CrEation
IS
ACTIVISM
Xanadu & The Collective Concert
February 6 6pm
$5.00
15 Musical Performers
&
5 Poets
Fun and Fund the Arts
Thank You!!! Thank You !!!
Ataraxia
Ian Black
The air flows—
ruffling feathers
as it passes your ventral,
tracing the veins of your spreading
wingspan, alula then pinions,
enveloping each thin limb.
Lifted to the sky you
beat towards freedom—
an angled ascent, accelerating.
You chase ataraxia,
but a storm follows,
follows immutability.
Enjoy Our Cool Slideshow.
Dreams
Shay Lublin
Ephemeral emeralds jammed between rock,
are not much of a visual shock.
They suffer like sea glass,
shoved down and lost.
So make your fingers bleed.
Keep digging and scratching—
Searching and suffering.
Go deep in the cave, make familiarity with the dirt.
Polish the precious gems of dreams,
For when dreams go—
Dull devours.
Forever lost and unknown.
Worn out, dead shoe
Demi Botta
And when the shoe finally gives way—
it does not fail all at once.
It loosens, thins, forgets its shape.
What once held the foot upright
becomes something barely worn,
a reminder rather than a shoe.
A reminder of all the work you put into
shaping the shaft that was once hard.
The shoe dies quietly but quickly.
The demand of the shoe quiets,
no more breaking of the shaft,
looking to be broken in and sewn.
It starts to let you sink,
Gravity is starting to weigh ⸺
The shoe remains in its dead state,
with a broken shaft and ripped ribbon, sitting in the bag that's zippered.
The shoe that once never stood still is paralyzed.
The shoe that never missed a passe, releve, or jete,
remembers the motions—lost the motivation.
As we sit and think about the shoe that hopes for revival
We think on the heart that hears music but no longer reacts.
The box that the toe pads disintegrated on
and the ribbon that supported the foot being walked away from.
Eternal Fermata
Jordin Rubin
Rest is unthinkable—
accelerating through the musical lines,
yearning for the Zenith; the moment in which
determination and drive, at their peak,
are finally rewarded.
Like a spirited symphony, each
faction of the composition builds to the ultimate resolve.
The composers hands come down, an eternal
fermata of silence ensues.
The moment that instantly
engulfs the mind, leaving you to wonder—
Have you done it?
The hours of rephrasing, restructuring, dynamically altering—
Has it paid off?
In that drawn out breath of silence,
you wait for an applause,
a recognition of your efforts,
the crescendoed screams of praise, though inevitable,
are never enough.
Sigrid Escobar Catalan
Abandoned
Madelyn Crocco
My trust is an abandoned sacred church.
Dusty pews once filled with worship and praise
Now on lockup.
Not even a whisper of a prayer.
Even the altar darkened.
The tiny blaze that sat in the middle of the cathedral
Was now on trial.
The fire will die if one more person throws
A pebble at the already cracked window.
The massive empty building has one last spark —one last chance
Before I give up all my hope and never let anyone in my church again.
I break down all the windows and curse the angels.
Once all is destroyed I’ll wait for that someone
To rebuild all that was shattered.
The Wife in White
Anna Braglia
I don’t belong in a wedding dress.
I cannot imagine a future
where I walk down the aisle
white walls and tangled trails close
in and strangle my newly-wed throat.
I choke in my corset.
I can’t see through my veil.
Fit and flare skirts of chiffon
catch onto the shanks of a stiletto.
My hands tremble around my bride’s bouquet,
and I throw it into the crowd - not to wish another woman a wedding.
To get rid of the evidence of my own.
I belong waiting at the altar.
Watching my wife walk to me in a beautiful ballroom.
My tuxedo tugs me towards her,
and my feet, fitted in black brogue flats,
long for our first dance of married life.
Gentle fingers brush the hair to the back of her head
and the parlance of the priest
passes me by since the structure of her face
forced my attention away.
The reception, the ring, the recessional -
all the elements come together
to build the empire of our affection.
