in the wave. I lifted my head up in order to catch a breath but as I did, the board, attached to my foot by a leash, pulled me back down. Another wave came. I continued to struggle. When I finally pulled my head up out of the water, I managed to yell the word, “Help!” as I was pulled back down by another wave. I loosened my body and let the wave take me. I felt helpless.

Suddenly, I began to feel the calmness on the surface and knew then that there sat a break in the waves. I worked my way up to the surface. Exasperated, I pulled my board toward me and climbed on it. I paddled with everything I had left. “One, two, three,” I uttered, finding my rhythm. I reached the others, who continued talking and had not heard or seen a thing. I lay there on my board and caught my breath. When I was ready, I sat up and looked for a wave to catch in. Once I reached shore, I went and sat with the others who had decided not to go out. That night, nobody knew what had happened, and I kept it that way. I knew I had done my best and was grateful. I believe in never giving up. Eventually, I will reach the surface.

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Distillate

By Leah Smith ‘20 Broiling away beneath the Bottom Of things too Toxic to be Touched, Acknowledged, Exist.

Do Not Speak.

Do Not Think.

Do Not. Stop.

Distillate disperses, Failing gravity, As It Should.

Once filled the flask, UnWavering water sanctions and sifons silence, Running, faster, Faster, A flowing Force

To be Feared, Foreclosed and forgotten, A scent you can’t shape sifts, Building in your bones, Binding your banks; Shifting, swirling, swaying, In echoes of that Arena.

Don’t dwell in this.

No taste resides in the air; It all fell in the flask, As It Should.

As It Did. Do Not Speak Of It. Do Not Think Of It. Do Not Allow It To

Be.

Instead, Taper the Torch, Extinguish Energy Embedded, Disassemble the distillation, And forget the flask.

Proper procedure must be procured, And no poison unLeashed.

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Climbing Sky-High

By Nicholas Rose ‘22 I place the key into the slot of my ignitor, hold down the yellow button, and begin my countdown. As I reach zero, I flip up the red switch and look anxiously towards my rocket, armed with a camera and altimeter, sitting ready on the launchpad.

A few short seconds pass until the rocket thrusts upward with an ear-piercing hiss and cloud of smoke. It flies a few hundred feet before I can react quickly enough to look up at it, and I watch in amazement as the second stage ignites with a pop and sends the rocket even higher through the sky. Around me, my family members gaze, mouths open, up towards the sky at my first successful two-stage rocket. We track the parachute down to the ground and recover it safe and sound.

However, as always, something has gone awry. Unfortunately, the small pen camera has somehow disappeared and the altimeter shows a reading of zero. Earlier in the day, I launched a rocket with two boosters on each side that would ideally fall off after burning out. However, filling the top with marbles to offset this weight turned out to be a not-sogood idea, and my family feared for their lives as the rocket performed loops and dives in the air. As we look at my latest flight, my grandpa, a retired aeronautical engineer, comments that maybe the fin-to-rocket ratio was too small and caused an unbalanced flight. My mother reminds me that it is just something to improve upon, and my dad asks if I need any more supplies to make more rockets as we carry my kit back to the car.

My family has played a large role in fueling my obsession for rockets, as they are willing to sacrifice time and money to see me happy and doing what I love. They also push me to attempt new designs and construct things I have never attempted before, even if it results in their ducking to avoid an out of control pyrotechnic projectile. The high expectations placed on me by my family have awakened a sense of purpose that has inspired me to create thousand-foot goals for myself. But they have also taught me that failure is natural; in fact, failure is the only way that we grow and accomplish our goals in the end. I believe that failure is the key to success.

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By Jack Hall ‘20

Lacrosse

My heart, my soul go into playing this game.

Lacrosse is my Love.

My bright yellow happiness.

My spor that makes me taste speed, Adrenaline rush feels like green, Green is to go, go as fast as possible.

Lacrosse is my Life.

My hunger for victory.

My sport that makes me dream of gold glory.

The stick is my shotgun.

The ball is my bullet The net is my target.

My teammates embrace me with warm red.

I fight the enemies that try to away our savory success.

