Play in the Street

To My Parents

What I’m trying to say is that-

I am on my way

I don’t know where I’m going yet

But I’m sure it’s beautiful

and there might be a few bumps

Okay, few as in … a lot

Possibly along the way

a flat tire or two?

and potholes that might hinder me

I am on my way and

Yes, I feel ill prepared

and maybe I shoot for a *little* more than the stars


You taught me to not fear the possibility of life on other planets

(and how to change a tire)

What I’m trying to say is that -

I’ll be okay

wherever the road takes me.

-Morgan c


I walk

Through the harbor of foods

Weighing bowl broad black rimmed

Hanging from silver chains,

The sapphire highlighted apples shine,

Small blue drum blueberries

Next to pale pineapple squares.

Horns can be heard nearby,

Look high, it’s the white mackerel sky.

The cheese looks fairly like jelly,

Flags flail over head.

-Aleksandar Medenica

my heart.

Is your mom’s closet.

Jewelry, rubies, diamonds, and opals, laying heavy against your sternum,

complimenting you in the best way possible.

Coats, giving you all their warmth

while asking for nothing in return. The weight hanging on your shoulders,

the hem brushing the ground with every step,

with a clink of the coal black ceramic buttons,

the sleeves shooting past your hands,

enveloping you in a never ending hug.

Dresses, draping your too-small frame,

hanging off of you like a smock,

the thin robins-egg-blue fabric swishing around your legs,

waiting for you to grow,

and ready to help you along the way.

Shoes that flop off your feet, clonking on the hard wood floors with every step,

teetering you dangerously above the ground,

but oh god, is the view magnificent.

The emerald hat boxes filled to the brim with pictures and movie stubs,

a secret window to the past.

The crystal perfume bottle with the pink poof that is the smell of your home,

your childhood,

your happiness.

Your mom’s closet will never stop offering you

sacred treasures to protect your porcelain skin from the elements.

Your moms closet will fill you with warmth,

for as long as you live.


The Upside Down

There is a land called the Upside Down-

Quiet howls can be heard there

and monsters can be found-

In this land each star is a moon-

Lightning is more common than rain

Bones are the beds we rest upon-

and only ghosts are free from sin

The Upside Down- it has no rules-

There is no left- no right- just wrong

Our rivers are made from blood we lose-

and the shores wash away dawn

At one point- or another-

We fell up in order to get here

and it is not here we have suffered-

Above- no one runs with the wolves-

They call them mangy mutts

In here our pack stalks the woods-

and that provides the greatest hunt-

There is a land called the Upside Down-

It is here where war means peace

and monsters walk the grounds-

Anonymous ☽


sweet and slow

the afterglow

of dawn and dusk alike

flushes to our rosy cheeks

the colors of the night

a river’s flow

the afterglow

comes swiftly like a dream

a gentle kiss onto the skin

that shines like a moon beam


the afterglow

it’s when you held my hand

something just came over me

like a wave upon the sand

a special show

the afterglow

performs for very few

an inner light that shines so bright

and plays for only you

-Lizzie Hall

Route 115, 9:28 PM

Faded blue denim rides crested hips and with you in this Americana classic,

homage to the farm boys and Levi Strauss and rock and roll, I feel love

because Billy Idol’s on the radio and you are culture in motion,

with fast tires whispering secrets to that lonely strip of road,

decades winding together, but you, my love, are timeless.

Your face right now, dipped and swept with the flashing street lights, the grace

of Degas’ brushstrokes in every eyelash pirouette, every arabesque of your chest

rising and falling like rain. The clock on the dash

captures Seurat’s pointillism in your pupils, all shot through with gold

and blue and green and the deep pure black that Ansel Adams would love,

a living photograph, worn around the edges by slip gripping fingertips

tattered edges but all of humanity tucked within that frame and I feel love

because you are art, but art with motion, art that yells and throws a tantrum,

with Billy Idol on the radio. Throat muscles hold tension

of violin bows, each beat of your pulse is a cymbal crash,

shocking and jarring and beautiful, the swell of a symphony as you drive,

the lean of your body like a blues song on a corner in New Orleans, fingers

strumming the steering wheel in guitar chords you’ve never played

and I feel love because you are music in every breath and every beat, a Monet,

the adagio movement of Nielsen’s fifth, Billy Idol on the radio,

the purest form of love, the American dream with the windows rolled down.

-Gracie Griffin

Papercut by Addison Elrick

Anxiety Poem

Anxiety becomes a mouse.

Scurrying through my

Mind and scuttling

into the walls of my brain.

