At the end of the month, we will commemorate our community's work through a physical time capsule containing poems that represent each of our NAPOMO 24' projects and community roles. We hope you will join us for a dedication ceremony, date and time TBA, and that you will return here to engage with the time capsule through the digital companion that will be posted to this page!

Time Capsule Honorees

The strongest poems in each of the following categories will be chosen for the special honor of being shared with the entire RE community and included in the time capsule:

9th Grade Poem: “When Fate Resolves to Leave You” by Sylvie Malvezzi
10th Grade Poem: “When I Was Young &” by Patrick Keedy Brown and “Untitled” by Beatriz Alves de Lima
11th Grade Poem: “Untitled” by Miguel Kumar
12th Grade Poem: "dear beauty" by Eve Zhou and “Make-Believe” by Sophia Romanov Imber
Professional Community Poem: “Untitled” by Dr. Rhyner and “Souvenir” by Mr. Lefebvre
Early Childhood: “The Fog” by Olivia Noblet and “Untitled” by Ana Gonzalez
Elementary: “Memories Unfold” by Kennedy Hagen
Middle: "Summer '09 Ends With A Gravitational Collapse"
by Patrick Keedy Brown and “My Peace Bleeds” by Lucia Corrochano
High School: “A Decade in Perfect Symmetry” by Dominique Cederberg and “Solar System” by Kayra Serpenguzel

9th Grade Poem

When Fate resolves to leave you

by Sylvie Malvezzi

Your yearning swells through prayer

Elevens, omens, wishes

You hope they’ll help you find Her.

Confused, you search for answers.

An altar for the witches

Your yearning swells through prayer.

For Fate remains a wandr’r

You track Her steps, they whisper.

You hope they’ll help you find Her.

You call your faith your savior

Yet you have all but withered

Your yearning swells through prayer.

You’ve missed Her for forever,

The memories you withstand,

You hope they’ll help you find Her

Your love is fleeing faster,

Through rivers in Her walkways.

Your yearning swells through prayer,

You hope they’ll help you find Her.

10th Grade Poems

"When I Was Young &"

by Patrick Keedy Brown

when colors were the colors of fruit

green as sour as an apple wrapped

in thin pink tin sweet

like candy

like dropped seeds from a fruit tree

withered on the ground

red tongues past open mouth laughs

still shining from the Fourth of July

barbecue fruit punch brought by some

distant uncle, before screaming on

the Super Slip water slide,

erected on our lawn, until

stained-red spit bleeds into the flowing tap

red raspberry juice dribbling down our chins

instead of flowing through our veins

Like you, when I look at myself,

I see a muddy reflection in a never-ending body of water.

This murky water like my parent’s future after they left their home,

Uncertain.

Como tú, I am lost in a sea of traditions,

A fusion of different places, never belonging to a certain culture,

Never part of a group that I could call mine.

Like you, I have no business being here,

Not at all.

But I cannot go there either,

No, I am too gringa for them.

Como tú, I put on a mask to fit in,

I have been ashamed of who I am.

Like you, I listen to the stories, trying to relate, but are told too often,

“You wouldn’t get it.”

Yes, you’re right, I do not get it.

I do not get my identity,

I do not know where I belong.

Like a fish out of water

That has not yet found his water,

That has not yet found his home.

Untitled

by Beatriz Alves de Lima

The instructor said,

Go home and write

a page tonight.

And let that page come out of you—

Then, it will be true.

I question if that is all life is?

I am just 15 years old, born in the Big City.

Spent a few years there, and now I am here.

In the state of sunshine where the lights don’t burn out.

I am colored on my skin, in my soul, and in the mind.

The light leads me home,

Near the ocean that I know.

I sit by the waves,

And write this little page.

Knowledge isn’t a guarantee,

For people less fortunate than you and me.

I feel and see and hear your stories.

I hear your voice.

I hear your past.

I hear your heartbeat,

Beating fast.

And me?

Well, I like to listen and see and love my story

I like to feel and learn in all my glory.

I like a reminder for a Christmas gift,

That one small thing reminds you of me.

I guess being me doesn’t make me not

like the things that bring you glee.

The same things that people like with different stories than me.

So will my story be less colored and more plain?

