Embedded Files
Artwork by Cooper Rosen
TRICK...OR TREATY?
TRICK...OR TREATY?
By Josh Phillip
On a cold night, the thirty-first of October,
Fields sprawled with maize and pumpkin.
The King's peculiar guest brings an enormous, orange fruit
Who is it? Oh, just a silly bumpkin.
That foolish country vagabond, the gall to barge into the castle,
Does he know nothing about the King?
A regal man like him does sophisticated things.
What does a giant pumpkin bring?
The King arrives with his usual bad temper.
“What is your name, you pathetic peasant?
And why have you come here with a pumpkin today?
Is this some kind of joke, or a present?”
The peasant falls on his knees and begins his plea.
“My Lord, please save my small farm!
Because of the war, the nobility kept taking our land.
Please, I beg of you, stop causing us harm!”
The King lets out a mighty laugh.
“I must say, you are quite slick,
But sadly for you, all this land is for me!”
He then aggressively slices the pumpkin with a kick.
Suddenly, a piece of parchment paper falls out of the pumpkin,
The King, although hesitant, grabs it and reads.
It appears to be a treaty. Farmers offering all their cows and sheep.
What more can satisfy his needs?
The King declares peace, all is now well.
“Come on, peasant, let us feast and make a delicious pumpkin pie!”
The farmers, villagers, and nobility all gather for a jamboree.
“Take a slice of this magnificent pie, everyone. Don’t be shy.”
However, the next day, the mighty King passed.
Perhaps his pie was contaminated with ergot.
The peasant’s cheeky smile says it all.
“This was his present for all the misery he brought.”
“Is this a truce?” questioned the villagers.
“The pumpkin treaty caused his highness to fall sick.
The peasant looked out the window, with pride,
For he made the foolish King fall for the greatest Halloween trick!
Artwork by Claire Heider and Risen Wayne
My Honest Poem
My Honest Poem
Anonymous
i think a lot.
thousands of thoughts
going in and out of my brain.
i don’t mind,
i kind of like it.
when i’m with people
my favorite thing to do
is listen.
don’t get me wrong,
if i wanted to, i could
drone on and on until the people i’m with wonder
why
they’re with me in the first place.
comedies
those are my favorite kinds of movies.
i laugh a lot,
and loudly
sometimes i find i am the only one laughing
but
pobody’s nerfect.
the dream, for me, would be
to live in year round freezing weather
with snow, sushi, and watermelon,
which are my favorite things
even though they have nothing to do
with each other.
i say random things in awkward situations
i don’t know why
i adore all animals
but dogs will always be my favorite.
it says a lot about someone
if they do or don’t
love dogs.
whenever i say something i regret,
i cover it with a joke
in hope to distract people
from what i said in the first place.
Artwork by Cooper Rosen
Mixed
Mixed
Anonymous
“The instructor said:
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you—
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?” - Langston Hughes
I am sixteen, mixed, born in a divided time.
The cliche too black and too poor for the white kids
Too white and too rich for the black kids
I always hated English class but loved every other class
Until I learned to write
I listened to music that told a story
I wanted to do the same
I went into the high school with dedication
I was in a regents class with mostly minorities
To an honors class with mostly whites
Yet I stay mixed with few to relate to
Malcolm X, Barack Obama, Fredrich Douglas, Bob Marley
All considered black
Yet I’m considered white because of my straight hair and fair skin
Yet I have African blood running through my veins
Angry, Fearful, Misunderstood
Yet writing gave me a way out,
An escape in which I change how the world sees me
I became the person I feel I am
Not the person that others make me feel
My last name
A slave last name that has been passed down for generations
My book collection consisting of Driving While Black and The Negro Almanac
Yet I’m still “whitey” and “a cracker”
Where do I belong
Because the only place you can truly feel safe is your words
Your writing
I may look white
I may be mixed
Yet my heart is filled with every emotion
Hate at this world that oppressed me
Love for the parents that made me
Longing for change
Expression through writing is the thing that has saved me
I don’t know where I’d be without it
So as for English
I owe so much to it
My life would be turned upside down if I never expressed myself
Artwork by Grace Delaney
Artwork by Katie Wahlen
Where I’m From
Where I’m From
By Talia Co-Mided
I am from dogwood trees and falling leaves,
Red shirts, lo mein, and li xi.