Running on its wheel

Through the strange hours

Of the night, Getting nowhere.

Staring into my soul

With black, beady eyes.

I start to question my existence.

The mouse is ready to pounce

At any second, scraping the glass

With its razor-edged claws

and I am terrified,

That something can be so small

And disturbing, yet

So tiring.

-Katie Vigue

Broken promise

It’s not as simple as a leaf shattered

as careless as a glass dropped

it can’t be patched like the escaping water in a raft

or sewed like your grandma's wedding dress, ripped on the playground

it’s not something that can sit in the palm of your hand, to be tucked away for later

It sits in your chest

pumping your lungs with tar until you're drowning from the inside out

altering the beat of your heart now weeping a forgotten melody

slowly expanding

growing, morphing

taking on a shape of its own

it starts at your head

a tair no bigger than the tip of a needle

it spreads slowly

inch by inch it cracks

until it rips you in two

turns you inside out

and sews you back together

unrecognizable to even yourself

altering time and space

rewriting history

a shattered hourglass

a jagged reality, twisted awakening

-Isabelle King

I Am Art

It took me a long time to realize this

With your constant criticism of my every move

But I am art

I may not be what you see as art

But I am art

I am blue paint

Splattered across a blank canvas

I am the plucking of strings on a violin

The playing of a simple melody

I am the first footprints in fresh snow

When the sun is just beginning to rise

Yet someone has already left their mark

I am the endless rolling of waves into the shore

The ocean,

I am consistent, I am unknowable,

I am art

I am the night sky

The sprinkle of stars held together

by the cool gaze of the moon

I am my own Starry Night

Not anyone else’s

Certainly not yours

But I am my own Starry Night

And that is enough

It took me so long to see

That I am art

I let myself be molded to your art

Then discarded,


But that only made me abstract

I see now that I am art

Just a different sort of art

I am my grandfather’s tales of his time as a marine biologist

I am the comfort you feel in your own room

I am the irony of being unable to look for your glasses

When you can’t see without them

I am the arrangement of feathers on an eagle

I am the excitement of finding your street on a map

I am art

And it took me a long time to realize

That everyone’s art is different

It took me a long time to realize

That just because you don’t treat me like art

Doesn’t mean I’m not

Because I am

I am art



sweat, tears, excitement

all in one place

all happening at the same time

ache, sorrow, and pain

all in one place

all happening at the same time

College boys, beer, and music

all in one place

all happening at the same time

Nerves, sweat, and not thinking

all in one place

all happening at the same time

New faces, and bad choices

all in one place

all happening at the same time

Alone, low lighting, and a new friend

all in one place

all happening at the same time

no clothes, no shame, and no worries

all in one place

all happening at the same time

gasps, moans and kisses

all in one place

all happening at the same time

walk of shame, no shoes, no shirt

all in one place

all happening at the same time

Long drive, bad choices, no regrets

all in one place

all happening at the same time

Fir trees, speeding cars, and side of the road

all in one place

all happening at the same time

Reminders of last night, blurry vision, my car

all in one place

All happening at the same time

2 long hours, 4 almost accidents, and still no regrets

all in one place

all happening at the same time

my own bed, 1 hour nap, and get dressed for work

all in one place

all happening at the same time

25 minutes, 0 almost accidents, still no regrets

all in one place

all happening at the same time

working a birthday party, keeping it chill, and getting out as fast as I can.

all in one place

all happening at the same time.

sweat, tears and excitement

all in one place

all happening at the same time

ache, sorrow, and pain

all in one place

all happening at the same time

Fond memories, hope of returning, and still no regrets

all in one place

all happening at the same time.

-James Depp

No black, No white

I have a dream.
These four words have the most meaning to me. 
I have a dream that one day,
Stop right there.
He had a dream, 
He was killed for dreaming.
He spoke his mind, at the sight of fire, and rage.
He is of color he should not be able
To speak his mind.
Last time I looked at a color wheel,
I saw a rainbow. 
I didn’t see No Black.
Or no White.
I saw an array of color. 
Of sunshine.
Of happiness.
I see the same, 
In a black and white
After all.
Black and white, have to work together,
To make that photo.
Happiness doesn’t come from the pigment
of your skin.
It comes from the beauty
Of the world around you.
I have a dream.
I guess this.
Is what he’s gonna get.
The one writing this poem.
Have a dream.
I have a dream, that one day,
Bi-racial families can be in commercials.
For Cheerios.
Without contradiction.
That our president,
Won’t need to build a wall. 
And the whole world can celebrate 
Martin Luther King Jr.
That we can be happy,
That we are alive and breathing.
That we can see.
We are all the same. 
And We are all 

