1

northern lights

two thousand nine

NNoorrtthh HHuunntteerrddoonn AArrtt && LLiitteerraarryy MMaaggaazziinneeNorth Hunterdon High School1445 Route 31 SouthAnnandale, NJ 08801

Editors:Alexis RichardsIsabelle AspinLaura Bartram

Assistant Editors:Chelsa Salesman

Veronica StefanchikAlex Baro

Layout Editor:Isabelle Aspin

Advisor:Suanne Fetherolf

Artwork Credits:Front Cover: Beasts in Clothes, Laura Bartram This Page: Fancy Ceiling, Chelsa SalesmanBack Cover: Window, Callie Bootsic

Table of Contents... Writing

Palabras, Chelsa Salesman 8My Heaven, Katlyn Corsentino 8Convenant, Ryan Koch 9Flowers Upon the Table, Adam Mayat 10Rhapsody-in-Smoke-and-Radiation, Alex Baro 11Diamond Blood, Mark Warner 12Oak Tree, Leslie Roerig 13Over the Edge, Jackie Baker 13Oranges, Jackie Baker 15Girl, Allison Zappula 15Blue Smoke, Evan Fish 16Sense of Absence, Alexis Richards 17Trouveur, Isabelle Aspin 19An Inward Experience of the Intellect, Ashley Zenerovitz 20Valley of Ashes, Ally Zimmerman, Amanda Puleo & Kayle Hunt 20Clovey-Clean, Laura Bartram 23Water, Michael Scuteri 23Thoughts in Visions, Greg Rubner 24Let Me Shed Some Light on the Situation, Evan Fish 25Rue De Richelieu, Alexis Richards 26Gusting Winds, Michael Creech 26Nature, Michael Scuteri 28I'd Rather Be Somewhere Else, Shawna Poltricitsky 29Losing Daylight, Laura Bartram 29The Man of the Sea, Chelsa Salesman 30Sloths, Adam Mayat 30Green Fields in Winter, John Niemiec 31The Wish of a Window, Dana Marie Ramalho 33A Moment in the Morning, Kellen Smith 34Grandfather Tree, Courney McGuire 34Bob, Melissa E. Jackson 36Post Card Poem, Gianani Pinon 36Groundhog's Day, Alexis Richards 38Apprehension, Paul Dobbs 38Ana, Amanda DeCarlo 39Car Ride, Greg Rubner 40Hiding, Nicole Gross 40For the Love of Basketball, Chelsea Best 42Slits Your Scales, Gabe Castellanos 43Fox, Andrew Mileto 45climbing a tree, Chelsa Salesman 46How Sweet, John Niemiec, Tim Meo, Connor Spear and Doug Klein 48Windows, Katie Corsentino 49Wood Chipper, Michael Fernandes 51Gardasil, Allison Zappula 52Lump, Ryan Sweeney 52Daze of Vermillion, Isabelle Aspin 53Fading Away, Allison Zappula 54In the Middle of the Night, Chelsea Best 55A Drug Called Speed, Andrew Basslet 56Mother Nature, John Niemiec 58Meditation, Amanda DeCarlo 59The Old Farmer, Michael Fernandes 60

Dollar Tree, Greg Rubner 60I, the Moon, Brittney Gruver 61Dark Water, Gianani Pinon 61Frightened Rubber Band, Eric Moore 62Connoisseur, Alexis Richards 64The Coal Miner, Andrew Mileto 65Little Capsule, Ashley Zenerovitz 67Gold Fish, Isabelle Aspin 68This Moment, Isabelle Novoa 71Golden Creature, Regina Weiss 72Form, Chelsa Salesman 73

...Artwork

Golf, Amy Zeno 7Ink Flower, Adrienne Liu 9Rainbow Bottle 10Shot Glasses, Jon Reino 12Theater, Laura Bartram 14Subway, Amy Zeno 16Mask, Dave Sharps 18Laura on the Subway, Chelsa Salesman 21Octopi, Dave Sharps 22Doggy, Chelsa Salesman 27Arlington Cemetery, Alexis Richards 28False Eyelashes, Chelsa Salesman 32Necklace, Kelsey Holbeck 32Mushrooms, Callie Bootsic 35Sad Clown, Alexis Richards 37Doorway, Natasha Walulik 41Bridge, Jon Reino 43Wood, Amy Zeno 44Sunflower and Insect, Natasha Walulik 45Sycamore, Dave Sharps 47Hiding at Christmas Time, Alexis Richards 48Bluish, Laura Bartram 49Twilight, Not like the Vamps, Laura Bartram 50Birthday, Regina Weiss 51Color Spectrum, Laura Bartram 53Sleepyhead, Chelsa Salesman 54Golf Bag, Natasha Waluik 57Ink Tree, Adrienne Liu 59Hand and Shell, Adrienne Liu 62Masks, Dave Sharps 63A Place Where No Cars Go, Jon Reino 64The World's Talles Filing Cabinet, Laura Bartram 66Dead Bird, Laura Bartram 67Gravity, Dave Sharps 70Tornado, Kelsey Holbeck 72Slide, Laura Bartram

6 7

Advisor’s Note

Editors’ Note

Suanne Fetherolf

GolfAmy Zeno

Golf is about hitting things really hard and watchingthem fly over the wide green horizon. Thats not related tocreating a literary magazine at all but it is true. I don'tremember how long we've been working on this. I Rememeber thisthough. We worked hard. We feasted on words. There were manycasualties. Art is dangerous, you know.

