PLAY IN THE STREET// spring 2012Yarmouth High School’s 2012 edition of Play in the Street literary and arts magazine has seen great changes this year. For the very first time, we began featuring the magazine online. The various poetry and artwork that students submitted can be viewed on the Play in the Street blog at playinthestreet.posterous.com.We want to thank all the students who submitted their work to the blog. Play in the Street also held the very first poetry contest at Yarmouth High School this year. Many of the poems submitted to the contest can also be found on the blog.

At the end of the year the staff of Play in the Street selected some of the pieces that had been submitted during the year and created the first ever online edition of Play in the Street. Not only can the maga-zine be viewed and archived online, but if one should want a printed copy, it can be purchased here.

Congratulations to Dan Grover, Class of 2012, who won the ‘Poems in the Street’ poetry competition this year. Runners-up: Gina Micucci and Ali Merrill.

PLAY IN THE STREET// spring 2012

Meredith Coolidge Amy WasilewskiNina PrescottEmma PiddenAbigail LathamBenjamin Clinton

Madeleine DamboiseGina RobertsonLaura KressbachTimothy PietropaliAli Merrill

Competition Administrator: Sydney SperberMagazine Design: Alexandra TrippeBlog Manager: Laura PietropaliBusiness Editor: Laura KapnerAdvisor: Nancy ShawCover Artist: Alexandra Trippe

STAFF:

//cal cooper

MemoriesStuffed in a boxAnd hiddenIn a basement roomIn cold cementIn the stuffy atticWith the rats and Aunt Matilde's furniture

A ratty stuffed dinosaurA tattered blanket that might have been blueOr maybe mauveAn ancient, faded photoOf an adorable toddler in a bathtub

A first lost toothThe covers of a faded bookAnd a daisyPressed and witheredOne petal long since pluckedDid you love her?

A varsity letterA battered pinA tasseled capA sleepy summerA stolen cigaretteAnd the words whispered “This will last forever”

For My Father//dan grover

contest winner

A lover's touchA terrible love poemA tax returnA chipped statuette of a bride and groomThe taste of autumn air

All these thingsCrammed into a cardboardPrisonAnd shuttledFrom house to houseShelf to doorTo attic and back

And slowly they fade

As the dust collectsUntil at last they are lumps of ashAnd when you disturb their gravesAnd sift the memories to the surfaceYou don't even rememberThey are yours.

there was a paradise uncoveredone day whena couple of fed upworkerswent on a lunch break they turned rightinstead of leftto a solemn field hidden beneath the buildings

Paradise Uncovered//lindsey robinson

//laura pietropali

//josselyn richards-daniels

Poetry is the wing of a bird,it is the cheez to the it,

the heel to my sparkling stiletto,the ink to my pen.Poetry is the art ofmy self-expression.

//megan lambert

It is a cold night for the summerbut not that unusual

for an island this far from shoreI am bundled up with layers of

fleece, sweatshirt and my mum’s blue rain coat,

to block the wind

the night is clear and the sky is a deep black

with a hint of blue and so many stars peeking out

I have never seen so many stars in my life

I go over to where my mum has set up beach chairs

and sit down in the chair next to herlying back in that chair I look up at the stars

at the amazing curve of the skylooking up I can

tell that the world is roundand while looking at the sky always

makes me feel so small and meaningless noticing the round curve of the earth reminds me

of the unity of the whole worldthe fact that every place in the world

is under the same stars

I point out the curve to my mumand ask her if she could see it

she says she can and she points outsome constellations that she learned

over 30 years ago, but can still point out memorized

Catch a Falling Star and Put it With Your Heart//emma pidden

I pat her head as my whole family lies outside

and watches the starsas typical for around nine and after dinner

I am hyper, punchy, and gigglywhile my brother, forever my foil,

is tired, sleepy and grumpy

we look for shooting starsand in an exciting moment

a light flashes through the skyand causes my mouth to open wide

I can’t believe I saw one, I am so excited

the boys in the family

don’t see this shooting starand don’t believe

in our excited pointing “no you didn’t see one”

is my dad’s response

not too long after seeing the starsthe boys go back inside

so my brother can go to bedbecause they are both cold

but the three girls, mum, zipper, and I, stay out and continue the conversation

I laugh and laugh and laughfilling my lungs with

the fresh down eastern sea airand my heart with the stars

and love for my mother

This is just to sayI have used your make-up which sits there so perfectlythe beautiful tints of purpleslook so good above my eyesI may havemixed your light brusheswith dark colorsforgive mebut today I felt a little like you.