Being myself is a story no words can contain.

But that’s what makes us all “we”.

I am part of you and you are part of me.

That is human,

Much more than we can see.

Maybe you’re not like me.

Maybe you don’t want to be.

But we are just human.

So I accept you for you,

And you accept me for me.

Then maybe one day all of our stories will end with us free.

This is my page for English Bea.

11th Grade Poem

Untitled

by Miguel Kumar

Noise snowballs as all I can think about

Is what was and what could’ve been

But there are no breaks at this time

And an unapologetic sorry is all you are given,

And, breathe.

False smiles follow false memories as I dream

About where I should be and what I would rather be doing

At this time there is no the time

And a sterile voice asks you to be enough,

And, breathe.

Say it all say it loud the words you need to say

And the things you cannot say

Because they aren’t appropriate at this time

And sorry but not you are at fault,

And, breathe.

Authority presses and rebellion crushes

The only dreams that make you happy

But will you really be happy when

Every time you try to be all you need to be,

You, breathe.

Inhale exhale and hope it is enough

As time asks you to be more

And your best is not enough

And you fight fire with fire

But it makes your eyes burn,

And, breathe.

See that you are you, [breathe]

And that life is life, [breathe]

And that all that is done, [breathe]

Is done and complete. [breathe]

Feel complete,

For that is what you are—

Not false memories of more.

And breathe.

12th Grade Poems

"dear beauty"

by Eve Zhou

the mirror, perhaps, is

the summation of all things.

we place ourselves into our reflections, burden these

strokes of color with our

boulders, or

sublimated desires — turn it into a science so we can pretend we are in control —

pretend that we are not ourselves, that we are detached. that we are:

more than just a summation of every moment we have lived: of

picking apart the world’s lock with a safety pin, OR

watching the stories of how the world was made on an old television set, static, OR

pretending that the world disappears behind us in the old gentleman’s rule—

if you do not see me, I do not see you— OR

these are the stories we tell ourselves to woo that haughty lady, as all

goddesses are: Power, in her gilt gold & robes of praise; her body made of

marble OR the glossy images that men cut out & paste up as objects of their own desires.

Aphrodite, born of the sea & storm, stepped onshore & thus became

an object, spoke word & thus became

a woman.

Still, beneath the seafoam dress is the threat: the gold dust glittering in her

immaculate face is the foundation gift of Power —

at once she is object and subject, desired and temptress, she exists in the space between

the possible, tolerable, thinkable: she is Not, so

she is feared.

desperately, they try to force her back into the box of reality, detailed in

marker lines on a whiteboard:

Dance, so your body moves for the eyes of another;

Desire the arm of a man’s intertwined with your own, so you become the traded,

the unwanted third point in the triangle of desire that men are

eternally trying to destroy — but what of

every time I kissed a boy thinking of her? Aphrodite,

princess, goddess, beauty, in every word:

gorgeous, dazzling, perfect,

I have always wished to overturn the golden scales, end over

end—

(To see Power in their gilded reflections—)

but all I do is hide, fantasy, pretend

I am content with being the vicious, the betrayed, the vengeful

third point OR breaking point:

I am playing a part in my seafoam dress, and I do not know

if the faces in my desires are (or have ever been) true.

MAKE-BELIEVE

by Sophia Romanov Imber

At once, our ship crashed and burned

but I did not find your laughter or hands

only debris, destruction, and what remains.

I enjoyed our voyage, my captain

O captain, my captain, this chapter seems all too real.

At once, our ship found port but we lost the majority of the story

and now I can't remember when we stopped playing make-believe and when we started telling each other what we'd missed

It’s like our game ended before we said goodbye.

Professional Community Poems

Untitled

by Dr. Rhyner

Dogs are exasperating

That’s why I love them.

They expect unconditional love

Even when they chew my furniture,

Pee on my rugs,

Die, and leave my hearts in taters.

My dog runs straight to my friends

Instead of to me

Not unlike a boyfriend

I had in college.

And for some reason

I am crazy about them

knowing they are bad for me

knowing they would surly hurt me,

but also loving the excitement

of never knowing

what I would come home to.

Dogs don’t give a lick

The way I wish I didn’t.

They’ll defecate on the sidewalk.