-Gabby Colby-George
The Beast Within

Speedily stalking the unknowing prey

As they quietly sprint in the deep woods

The victims were poor small rabbits who play

You should not mess with the foresty hoods

Most of these wolves yes they travel in packs

Except for the lone wolf who goes alone

They make the small rabbits look just like snacks

All but the lone wolf who goes on his own

He leaps on the terrified little doe

To come out the doe a big splash of red

The wolf comes out and looks onto the snow

And at last the terrified doe is dead

 The boy screams out as he jumps from his dream

To find some red snow now spread out on his sheet

-Jackson Swanson

Samuel Marjerison

Scientifically Speaking
By Lulu Rasor

this love makes no sense.
I tell that to myself 
again and again and again
as if that will make it true.
Love is not scientific.
It is nonsensical;
I know that
and yet
I continue my mantra.
I tell myself,
I cannot be in love with you.
There is no point
to loving you
when all it will be
is an ache is my belly,
a hollow in my stomach,
a hopeless hope sharp inside me.
And yet I love you anyway.
I love your eyes,
dark and old-Hollywood-someone-famous-beautiful.
I love
the way you juggle fruit
and can quote Star Wars like most quote the bible
–I love you
I know–
and the way you rest your head on 
my shoulder
on the train back from city parties.
I wonder if those people
who see us, your head fitted to my shoulder
like it was built for it
think we’re a couple
and the thought warms my heart for a
split second
until I remember that those people
are wrong
and always will be.
Some days
my heart seems
an open cavity
bared to the world
and raw beneath the air
and I fear 
that everyone can see 
my love for you,
bright as graffiti scrawls.
I repeat
this love makes no sense.
To love someone
who will never love you back
cannot make sense, cannot be my fate
and yet
here we are:
your breath sleep-slow
hair tickling my bare shoulder
Some light-as-a-balloon pop song on the radio,
And I think:
you are so small
so delicate
so human
to have reshaped my whole world
around you.

In War, It’s Kill or be Killed

Flying chunk of explosives
One ton bombs
Hurling itself towards its target
The city center burned
Burnt flesh invaded the air
Melted guns littered the ground
Smoke ascended to the great blue sky
Blackened it
Darkened the sunlight
Women in shock
Children screaming
Men retreating home
To ensure the safety
Of those they protect
Tanks roll in
The treads tear at the dusty road
Men jogged alongside 
Their giant armored guardian
Squads stacking up
House after house
Room by room
The war in the room,
In the war of the city
In the war of the Desert
To rid the Black flag
Which taints the soil
Which destroys liberty
Which seeks to destroy 
Those who live free
Deafening booms
Tinnitus inducing pops
Bouncing off the walls
Echoing down the streets
The blood of men run
Into street gutters
Under cars
Mixing with their comrades
Men silently weep
In their hearts
As they pull the trigger
To avenge their friend. 
The noises of war
Lead to silence
Not a voice to be heard
No boots walking
No treads rolling
No rockets flying
No bullets whizzing
Just silence
The silence
Which keeps men awake
In the dark of their tent
The day’s slaughter invading their dreams
Only to wake to another day
Of walks
And a Soldier sleeps
Just three more days
Three more weeks
Three more months
Three more years
And a Soldier hopes, 
He can see his only begotten son
In front of him
Tears in their eyes.
“Daddy… You’re home?”
“Yes... I’m home”
No man sheds true tears
Until he sees his son
After walking through hell
To make sure his boy is safe at home.
The horrors of war,
Which is the true evil of the world
Protects the victors
Who partake in such evil. 
And destroys those who do not understand
It’s kill or be killed.

An Ode to Rock Climbing by Isabella Pardales


I wrote my first-ever essay in fourth grade
on the concept of gravity.
It included all the necessary –
pictures of apples falling from trees
and the Earth described as a marble,
a paragraph about Sir Isaac Newton –
but also all-too-simple explanations
and absolutely nothing about black holes.
Or equations.
Or dark matter.
Or half of the things that I think about now,

things that I tuck away into the crevices of my brain
until I’m on a subway in Boston,
not wanting to look at the people around me, 
or until I’m lying on a dewy dock with the stars spread above me.

Some nights when the voices in my head 
become too loud, seeming to seep through the walls and windows,
I listen to music,
I repeat simply phrases to myself like:
“Tough times don’t last,
tough people do.”

And on some nights, 
the most unbearable nights,  
I resort to my books. 
On these occasions
books about the universe are what I need to distract me. 