From the honeysuckle on the walk to Upper Nyack Elementary,
And the friendly old crossing guard that called me “Hoppy”.
I am from the rock collection in the pockets of my old cheetah sweater,
My stuffed animal friends that I knew would always be there.
From the steps that squeak “Welcome Home!” on every stair,
And the tree leaves dancing to the music of the air.
I am from the scent of a newly opened book,
And the empanadas that my grandpa loved to cook.
From my favorite hide and seek place in a secret little nook,
Where none of my friends ever knew to look.
I am from my dogs’ soft fur and my mom’s warm hugs,
The blinking lights of stars and lightning bugs.
From my preschool art on coffee mugs,
And my fuzzy multi-colored rugs.
I am from apple orchards and climbing trees,
Singing harmony to my mom’s melody.
From sitting on rocky beaches looking out at the sea,
This is where I’m from, this is me.
The Language of Everyone
by Talia Reiss
Love is not always flowing honey,
saturated with sweetness and thick with desire.
Sometimes, love is a roast chicken on a Sunday night,
A hearty baked potato whose warm softness satiates the soul.
Love is a sunny kitchen, a sprig of basil basking on the windowsill,
its roots grounded in soil and its leaves reaching towards the light.
Love is an old book with coffee-colored pages, a crackling record,
the kind of tired you feel after a good, long day.
Love is simple and warm. Tender.
Love is the language of everyone.
Who She Will Be
Who She Will Be
by Gernandre LaFleur
I look in the mirror, I see a stranger
I don’t recognize the girl smiling back at me.
I see a girl who cares and worries so much for the people around her
That she forgot this is her life too
A girl above her own and lost who she was
A girl who is scared of hurting others and jeopardizes her own happiness for the sake of others.
Simply a girl.
A girl who is as strong as a pillar for everyone but is crumbling on the inside.
A girl
Just one girl
Lost in a sea of other girls,
All of them trying to find their way back to themselves
I started calling that girl back
The girl who loved living
The girl who danced Instead of walking
The girl who had sunflowers for eyes and fireworks in her soul
I started playing music again
Hope she would come out
I started looking for beautiful moments to experience
So she would feel safe enough to show herself because I knew
She was in there
She looks in the mirror now to see me
She’s here and I can’t let her disappear again
Artwork by Katie Wahlen
Wait What
Wait What
by Jack Thomas
A phrase my English teacher always disliked
My English teacher had wild aspirations for the class
We would create a class band
Start a comedy class
Save an African nation
Set up strobe lights and a rising platform
He was optimistic about our potential
But some would call him illogical
I instead choose to play into the idea of this fictitious classroom
It’s different than most other classes
Engagement is what matters for a generation with the shortest attention span
Some teachers don’t recognize or acknowledge this
Others do
Although he is eccentric
He realizes what needs to be done to have a productive classroom
Most teachers have been teaching longer than we’ve been alive
Only a select few are accepting of times changing
So when I look back on this school year I may not retain all the information
But I’ll remember the two-word phrase echoing through room 308
Wait What
A Love that Chains One to their Own, Blind Stupor, One that Kills Their Mind.
A Love that Chains One to their Own, Blind Stupor, One that Kills Their Mind.
by Arath Seckin
My love, I cherish this fear,
for I not know how to cherish,
As I’m a careless guardian of my own love.
Oh, how I wish for the fear to cease as well,
in order for me to embrace the proclivity
I have for you. I drip my tears of sorrow as
your touch is just out of reach, for only my
fingertips are not able to touch. As your scent
is just placed by my nose, and not with your
body as a whole.
It tortures me to the depths of a sunken,
hellish impunity, as I want for the presence of
your soul, as I can’t live without you. As you
haunt the ghoulish remnants of mine own
and hold your grasp over my stupor mind.
Though, I wonder, intrusively, do I want you
or if I want to possess you, in your soul and
spirit. It’s a question that I recount each day
as I slave my unrequited and weird-sided love
to this system that we have. One where I
deposit and you only just take.
And this envious question, it's the thing that
burns the weak strands of the lovish system,
as it takes the strands of rope and turns it to
ashes with each waking second that I spend
with you. And truly I might be better off
without your grasp and your control, but oh
how you have already encompassed me to this
hell as I slaved in the want of having you to
my deepest romantic desires and deepest natural senses.
All as I screamed through the name of love itself.