A goal validates the thirst of winning.

The blue feeling of an error fuels me try harder.

Lacrosse is my sport.

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Wonder of Amity

By Caitlin Johnson ‘22 I didn’t know much about friendships back then. My mom needed to transfer to a new Naval base, so we settled in Chesapeake for about nine years, from first grade to now. The house, larger than our townhome in Germantown, Maryland, sat on a cul de sac with other colonial style homes surrounding it. The spacious lawn lacked a fence, and the smell of sod strikingly presented itself in the air. I saw more houses still developing around ours, and the construction workers planted trees so young and weak in the yards, wooden stakes had to support them, or else they would fall or grow sideways. When school started, I went to Greenbrier Elementary, with towering, alluring foliage and a charming playground. I adored the slide, monkey bars, and balancing beams, but the woods behind it, which, at the time, seemed incredibly inky and foreboding, prevented me from venturing too far into the area. I tried to befriend some of my classmates, but I never excelled at it. Instead, I began to make friends with other children in the neighborhood, and I questioned why my parents didn’t grow close to theirs. My dad said that he didn’t share any interests with them, and the Navy did not allow my mother to become friends with them, because the Navy had commissioned her.

I didn’t understand what that meant.

In the beginning, I felt welcomed by all of our neighbors. I met a girl two years younger than me, Jessie, who lived almost next to my family, as a field of wild, overgrown grass separated us. We did not have many things in common, but she welcomed me and I enjoyed playing with her. Soon after this, a new family arrived with two girls who were also close to my age: Ellen, and the elder sister, Rachel, who was only a few months older than me. I spent time with her more often than the others for reasons I don’t remember. I know I admired her, her athleticism, her popularity, her looks, and perhaps it was enough for me to overlook other aspects that drew me away from her. She had been amicable for the most part, but she would say or do something conflicting every now and then, whether it was a direct insult or an indirect gesture. No matter what it was, she did it in a way that caused me to cogitate whether she meant it or not, and in turn, it caused me to muddle the difference between teasing and deprecating. Maybe I remained friends with her because I didn’t know how to make friends at school, or thought all friends behaved like that, or hoped some of her good qualities would rub off on me, or maybe she was just nice enough for me to stay.

Looking back, I remember the fights we used to have over nothing, apologizing for things I shouldn’t have apologized for, a growing distaste for each other that we put into the back of our minds, and the overall immaturity that befalls the lives of children. When around others, she would ignore or ridicule me, and when it was just us, she filled the room with insulting comments.

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I rarely stood up for myself, and I eventually distanced myself from her, but after a particular session at her house, I had enough and fled, not knowing of the reality that it would be the last time I ever would leave her home. Near the end of fifth grade, I stopped communicating with her and going outside. I stayed in the house and kept to myself.

“Not good. Everyone hates me.”

I was shocked. Her classmates bullied her, and she struggled in school. I can’t recall how I replied word-for-word, but I know I tried to give her advice, as I wanted her to succeed and form bonds with others, and despite how ours ended, I didn’t want her to go through my previous experiences, both within and outside our relationship. That was the last time I spoke to her.

In ninth grade, I saw her mother in the mall. Mrs. Williams had given birth to a baby boy, and her family planned to move away.

They did, and as for the reason why, both Rachel and Ellen had a bad experience in Chesapeake public schools. Mrs. Williams said their classmates bullied them and the teachers didn’t act respectfully towards them. Hearing this brought lost memories back into my mind, but at the same time, it allowed me to let go of them, and they’ve grown further apart from me ever since.

After that, I changed schools for sixth grade and came to Norfolk Academy. I thought I would arrive to a group of students I couldn’t relate to, but all of my classmates surprised me. I found it easier to consort them than those in public school, and I associated with them more than any other students I had met before. I forgot about my relationship with Rachel for a while, but when I received a new text from her, I felt clashing emotions.

“Hey. How’s school?” I contemplated answering, and I eventually decided to do so. I told her about the campus and people, and I also asked her the same question. When I did, I never could have expected this answer.

“Not good. Everyone hates me.”