She’s beautiful in a way I could only want for her.
Ayla Derin
Sheltering Melodies
Alyssa Vozza
I stand
ten toes on the
hardwood grain.
On my right light
shines through a window,
just on that side
of my face, while the case
clicks open.
I feel the chill of the shiny
silver on my skin, as well as
the slight vibration of air escaping
the open keys, inviting my fingertips to
shelter them.
As the sound echoes back into my ears, I wonder
is it my instrument encompassing the room with this melody,
or is my own breath solely responsible.
As minutes, hours pass, the answer becomes
increasingly unclear to me ---
Here I belong.
❧
Jeffrey Cruz
Petaled Promising
Isabella Rossi
You hold me,
potted,
in a disguised home
of ceramic.
Temporarily changing,
growing,
preventing,
potting,
my dull petals.
You flower potted possibility,
hold my roots in dead soil.
Potting,
Proposing,
Promising,
Promoting,
Snipping my thorns
Drowning my petals
The water is useless
I'll try to grow beyond your potting, preventing,
promising, and promoting.
Yet you yank my vines,
curse my efforts,
you make me small.
2025 Xanadu Poetry Contest Results
1st prize: Sienna Leaver: Smaller Than A Promise
2nd prize; Samantha Guttler: Peculiar Decorations
3rd prize: Katy Valle: Humanity and Water
Special Mentions:
Ava Hedstrom: Sugar High
Ella Brenner: Daisy
Seafloor
Natalia Morales
The shrieking bell rings, I'm at the place
I dread. Fractions, equations, quadratics don't
sing the song I yearn to hear.
So much was expected of me.
I am like an anchor
sinking down as multiplication floods my thoughts.
How can I be connected with the space that drains my soul.
My heart lies within the ocean.
Callous, crunchy sand beneath my feet.
My body is a shell buried in the shore line,
once someone's home, now my sanctuary.
Savory, saltwater hits my tongue.
I want to be the sunset that sits afloat.
Lonely seagull stuck in seaweed,
helpless nowhere to go.
Does it understand me?
My mind A-hull with no
thought–just togetherness.
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Roots
Angelica Canales
You look at me and
I look at you.
But there’s nothing I can say
Or you can say.
I feel out of place,
But this is who I am—
Who I’m supposed to be.
I don’t have the voice.
I don’t have it all under my tongue.
Is this somewhere I belong?
I have the blood.
I have the direct tie but
Who am I to be somewhere,
Somewhere, I can’t speak.
Is this my food.
Is this my music.
So out of kin
But it just feels right.
I want to be a part
But I don’t know if I
Will ever be whole.
Quiero hacer como los otros.
Lilah Black
I am a Mirror
Palak Singh
Silently watching.
Waiting for a new image to stare at.
Fatigued—peering at the same expressions everyday.
She stares deep into me,
admiring her imperfections.
Wondering not about my soul, but solely the reflection I offer.
Would she ever wonder who I am?
Does she know I can see her?
I wait patiently, hoping for another to come along and watch me.
Hoping for a new beauty—
to peer into me. Hoping that one day,
someone will see me
for what I am.
Patience
Maggie Motherway
The stoplight lingers, red against
the empty street, while my hand
hovers above the steering wheel,
unsure whether to tap or rest.
In the grocery line, a toddler screams.
I read the cereal boxes, the colors
blurring as if I could quiet the noise.
Laundry tumbles in the washer, and I
listen to the thud, resisting the urge to
check if the clothes are done, though
I know they aren’t
The elevator stalls between floors,
I press the button once, twice, then three times,
but it hums in its own time,
as if teaching me to breathe slower.
My text message goes unanswered for days.
I place my phone face down on the table,
pretending like I don’t care about the silence.
At the doctor’s office, the clock ticks loud,
waiting rooms full of wrinkled magazines
and coughs. I sit, legs still, knowing
I can’t do anything but wait for my name.
Turpentine
Madeleine Bas
You abducted me from my atrium,
entrapping my turpentine in your
jagged bristles.