Untitled//hope saulter

//alexandra trippe

With an appleIt’s not the skin.

While some maypeel awayto avoid thebite and

The juice that dribbles down chinsTo be wiped off withshirt sleeves

Also, are not concerns.

When the white meat of the fruitis gone

There, is your problem.

Black seeds peek outthrough browningwindows

The core waits.It waits for a meeting that will not come

And so I waitto finish,to feel accomplished.

But the core,the decomposing remains,

remain

Problems with Apples//dinah king

//anna bernard

//laura kapner

As sweet as a California Raspberry,With Atomic Orange hair,

She Makes Men Blush.On Siberian Nights,

they mingle over Vodka and Caviar.Intense Desire

yet,she feels no Devotion.“You’re A Pisa Work,”

They tell her.“Save me.”She cries.

On a Pink Friday,at The Chapel Of Love,

she leaves him,saying,

“We’ll Always Have Paris.”

The Diva Geneva//hope saulter

//alexandra trippe

Wear that automobile shell like a proud grandfather’s metallic-green CadillacSleeked with a thin layer of radioactive rust

Strong, eager limbs bolt through the moist Earth toward the sky in a frenzy for sunlight You land with a ominous thud upon their joints and munch the juicy delicacies they hold dear Months pass, and before winter has made its mark, A farmer strokes his baby’s jagged, tattered wounds,And lets his tears rain down from the tarnished watering can he holds ever too tightly His tears seep into the flesh of the ground, but to no avail–Soon the limbs will turn gray, though the sunlight still wraps them in her ropes Trying vigorously to wrench them back to life The broken limbs will recede into their graves as the winter ushers in the black wind The farmer will gaze upon his barren cemetery and will be reminded of murder His pupils thicken like his heart, and he thinks of revenge He sets his traps with eager hands, his fingers working tirelessly, wildly Ribbons of poison’s aroma caress you and whisk you awayThe farmer examines the Holocaust he has wreaked and thumbs his stubbled chin, seethed with the sun’s scorn and smeared with dirt Giving a swift yet approving nod

The furrow in his brow vanishes like morning dew A mass of skeletons, mangled into, around, over, and under one another Poison wafts through the air as the quaint sound of scuffling legs just barely escapes the prison A collage of corpses dangling in the air – An eerie forewarning to passersby

Japanese Beetle//ali merrillcontest runner-up

is that I am alone.Even when I meander through the streets,exchanging pleasantries with neighborsI am alone.I walk with my parents,through the wooded areas surrounding our house.We cross our icy pond during the height of wintercrackling snow with every step.Not like she did though,her’s was more damaging to the icy crust.She took more steps, and faster.Her sound was that of a stampede approaching.I walk with my brother,through large sections of woods.Just us two now.We look for tracks of a large buck,the first snow of deer season fell last night.We can’t smell anything,our nostrils frozen shot.Although we are two we are both still alone,we miss her presence.Her energy was different -she was always up for a walk.That is why when I walk now,I feel alone.Because she was always with me,now she isn’t.Walks are different now.Slower, more loafing than trailing (attempting to keep up with).Easier on my right arm, yes,but more dull,and lifeless.I miss the feeling of a relentless tug at the end of a leash,something about it was just so full of life.Now while I walk by myself, aloneshe lays buried beneath a granite stone.

The Problem with Walks... //max grimm

//nick ronan

It’s not the August pollen that lays a layer of liquid over the eye,causing it to swell and run and itch until it turns red,or the Tears that collect after an event, a catharsis that leaves the body clean.It’s not the sun that casts a shadow of darkness,or the vision of night, where stars are the new Electric light bulbs,supplying enough energy for the imagination to wonder.It’s not the image that grows distorted with age,or the colors that fade as time Trudges on,and the memory that becomes mangled, recreated, and transformed,or fresh blood that spurts on the rug as a murder-mystery Movie is unraveled.

It’s Not a ghost, or a demon, or a monster that lives under the bed,or the remnants of a burned building tattered and scarred,shattered signs of hope, peace, and love-fragmented Beads, after a child breaks her sister’s necklace,or the torn photo of parents, symbolizing their ugly divorce,and the boy who runs away, with a hole where his heart Should be.