I was shocked. Her classmates bullied her, and she struggled in school. I can’t recall how I replied word-for-word, but I know I tried to give her advice, as I wanted her to succeed and form bonds with others, and despite how ours ended, I didn’t want her to go through my previous experiences, both within and outside our relationship. That was the last time I spoke to her.

In ninth grade, I saw her mother in the mall. Mrs. Williams had given birth to a baby boy, and her family planned to move away.

They did, and as for the reason why, both Rachel and Ellen had a bad experience in Chesapeake public schools. Mrs. Williams said their classmates bullied them and the teachers didn’t act respectfully towards them. Hearing this brought lost memories back into my mind, but at the same time, it allowed me to let go of them, and they’ve grown further apart from me ever since.

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Exigent

By Madeleine Munn ‘19 So what.

They found the new world walked on the moon discovered atoms lead armies invented the thing that lets me print these very words and yet I owe them nothing because they make us feel useful instead of worthy they imprint upon us sleazy words rather than loving praise They want us to be quiet but we cannot be quiet because we are loud.

My father is a quiet man. soft like one single fallen snow at the warmest part of the day. when a man makes a promise he can’t keep, what does he do next?

I wonder sometimes, too.

A man made me feel uncomfortable in a gas station. scared to be a woman scared to bear a woman there is no more story to tell my feeling uncomfortable is enough for I know and we know how it feels to feel afraid to be something we are to shiver and shake like children without coats in a world that is cold cold Cold.

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I wish everyone would try harder to keep us warm. to wrap us up in the legacy of those who discovered nuclear fission created Monopoly directed films, owned studios found out that sperm determines the sex of childrenhow ironicand they took credit and we did the work We are still doing the work.

Audrey Newman ‘20 107

A Rose From Concrete

By Matthew Wetmore ‘21 The black dust occupied the entirety of my palm. I had been drawing in the mixture of soot, ash, and wretched plywood which served as the floor of our one bedroom shack in Krakow.

Resulting from my six year old, wandering imagination was a uncanny drawing of a rose. Roses have always been special to me. My mother, who was killed in the Plaszow death camp, named me Rose because of the immediate beauty and light she saw inside of me when I was born. This little part of me which she gave me is all I had to hold on to because to the Nazi officials who controlled my life, I was just a five digit number tattooed on my arm. Art was an innate talent of mine which I expressed in many ways during my childhood in Krakow and even after I was placed into Plaszow at age 12. The days were long and hard, but survivable nonetheless; of course I always had my art to get me through the day. Even just picturing myself displaying my art in front of large audiences in America, hearing the screams of fans from around the world, served as a numbing agent for all of the terrible things that were occurring around me. On one of these normal days, we were given an extended break from our usual working hours due to the fact that people were being forced to endure the extremely fatal train ride to be transferred from Plaszow to Auschwitz. Generally, I drew in the dirt or dust that collected on the ground but there was one instance in which I was afforded the opportunity to draw with pencil onto paper. It was on this day in which I found out the sheer gravity of the natural talent which had been bestowed upon me. On this break, I ventured over to a place which acted as a sort of common room for the SS officials. One of the officers who oversaw my quadrant of the camp, SS Adler, saw me through the crack of the door. Though a very ruthless man in nature, Adler had come to know me and my dirt drawings quite well over the year I had been there.

At that moment, the officer reached into his pocket in which I thought was a whip. What he took out changed the entire direction of my life. From his pocket he presented a fine, graphite pencil and a single piece of paper. I graciously thanked him, took the contents of his gift, and ran as fast as possible back to my housing unit to begin what would end up being the most important piece of art in my entire life. Beginning to think about what I wanted to draw with these special instrument, I immediately thought back to the symbol which I had been drawing my entire life, a simple rose.

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However, I wanted to put a spin on it to reflect the hardships I was going through at the time. I thought about a situation which came to me naturally; originally I thought that I had maybe read it in a book as a child. I began to draw a concrete ground with a sizeable crack splitting it into two halves.