This magazine is not our sweat, blood or tears becausethat is gross. This is love. We're just a bunch of girls, abunch of poems and stories, some art, and love, and 78% water.And that's the rest of you, too. Think about it.

- The Editors

This magazine has nothing to do with golf. No onehits a ball over the green or into a hole. No one swings aclub or putts around in a little cart. We do read theoccasional poem about eagles or birdies. We eat lots oflollipops and, sometimes, chocolate. We watch for flare-upsof beauty. We wait to be dazzled, look for words that setthe paper smoldering. It's hard work. There are blood(paper cuts), sweat (it's always hot in 016) and tears(irrepressible laughter). I want to thank the many giftedwriters and artists who submitted their creative work.Without them, there would be no Northern Lights. Ditto, theeditors . The editors are few, but brilliant. I want tothank them for their humor and diligence, their talent anddiscernment. I have enjoyed being their caddy-followingthem across the fairway, carrying their clubs, offeringassistance before they smack the ball into the green hori-zon. I apologize if I am taking the golfing metaphor toofar. Nevertheless, I would still like one of those plaidgolf tams with a perky little pom-pom on top.

PalabrasChelsa Salesman

Nature's slippery soundsorganized grumblings andstumbling are stuck to the roof of my mouth.I have language inside me.I have different namesfor the placeat the tip of my tounge.Sometimes I can only blink my eyesrub my hands togetherand wait for the right ones toreply to a thought.I have to let them string together,eventually,Puedo traducir,puedo buscar una idea.

8 9

CovenantRyan Koch

Let man be cursedor destroyedNo more.So let manBe rewarded,But not as before.

A covenant betwixtMe and thee!

Thou shall father many nations,And thou shall rise fruitfulas a new creation.And thou shall be a blessed seed,

A covenant betwixtMe and thee!

My HeavenKatlyn Corsentino

Mist slowly retreats back to the mountainsBlocking the horizon with a gray sheet

Thick green grass bathed in dewFills the air with a sweet, fresh scent and

Grabs, tickling my ankleTired "good mornings" uttered from sleepy faces

Listening to the playful thud of an early soccer practiceEveryone smiles at his unending energyA welcome smell of breakfast blows byAs I sip a much needed cup of hot tea

My breath fogs in the cold mountain airAs the cool air embraces me

Have you ever stood in a valley full of green andBreathed the air of giants?

Ink FlowerAdrienne Liu

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Flowers Upon the Table Adam Mayat

A vase with flowers satupon the green table.I shivered in the gold snow,admiring the flowers.

The rusty lock of the door of the housedropped to the ground at my touch.I stepped inside, looking around.

Balls of light.Pairs of eyes.Watching, waiting.The birds in the cage quieted their song.

A little girl stood across the pit

in the middle of the floor.I grabbed a purple flower from the vase,

swallowing my fear, I leapt across.

10

Rainbow BottleLaura Bartram

Rhapsody-In-Smoke-and-RadiationAlex Baro

In the den of the palmistress,Among the oriental rugs, the gargoyles,The ship in a bottle, the perfumed smokeOf mysterious origins,She keeps the microwave in the corner,Behind beaded curtains, the secret of her burrito forlunch,Half-heartedly hidden.

She weaves her words into a spider web,The dots on her i's and j's trapped like flies.Her lips,(If I had to guess they were painted by the fright ofan octopus),Twitch at the corners. For a moment, they are smirk-ing,Busting at the seams with a future that is mine forthirty dollars.Only thirty dollars.The question rustles through the floral-scented ten-sion between us,Like an awkward monetary tumbleweed.It seems I am breathing cotton candy.She coughs, not on rebellious phlegm but,On the suggestion of the fee.

My hand,Outstretched, bills save for two dollars inQuarters, nickels, dimes,All swept off my hand,Clattering, whistling to the table.Her nails, the metallic luster of tiny switchblades,Trace the life line, heart line, water line, fireline.All the while her lips are dancing to the tune of,'Oh dear, oh my,' but she smiles and whether it's theThirty dollars or a savage fatalistic streak in a Pretty but presumably predictably crazy head,It's nothing I haven't seen before.

The microwave in the corner,Cooks my anxiety with its cheerful, utilitarian,

Radiation.This is nothing you've never heard before.

1312

Oak TreeLeslie Roerig

Louis Gustav was an oak tree.His roots run deep into the soil,His branches safely covered many.His bark was armor

Through many a storm,He remained strong and vigilant.Through the toughest drought.He drank reservoirs of wisdomStored in his roots.

Louis Gustav Roerig was an oak treeHis trunk was unwavering.Until one early September stormThe winds and rains stampeded through.

The gusts take over,A once strong oak snaps.Now forever fallen.

Over the EdgeJackie Baker

Sweat was running down my faceAs I slowly was being drained.

I could hear but one voiceFrustrated, yelling, "Go. Just go."

The edge of the beam was like a cliff.A steep, horrendous fall in my midst.

"Go. Just go."My breathing was uneven, unable to be controlled.

I seemed to shake like I was unbearably cold.I went into my thoughts,

attempting to put an image together.I would land. I would be fine. She would be proud.

But now another voice joined the conversation, telling me

I would fall. I would break. She would be furious.The voices continued.

Go...fall...just go...break...I went.

And I shattered.

Diamond BloodMark Warner

The fear that I breatheEvery night before I restI kiss my hands and armsI lay eyes on my childrenThe terror stricken on their facesThey collect limbs from the fieldThe hands and arms that lay motionlessBlood-stainedAnd all of their voices cry outlike a chorus from the soil

Like Abel's once didIf only this could end.