It could be an apple, sitting on a teacher’s desk the first day of school,shiny and crisp, in hopes of a successful year,or the clock that moves forward as each Day passes on.

It could be baby’s bright blue eyes, smiling in delight at each new life fascination,the rainbow after a summer storm-red, orange, yellow, green...that followers strive to find a small fortune from at The end.or a best friend’s golden hair, whispering gently in the breeze and darkening-as winter approaches.

Problems With the Retina //gina micucci

contest runner-up

Maybe it’s the six-foot spruce, dolled with lights, ornaments, Angels,or the winter blues that reflects glittering snow off the night sky.It could be a new house, freshly painted and bold,or waves that Race onto the ocean shore, lapping over the light-col-ored sand,and the puffy cotton candy smeared on a girl’s face,or the letters that magically form into comprehensible words as each small Child learns how to read.

Perhaps it’s the retinaproducing the sounds.maybe it can’t see the boy, the ghost, the memories,or the devastating picture of a parents’ divorce.Maybe it knows the difference between good and Evil,or maybe it’s all powerful: analyzing humans, situations, and life struggles.It could be a bit dangerous, as it chooses its course,to side with the beauty or Laugh with the blood,as it destroys the August pollen and decides its plan of action.It transforms into the apple and a successful school year,or the glittering Snow that the boy trudges through as he makes his own plans,despite the Faded colors.

Yes

I do still own a pink skirtthat looks like a ballerina would own it

and yes I doSTILLdance in itwhen I listen to

The Larks Ascendingjust like I didwhen I was little

I still goup

on my toes

and twirl

and watchwith pure bliss

as my skirt twirls out around mebillowing wide

spinning toothe song is so long

but my feet and Ispin, jump, and leap

the music is part of meit’s in my heartit’s in my soul

it makes me danceit makes me smile

I am neveras happy

as I amwhen I dance

I still have a skirtthat is pinkand makes me feelspecialwhen I wear it

and I think I always will

it’s too importantto me to give up

the happiness

The Pink Skirt//emma pidden

photo//alexandra trippe

A pierce in the soul,Heartache, longing, love is lost.Who would want such a thing?

We murmur, ask, dream, wish,Assume it will never happen again. Though, it always does.

A stab in the gut cannot suffice for the extraordinary hurt we feel,Yet we pick ourselves up,And regain confidence.

Then we fall,We allow ourselves to become malleable, flexible,But each time, we are hurt once more.

A friend, a love, a family member,As we fall deeper, we become more dependent on them all.But trust only goes so far.

Why set ourselves up for failure?We ask,Wondering why we exist to fail.

Love is a roller coaster;Up and down, side to side,Always changing.

Sometimes we hit bumps, change course,Or get off all together.But in the end, it always works out.

To love is to enable,And the enabler is you.

To Love is to Enable//meredith coolidge

//julia anastos

//rebecca rouda

//julia richardson

I looked for an answerin thespaces betweenthe treesandin thedistant valley.It began to raininheavycumbersomedropsthat looked like snow.A light windcame up too,pushingat the trunksof several bamboo treesmaking ahollow,clicking

sound. The Buddhais everywhere.I toldthe Laung Pa.

Mai Nae Jai(Not Sure Heart)//hope saulter

//ally knoll

//nick ronan

I want to be able to sit in a coffee shop all day just writing my screen-play Finally working on it as much as I would like I’d love to sit there with a chai latte or a decaf mocha latte and a blueberry scone When I have stayed there for maybe two hoursI would leaveget in my red mini cooper and drive to the beach Once there I would change into running clothes and go for a r u n After I have remembered the strength and power of my legs I will take my surfboard off the top of my car

put on my wetsuit and go surfing. With my hair stiff and soaked and my lungs are full of water I’d get back in my mini put dry clothes on top of my bathing suit and drive to the market to buy food for dinner. I’d buy fresh atlantic salmon organic potatoes zucchinis lettuce carrots cucumbers an avocado and a bottle of blood orange soda. I’d go home and listen to U2 and cook myself my favorite meal. Grilled salmon roasted potatoes

What I Would Do//emma pidden

put on my wetsuit and go surfing. With my hair stiff and soaked and my lungs are full of water I’d get back in my mini put dry clothes on top of my bathing suit and drive to the market to buy food for dinner. I’d buy fresh atlantic salmon organic potatoes zucchinis lettuce carrots cucumbers an avocado and a bottle of blood orange soda. I’d go home and listen to U2 and cook myself my favorite meal. Grilled salmon roasted potatoes

zucchini pancakes and a salad with a glass of blood orange. Then I would eat it and watch my first movie for the millionth time. I would criticize the parts that I still want to change and I would laugh at things no one else would find funny because I know that characters hidden secrets Then I would call my friends put on something that sparkles and go dancing late into the night. In the back of my mind I would think about the time when this was just a dream.