Emerging from that dark crack was an unimaginably beautiful rose flower. After I completed the work, I humbly realized that it was one of the most beautiful things I had ever drawn. I also discerned that the true meaning of the drawing was so much deeper than just a rose growing from concrete. The flower represents me, a budding artist attempting to grow into herself and become a famous illustrator. Though a hard task in itself, I was attempting to do this while surrounded by death, famine, and constant punishment from Nazi regime officials. These things were the concrete trying to hold me from growing. The drawing did not seem complete; I added a note at the bottom to hopefully prompt whomever may see it to consider the deeper meaning, though I hardly believe anyone outside of my shack would ever lay eyes on my drawing. The note said, “Nadzieja obiecuje wolność”. The short, 3 word polish phrase means ‘Hope prompts freedom’. Hope served as a big part of my time surviving through Plaszow and all of the terrible things that we were forced to do. Hope that maybe someday, I would be more than a number tattooed on my arm. My painting needed to be seen by more than just my housing unit bunkmates. It needed to be seen to help others truly understand what we were enduring. I devised a plan. The break we were given only had 20 minutes until it expired, so I needed to act fast. A correspondence truck for regular German citizens sending mail overseas came in and out of Krakow daily, meaning that it also came by Plaszow. I ran as quickly as possible and caught the truck just in time. With no name or address on the envelope, I tied a rock to it to give it some weight and threw it perfectly into the top of the open back truck. Instantaneously after the letter left my fingertips, I disconsolately understood the fact that I may never see that beautiful drawing ever again and that it most likely would make no difference. Venturing back to work, the previous hope which I had obtained was all but lost now. I continued to work and starve in Plaszow for two and half more years until one day, screams of absolute euphoria were coming from the work units; “The war is over!

Freedom is near!” are some of the shouts that I remember hearing initially. Sure enough, in the next couple of days, we were taken away from Plaszow by French officers, processed, and put into medical care for days.

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The first thing I did as a now 15 year old girl was go by boat to America. The journey was long and hard, but nothing like I had already endured. As we arrived to New York City, I instantly noticed the massive buildings. On one of the buildings I saw a large banner with a all gray drawing of what looked like a rose from afar. As we got closer, I broke down into tears.

My rose from concrete had traveled thousands of miles and become the face of American propaganda against Nazi Germany along with the phrase “Hope prompts freedom” sitting on the bottom.

Thousands of these were hung up all around the city. I now am going to drop my pen, for tonight is my biggest art unveiling of my career; it’s in the New York Museum of art. I just wanted to reflect tonight, before I am forever made a famous artist, on how this rose was able to grow out of concrete. Stories from people who actually endured the atrocities of the Holocaust are the only ones who can truly communicate what happened and why it is important to heed history’s failures. I must go now, the fans which I hoped for as a little girl, are calling my name.

Stories such as this one help us remember why primary recollections from the Holocaust are paramount to the prevention of similar events from occurring. Also, it is important that we as modern-day citizens read accounts from survivors in order to humble ourselves to the fact that we live extraordinarily ideal lives. We have the resources, brain power, and facilities to change the world. As a generation, we owe it to the victims of these atrocities to progress our world forward, because if we, students from a thriving area of the most amazing country on the world, fail to do this, then who will? Who will solve the problems of anti-semitism and racism which continue to exist in our country? Though an event as atrocious as the Holocaust most likely will not arise, all of the technological and material progression which the world is on the brink of cannot occur unless these fundamental problems of religious and racial bigotry are addressed beforehand. consider the deeper meaning, though I hardly believe anyone outside of my shack would ever lay eyes on my drawing. The note said, “Nadzieja obiecuje wolność”. The short, 3 word polish phrase means ‘Hope prompts freedom’. Hope served as a big part of my time surviving through Plaszow and all of the terrible things that we were forced to do. Hope that maybe someday, I would be more than a number tattooed on my arm. My painting needed to be seen by more than just my housing unit bunkmates.

It needed to be seen to help others truly understand what we were enduring. I devised a plan. The break we were given only had 20 minutes until it expired, so I needed to act fast.