Artwork by Katie Wahlen
The Colors of Nature
The Colors of Nature
by Ella Anderton
To some I’m sweet
Fresh spring rain
Soft dewdrops
The heartbeat of butterfly
To some I’m loud
Crashing waves
White foam
A screech
But I’m all of these
The quiet wind
The gentle current
The crackling flame
I, careless guardian of my love
Encompass all
Artwork by Caitlyn Agro
Digging a Hole to China?
Digging a Hole to China?
by Talia Reiss
“Digging a hole to China?”, they asked,
watching as I furiously scooped sand,
stepping in and out of the hole I had carefully carved.
Yes, I was digging a hole to China.
I was sure of it.
But they did not tell me that
my plastic toy shovel would hit the
cold, wet sand first. Then
layers of rock and lava,
melting metal,
a solid, scalding center.
So I dug and I dug and I dug and I dug,
wet sand caked under my fingernails
and sweat dripping from my furrowed brow.
And they knew.
They watched from their beach chairs,
Smiling. Laughing. Knowing.
They knew I could not tunnel through rubble
And come out on top of the world.
But they did not tell me.
So I dug and I dug and I dug and I dug.
Meanwhile the big kid on the other side of the beach
(there was a thick red rope between his side and our side)
unwrapped his shiny new jackhammer.
He let out a gleeful shriek, a maniacal laugh
as his toy,
his gas-powered machine,
penetrated the earth.
His fingers were not tired.
There was no sweat on his brow.
Yet his tunnel was far deeper, far closer to
China than mine would ever be.
“Digging a hole to China?”, they asked.
I was no longer so sure.
Artwork by Cecilia Weiss
Chipped Paint
Chipped Paint
by Anonymous
The phone mounted to the wall
Connected to the staff room
Was our only ear to the world
The fresh coat of paint on the frame which held the phone
was picked away by all the other patients
when one by one
each heard her father’s cries
and her mom’s silence
Heard the groans of her brother wishing her happy birthday
Or her sister who can’t wait to see her
The paint chipped away
As other girls heard their aunts tell them
group homes are not as bad as they seem
Grandfathers saying that waiting two more weeks to come home is easier for them too
Some paint was picked off
Every time a girl waited for the quiet ring of the phone
Hoping it was a boyfriend that couldn’t reach them
Or her mom who couldn’t make the 30-minute call time
Some girls picked the paint off in fiery apathy
who didn’t find comfort in the phone
But believed solace was found alone, buried under their sheets
Or under soil
But it was a desperate fight to reach the
the phone mounted to the wall
Connected to the staff room
since it was our only ear to the world
Artwork by Cecilia Weiss
Atelophobia
Atelophobia
by Emely Rodriguez
Atelophobia, the obsessive fear of imperfection
Terrified of making the wrong move
Every inch of the body aching of discomfort
Disassociating from reality, zoning out in my reassurance
Imperfection
A complex flaw, found in very being
Is it good enough?
Am I good enough?
Am I a perfectionist?
Mistakes, now why can’t I come to terms with them
Imperfection
I envy those who perfect their imperfections
For in the word itself you’ll define I’m perfect
When perfection doesn’t come in a state of figure
To my cousin atychiphobia, that they never come forth
Atychiphobia, my extreme fear of failing
Failure and Imperfection; you’d think they’re the same
One lets you out of your bed but the other tugs you back down
Fear
It holds me close afraid that’ll lose grip of my skin
Keeping my heart from beating
Skips 1, skips 2, skips 3 beats
My body shakes until it can’t anymore
Imperfection
Is it good enough?
Am I good enough?
Of course it’s good enough
My brain scatters in search of answers
But my shaking doesn’t stop
1 breathe, 2, and 3
Trying to stop my fragile heart from skipping beats
And instead breathing
My aching can be heard from a mile away
But not a soul hears
Like the voices in my head, I’m lost
My obsessive fear of imperfection
Artwork by Gari Mor
A Painting Not Yet Complete
Trying to fit my responsibilities into 24 hours is a seemingly impossible task.
Like a cell, I wish I could divide myself into millions of duplicates.
Each one capable of carrying out a passion of my life while still performing at its best.
I’ve been told that I’m way too hard on myself.
People say I have the potential to run a marathon.
Yet, I can’t even seem to cross the starting line without already concluding I won’t be
able to finish.
The never-ending battle between my hope and self-doubt have made my mind an
inhospitable abode for optimism and dreams.