They’ll run up to someone they like

And sniff them inappropriately.

They’ll bark and growl

If they don’t like someone’s smell.

They take up all the space on the couch

And spill water all over the floor

And steal our chicken sandwich

And run away

just so that we will chase them

Not unlike the boyfriend I had in college.

Dogs want and need us.

And even when we feel

like driving 3000 miles away

And hoping no one

will ever disturb us again

We really want

to be wanted and needed.

Souvenir by Mr. Lefebvre

Today feels far away and blurry.

Tomorrow is so exciting.

But so much has happened in the past.

How did I get here?

Who made the leap into the unknown for a brighter future?

I need to focus on the present.

When I look at myself with clarity,

I find the camera looking back.

Memories help make me who I am.

But will I remember them all?

Youth projects into the future.

What will they forget?

None of it is in my control.

The clock represents the present,

Leaving behind the past,

Clicking towards the future.

Everything is shifting, but memories anchor us to who we were, are, and will be.

Early Childhood Poems

The Fog

by Olivia Noblet

The vine-covered sable gates welcome me,

Into the Garden of Time.

The grey fog seeping through the cracks,

Prickling at my emotions.

Continuing through the uneven path,

My bare feet remain unscathed.

The fog sees through me,

Takes its shape.

Two running little girls holding hands,

Misty hair and bows flowing,

While the sound of innocence,

Echoes across the walls.

The padding of my footsteps,

Matching the rhythm of the siblings' heartbeats,

Counting the spots of captured ladybugs.

The canal’s deep, continuous exhale,

As a small girl and her dog dive for fish.

The continuous chattering of cleats against the grass,

Teammates laughing through exhaustion.

Violins creating art,

Notes mingling with success.

The little girl has now grown,

Succumbing to the weight of the world on her chest.

Green eyes clouded with anxiety and doubt,

Tired and apathetic.

Good times have faded,

Yet the retreat remains stable.

The years are long,

But here,

The fog will remember.

Untitled

by Ana Gonzalez

Like you, when I look at myself,

I see a muddy reflection in a never-ending body of water.

This murky water like my parent’s future after they left their home,

Uncertain.

Como tú, I am lost in a sea of traditions,

A fusion of different places, never belonging to a certain culture,

Never part of a group that I could call mine.

Like you, I have no business being here,

Not at all.

But I cannot go there either,

No, I am too gringa for them.

Como tú, I put on a mask to fit in,

I have been ashamed of who I am.

Like you, I listen to the stories, trying to relate, but are told too often,

“You wouldn’t get it.”

Yes, you’re right, I do not get it.

I do not get my identity,

I do not know where I belong.

Like a fish out of water

That has not yet found his water,

That has not yet found his home.

Elementary School Poem

Memories Unfold

by Kennedy Hagen

In childhood halls, memories unfold,

Pop-up stories, vibrant and bold.

Each verse a glimpse, a cherished scene,

In personal narrative's gleaming sheen.

Elementary echoes, laughter's ring,

Where innocence dances, where dreams take wing.

Each word a step, a journey begun,

In tales of youth, under the sun.

With crayon strokes and paper's crease,

Imagination's playground, a masterpiece.

In every rhyme, a heartbeat's throb,

In personal narrative, we find our job.

To capture moments, both big and small,

In elementary pop-up, we stand tall.

For in these tales, our truth is told,

In memories immortalized, stories unfold.

Middle School Poems

"Summer '09 Ends With A Gravitational Collapse"

by Patrick Keedy Brown

The air tastes wet: like a humidifier gone broke, like steamed shower air, like regret

in the passenger seat of the red Honda Civic parked on the side of the bridge looking over

the river we used to play in. And clutch a rosary to your chest

if you think it will be easy with one eye on the rear view mirror

looking back from where we came. Doesn’t the sky look beautiful

tonight? the driver says, probably in reference to the stars.

Galileo would think it is a good night: a city so deep in sleep you can almost count out the stars:

Orion and Sirius and Vega to your hand outstretched, like gramma taught, and regret

that you can only see the brightest. You remember a time when he called you beautiful

but now he turns to you says Summer ends We cannot We are over

His hand joins yours in the stars, pointing towards a moon, a mirror

image to your own. And only so many words can fit in your chest.