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A correspondence truck for regular German citizens sending mail overseas came in and out of Krakow daily, meaning that it also came by Plaszow. I ran as quickly as possible and caught the truck just in time. With no name or address on the envelope, I tied a rock to it to give it some weight and threw it perfectly into the top of the open back truck. Instantaneously after the letter left my fingertips, I disconsolately understood the fact that I may never see that beautiful drawing ever again and that it most likely would make no difference.

Venturing back to work, the previous hope which I had obtained was all but lost now. I continued to work and starve in Plaszow for two and half more years until one day, screams of absolute euphoria were coming from the work units; “The war is over! Freedom is near!” are some of the shouts that I remember hearing initially. Sure enough, in the next couple of days, we were taken away from Plaszow by French officers, processed, and put into medical care for days. The first thing I did as a now 15 year old girl was go by boat to America. The journey was long and hard, but nothing like I had already endured.

As we arrived to New York City, I instantly noticed the massive buildings. On one of the buildings I saw a large banner with a all gray drawing of what looked like a rose from afar.

As we got closer, I broke down into tears. My rose from concrete had traveled thousands of miles and become the face of American propaganda against Nazi Germany along with the phrase “Hope prompts freedom” sitting on the bottom. Thousands of these were hung up all around the city. I now am going to drop my pen, for tonight is my biggest art unveiling of my career; it’s in the New York Museum of art. I just wanted to reflect tonight, before I am forever made a famous artist, on how this rose was able to grow out of concrete. Stories from people who actually endured the atrocities of the Holocaust are the only ones who can truly communicate what happened and why it is important to heed history’s failures. I must go now, the fans which I hoped for as a little girl, are calling my name.

Stories such as this one help us remember why primary recollections from the Holocaust are paramount to the prevention of similar events from occurring. Also, it is important that we as modern-day citizens read accounts from survivors in order to humble ourselves to the fact that we live extraordinarily ideal lives. We have the resources, brain power, and facilities to change the world. As a generation, we owe it to the victims of these atrocities to progress our world forward, because if we, students from a thriving area of the most amazing country on the world, fail to do this, then who will?

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Who will solve the problems of anti-semitism and racism which continue to exist in our country? Though an event as atrocious as the Holocaust most likely will not arise, all of the technological and material progression which the world is on the brink of cannot occur unless these fundamental problems of religious and racial bigotry are addressed beforehand.

Emily Vasquez Paramo ‘21

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Ophelia

By Laura Read ‘20 Do not speak for the temple is mine.

He raves, I know, yet I do too to myself.

No watchman to my heart! for is it mine.

I accept and comply, rely on you, yet I do long for an independent fist.

A deaf ear turned.

I know not his words or the meaning, nor what the state of his eyes will be.

I will go to him, for the choice to try is mine alone. I will know whether it was the truth that he told.

He will not come forth unless I walk.

If not for love, for peace?

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Implied

By Leah Smith ‘20 He became a Sea Lion, No Harm meant,

You couldn’t blame him.

But should I forgive The Anger of Animals In every Bloodied, continuing fight His sea lions crying out for consideration, Dodging the ice and orcas Aimed for him.

Never once reparations returned, Every gift fish bones bare under slick scales Daring me to challenge the insult.

Ignorance determined, To stay crowned through self-deceit.

Should I challenge?

Or submit?

Bow to the unjust king?

For broken fish bones?

Broken

Fish

Bones.

Liam Michaels ‘21 114

God’s Warrior

By Layla Compton '24 God whispered into her ear and told her cry.

his warriors don’t

so she used the pain as power, she took the cross and used it as a shield from hatred and sin, she made sacrifices for the greater good. and though she wasn’t aware of it at the time, her pain created a brighter future for our world today, helping people of all colors to join hands in fighting for their rights. in this separated world, her acts helped us become more united helping us to see through our differences and rid our minds of prejudice thoughts as we break the many patterns of racism, we become united together as one trusting when our nations flag says, “one nation, under God, in liberty and justice for all”.

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My First Dance

By Virginia Chandler ‘20 Perched upon one nimble leg, Seems like I’m balanced forever.

My neck, for something new does beg, Rotates to the sound of a feather!

