YAWP is the new PITS

YAWP = Yarmouth High School Arts & Writing Publication

Sailing in Space

I sail sun-ward, Bermuda 40 frosting over, the Last Voyager.

Sailing towards the sun in bullet time, through the cold, fuel low,

My uncommon coordinates are fit for the most exotic brochure

Although this is not a vacation, its a final destination.


Sun becomes horizon and light ripples like a flag,

Signaling a terminal proximity to divinity; humanity's hubris.

Frost steams as the vessel glides ever closer on black matter waves.

The deck glows beneath my sneakers with the heat of the dying star.

Time's done, my gamble rendered in a flash of pure hydrogen, forging


The black pinpoint: innovation.

The black hole wrinkles with all 5 dimensions,

The universe looks into my eye, and

I'm folded a thousand light years away

Leaving the white earth to spaghettify.

-Sophia Skinner

My Depression

It’s the weather in Maine

sometimes spring is at your fingertips

then It snows -

a couple feet…

filling car tires’ graves

making them immobile


Sometimes,

It’s 90º and only slightly humid

then It’s pouring rain

and thunder lurks in the distance

warning tonitrophobes to seek soundproof shelter


Sometimes,

It’s the low fog - stuck to the dewy grass

one muggy morning

and by the afternoon It covers the town

a gray haze obstructing visibility no matter how far you move


In Maine you’re never sure which jacket to wear


My Depression is like that too -

but, I’ve learned to treat it like the weather


Sometimes,

I still don’t know what jacket to wear.


-Morgan Cooper

To Hephaestion from Alexander, a ghazal*

Let them build their towering statues and write their histories of us, I say.

They do not know the whole of the truth. Not what I whisper to you, only what I say.


Perhap we are one soul shared between two bodies, as the poets say.

but do you not think that two separate souls that align are far more precious?


He too is Alexander, is the explanation I have heard them say

and perhaps it is true: you were there every moment that made me Alexander.


There is no word for us, not really. Brothers-in-arms, lovers, king and lionheart, they will say.

but none will capture the gore on my battle-worn hands, the tenderness as they cupped your face.


When our bones have crumbled to dust and our empire unstitched, what will they say?

Will they remember your steady hand, your loyal heart, or just my name, my sword, my army?


Someday we will watch men revolt, monuments topple, listen to what the rebel speeches say.

But the world is not ending, no, for the world is what we make it between us, and only that.


He whom the gods love dies young, as story after story, legend after legend, all say

Perhaps that is why I bury you first–I am not a god, but I have remade the world all the same.


The world churns on, feverish, and with it that hellish machine of my empire, as you used to say.

I no longer see darkness behind my lids but you–golden, beckoning, unattainable, lost forever.


I think on the world we made between us, patched together between dusk and dawn. I say,

I would trade a thousand empires for one more minute there, turn my face away from all else.

-Lulu Rasor

*Hephaestion was the close childhood friend and possible lover of the conqueror Alexander the Great. He died of a fever years before Alexander himself died, and his death was said to have driven Alexander temporarily insane.

Emma Marston

The Language of Ice

We trace cursive on the ice

with pens of steel and leather in a relentless

rush of blade-rasp and whish,

The expanse of the domed robin’s egg sky

above, gnarled hag-hands of branches

whirling in a funhouse mirror.

The glide and scrape of metal

is our siren song,

our breath set loose in trails and spirals

of another language.


We slow, wildly spinning toy tops

unwinding to a wobble

and we are human again,

our fingers clenched with cold

inside bargain-bin gloves,

throats frost-seared,

scarfs warm with exhausted breath,

no longer icicle-boned creatures who fly

across the ice with wind beneath

the tails of our coats, like we could lift

off into the pale-blue sky.

-Lulu Rasor

Ode to Books

I trail my fingers along the rows of

library books lining the shelves,

the worn spines smooth

on the pads of my fingers.

I am thinking of

the hundreds of eyes that have

seen the worlds inside these books,

worlds made of ink and paper and imagination,

funneling down from the mind of a writer

sitting at a laptop typing

or at a desk with pen in hand,

words spilling out

in a clatter-tap of keys

or the scritch of pen on paper,

words falling to the page,

rushing like a rain-fed river

or dripping with painful slowness,

messy and unformed,

twisting and turning and changing,

evolving into

neat lines of ink on paper

containing an entire universe.

New books are crisp and fresh,

pages a pure, untouched white,

ink black and stark

and filled with possibility.