GlassesJon Reino

1514

OrangesJackie Baker

My orange stand thrived throughout the year.I was paid to give the town folkThe most succulent treat they could desire.Yet,the money was not my enjoyment.Children biting into my orangesLike they're a slice of cake,Not caring if the sweet nectarRan down their shirtOr got in their fine hair.Their sticky grins are my enjoyment.

When the day was dull,I grabbed a bundle of the largest,Most beautiful orangesThat I had picked with my bare hands.I strolled into the town.It was a gloomy day,With gloomy people.I handed out my oranges,No charge. No catch.I watched the town transform.

They were eaten,Squeezed,Thrown,Rolled,Worn,And enjoyed.Because everything is better when it's free.

GirlAllison Zappula

Girl.The one with no

Name.Wears a strong

Stinging purfume thatIs an oven

Burning the very

Deep insidesOf my nostrils.

TheatreLaura Bartram

1716

Sense of AbsenceAlexis Richards

Fleshy and yellow,It reminds me of an oldChinese Opium Den.Fitting for the nameOf the body odor elixir.Opium."It's French",My father says,"So it has to be good".He bought it during one of hisForeign business excursions,A consolation prizeFor his absence during my birthday.When I wear it,I feel old,Like a woman whose pearlsAnd yarnAnd cigarettesTangle on her lap.She wears it to make her feel elegant,Poised and polite,Frail,Yet her handsSew crocodiles into velvet.

Blue SmokeEvan Fish

What drove me to listen on those lonely nights,I do not know.

The ring and whir of machinery in the airFills my ear.

I look to my left,Into those deep-set blue eyesInto her mind, body and soul

Learning her.Studying her.

She lights a Marlboro and it meansThat on the day the world ends,

The machinery halts,Blue minutes leakIn empty silence

From the end of that cigarette.

Soft songs, like birds, die in the poison air.

SubwayAmy Zemo

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Trouveur Isabelle Aspin

You never claimed to be a taster of fine winesor to be fond of wines of any sortBut there was a sophisticated thump sway pigeon hobble dancein the way you walkedthat suggested the influence of dew drops or pool waterfermented by the full moon.And all the highlightersand gaudy heart pens hoarded in your desk,they can't make me write gerber daisiesor little Buddha statuesonto paperlike you do.Do you drink ink to get sober, or stream of consciousness?Can you lick up the day a little better like boysenberry syrupand feel it in the back of your throat.What I would giveto shrug your shouldersand tell myself it's safe to drink words,straight from the bottle.

18

MaskDave Sharps

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Laura on the SubwayChelsa Salesman

An Inward Experience of the IntellectAshley Zenerovitz

Fearlessly I jump from the edge of the universeMy head a television setCathode tube swirls of starsFalling ever faster through the seemingly empty void

A barren wasteland is fruitful to the mindSo says the bird that sits in the sycamore treeAlong a path trodden by multitudesEmpty space yields...Cookie cutter plans

A recipe for:Tantalizing tangerine citric acid soup Made from a little of this And a lot of vitamin c

Look at yourself in the mirrorYou ceaselessly laugh at my ever questioning eyesPluck at my mandolin heart stringsI don't understand youChimney of smokeStab at me with needlesYour soul is a bowl of jokes

Desperately you try to fleeBut you're estranged from your own self

Dawn has crossed the threshold Night flees through the back doorHas it been a whole day or only an hour?

Valley of AshesAlly Zimmerman, Amanda Puleo, and Kyle Hunt

Valley of ashesan impenetrable cloudtoo hard to escape.

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2322

Clovey-cleanLaura Bartram

The bathtub gurgles and squeaks,Like the rain througha pressed ear to the porcelain dish.Like the ocean in seashells,like music through a vent,like my heartbeat in my wrists.I can hear the wailing of a stingy siren.

I lay clovey-clean in the warm belly,Imbibing the warmth.Eyelids slip-sliding tilthe heat dissipates, my body dries,Oh,With my hat brim low,

I will be wise.

WaterMichael Scuteri

I am waterRushing, running freely

Like a river through the school hallwaysThen crashing against the crowd

Crush!Whoosh!

I flow through the openings in the crowdSeparating and becoming whole again

Until I slip into a seatStill and stagnant

Until the bell ringsAnd the floodgates open.

OctopiDave Sharps

2524

Let Me Shed Some Light on the SituationEvan Fish

I am powerful,I am important,though many seem to take me for granted,perched high upto where no one ever looks.An unnoticed guardian,making sure no one is left in the dark.I watch everyone during the day and I sleep at night, in my tiny globeI can see the world.My people used, then abused,left in pieces in back alleys and abandoned warehouses.They use us until the energy from us burns outand we dieonly to replace us,with another.Without single thoughtor lament.Like an obsolete appliance cast away from societyto spend the rest of eternityAlone.

Thoughts in VisionsGreg Rugner

Thoughts in visions will translateTo open canvas with the help of color

My hopes my dreamsMy visions

When will I become?I feel so desperate.

Unwanted.

Though love is not my gender,I'll pursue it.

I'll undress you,My love.

I am useful for nothing.Just a crack for you to fill.

Go on,I'll be one less stumble out of the way.

With the life of a Rat,And the courage of a mouse,

I am as torn as a withered cloth.I can not dream any longer,

My clocks have rung.I am happy.