As you pushed me to the linen,
I eroded your phthalo blues,
stripping away your muddled water lilies,
perfecting your nighthawks,
and igniting your windpipes through
sparked parliaments.
I’ll bear the endless cycle of suffocating Senneliers
to intoxicate you
until I’m hung in the air of your gallery.
Fragile Bloom
Kate Adams
My pale skin is quick to burn,
as fragile as a cupcake wrapper—torn.
Himalayan salt is quick to break,
Like a leotard pulled until it aches.
Everyone’s seemingly filled with cheer,
Yet all I see is doubt and fear.
Cherry blossoms may grow and glow,
but their petals will always fall, light and slow.
Skies dim as night takes hold.
A fleeting warmth, both soft and cold.
Space.
Abigail Burkitt
Our origin,
birthright.
Gravity encasing,
touching every inch,
holding you.
We are judged by our volume and mass.
The amount of space we hold.
As if
the stars will carve snide remarks out of their carbon.
Meant to erode our spirits.
Subsequently, we’re taught to retrace
the paths,
so our neurons can flow with ease,
so the synapse is free of,
mortal standards.
Gravity does not judge,
masses of meteorite do not judge,
so why do we judge,
when the stars will always welcome us
home.
How could a toy speak?
Angeliz Pierantoni
I want to master boundaries-
Not feeling like the book
Your grandma gave you to read
That you tossed to the side.
Or the plant in your house
On the poorly lit window sill
That you forgot to water.
The rubix cube you found
In the park down the road,
That now sits on your shelf,
Collecting dust.
All the while helpless.
Letting life pass by.
By Andreas Psarris
Silence
Ethan Thody
I stare at the wooden plank, only one thought in mind.
The waves surrounding— they fill the environment with soothing silence —
yet the silence was still so loud.
We lay here wordless, listening to the birds and boats soar by.
As the sun beams down, striking our skin, the rays that once felt dangerous,
now feel harmless.
The sound of the water striking the kayak is the only thing keeping me awake.
The surround sound chatter of those who wish to never leave.
While I stare at the wooden plank, I can not help but think of those chocolate eyes—
the ones that used to stare right back at me.
Natalia Morales
A stain to stay
Jonathan Ramos
“If It wasn't there wouldn't It be so pretty?”
Sometimes I feel like a burden to you.
Understand I didn't ask to be born from your mess.
You had a beautiful red dress.
Until your loose hands gave life to me.
I've spent life wearing a smile across your figure.
In our broken home you never stopped reaching
for the hot water and baking soda.
Does my yellow complexion upset you that much?
Enough time convinced I am fools gold.
I still shine bright going down your obliques.
My notability pains her ego —it's not for her.
Born from uncertain circumstances.
I'm a beauty regardless if I'm a part of you.
I'll continue regardless as this life was meant for me.
Faded, Forgotten
Abigail Kaloo
I sit with my blank sheet
of white paper;
It’s been a while since I have.
I look over to my left,
reaching for the sparkly box of markers
I've had since I was little.
A simple picture,
a simple scenery
is all I think of.
I run the blunt tip
of the blue marker
across the top of the paper,
listening to how it squeaks
like a rusty, old door hinge
with every few strokes.
I frown to the faded pigment
it left,
with little gaps of white
of what I wanted to be
a fully blue sky.
I press down on the marker
roughly
as I put the sun in the corner,
and fields of faded green
make the hills.
In the end, there’s a picture.
It isn’t museum worthy
or full of color.
But there is a picture.
A story being told.
A faded, simple scenery
I've made a hundred times?
It may not be sensible,
but it’s special.
I tape the picture I’ve seen a hundred times,
from my young years,
to when I needed a form of familiarity,
to my wall.
Faded, forgotten
is the dried out markers
that sit on the edge of my desk,
drained of their life,
longing to be used
once more.
Something yet Nothing
Makayla Lewis
The feeling of a gunshot wound, shaped sharp
like a thorn on a bush. Dirty drain clogged with
hair, broken disc on replay, rubber tires constantly
moving, meaningless.