They cry out,

Be the first to read me!

The first to discover me!

The first to turn to the last page

and wish there was more!

Old books,

battered books,

books beloved by multitudes,

are yellowed and musty-smelling,

spines cracked,

pages torn,

mysterious smears in the margins,

bookmarks of their previous owners

abandoned within the pages like

fallen autumn leaves.

In some books,

certain passages have been underlined,

one reader silently speaking to the next,

whispering.

See these words.

Remember them.

They meant something to me, once.

I read these same pages

and carried these lines in my heart

long after this book was gone.

-Pie Rasor

Emma Marston

Being Human

When we open our eyes, alive

We stand never being alone, still

We stand together, never

ceasing to

Amaze how to be

a human, waiting to be born.

-Harland Nadeau

Crayons

Dolphin Gray -

The color of my favorite

Crayola Crayon

At six years old

slightly blue-tinted gray catching my eye

the name sparking a familiarity —

Wonder of the graceful creatures kept me busy

In after school care

While I waited for my parents

To show them my fridge worthy art


Dolphin Gray -

The color of the sky

When it’s dreary and wet --

My favorite type of weather

Because there’s something so beautiful

About not being able to see what’s coming

From under the blanket of gray clouds


The color of the clouds

I no longer see regularly

In the corners of my mind --

Thoughts and feelings no longer

In grayscale


And now,

12 years later

Dolphin Gray is the color of his eyes --

The sky before a storm in spring

When the weather is always a little unpredictable

But I can see what is coming-

Even through the fog of his soul


Of a man enshrouded in murk

But never fails to give sunshine to those

Who willingly dedicate their time

to him.

-Morgan Cooper

Emma Marston


Everyday,

I feel myself

fall a little bit

more in love with you

-Morgan Cooper

I wish I could see

the way you look at me

because even when

my eyes are closed

I can still feel your gaze

on me

-Morgan Cooper

The Shovel

In the dark sky of early morning, as

Stillness lay around me. All

The silence surrounded me and the

Smallest sound resonated like music. The heavens

Didn’t seem so far off then. Those were

The times that a

Leaf could drop and I could hear it like a bell.

The silence sent shivers and

It was as if a being

Weighed upon me. But

Silence is hard. The blessing is in an

Ear.

-Zoe Hardel

Emma Marston

Stratosphere

After Robert Frost

People live on earth but not I

I have

Lived in one place, and walked

Until one day I ran out.

Ran out in

The rain

But I do not like the rain and

I went up and back

To the place I belong in

Not in the Rain

Not in the wrong

But in the place that's right

In the sky at night

-Shepard Shutkin

A Day's Gone Past

A days gone past

And pa hasn't returned from the storm

A days gone past

Pa hasn't returned from the storm

The world was stuck in its place

While we were just asked to conform


The wind howls through the night

And pa is gone, he's out of sight

The wind howls through the night

And pa is gone, out of sight

The love has come and left again

I thought everything would be all right


He said he'd stay

He said he'd stop drinking

He said he'd stay

Said he'd stop drinking

But the liquor keeps pouring

And the tears aren't shrinking

-Owen Curnin

The Problem With Social Networks

Like an abyss in the bottom of the ocean

Social networks suck you into their tight grasp and keep you until your time is spent

They take advantage, only asking for a couple minutes, when you know it will be much more

Stubby fingers write statuses while tired eyes swipe aimlessly through posts

The dim glare that emanates from the screen glares towards our eyes

Almost like feeding a drug addiction that we cannot control

Standards that can’t be met are set while senseless comments are posted

If these networks are all about connection why is it that I feel so distant

The thing I do the most, serves no purpose in my life

It would be like trying to push a brick wall, there will never be progress

Just give up. Go around it. The benefits outweigh the loses. And all you have to do is... look up

-Owen Curnin

Love

The opened window in my room transports the chilly fall air into my bedroom

A tingling embraces my spine and makes the hair on my knuckles stand straight.