2726

DoggyChelsa Salesman

Rue De RichelieuAlexis Richards

Street lights darkened the egregious street corner,With its shadowy blackening fumes of light.Neon cries from the windows,Where men sat whistling.Each calling out to passersby."I'll blacken your arms with sleeves of meaning",A womanWhose own neglected forearms,Were landscaped,Dark blue.Ink."Come dance with me,And I will redden your lips with mine"A man calls,A romantic from a past life,Come to claim the treasures,Of the body of a woman."Pay me, pay me",A young boy yells,"And I'll lighten the street corners,In which you dwell.I'll bring flowers and ivy and chocolate,And whiten the earth where you stand."

Gusting WindsMichael Creech

Gusting wind shakes usBright suns wake us, and each day

We can start anew.

2928

I'd Rather Be Somewhere ElseShawna Poltricitsky

Parallel lines of monstrous trees.Red and yellow apples, like polka dots in puffs ofgreen.Leaves like bouncing ballerinas in the wind.

A rose red apple taken away from its parent.A recipe of dirt and light apple aroma.The crispiness of the cool autumn air.Hurricane of juiceAs I sink my teeth into its skin.

The thieving breezeMaking my hair dance delicate circles.

Numbness crawling up my fingersBiting my wind-blown cheeks.

Just like the apple attached to its branchI, too, am awaiting my time to let go.

Losing DaylightLaura Bartram

The leaves stand and cheer in a stadium of sticks,afire with team spirit

in their branch-box-seats.How many stadiums in a forest?

My three-month mistress gilded them all,slowly, carefully, one by one

with her rays.She cultivated my persnickety blooms that

smelled sweetest summer sunsets.I stand shivering beneath my leafy kin.

And we wave, excitedly, as she sweeps the flaxen train of her gownover us once more, one last long afternoon.

NatureMichael Scuteri

A tree has fallenBut no one has noticed itExcept the dingo

The acorn dives downSpiraling down to the earthCreating new life

The snow is quite coldBut it covers all the landLike a big blanket

The birds are flying From country to countryAll on their own

Arlington CemeteryAlexis Richards

3130

Green Fields in WinterJohn Niemiec

His animadversion angered the writer,A friend now an enemy by the sharp sword of deceit“The words do not appease,” he criedWhile the writer sat typing;The exploding phrase resonating throughout the valleyof his head.But the smoke cleared and all was silent once more.The silence above and beneath the debris.“You cannot expect to sell these pages!”He screamed with a verdant smile.Laughing, the writer kept typing upon the white page.

False EyelashesChelsa Salesman

The Man of the SeaChelsa Salesman

The shoreline whispers atYour feetThe sizzling sand Giggles backBubbly.You now haveHalf the headHalf the heart Half the wordsThat you had before So I'll give you half a smileHalf a glanceHalf a sentenceIf that's what you'd like.I've been feeling less literalCoated with metaphors and Juxtapositions that I keepTrying to peel off my skinBut the salt from my sweatBrings these things back to the surface againA buoy in my veinsWhere blood could be the wavesBut these are silly thingsA body's functions are simple thereBut a whisper A swollen reply

Is a salty sea sigh.

SlothsAdam Mayat

I am simple Jack Listening to the low rumble of the engine

Sloth!Sloths are everywhere; I should have tied my shoes

These slow creaturesTaking their time, moving slow

Lazy and tired, catious and clumsyI sit and wait in the car

Lazy as a sloth

Listening to the low rumble of the engine

3332

The Wish of a WindowDana Marie Ramalho

Desire to be clean like every human being,My mouth slides open with a croak or a nudge,

My eyes, the looking glass of other people's desireand dreams.

Rendered immoblile, my dark and rigid armsand legs are paralyzed.

An ongoing onlooker, like the one old,withered, man who sits still on that metaled monster during every soggy soccer match.

I groan and moan for freedom to become vulnerableinstead of dependable.

A glass suited hero always totake the first punch.

A protector from destructible weather, I fear of myglazed eyes cracking to pieces

I shutter at fallingapart to a useless waste.

What happens when a piece of me falls?When tainted smudges can't be erased?

Have sight but no sound, be felt but never to touch,

I see the milky dawn, the bottomless pit of a night,The bustling cities and raging storms,

The clueless puppies rolling in a sea of green and brown.

How I wish to cherish them allbut I also wish to turn away.

NecklaceKelsey Holbeck

3534

MushroomsCallie Bootsic

A Momemt in the MorningKellen Smith

The air seemed more dead than alive.

The students sat,Hardly moving,Twiddling their thumbs.

Thinking perhaps.

Air moved.Active thought,A party of the minds.

The sun woke up and coursed throughThe window.The room shifted.

Grandfather TreeCourtney McGuire

The tree is a grandfather.Wearing ivy colored bark as his sweater.Wearing a set of veins as his monocle.

His direction is shifted downwards,But his spirit is always upbeat.

The tree is withering and becoming weak.As the earth ages and changes, the tree still stands.

Barely, however.Almost reaching the sky's hand.

The tree is the core of the earth.The tree holds the power of the sun in its hand.There is much life in the grandfather of nature.

Small insects parade on his carcass.New sets of grass and flowers come and go,

But he is here to stay.He strays here everyday,

Welcoming the new grass and flowers to the field of life.

He is the grandfather knowledge tree.