Lost not wanting to be found, silence becoming
loud. Empty roads, mind crowded, looking for
a reason. The sound of silence like a
graveyard. Something there like the shade, yet
nothing but sand surrounding the area.
Turf sulking in your shoe, a trash can getting
garbage thrown into, dark lonely nights. Undiscovered
bodies of water, structured as a question mark. Definition
but no meaning, end of the tunnel, street light beaming
on the road, darkness hugging around it.
Suffocating in thoughts, pondering beneath the
covers, a mug of straight coffee. Late night walks,
air brushing across your ear, paranoid. Apathetic
soul.
❧
Silenced Voices
Ava Tsolis
Pointe shoes — layers of paper, plastic, and fabric
stitched together.
Each step makes a strong, powerful clunk.
Tchaikovsky echoes to the dressing rooms.
Handmade headpieces saturated with criss-crossed bobby pins.
Hairspray, fueling some with confidence, inducing coughing fits in others.
Cameras click, behind which are either professionals or parents,
unaware their finger missed the record button.
Classes, rehearsals, photoshoots, performances.
And the shoes are dead.
Layers now broken down, only capable of letting out a
weak, muted thud upon hitting the marley.
A resounding voice now silenced,
overwhelmed by life’s trials and pressures.
An irreversible state — glue
may provide temporary relief.
Mother
Makayla Castillo
In the coming of December’s cold,
When I search for refuge in you
And wonder where you’ve gone,
I will instead look to the sun —
The heat you built in my heart,
And follow you there.
Separated
Porter Chetty
Illusions of all is well surround me.
I’ve built up these mirages that help me forget
that we are broken—
that we aren’t whole.
Numb. A crumbling wall of numbness.
I’ve spent so much time building it up,
but I will let it fall,
and learn to feel.
Red, blue, yellow, and pink.
Genevieve Esposito
You sat on the scratchy old carpet in the messy living room,
Waiting for mom and dad to sit down and play with you.
You had the board set up, with your designated character,
Just hoping they wouldn't notice.
You stole it—
Throughout the night you traveled the rainbow road,
The only road you knew how to cross.
Red, blue, yellow, and pink.
To the peppermint forest, the lollipop woods, and to lord licorice.
From the hidden gingerbread men, and gumdrops galore.
You absolutely adored it.
But when you took the wrong card, you were back again to mrs.gingerbread tree,
The old woman who started the game.
You cried.
Mom and dad let you win.
Red, blue, yellow, and pink.
To the candy castle and king candy.
Photograph by Lilah Black
Cookie Jar
Katie Mondry
Precious porcelain.
Thrown and pulled.
Bisqued and then painted—
pretty
cobalt blue.
Fired by careful,
but unsteady hands
wielding tongs;
offering earnest supplication
for its safety.
The vitrified glaze,
sleek and smooth,
but bubbled roughly
'round the edges
from the kiln.
But better bubbled
than shattered—
splintered then shot.
Yet,
reverence wears as
cobalt pales.
Stored in the kitchen—
rather than on the mantle.
Now cookies nest.
Crumbs invade each crack
and crevice.
Interlopers—
eaten greedily.
Grubby hands and
lids slammed in disappointment;
vacancy staring back from within.
Growing Up
Elise Abbate
You start as a seed.
Just a dot in the ground.
Then you poke your head out.
Out of the dirt and familiar warmth.
And before you know it,
you’re a weeping willow in a park,
on the side of a busy road.
Growing up, everyone tells you “time flies,”
or to enjoy something “while it lasts.”
But you can never actually see that time
whizzing past.
From a seed you become a sprout
searching for sustenance,
you dig into the earth and plant your roots where you’ve landed.
You become accustomed to the scent of grandma’s house on warm summer days,
and the dull sound of mom starting dinner on a cold winter night.
Still close to the ground,
you’re comfortable.
Then from a sprout you turn into a sapling,
roots digging deeper into the ground.