I can hear a faint noise outside

Something screaming as if it is being crushed by a force larger than itself

I arise from my rigid mattress and throw out the apple core I was gnawing on before bed

while I was watching a documentary on special relativity, something I’m quite fond of to say the least

The noise continues and as it wanders through my mind I can’t help but try to figure out what it is

I decide to investigate, I zip up my ragged vintage nike windbreaker that my father gave to me as a gift,

lace up my black reeboks and lightly crept out of the house trying desperately to not wake up my mother

The stars in the sky are as beautiful as ever and I daydream about leaving this world of struggle

to fly into the atmosphere of the earth letting all my problems go

I glance at the vending machine outside of our apartment: old and beaten down is how I would describe it

As a vending machine living in New York City it can be tough

I reach into my pocket and take out two George Washington’s and put them into the vending machine

Watching as the Cheetos slowly drop and are released from its jail cell

I strap on my helmet and straddle over my bike

The noise gets louder as I near it and my hands shake in fear of what this may be

And then i see it

That thing that keeps you guessing

That thing that you feel but can never see

It was me…. my broken heart

His agonizing cries continued to fill the streets as he wandered looking for his pieces that were broken off

by those who carelessly stomped all over him never once thinking about how it would make us feel

A feeling I’m far too familiar with: emptiness

It takes a hold of your soul and corrupts your mind into thinking you have no worth

It feels like you’re drowning in an abyss filled with darkness as those you once called yours watch as you fade from existence

The saddest thing about love is that it cannot last forever

It is only a distraction from the harsh realities we face in our lives

A daily painkiller we rely on to help us through the thing that we call “life”

But we endure, and we push forward blindly through this complex obstacle course hoping to one day make it out

-Owen Curnin

A Personal Essay by Iliyan Pelletier

In my first three years of high school, I had three concussions. One during the spring of my freshman year from lacrosse, another the first few weeks into my sophomore year from a car accident, and another on the same exact day a year later playing football. Each one impacted me more than the previous, and took me longer to recover.

Having three concussions in less than eighteen months gave me a constant headache and reminder to watch my step and not do anything that might put my head in more danger. My parents even considered making me constantly wear an old leather football helmet.

Not being able to do what I wanted created a constant irritation. I couldn’t use a computer, I couldn’t do strenuous activities, physical or mental. I could no longer play contact sports, something that I had always loved to participate in. Most days I sat in my room tremendously bored trying to convince myself I wasn’t depressed or it could always be worse. But sitting up in my room alone and being pushed to the edge of boredom made me find things in myself that I never would have found otherwise.

When something dramatic happens in your life that cuts off your ability to do what you love, most people describe that as having a door close in your life. But when one door closes another door opens. Being trapped in my state of boredom led me to that new door that I had never pursued before: Woodworking.

It first came to me one day when I was fiddling with my swiss army knife. I picked up a random piece of wood I had in my room and began to whittle away. Shaping the wood with the knife brought me into a state of serenity. Shaping the wood slowly, making curves and carving different shapes. It all came so naturally. Little feet began to pop out of the wood, and then a head, and finally a bubbled shell. I had made my first carving, a turtle. It wasn't the prettiest thing in the world, but it was something that I had accomplished in my many days of feeling distraught and unaccomplished. It gave me something to strive for. I am a completely self taught woodworker, and my hands show it with constant blisters and cuts. Experimenting with different grips on the knife and wood is a big part of woodcarving for me. Always pursuing the perfection I knew I could achieve from the beautiful grain of the wood.

Woodworking has become a part of me. It gave me a way through my feeling of loss over the activities I was no longer supposed to participate in. Some people have certain attributes that supposedly defines who they are as a person. For me, that would be woodworking. Whether it be simple woodcarvings with a swiss army knife or turning cups and bowls on my lathe. I could spend hours putting my energy into these pieces, and I do.

One of my favorite pieces was a simple cup made from cherry wood that I had turned for a Secret Santa gift. I spent countless hours on the lathe, gouges and chisels digging into the blank, wood shavings flying every which way leaving me buried under a layer of dust. Because I had ripped a hole through the side on the first blank and had to start over, it made me even more motivated to finish the cup. I worked through the day and into the freezing winter night to finish. I made a lid out of maple to contrast the red cherry. I sanded the cup down to 600 grit sandpaper to give the wood a natural shine before using teak oil as a finish. The red wood glistened as I applied the oil finishing my masterpiece.

My Competitive Nature: A Personal Essay by Charlie Keefe

Violent butterflies beat their wings against my stomach. As a competitive swimmer, a pool is a place I have always been comfortable. This time it was different. I know it shouldn’t have been different, but it was. The nerves were building, I had never been around someone like him, and didn’t know what to expect. It was the first day of my second job to exercise with a 23 year old man with special needs to improve his strokes. Meeting him I learned quickly he was very vocal, speaking about stuff a normal 10 year old boy would talk about as his mom said he would. My job was to get him into better shape and give him someone to hangout with. His name is Jacob, he has autism, and gave me a new understanding of competitiveness. He changed my old beliefs and gave me new ones on how I should be a competitor in life.