I’d rather my mind swirl with galaxies and supernovas
than with the violence and discourse
of what surrounds me. 

-Sage Watterson

The reflection 
of the old beach shack
cast pockets of copper
on the water.

I watched
The dark waves crash over,
and for the first time
I felt sorry for the color red.

The copper 
was tainted navy
and faded with the rising 
gibbous moon.

Our love
faded the same way.
Red reminded
me of you.

-Katie Vigue

Among The Trees​ by Isabella Pardales

My Mind

That one dull knife in the chopping block,
it’s dull twinge of mirrored
gunk, grime and 
hard, relentless work at (most days)
around 6 pm, or 

the cloudy atmosphere, identical of
the journal of events and mistakes, like

that old, emerald covered book
left out in the rain on Saturday,
recovered by the pink hairdryer on Sunday.
Once dry and new,
perched on the wooden shelf with all its twins,
until a man with a soft beard going grey
paid $14.35 with exact change.

Who was the man?

With that discombobulated stack of papers
now laying on the floor because the intern tripped
over her red, 3 inch 
heels, mimicking designer products she wished
she could afford.
But from her single bedroom apartment and
her red, embarrassed face, she
is almost getting through, even

that smile I see every other day
from across the room,
a fresh face in the continuous atmosphere
of frowns and hate that pile up
on top of each other until 
everything falls into
That patch of flames. 

-Sophie McGrath
Wake up!

You’re being Overdramatic
You’re such a Wuss
Men don’t cry!
Men don’t get sad!
Men don’t miss people!
We just miss the pain in our knuckles
From punching some teeth in!

I am Overdramatic because I write about what I feel
That I blow things out of proportion
Just so you can pay attention, 
To one young man’s troubles. 
Tell me, would this keep your attention?
I am sad
I am angry
I am stressed
I am depressed
I have anxiety
I am lonely
I have-
I am-
I am-
I have-
I cannot keep going on like this. 
Succumbing to the demands of the population,
When I don’t know if I feel safe in school
When I feel like I’m being attacked by people who live 
2000 miles from me. 
When I’m afraid of the judgement counselors have of me
Thinking that something is wrong with me.
I think too much
I don’t know the right thing to say
How to say it. 
Do I tell you quietly?
Do I have to yell to get my point across?
What do I have to do to keep your attention? 
I’m a wuss because it’s about the only thing I’m allowed to be. 
With the system that’s in place, 
People can’t settle a disagreement with brawn anymoreBecause people are scared they’ll get bruised. 
So I just run away from those who don’t want to hurt me
Because I simply can’t get by without getting in trouble for fighting back. 
Can you see now? 
Can you wake up and look at what all of you have created?
Wake up... 
Pussy because I walk away from a fight?
I’m a pussy because I know I’m going to get in trouble for defending myself?
For refraining from squaring up. 
For not pushing back? 
Because asshole like you know that I’ll get the fall and you will get off scot free!
That’s not justice.
That is tyranny.
Wake UP!! 
Can’t you see that it’s not me who’s being the coward?
That It’s the bullies,
Who abuse the system.
The bullies who bend the rules
Who find the loopholes
That they make being a victim a crime
Rather than being criminals themselves. 
It’s because of these molestations of the rules, 
Of the systems
That people like me take the ‘coward’s way out’ 
Pop some pills, 
Cut some skin
Tie a rope
Kick a chair
Drink some bleach, 
Starve to death. 
All of you! 
Including me.
We all created this safety-net for the bullies
The top dogs.
So why don’t we burn the nets?
Snap snap*
Hey, hey!
Okay, Fine I’ll tell you. 
I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me.
I’ll tell you...
I’m lonely. 
I’m stressed,
I have friends, 
But it’s like I’m not even there. 
I’m just listening. 
In the corner
Responding when needed
I shut down
I go on automatic. 
I cannot focus. 
I’m sorry….
Wake up...
Wake up..
Wake up.
You seriously expect me to pay for dinner
When i don’t have a job?
When I am focused on my education
Yet still want to do fun things?
You want me to have a job
Just so I can be like you?
When I need to focus on something that is more important than money?
Everything today costs money. What happened to the parks?
The town squares? 
Walks along the beach?
What happened to drive in movies? 
Roadside diners and dances?
Singles clubs?
I suppose this is why I feel so alone, 
So left out.
I was simply born, 
In the wrong decade. 

-Kyle Brundige
Starry Performance

Stars glint 
under the hazy clouds.

They long 
for their moment to shine, 
to twinkle, to dance.

With pride
and soul they sing,
pleading with songs of light
to let the storm pass. 

-Eliza Waterman