3736

Sad ClownAlexis Richards

BobMelissa E. Jackson

On a bitter December dayWe took her inHer paws were as cold as a stethoscopeon a bare chesther skin was a tight vacuumshowing every bonekneading the blanketshe sat uponher purr endless never stoppingher love warmed my heartand as she laid there, eyes glazed overso contentshe cried tears of joythe touch of her pine needled furengraved my senses with winter evergreenlicking every last morsel of goodshe was satisfied secure and soundwe named her Bobbecause it suited herthe sound of her heart pound so loudmade me want to wrap my armsaround herto protect her from the harmthat is in her pastand to promisea better future

Post Card PoemGianani Pinon

Verdant high trees swingback and forth

Birds flew on the peacefulblue sky above

Sweet and colorful flowersBlooms and oozes

with the fresh cold airBunnies hop across tiny yellow fields

Mirthful ragtime of the orchestraresonates through into

the ambiance

3938

AnaAmanda DeCarlo

The mirror is never satisfied.It laughs, poking and prodding.This is not something I'll grow out of.I'm as trapped in this cycle as the moon.

It laughs, poking and prodding.Why do I have a taste for the bare minimum?I'm as trapped in this cycle as the moon.Control is my medicine.

Why do I have a taste for the bare minimum?Why take in more than I need to survive?Control is my medicine.The poison that fuels my pain.

Why take in more than I need to survive?The mirror lives and breathes results. The poison that fuels my pain.These thoughts seep into my brainlike blood runs from a knife.

The mirror lives and breathes results.Which part of me is the liar?These thoughts seep into my brainlike blood runs from a knife.

I drink it all up.

Which part of me is the liar?This isn't something I'll grow out of.I drink it all up.The mirror is never satisfied.

Groundhog's DayAlexis Richards

Our bodies are moist,in our dwelling,our home,our womanly majestic sepulcherbut filled with birth, not death.A womb.There I said it.This cave like a womb,with cycles of life circlingwith moth-bittendog-chewed tails.We live here,in this sepulcher.A cavernous moss coveredhole in the Earth.Bits of fur and dust and diamondslitter the treacherous ground,none of our minds can grasp their worth.We have been trained,like caged pigeonsto do as we are told.To raise our blind eyes from the groundand sip Mother Nature's silky iced tea.The teacups fashionedout of drapes of light like tapestries into circles.The brightness causing us to glance down,and out of fearwe return to our womb.

ApprehensionPaul Dobbs

Darkness,The flutter of leaves and crush of ice,

Roads twisting like winding rough rollercoasters,In the middle of the road, trees pushing us,

Relaxed as we continue on in the night,An opening, a way out,

Street lights shine upon us like sport lights,The world around us goes faster,

Nervous to other things around us,Lights hit my face like the lights at a concert,

The car slows and switches lanes, the car behind fol-lows our every move,

The unending sound of sirens and the flash of red and

blue streaks through the night.

4140

DoorwayNatasha Walulik

Car RideGreg Rubner

It's going to be a long ride back.Crop fields and death rows.Mountains and green falls.With blue skies above paints the perfect picture.

Crop fields and death rows.My eyes grow heavy with boredom.With blue skies above paints the perfect picture.Diesel motors roar through my head.

My eyes grow heavy with boredom.This chair is not a sofa.Diesel motors roar through my head.I love the view of falling bodies.

This chair is not a sofa.The sunset's just outside my window.I love the view of falling bodies.Billboards haunt this highway.

The sunset's just outside my window.How long is home?Billboards haunt this highway.I hate the sound of exhaustion.

How long is home?Mountains and green falls.I hate the sound of exhaustion.It's going to be a long ride back.

HidingNicole Gross

I keep the real me tucked behind a wigFalling deeper by every word

Hiding behind the Tangled forest of old straggled hair

Fear of showing too muchOf being too open

4342

Slits Your ScalesGabe Castellanos

The steak is delicious. Thank you.But I couldn't look at it.I was trapped in this chair.Trapped by the stares of my kin.My eyes shift across the room.I spy an old man. He'll be a casket by next week.He sat quietly while the people around himDecided his fate.To the death, they hissed at him.His pale eyes showed a shimmering sparkle.He remembered his days as a unicorn, He would tell me, You're a beautiful cod.I am but a pitiful unicorn.And as my horn slits your scales,I will be whole again.I wish there was something I could do for you,But I am at my end, as well.

BridgeJon Reino

For the Love of BasketballChelsea Best

SwishThat noise that I hate with all my heartThe ball sinks perfectly through the net

It was my first love, basketballFriendships between teammates

Games that never seemed to endThe sun would set, casting light over the court

A giant orange basketball sinking in its own netSwish

How I hate that gameWhen mere friendships turned to passion, love

My secret burns inside A secret I can never utter

For the words are too much to bearLike a heavy weight

a barbell on my brain, my heartSwish

I want to tell himI yearn to let those few words loose, held captive

in my throatTo let my true self be revealed

Like the true heart of a player when the score is socloseSwish

This gameI feel I am the ballMy outside is tough

But overtime I deflate, deadI'm deflating

This game, it's killing me

4544

FoxAndrew Mileto

Her long, brown hair lay in curls over her face.Her big, hazel eyes seemed to stare into me, into myheart.Her soft, smooth skin felt as if it was made of velvet.Her voice was provocative and sexual. An unreal voiceyou could only imagine.Her long, slender legs went on forever.Her supple body had the smooth curves of an hourglass.She smelled of warm vanilla.I hate warm vanilla.She was no longer a fox.