Two weeks after the job had started I learned that the family could no longer afford to pay me to train with Jacob. After a week of not seeing him, I realized I had really bonded with him. The sudden realization hit that I wasn’t doing this for the money but that I had gained a friend from someone I would have never thought I would cross paths with. I talked with his mother and we discussed me continuing swimming with him as community service.

Training with him became even more fun than before. We were just two friends in the pool bettering ourselves. Jacob and I would race everyday, sometimes I would win and sometimes I’d let him win. Being a competitive swimmer I hate losing. Every race I’d swim I’d desperately strive to be the best. It was a part of my competitive nature.

Now Jacob on the other hand seemed to never mind losing, he just enjoyed the time swimming and enjoyed being competitive in the pool but was content with just being competitive. He left everything in the pool and worked as hard as he could. Unlike me he could accept defeat. I learned this idea from Jacob. If I put in the time to train and I do my best, it shouldn’t matter about winning or losing.

There is only so much that I can do to be my best self in the pool. I bring these ideas into my life everyday since I have realized that. Not everyone can be the best. Not everyone can have the best brains or best athletic genes. I now go into everyday trying to be competitive, trying to do my best and better myself and at the end of the day, I end up where I end up. I can be happy with this because as long as I know I tried my very best and worked my hardest that I will end up where I deserve to be.

I have built this concept into my life more and more since I have been swimming with Jacob. Everyday I go into life with a competitive nature. My biggest competitor each day isn’t the other team, it isn’t my classmates, my biggest competitor is myself. Each day I go into life with one goal: bettering myself in some way. Whether it be learning something new in school, no matter how exhausted my mind is. If it is getting faster on the field, even though my calves and hamstrings burn hotter than a fire. If it is getting faster in the pool, even though my shoulders and arms are numb from pain. If it is pushing through that last rep in squats to complete the workout doing it knowing I will be unable to walk the next day. Like Jacob, I try to be the best version of myself.

A Personal Essay by Kim Loomis

I've become accustomed to waking up to the sound of ambulances outside my house in the middle of the night. Hearing my mother’s car start at three in the morning isn’t at all shocking. My father suffers from chronic migraines that completely take over his entire body and soul. I never knew how debilitating they could be until I saw him suffer so severely and never healing from them.

Despite being sick since the age of twelve, my father has continued to stay the happiest person I know. Nothing brings him down. After hours in a hospital bed, unable to move and in so much pain, he doesn’t feel human anymore. Somehow he makes jokes when the nurses come in to poke him with more needles. After hearing many condolences for his pain, his only response is, “this ain't my first rodeo, it won’t get easier unless I practice!” His wish is never to hear people say "sorry" to him. Whenever he hears remarks like this, he immediately changes the topic of conversation to concern about their well being. I've never met another person who holds the health and happiness of others so high in their heart.

It was difficult for me to come home the first time after bringing my father to the hospital. It was hard to comprehend that someone so strong could feel so much pain so often. I have never wanted to leave his side, even when he is in his best condition. I glued myself to him in fear he might need me. I’ve never realized what my mom had felt and endured for the past thirty years.

Seeing my mother and father continue being so positive and happy even when my father's health is in such bad condition has taught me that life keeps going. Watching my mother work so hard to support the family and my father push through hard times is what keeps me going. Instead of letting the health of a loved one impact me negatively, I have chosen, with the help of my parents, to progress in life. It has taught me to not dwell on the bad days, but to enjoy the good days. Enjoy my time with others and appreciate how fortunate I am to be in good health.

It’s been hard for me to find happiness in all my father's pain, and after long, hard nights thinking about the constant suffering and struggle, I have finally become comfortable with the fact that nothing will ever be perfect. No one’s life ever goes as planned. There will always be bumps in the road, but one will only get over them if they try. One of the best things I have ever done for myself is realizing that no matter what gets in my way, I have to push through. If my father can push through it, so can I.

Despite dealing with all the health problems, my father is the the happiest and highest part of my day. Getting to know and understand someone who is so content with themselves and what's going on has showed me how important it is to be comfortable with yourself and your surroundings no matter what life throws at you. My mother has always told me this, but sometimes it’s hard to believe it until you experience it.