//danielle evers

leaving you?it’s abut nothing

it’s about everythingabout everything and nothing

nothing and everythingbut to be honest, it’s everything

every nightevery morning

every lieand every time you cried

all the cutsso deep in to the flesh

ask me how i am,pumpkin, i’m a mess

moving on, how hard can it be?this time

it’s about me.

Untitled//megan lambert

I am the canvas still wet with the hues of fresh paintI am the melted crayon in the sunI am the thunder under the horses hoovesI am the absence of the sticker on the orange pealI am the first star in the black skyI am the word that spellcheck does not recognizeWho yells through the sound of crashing wavesWho cries as the last page turns and the cover closesWho jumps of fright when startled by a clamorWhat bird sings a too sweet song, but only to find that it is not her own

Who Am I//abby latham

//abby latham

//jordan brown

The Last to Leave//lindsey robinson

dedicated to Maddy and Taylor

Crunching sandbetween my toesmy face as warmas clothes freshout of the dryerthe salty curlsof my hairstreaking acrossmy face

A low roar ofgrumbles echoesacross the wateras people beginpacking up theirstriped umbrellas,bright chairs,and leaving.

I opened my eyesto seethe dark grey skywith intrudingblack cloudscoming towards usthe beach was emptywe were the lastto leave

Gathering our stuffwe stop, and gazeacross the solidshadowy water

as the wavesgrow turbulentlike they areenraged that everyoneis gonethey are trying to punishthe beachfor allowing

people to leave

A clash of thundervibrates the scenearound us andour walk beginsat a fast-pace.before I can feel itthe rain darts into the sandmaking small dentsand rougheningthe silky shore

We begin to runand my breathgrows heavyas my feet descenddeeperand deeperinto the sandand heat poursout of my mouthwith each breath

as the wavesgrow turbulentlike they areenraged that everyoneis gonethey are trying to punishthe beachfor allowing

people to leave

A clash of thundervibrates the scenearound us andour walk beginsat a fast-pace.before I can feel itthe rain darts into the sandmaking small dentsand rougheningthe silky shore

We begin to runand my breathgrows heavyas my feet descenddeeperand deeperinto the sandand heat poursout of my mouthwith each breath

One of the girlsyells that she forgother sandalsas a strike ofthunderelectrocutesthe oceanwe stop and waitas she runs backacross the beach

The rain is so fiercethat it coats my entirebody with waterit feels likebeing submerged.I can’t open my eyesfully, but am able to seea small red figurecoming towards us

Finally she catches up

to where we left offbut we don’t all startrunning again, insteadwe stand stillfor a minutedrop our towelsand clothesand sprintto where the sandmeets the ocean

We dive into the waterand it separatesas if inviting usto come in furtheras we do soit closes around uslike a hugfor it was so happywe trusted itto be safe

//julia anastos

//david waxman

The beauty of the chameleon,the color of its scales

Lies not in the creature itselfThe wonder of the flower

the lure of its petalsLies not in the loneliness of its stem

The thoughts of manthe consciousness he holds

Lies not in himselfFor experience is the creator

and all is the product

Existence//philip chowdry

//peter zeitz

A cardinal glides through the forest on its fragile wings,And sees something unfamiliar to its eyes.A settlement sits on the mouth of the river, But no one is there for the red bird to see. Curious, the cardinal floats on the gale,In one window and out the other of multiple structures.As the bird very quickly glances around through the houses,Something catches its eye.A small egg, not hers, but embedded with gold and shining gems,Painted with red and blue inks.What is it? When will it hatch?What is in it? A bird whose wings are woven with gold, Or one who’s gemstone eyes reflect the light of the shining sun?The bird waits for the egg to hatch, But is caught by a disturbance outside the small establishment.Two men enter with hatchets slung across their backsAnd shout at the cardinal.The cardinal has to flee and is left wondering,Will that egg ever hatch?

Cadbury Egg//ben clinton

//sara costello