The first time you swam in it, all the air was knocked out of your lungs like a blow to the chest

he laughs and he tells you that everything in the world is the same, made from star

dust a thousand million years ago. You can see earth and river when you look in the mirror

and I wonder if God made a mistake making me human - Did he regret

that I was not a far away star or a mountain or a breeze through the forests that grow over

on the other side of town? At the end, he looks at the river, laughs, and names it Beauty.

Towel tossed hair with window cracked open highway air Little Trees called Belleza

because Joan Jett can’t save us now from his chest

even though he only listens to Bad Reputation & Crimson and Clover,

having rode female rock-star

fame into popularity Joan Jett can’t save you now and don’t regret

it. He doesn’t look back in the mirror.

Cracks in mirror

bathroom Sink-stained beauty

that Mama said she could see in your eyes clouded by regret

that sickly air choke on lungs in chest

Mama used to say you were a star -

constellation in Andromeda but that time is over.

We are over

We see ourselves in mirrors

over Do we know the stars

or pretend to see on earth their beauty?

You think of our hands on our chests

and have only one regret

He will drive over to the seven Eleven and see beauty

in the wheel, rear view mirror, seat-belt across chest.

Is the sun a collapsing star? It does not know regret.

my Peace bleeds

by Lucia Corrochano

my Peace bleeds,

raw and vulnerable she shows;

when she shines, i shine

and when she's good, i glow

and when the moment comes

when someone whispers in her ear,

i'll get down on my knees

and beg she should stay here

think about it once or twice,

peeking in and out the door;

and wherever she does walk

blood keeps dripping on the floor

but when she takes her bow,

as everyone had guessed;

she’ll bleed out even more

from the claws marks that i left

i keep falling for the trick,

as she leaves me once more,

so when blood starts to trickle,

the guilt shakes me to my core

guilt and resentment towards past me;

the death of hope for possibility;

how did i pay with the pain of today

for the happiness of yesterday.

i cherish her more every time she comes back,

so every time she leaves, it worsens the attack;

the longer she leaves and the longer she stays

it doesn’t matter anyways,

cause she always leaves eventually,

and it’ll break me consequentially-

my Peace bleeds, raw and vulnerable she shows,

so i'll bleed and cry and mourn with her, not fight next time she goes.

High School Poems

“A Decade in Perfect Symmetry”

by Dominique Cederberg

Blue salt, with stars dancing upon it.

They run away together,

getting into position,

ready to guide every version of myself.

Myself who dived under with my bright pink snorkel.

Myself who is swimming towards the deep end.

Myself who will float atop the waves with friends.

My life lives in that blue salt.

Perfect symmetry.

Ten behind, ten ahead,

all swirling out ahead of me.

Crashing waves slam together.

Crashing my memories and hopes together.

Crashing my past and future together.

A decade in perfect symmetry.

The waves were here ten years ago,

and they will crawl up onto the shore for ten more.

Solar System

by Kayra Serpenguzel

I’m a big fan of a gold star—lamentably it's all i’ve known and yearned for

through my education so far,

tiny toddlers grabbing plastic pages of glossy smiley face stickers: one sticker equal to your success,

Defining new words, self-worth

no wonder I'm still an avid sticker collector.

When these toddlers transform into teenagers,

hands now grab and yearn for cellular appendages,

Instead of frivolous yet formidable butterfly stickers

Along this journey my companion, the gold star,

disappeared

My self worth, replaced with momentary remarks of

“Good job” or “excellent”

but words don't last.

They simply permeate, the air

With effervescent pastel pink meaning

before they burst,

fizzle,

Forgotten.

Gold stars last forever. guarding your content sleeping self,

when the moon isn't bright enough

When you're not bright enough.

A feeling unbeknownst to me

Until my scintillating lifelong friend, disappeared

from the night sky

I used to embody that star

i’m afraid

Terrified, that my sparkle is gone

As impermanent as the sticker

which once seemed,

The stamp of my self-worth, now lost amongst the rest of the solar system,

which I once Belonged to.

Submission Data

Visit this space to watch our community write all throughout the month of April! We'll keep track of and share statistics that will then be visually represented in the physical time capsule.