Friendly flowers and smiling spruce’s make up the growing forest surrounding you.
Now you dance through the living room with Amber,
where the high ceilings and big windows make it feel like a stage.
Friends and friends of friends
slowly become like family.
But now, you’re not a seed, or a sprout, or a sapling.
Now you’re a tree.
With deep set roots and flowing leaves.
Branching toward the sky, you bend
uncomfortably and dance and cry with the wind and rain,
sun and stars.
Now, warm summer days are filled with beachy ocean air,
cold winter nights are spent in loud studios.
Those high ceilings, the living-room stage is transformed into a study spot,
where your silly old dog lays.
The terrain around you has changed, and will continue to change.
Because the willow tree in the park
was not always and will never be
the same.
Photo by Maryam Malik
Shattered Peace
Katie Mondry
Broken glass
scattered across hardwood floors.
Shooting every which way,
disrupting my dormant dust bunnies.
Each fragment embedding itself into the grain.
Waiting patiently to dig deep into the soft sole of my foot.
Choking on my own anticipation,
the stale air thickens
suffocating my frail
withered lungs.
Adrenaline frantically pumping
the rush of blood
thumping in my ears.
The sudden crash still reverberating
through the recesses of my brain.
Jaw clenched and waiting.
The silence is heavy, humid.
Damp with my paranoia.
❧
Photograph by Caty Ramos
Ryan Gulickson
Criss-cross-applesauce
Janiana Thai
on the discolored wood floors of Daddy’s office.
Cramped between the looming file cabinet and the cluttered wire rack
who cover craters and cobwebs on the log walls—
hidden from sunlight.
The single battery-powered light hangs
over Hai’s hunched head.
Hai clamps the three sunrise strings of Mommy’s choice.
Unwrapped from the Taco Bell box cut-out,
onto the scribbled-over clipboard—
a knot and then criss-crossing all the way down.
Chin perched on her warm shoulder,
I get to watch.
The floorboards creak under Daddy’s sandpaper feet.
Shuffling past the scratches on his office desk,
only discovered when pounds and pounds of paper
with left-justified words that I can barely sound out
find their place in the shredder.
Hands folded behind his back, observing.
Dirtied hands, hole-infested and paint-covered T-shirt—
eyes squinted. With dents
on the sides of his oily nose from his bug-eyed glasses.
Between darting eyes and self conscious awakening,
breathing becomes manual.
A forced in. and out.
He turns around
his dry feet drag across the floor, out the door.
Everything unchanged.
Blade’s edge dull or sharp
Embrace aggression or peace.
God's love, infinite.
Anthony Maraboli
With purpose, what can man not do? What pain can they not bring? Faith's limitless boundaries, at times, ignite unimaginable horrors; The Crusades, The Spanish Inquisition, the Salem Witch Trials, the Partition of India. The annals of history bear witness to the paradox between suffering and solace. The same aggressive love inspires humility, selflessness, and unity. Virtues of compassion in Buddhism, charity in Christianity, justice in Islam. A motive for our indomitable human spirit against the cruel indifference of the universe.
Eye Spy
Sophia Hassman
Sitting, an eager desire to reign champion—
the letter I sending shivers down the spine of all life.
Time sweeps, anticipation springs.
The three letter word that erupts competition.
The irony of the “little eye”
as the peepers persist determination,
stubborn wide will.
Something difficult perhaps. Something red.
A car. A stop sign. A ladybug. All declared by rivalry.
Guesses remained futile, full of failure.
Eye win again.
Ode to a Razorblade
William Iemma
A weapon of sculpting, indispensable
in a war of thoughtless, bloody scars
and scarred, bloodied thoughts.
A tool of creation, gracefully cleaving
through cardboard and cardstock
and mending misplaced paints.
A utensil of nurturing, a protective flame
born from its shredding of fibers and twigs
or a wound treated by the hastily severed bandage.
I thank you for your precise, vicious separation—
the necessary restructuring responsible for creating
a blossoming, beautiful being.
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