Sunflower and InsectNatasha Walulik

WoodAmy Zeno

4746

SycamoreDave Sharps

climbing a treeChelsa Salesman

Saturday we climbed a tree. It was right before the sunbegan its slip behind the leaf littered mountains. Youboosted me up and then pulled yourself, hands grippedright next to my feet curving the smooth bark. I heardyou swallow after a deep breath and felt the weight ofyour body shake the branch I went to sit on.I find it hard to interpret the way it looks, up tenfeet or so from the ground, I say, as the wind takes apull at the trees all around and leaves scatter likesnowfall. Silent and an exasperated sigh, the sweetsmell of decaying swirls. You tell me, if this were a song, it would be gold andsonorous, the way a hot bath in the wintertime feels asyou let yourself in. I shake the branch as I sway myfeet and your hand folds over the space between my fin-gers by accident, and you hold it there for a longthought. It feels the same as the roots lying in thesoil.That cooler breeze zips your jacket tighter and pullsanother button through on mine.Soon we will see our breaths, I add. And the leavesmumble again to the wind, a forest alive with whisperas the two collide leaving the sky mesmerized, anexpression of stupor. The clouds crowd around the edges.As the sun kissed the sky it glided blissfully, tintingthe sky pink with blushes; the moon slivered. We slippeddown the tree into our shoes that waited damp with dew.The clouds folded over and I watched the breeze flirtwith the blades of grass, the direction of the hair onyour head, and the wrinkles in your shirt. It was a long walk along the edge of a field and thegiving of earth beneath our feet that brought us backhome, where the dog lays sprawled on the lawn imbibingany last ray of sun that can reach from so far away.You find a twig in my hair and I watch it join theleaves and the grass as it settles, the same way as thegreen in your eyes lights up when the shape of yourmouth moves.

4948

BluishLaura Bartram

WindowsKatie Corsentino

If eyes are windowsHis clover greens are laughingYet still missing home

How Sweet!John Niemiec, Tim Meo, Connor Spear, and Doug Klein

Thine heart hath just skipped half a beatIn they sweltering Autumn heatHow sweet! How sweet! How sweet! How sweet!Two lips, two hearts, at last do meet.Thine life shall never be the sameupon these lips I make my claimHow sweet! How sweet! How sweet! How sweet!Two lips, two hearts at last do meet.Our love hath blossomed like a flowerI feel this love shall never sourHow sweet! How sweet! How sweet! How sweet!Two lips, two hearts, at last do meet.One love doth severed by the warThine heart beat ever faster more.

Hiding at Christmas TimeAlexis Richards

5150

Wood ChipperMichael Fernandes

Destruction has just begun.I am a slave to some.I have teeth that are just spun.

My teeth gradually get numb.I fear the drudgery of rain.I recieve much pain,Pain that cannot be undone.

I have tried truces,With the brothers.But I’m a slave to excretion.I’m just a funnel of hatred,And sorrowness

As I get old,I fear of being stowedMy teeth begin resting.Finally my day of defeat has come,By the brother Spruce. Birthday

Regina Weiss

Twilight, Not like the VampsLaura Bartram

5352

Daze of VermillionIsabelle Aspin

We would let it grow longto tickle at the backsof our kneesDrape it over shouldersSo the dark and noisefilter throughuntil they resemble sunshineon our backssplayed outthis blanket is auburnours to wearbut what part does love play in thispensive premonitionnostalgiaI will braid yours and findamitybetween your locksthat will wash away with timerainwaterYou were always eager tocount the shades of red in my cheeksso hide the shears behind your backfind your color wheel

Color SpectrumLaura Bartram

GardasilAllison Zappula

I felt like my head had burst into flames.My head was an angry man pounding at the door.My thoughts, like cake batter,in a mixer going round andround.Just twelve short hours beforeThe nurse, coming off so candy coated sweet,innocentHad just stabbed my right arm muscleWith a shot that burned my insides.My head was an explosion.Race foward twelve hours.A rejoicing day, halfday.Spending the easy, laid back school day with friends.Sitting on an aged chesnut couch,Schoolmates,friends,screaming their lungs out into themicrophone,Wanting to tear my hair from its roots.Shove the man down,Take control of the pounding.Shut my door.Let my heavy eyelids fold over.Fall into a distant sleep.Until my mom awakens me for dinner.

LumpRyan Sweeney

I am a lump on the bathroom floor.I am warm from the Sizzling,

Steam that is still Streaming out of the freshly usedshower.

Slipping out of the shower is usuallynot so pleasant.

I notice the sink is dripping, I hearthe bling of the drip hitting

the brass drain.The shower drips are a machine gun

compared to the soothing drips of thesink.

Dink, dink, dink, dink, dinkMinutes pass and I just lay here

It is so warm, I think I will stay for a bit.

55

Fading AwayAllison Zappula

The old Toyota, green as a frog,We sat there.Listening to the rain splashOn the windshield.The wipers stopped in midair,the silence was deadly.Your head, rested in your handsOn the steering wheel.I stared forward,Mind blank as the sky that night.The only noise was the softBreaths that alternated between us.I felt a warm stream of water,Running down my cheek.It hit my lips, my hand quickly brushed it away.Your eyes drifted,They never met mine.Not knowing what you would ever do,If I lost you.I poured my heart out,As it all fell to the floor,I knew you understood.

54

In the Middle of the NightChelsea Best

Exhausted from the night beforeSweaty from a morning runMy aunt and I sit silently in the dark kitchenCoffee brew, emitting the sweet aroma of hazelnutsthroughout the houseDrowsiness hangs over the table, making our eyes droop and closeStill dark outside, the morning takes long to arriveA breeze blows through the open window, inviting us outside for only but a momentThe stone pathway feels rough like sandpaper on my barefeet as we step into the dim light of morningWeather-worn boards of the dock creak, greeting us as westep out onto the SoundRipples cruise over the dark surface of the water asfish below play hide-and-see with our shadows from theearly rays of lightWe perch on the edge and watch the horizon, waiting for morning like children wait for Santa Claus on Christmas EveSmells of salt water are heavy on the air as the enticing sea breeze playfully tosses our hair andshakes the dark green sea grassThe sun begins to rise, throwing light over what seems like the entire world.Dark navy blues mix with oranges and yellows as nightbegins to disappear into morningThe beauty of the moment leaves us completely speech-less, as if our words were swept away by the breezeMy aunt and I are the only things that matter, seemlike the only people aliveNo words are shared, mimes caught in the middle of night and day

SleepyheadChelsa Salesman

5756

Golf BagNatasha Walulik

A Drug Called SpeedAndrew Bassler

Like night and day,My mind toying with my emotions,Confusion is the only thing certain.