Four circling cycles have since passed, Long, yet so few in number.

I ponder if perhaps I should ask, “Why now join me and my slumber?”

My leg, Plunges But now Perched

so weak, buy ready, towards the water below. it’s there to keep me steady. together, we have places to go!

Our pink and graceful figures prance, Within clear waters, may I have this dance?

David Denson '23

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Searching and Searching

By Virginia Chandler ‘20 He climbed up. He scurried down.

He veered left, he looked all around.

He turned more gray as time went on, Searching and searching, morn ‘til dawn.

He watched his friend, anticipated a feast!

He sank in jealousy, but not yet deceased.

He dreamed for crunch. He wished he could taste!

Oh! The tiny, brown circles coming towards him with haste!

He patiently sat. Hope was lost!

He came to the conclusion it was at much to high of a cost.

But wait! He turned his head to the sounds of a drop!

An acorn, rolling towards him with a profound plop!

He was filled with joy, so very grateful.

He believed in himself, he was thankful.

He climbed up , and he scurried down.

“Hard work proves worth it,” said the proudest squirrel in town!

-------------------------------------------------------------Haikus

By Guil Ware ‘20 “Waves” Wave upon wave crash Here, rest on the shore with me Back home they return “Drifting” Drift, float, up in air Up, down, going everywhere Return, kiss the ground

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J.R. Herman ‘20

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They Tried to Build a Fence

By Toria Kauffman ‘22 They tried to build a fence That kept out the light.

But they didn’t realize That the sun rose with the same orange yawns, That the sun set with the same exultant splashes, On both sides.

The sun didn’t care.

They tried to build a fence That kept our the blooms.

But they didn’t realize That the flowers bloomed with the same confident hues, That the flowers wilted with the same droops, On both sides.

The blooms didn’t care.

They tried to build a fence That kept out the seas.

But they didn’t realize The the water floated with the same calming pace, That the water roared with the same freeing surges, On both sides.

The seas didn’t care.

They tried to build a fence That kept out the winds.

But they didn’t realize That the breezes passed with the same gentle caresses, That the breezes thundered with the same mighty gusts, On both side.

The winds didn’t care.

They tried to build a fence That kept out their neighbors.

But they didn’t realize That the people awakened by the same blinking eyes, That the people died with the same loving shudders, Until their neighbors hopped the fence.

And then they had to decide: Who did care?

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Poem to Anonymous Love

By Rachael Buchanan ‘24

If ever was a time so jubilant In the poor life of thee, a humble made Was when thine eyes has gazed upon your smile And all doom in the world had slowly gone The angel choir had spread their wings to you And o’er yonder valley heard a song Of love and passion, fruits of affection For I to you this lovely song to sing.

Ellie Jones ‘20

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Shore Drive

By Guil Ware ‘20 Spring and the green.

The sweetness of the leaves.

Every green from everywhere, every tree it’s own.

The taste of happiness ripe in the air.

Veins flowing green.

Wet green, dry green, A bite of blue in the sky Windows far down to feel the green.

A waterfall of music out the windows, notes racing like horses to keep up Only to float like wisps through the trees.

Fireworks all in green, going nowhere, Moving everywhere in the wind.

Think air that feels like home.

A million tiny pieces, a single painting.

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Anaphora by a (digressive and ADD afflicted) Synesthesiac

By Ava Foy ‘20 the color of ‘a’ is pink the color of ‘b’ is light blue like the sky the color of ‘c’ is a near navy blue but not as dark as the dark sea the color of ‘d’ is green like the grass the color of my name would be pink yellow pink, green black pink blue red but all together the color is pink and green intertwined in an unexplainable fashion english is fire, but language arts was always water math is orange and round, but algebra is pink and spikey each of the 88 keys have a color unique in depth and shade and the feeling of an e chord on guitar is alarming yet smooth sending chills down my back and putting a tangy taste in my mouth it sits at 10 o’clock with an intense red hue I see more color than there is in the world I feel more than there is tangible emotions are stronger and empathy deeper synesthesia is different but I’ve never known otherwise and not many understand but seeing the beauty and feeling what most can’t, gives me a world full of color that others don’t know

David Denson ‘23 122

Untitled

By Julian Burke ‘24 Oh fall, how I love thy crisp and cool breeze And the way your bright leaves float to the ground.