After happily caring for someone for years now, I’ve decided that nursing is what I want to do for the rest of my life. My love for helping people goes beyond just my father. Sadly, nothing can cure him, but that doesn’t mean there’s no hope in giving him or anyone else suffering from chronic migraines relief. I will always have the healing side of me with whoever I am with.

A Laundry List

thunder like horses beating across the rocky shoreline

string lights in the boat cabin, fish and a pear for dinner

dawn a whisper in the east, soapy showers on the boat

linen, lace, sundresses and silver scandals, freckles

ripped hands, weary eyes, ink stains, and battered shoes

eggshell lighthouse, open windows, sea glass on the sill

half a dozen diagnoses you don’t know what to do with

oranges and dark chocolate, cracked china, headphones

antique house, locked door, bleeding clouds

bed like a bird’s nest of blankets, glass jars of seashells

ribbons for the laces of boots, gardenia, plath’s poetry

stormy grey cat with moons for eyes and three working legs

leather-bound, homemade books and the ships’s logbook

metalworking equipment, cast silver rings and metal dust

downy legs and sunlight blinding on the morning sea

getting lost in old libraries, tracking sand in the house

middle of the ocean, a sea of stars above, being alone

casino lights and music in the glassy, midnight harbor

rose quartz, moonstone, marble, lapis lazuli

nightmares and pill bottles and being lost in a storm

the sweet, soft darkness fathoms bellow your racing keel

bruised knees, old star charts, late night texting, twins

paint stains, calloused feet, the last line in a poem.

-Salomé Skinner

The Dancer

Lanky extremities explored the infinite room

Coiling and swiveling to the cello

Her body gleamed with sweat

Glistening and tender and beautiful

Chiffon flew around her

An upheaval of fabrics

Tackled the air

As she floated in a merciless battle

Against her body

The sweet essence of vanilla perfume and sweat

Filled the room like a steam

She could taste the salt drip into her mouth

Tangy and delicious

To the harsh shutters her body

Was awakened to

A drop rolled down her forehead,

Slowly slithering to her cheek

In soft rivulets


But she continued gliding

Her heavy breathing was faint

to the too-loud music raging

In the infinite room

The pads of her feet

Softly hit the wood floors

With a delicate ‘thump’

Her eyes glazed across

Her body being her only focus

Her mind was in a ballroom

A euphorium of ecstasy

Her bones felt weightless

The rocks turning to feathers

She flowed into a screeching love of her body

-Brienne Hathcock

28,699

The ancient forest was home to conifers and fruit

The limbs of the trees

Twisted and dying


Apples once bright red and green withered to black

The deep forest gently gave way to a small path

Sweet sap and pine


Eventually

​ ​the canopy above began to filter in soft white sun from the heavens

But something was off

I closed my eyes


I saw the now-ancient trees as seedlings

I saw Yankees

Confederates

Locked in battle

Brother against brother in combat that will leave no winner

Civil hands making civil blood unclean

The battle cries softened

I opened my eyes and the clearing emptied


Flowers blossoming on the unmarked graves of the abandoned were still and soft

But something still felt off

Still felt

Broken


Hours of walking eventually lead to a small brook

Bubbling cheerfully


The hot white sun faded to cotton candy

I looked down

My shoes were torn and ripped

My legs scratched beyond recognition

The pale lace of my dress a Jackson Pollock

I tried to fly away

From this life

This place

But gravity was a noose.

- Keely McConville

A Story is A Story

In media res - start the story in the center of the action. They are not beginning, they have indeed already begun, but they are beginnings for us, and that is enough.

Have it unseat you. Have it throw you out of your chair. Have it make your heart beat and your breath quicken have it make you sit there, unsure of what to do, because it said that, and that is such a beautiful thing.

Lyrical poetry.

Titles should be those strange things that don’t make any sense when you start and don’t make any sense when you finish. Except they do.

Repetition. Repetition. Repetition. Say it again and again and again. Say it three times, because things like coming in threes. Say it again, because it needs to be said more than once. Say it with no meaning, and then say it again, when it suddenly makes all the sense in the world.

Use grammar, but only to your advantage. Use big words, but only in the attempt to sound ethereal and poetic. People don't use “epidermis” in real life.

The beginning of a story is a seed. It is the very essence of everything that will ever come next. It is everything, but it is never enough.

So what? Why did you write this? Why the **** did you write this?

Write. Don't revise until it’s done. Don’t think about it until it’s done. You are merely filling a box with sand so you can one day build a palace.

Clear your throat. Let the beginning be the phlegm that lets you speak clearly because yours is a story to tell.