I am a robot, Programmed for perfection, butSo far from it.My human element is lacking.

My feelings are beaten downBy the sheer awe;My own eighth wonder.

Speeds amplified through euphoria;A drug, legal, But just as dangerous.Near death is a thrill.

Wind whizzing by my faceLike plunging into ice water, freezing my body,But finally my senses have been awakened.

Druggies crash,Am I any different?No; the downs are like my fingers now,Cold. The drug has worn offAnd I feel pain again.

5958

MeditationAmanda DeCarlo

The daffodils peeked out Out of the top of her head.

A bouquet of creativityIn full bloom.

She watered them with hope.Fed them inspiration.

Let them run wild and free.

Pulling out the silky yellow petalsOne by one

She arranged them on the pageAnd watched the garden of her thoughts

Grow and die.

Ink TreeAdrienne Liu

Mother NatureJohn Niemiec

In the heart of the forestThere is nothing but shadowsWhy does something with such life

have such a black heart?But the forest is not evil

There is nothing but shadowsClouding the vision night and dayBut the forest is not evilShe fosters life

Clouding the vision night and dayHate is our opiateShe fosters life Now she is dying

Hate is our opiateWho is to blame?Now she is dyingWe are killing her

Who is to blame?We are all at guiltWe are killing herBut what is one more unvalued life to us?

We are all at guiltOver the horizon stands an armyBut what is one more unvalued life to us?We are all numbers

Over the horizon stands an armyWhy does something with such life

have such a black heart?We are all numbersIn the heart of this forest

I, the MoonBrittany Gruver

I inspire you to go on romantic walkswith your loved oneI gaze down upon youfrom my glistening midnight dreamland

I wish I could say that I was the greatest thing toever appear in the sky

I vie against my glowing significant other, the sun,I often wonder who is liked more, me the marvelouslyglowing nighttime wonder sky,Or my daytime rival who marvelously warms the earth?I calm those who are restless, I am a mother cradling a baby in her arms, I hush and console.

In my mind I am the best, not only do I help cast aplayful shadow on the ground at night,But my brilliant luminous glow lays a blanket of serenity over the world while it is in deep slumber.

Dark WaterGianani Pinon

Dark waterAs still as a millpond

Shivers tickle down my back

Merry ragtimeOf the orchestra

Echoed moaningpleaded

Ocean is calm nowA reflecting mirror of darkness

Sweet air oozed through the window

Swan swimming At the shore

Her strawberry smilemakes my heart plump

6160

The Old FarmerMichael Fernandes

Rolling hills littered with cells.Flowers flourish with corn.Fields wrinkle like the old man's face.Colors match the eyes.

Feels as if life is staged.Fox is hunted by old man.After hard day's work.Nothing to eat.

Won't eat breakfast.Wrinkles of fields like old bed sheets.Corn pops into sweetness.The old man enjoys.

Dollar TreeGreg Rubner

Nothing’s better than lying on the floor of a 99 cent retailer.

Not a care in the world.Just taking life one breath at a time.

Clocks move slower, colors feel brighter.

You close your eyes,See past times play in your mind.

Only the most peaceful thoughts qualify.

People stumble over your delighted body.They gasp in despair

while staring at your silly appearance.

Dripping with lost memoriesYou share a smile with yourself.

Like the first time going to the carnival.You've never been happier.

Eventually you'll break awayFrom your piece of bliss

Realizing you're laying on the floorof a 99 cent retailer.

6362

MasksDave Sharps

Hand and ShellAdrienne Liu

Frightened Rubber BandEric Moore

Sometimes I stretch a little too far.If pulled too muchI can hurt.I'm way too fast To think about what I'm doing. I'm a puppet being controlled byAn evil puppeteer.Pull and pull anymoreAnd I will snap.Just kind of there,Never noticed,Talked to once,Find someone new.Until I'm pulled too muchStart all over again.

6564

The Coal MinerAndrew Mileto

Every morning, I grab my lunch she made for me.

Every morning, I kiss her goodbye.

Every morning, I tell her I love her.

Every morning, she lies when she says she loves me, too.

My mornings begin this way.

Every day, I put on my hard hat.

Every day, I flick on the switch to my helmet light.

Every day, I grab my pickaxe and mine coal.

Every day, I buy her love with my paycheck.

My workdays, for now, maintain this style.

Every evening, I trudge through the door after work, covered in thick, black dust.

Every evening, she asks me how my day was.

Every evening, it was alright, but I need to relax.

Every evening, she comes over to the chair I sit in tohelp me release some work tension.

My evenings have always settled down this way.

Every night, my hands free themselves of black.

Every night, her hips are covered in it.

Every night, after the sheets have rubbed the black offboth of us, she falls asleep next to me.

Every night, even through her purring, I know she can'tbe happy.

My nights won't end like this forever.