Your trees are full of apples to be picked.

Children show off their new sweaters and boots, And play outside all day with their shadows Until Grandma says to come inside where Hot chocolate and pumpkin pie await.

Your daily changes sway the hearts of all.

Iambic Pentameter Poem

By Conner Alex ‘24 As the trees sway effortlessly in sync, The leaves fall elegantly to the ground.

Winter, yet to come, turns all the trees bare.

As my love for nature grieves more and more, The scenery come to a quiet rest.

Not a noise to be heard on nights like these.

The plants may be dormant, my heart is not.

As color hides itself, I fall to sleep.

Even so, nature is still quite serene.

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The Ocean’s Crashing Waves Ida Shapero ‘22 And here we sat, Never thinking that, We’d be here, with the yellow sun looking like a peach, As the sun warms the sand; as we sit on the beach.

And the waves in the ocean go forth to the sand, As a falling star, hopelessly falling, crashing into the land.

With continuous downfalls does it remain, And no matter how many crashes, it stays the same.

Well, I do not know if I have the ocean’s power, For when I’m put in difficult places, I tend to cower.

And for now I may be sitting on a beach, But, to get there, out of family conflicts I had to reach.

It all started and ended so quickly, with my siblings and I gathered on the couch, And that’s when I learned my mom was finally moving out.

But through the long, lengthy lecture, and its slow awkward pauses, with all its goodbyes I remained unsurprised.

Maybe I was happy my parents split apart, But as I look over, I see my siblings all torn apart.

I was glad my mom did it; I was glad she had the guts Because unhealthy relationships just add salt to cuts.

My brother and sister, oh, how they cannot see what it is truly like to be free.

If my mom were to stay, what would she be teaching?

That you should be scared to walk away from people leeching?

That it’s okay to close your eyes and rely on faith?

And it’s normal to wake up to parents yelling at each other every day?

Well she says not, and I agree, Now she lives along the beach freely.

Divorce isn’t bad, like it’s made out in a book.

Instead, it shows people do have the strength to rise against those making you sulk.

I always knew my parents were not going to last, Yet they stayed together through all the pain passed.

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So now as I sit here by the shore, Wondering how the waves continue to recover again; once more.

If one is surrounded by gruesome gore, They should never be afraid to crash like the waves and close the door.

Even though it’s impossible, like the ocean, to quickly recover, Your mistakes in life should not be censored or covered.

So let the waves of the ocean keep up with time And through generations keep its rhyme.

And as it hits the rocks it goes forth with dawn While, like a heart, it breaks, breaks, breaks so restlessly on.

J.R. Herman ‘20 125

SIX WORD MEMOIRS

Amiable, with open arms towards all.

-- Katherine Chiang ‘20

Call me by my name please. -Emma Somers ‘19 Stum b -- J ling bli ulia n Duar dly with te ‘ wide 21 open

eyes

.

re.

tu ven

d n a a s e i cited! ‘19 f i L x y e h Yue a t S a Sar -

Latin? g n i k ta still I 21 m a Why Kerr ‘ a r d n xa -- Ale

Senior year moves fast, savor it.

-- Meg Woodard ‘19

Storybook character, trapped in real world. -- Virginia Ames Tillar ‘21

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Red aura. Snake house. Loving tremendously.

-- Madeleine Munn ‘19 Two halves. One person. Same smile.

-- Brammy Rajakumar ‘19 I l i tea ve fro m -- to tea C .

Jon abell es '19

special l e e f eryone Make ev . ay every d ‘20 a Dick n i r a K --

Addre ss heart ed by name . , add resse -- Sa d wit hib C h handi ‘20

High School: Why did I never leave?

-- Charlotte Zito ‘99

on g n i

a

h pus y l ard r.

20 w k Aw oo rman ‘ d l pul .R. He J --

Was Alternative, then Classic, Now Easy-Listening.

-- Warren Warsaw

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