And finally, know that anything and everything that I just said is completely disregardable. Ignore me if you like, ignore anything and everything you like because this is writing for god’s sake, and rules do not apply to us here.

-O. F. Bailey

Written during the Creative Writing Day Workshop with Gibson Fay-LeBlanc


An Open Letter to Ophelia

There are stars so far away

that by the time we’ve glimpsed their light

the source has dimmed to ash,

light streaming from nowhere–

an endlessly echo shout from a vanished mouth.

I think you may be the same.


My copy of Hamlet is battered

and soft from the fingers

of a thousand students.

Shakespeare has been pushing up

daisies for centuries.

There’s nothing rotten in Denmark

anymore, and I know how the story

ends before I’ve even begun.


And yet I still think of you.

Cold winter mornings,

cheek pressed against the bus window

an escape from stifling heat

and clanging radiators.


I think of love letters, butterfly-wing fragile,

snatched by strict hands,

a father wielding his daughter

like a bait hunter’s game.

And later, the snap of a branch

breaking underfoot, and the cool

embrace of water.


I think of tresses trailing

in river current like waterweed

and of two men arguing their love

for a dead girl as if she was a doll.


I think of all those scholars sliding you

beneath a microscope and examining

you through the lenses

of femininity and madness and suicide and love,

taking your almost-nothing

and shaping it into anything,

theirs to mold as pleased;

a marionette jerking on the strings of academia.


I wonder why none of them ever let

you simply be a girl, who can

bite into a rich, ripe peach and lick the golden

rivulets of juice off her wrist,

and who can slip her shoes off

on a blazing summer day

and splash in the mirror-shallow, crystal depths

of a stream, face tilted

towards a gilded ecstasy of sun.

-Lulu Rasor



Salt Lake City Salt Flats

by Sophia Skinner

Fenrir

By Pie Rasor

He was born hungry,

and he has lived his entire life hungry,

but he will not die hungry.

He tells himself this as he lies,

chained and starving,

lying in eternal darkness,

fed only enough by his jailers to keep the shadow

of death away.

He tells himself this when the hunger threatens to consume him,

when he thinks he might give in,

try to break his chains,

rage against those who have captured him here,

become nothing more than

bottomless hunger and wolf skin.

Sometimes he thinks he is nothing more than a vessel for that hunger,

which seems far larger than him,

larger than the entire world,

larger than he had ever dreamed of before he came here,

imprisoned on a dark island by those who betrayed him.

He knows what he is hungry for.

He thinks he might always have known,

since the moment he was born,

small and helpless

and already filled with hunger.

He imagines, sometimes,

what eating the sun might taste like.

Hot, burning hot, searing hot,

but satisfying,

each bite eating away his hunger in return,

until none of it is left,

and there is no light left in the world.

Sometimes,

it is all that keeps him alive in darkness:

imagining that first

white-hot bite of the sun.


My Mind


A field of blush-tinted lupines.

The frayed edges of an armchair,

a ribbon straining to hold a celebratory bouquet.

The sound of raindrops hitting the pavement.

A carnival, its neon lights bright against the night sky,

flashing distractions and attractions blindly.

The last shards of glass from a broken plate.

A forest during the cool autumn,

the tornadoes of leaves and the circles of trees.

The ocean, the depth, the darkness there;

the unknown awaits.

A stadium where battles are fought under bright lights.

The local supermarket, the thesaurus.

A jungle. Two camouflaged tigers left to fight.

A deserted tennis court on a summer night

where early leaves fall,

thinking it is their time.


Sage Watterson


Don't Wait.MOV

Don't Wait by Sage Watterson

Performed at Studio B Millhouse by Sage Watterson

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

Eliza Waterman

My Mind

My mind is a zoo.

Filled with all the animals and people and personalities

who make up who I am.


Playing with multi colored yarn in the corner,

given to her by her grandmother,

is a fierce, powerful lion who wouldn’t hurt a fly.


The chimps shriek at each other from across my mind.

Decision making has never been a strong suit for those chimps.


In the same wild zoo the ring master,

who keeps all in line, loves to paint and perform

but hides the pieces away in a small cupboard.


Overhead, the thunder and lightning are like the chimps

a constant call and response, never any quiet.


Through it all, a lost and curious girl wanders

alone but not yet lost to figure out how she could find

a way to climb the black cloth of the sky

and sit upon that bright, friendly moon.

-Eliza Waterman