I’m driven to achieve all the success I’m capable of.
But subconsciously the voice in my head whispers in my ear that I don’t deserve it.
The more it speaks, the more I listen.
I worry. A lot.
I’m worried that I worry too much.
Like a student taking a test they forgot to study for, I spend most of my time worrying
instead of actually solving the problem. It’s a problem.
I'm a painting not yet completed.
I can begin to make out some of my true colors.
But there are a lot of missing details.
There’s still a lot I can adjust.
I can cover up my flaws with a fresh coat of paint, in a more vibrant shade.
There’s still a lot I can change.
Artwork by Daphne Bon
Using a Line from the Poem “Colours” by Yevgeny Yevtushenko
I can understand breathlessness at horror.
Atrocities. Heartbreak. Death.
The feeling as though someone has dug deep into your sternum and stolen something precious,
stranded without a piece of your soul,
trying to scream, the ability disappearing with the oxygen in your lungs
I can understand.
But I became incompetent the first time I experienced it for the opposite reason.
I hadn’t seen you face to face in months,
naive, I thought there wasn't a difference between picture and person.
Texts and calls and emails daily, none of it compares to your face being feet away from mine.
A birthday party, start of sunny summer days.
Me, you, four others.
Until five seconds ago I’m here for the girl turning fifteen.
She opens the door, but my eyes move independently to meet yours
A smile breaking out across your face.
Everyone on this planet filled with horrors, should have the privilege to see something
unapologetically beautiful.
The smile drops off my face, you notice, a questioning glance.
“I can’t believe it’s been so long,” we laugh, “what do you get up to these days” we joke, all is
forgotten by you.
It doesn’t change what happened and I certainly don’t forget.
Nearly a year later,
sometimes I’ll go an entire day without thinking about it,
on others, it’s on my mind for hours.
Staring at your accessories during the day, envisioning the way your hair frames your face, staring at
my ceiling in darkness.
I won’t forget that day.
I won't forget how for eight seconds,
after not seeing you for almost a year,
I didn’t breathe.
Wishing our friend happy birthday for one, and for the next eight,
no oxygen enters or exits.
I don’t understand breathlessness at beauty and you won't understand what you did to me.
You own a part of my soul that will never die.
You hold a piece of me that I didn't know existed.
You, “careless guardian of my love.”
Language of the Dead
Alexandra (Sasha) Sazonova
Language which we are all destined to learn
Sounds engraved into our souls
Words, spoken, unbroken
Conversations between winds and shadows
Symbols which no one understands
Memories of lived lives
The language which we all know
Words we will all speak
Artwork by Daphne Bon
Bench Press
By Ezra Seckin
Stepping into the den of the dragon, drenched in oily sweat.
Muscles bulging, mind racing
My thoughts scream with fiery intensity, yet the gym remains silent
Here, today, will be is the greatest fight of all time
For the fate of the world rests on my victory
But who is it? Who is my enemy?
It is the barbel hanging over me.
I slide unto the bench with the eyes of a tiger,
With an iron heart pounding with the pride of a lion.
So, I arch my back, tighten my grip,
And I begin.
“One, two, three”
Pumping iron, popping veins
“four , five, six”
Movements slow, “is it heavier?”
Don’t stop. Not now
“Seven, eight, nine”
Arms shaking chest breaking
But I do not regret the path that I am taking
“And ten.”
There we go, here we are
The peak of the mountain isn’t that far.
But what was once just one step had turned into a thousand treks.
Unsure if I can finish what I started.
But I’m not here to quit.
This is no time to rest.
I need to get that Double-D man-chest
So I stiffen my shoulders, drill my heels into the floor, and I
Drive my hands into the air.
The gym is my forge.
The muscles on my body as my sword.
Piercing, striking, unstoppable
Artwork by Cecilia Weiss
Artwork by Grace Delaney
Vanishing
April Campana
The sun was shining bright in the sweet summer’s sky
casting a warm glow on the park
at the edge of the deep woods
The swing creaked as the wind blew
Birds chirped in the sky,
Five year old Flora skipped along the sidewalk
In her green polka dot dress
Mom following behind
It was the perfect day to go to the park.
She ran
Ran as fast as she could to the little rickety gate
The gate to young joy
The playground
She could have never seen what was coming
The lurking shadows in the trees
Swaying in silence
There for her.