ConnoisseurAlexis Richards

“I gave birth in these shoes”,I think to myself,As I look at the metallic print."I almost died in those shoes",I say aloud to the poor man,Sitting and swingingFeet dangling and bare."I died in those shoes",He says,And twists his fingers,Like carousels,Round and roundBut with no chimes and laughter."Back in my day,"I start,But see him smiling and nodding his bald little head.He has heard this one before,Coming from mouths different from mine.Yet despite this,He consumes my wordsLike a kitten whose starved and bloated stomachCries out and wriggles.And yet he sits,Listening.Feet dangling and bare,fingers twisting like carousels.

A Place Where No Cars GoJon Reino

6766

Little CapsuleAshley Zenerovitz

My tiny body is sitting there waiting,Waiting to be chosenTo be plucked out of my translucent orange fortressTo be dumped into a cold and clammy handThrown into a dark moist cavern with white stagmites anda soft spongy floorTo be whisked down the waterslideFalling...

Falling...Falling...

Splash!Into an acidic ocean filled with the remnants of yourlunchMy body starts to decayMy outer layers stripping away, peeling like old paintoff a wallMy insides mix with potent liquidI am melting, dissolvingI am whole no more

Dead BirdLaura Bartram

The World’s Tallest Filing CabinetLaura Bartram

6968

White body, coppery forehead.

"Baby. Go ahead. Pick a good one." One that won't die,won't run into the glass walls, one that won't be likeyou. Slow. The sales clerk, with a red polo all tuckedin, hair gelled, eyes glazed, nods along, lost in thefluorescent lights. His net drips. There's a a littlepuddle on the tile.

Orange, orange body. Big eyes. I need that fish.

"Don't want to rush," But I look at you for just a sec-ond, and you're shoving little pieces of glass under myfingernails, little shards of mirror with just a look. Ipoint at random.

The sun drums heavily on the concrete outside. Thesoda machine on the corner is out of order and you'reangry at the world because it's hot and you're sweatyand I don't feel like running. You push me and I tripand I see the bag leave my hand in slooooow mooootion.Horror. That's what I feel. The bag is shredded. It'stotaled.

And the gold fish, in a puddle that grew and grew, he,it, her, flopped and tried to swim on the chalky side-walk. Then they were still, with their puckered redlips, catching the little arrows of sun, just like you,Penny. I never really liked that shade on you, youknow. It's a bit too gold.

Gold FishIsabelle Aspin

His ability to abscond was severely hampered by theinsistence of bringing along the goldfish.

Penny, oh dear Penelope. Do you keep those tiny bits ofcopper at the reach of spiny hands? I read in an oldtextbook- so old that the names were all curled in ink,without any little hearts over the i's or anything-about men sticking bits and bobs of metals and shardsof glinty glass under fingernails, Penelope. That's justhow we talked back then, with little bits of things.

I'm sure you knew that. I bet you learned that in thatbig ol' building, where we went to see Marcy dance withall the other girls. I wanted to wear a tutu and thickmake-up too, but, our mom? She said no, no. Little boysshouldn't wear pretty tutus or red lipstick or dance onstage with the dusty lights. And other little girls.Remember how you locked us in front of the mirror thatnight, and I looked like a clown. Your fingers stillshook. You kissed my cheeks so hard they turned red.

On my birthday last year you pulled me into your room.It was June, June, and the air conditioners hummed intime with every word of how you stood in the make-upaisle of one of those big stores, with the whitelights. And you grinned like a thief, freezing. "It'snot so great, Hunny-Buns, it's difficult." The tube oflipstick had a blue bow. It's still in my drawer,untouched.

We're there again, in a big store with bigger whitelights. So big that they buzz and mumble little sen-tences into your ears, big enough to make the whites ofyour eyes the same color as the tile.

We're here standing in front of the fish tanks. They'reall lined up; the one with the big lazy gold fish; Theguppies, gossiping about the plastic diving bell withthe cautionary warning, boots buried in jewel tonerocks. A wall of blue televisions; marine sitcoms. Yourhands fidget in jean shorts. I guess it's not thatfunny. The remote is lost in some mythical couch,somewhere.

7170

This MomentIsabelle Novoa

The rapid ticking of the radiatorpermeates the silky airclickingover the steady hot breathslipping over us. A rogue pacemaker, speedingthough its course, trembling erratically,uprepared for winter's icy sigh.Teachers whisper breathy secretsmergingwith the unwavering wind that exhalesover the students andpens and minds.Clack!The pacemaker has died,has abandoned its futile race. It did not knowabout the tortoiseand the hare. About slow and steadyand tripped overuncertainty.Over stumbling feetand shallow gasps. Yetthe warmth wafts steadyand slowand whispers fall

silent.

GravityDave Sharps

FormChelsa Salesman

It is the shape of things.What our lives have been sewn around,and the language that seeps.It is shiftingand existing.

Fill it in. Allow structure to take a different contextwithin a shape.A pen moves back and forth,or, and idea shifts uneasily,leaving your brain, and is painted.

Be beautiful archaically.Change tenses. Forget theFuture. Sink into the past.Consider the preterite, befolded into the present, turn infinitives into 'ing's.

Conceive the weather,like the sun soaking into seeds; pushing roots, poking green.Build a house. Build a thought. Draw a few sentencesout, then frame it.

7372

Golden CreatureRegina Weiss

Crevice moon staresDown at the world's floor.

No privacy.When he arrives

He throws an auraOf golden yellow to the ground.

Appearing early,The clouds blushWith skepticism

From this creatureEmerging.

As he glows with life,The rest of the world's floor

Sleeps.

TornadoKelsey Holbeck

7574

SlideLaura Bartram

76