No one could have known that day
She would disappear
Forever
Vanished.
Years later
Death
Death.
A fear matched by no other
Taking you away forever.
My grandmother died today
My moms sad
I'm scared
Shouldn't I feel compassion?
Sadness?
Grief?
But I’m not upset
Not one bit
I'm the one and only granddaughter.
Sadie
But hate
Is the only emotion my grandmother ever felt for me
Why
Why don't we feel connected
Why was she never there
Why couldn't we do normal family things
Go to the park
The shop
Her home
Why don't we have any connection
A family connection
The strongest bond there is
Unbreakable
So why is there no connection
Its like im a stranger
Not even there at all
Like we’re not related
Is a terrible feeling that I get sometimes
Strangers.
The will
Sitting in my room
The room in the attic
Reading alone
It’s lively downstairs
I hear shouting
Ten fighting
I hear footsteps
Thump thump thump
Coming up the stairs
My door creaks open
I look up
My dad steps into the room
“Come downstairs Sade,” he says
Join me and your mother
Why, I ask him
He whispers
You're in the will.
The will?
Why am I in the will?
There must be some sort of mistake
I step down the stairs in silence
The Executor is sitting in our living room
“Take a seat,” he tells me.
I sit on the sofa
Everyone is standing in silence
The man shuffles through his folder
He finally clears his throat and begins
“..and it looks like your grandmother left you… a box?”
“Yep it says here, a box.”
A box, that's all.
There are so many questions running through my mind
Why did she leave something for me?
What could be in a box?
I have to find out.
Flora
In the morning, I hear a knock on the door
Dad goes to open it
The Executor is back
With the box
The mystery box.
“Here you are Sadie,” he says as I come to take the box
I thank him and take the box to my room
It's a hatbox, tattered and worn with age
What could be waiting inside?
I take the top off, revealing a stack of papers
There are newspapers and posters
Flyers and photos
I grab one from the stack
The title reads: MISSING CHILD: FLORA
There is a picture underneath
The child has light blonde hair
brown eyes
Just like me
She's wearing a green dress
with polka dots
I've seen that dress before
Who is this, why would she want me to see this, I wonder
I pull out another poster
It's the same girl, but she looks older now maybe 10
Who is this girl?
There’s something that is eerily familiar about her
I look at the mess I've made
I sift through the posters that have spilled out of the box
Years and years of photos all of the girl
I’m frantic for answers
FLORA FLORA FLORA
The little girl in the green dress
That dress is mine.
I realize in horror
The little girl
is me.
Artwork by Risen Wayne and Daphne Bone
Once Was A Girl
Kayla Crai
Once was a girl,
a girl with big, huge dreams,
that could fill up a galaxy.
There sat her list of accomplishments,
acting like a lists of to-do’s,
waiting for her to take a run at them.
She wouldn't stop
until they were complete,
and she tried all options,
and she was fully satisfied.
Once was a girl,
a girl who comes out her cave,
and sees a whole unexplored world.
She's not nervous,
she's not scared,
she's excited.
Out of her comfort zone,
she finds comfort in trying new things,
pushing herself beyond all limits,
and overcoming them like a tsunami in an ocean.
Once was a girl,
a girl who embraces all things natural,
like a cold winter's night.
Wrapped around in a blanket,
the crisp, clean air freezing her lungs with every breath,
and the smell of the fresh air satisfies her soul.
Or going to a plain with nothing but open, green, filled with life grass
and a forest in the distance,
overflowing with strong
and old trees growing together into the skyline.
Once was a girl,
a girl who fell asleep with the most beautiful sunset,
that the world has ever seen.
Filled with daisies,
and fresh yellow flowers,
waiting for them to be picked.
She fell backwards on the land,
her long, luscious hair filled up the space around her,
feeling the ground supporting her,
as she stared up at the white, fluffy clouds.
She was no longer alone,
she had herself,
the nature,
the land
and the water,
who would not let her descend.
In a flash, she will be uplifted,
with many obstacles in her way,
but they will not stop her,
for nothing can.
Unlike a rock on a mountain,
she cannot be pushed downhill,
only uphill towards her goals.
Where the un-adventured universe,
is waiting for her impact.
The world awaits,
for a girl,
a girl who has a brave face, a metal armor,
and an outgoing personality that can fill up a room.
She won't be shy, for she is not just a girl anymore.
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