CrEation
IS
ACTIVISM
i want to be loved like a sick dog
Emma Lucana
(First Prize: Xanadu Poetry Contest)
euthanized dogs
know something
i don't.
i, too, wish
to be handled with delicacy
in such overwhelming pain.
surrounded by tears
and words of affirmation—
they're fed delicious cheeseburgers
and poisonous chocolate.
smothered in kisses,
soothed by whispers of comfort,
softly caressed down their fur.
i yearn to be held
like it’s the last time,
yet remain oblivious
to my fate.
most of all,
i am jealous
of a dog's easy way out.
painlessly
released from their suffering—
let go
as an act of love.
when a dog is sprawled out
on a white-tableclothed counter—
i am envious they do not know
it is their final
goodbye.
The Dentist Chair
Celeste Moreira Fuentes
The lady in the light colored scrubs always says,
“Omg Celeste, blue like the sky!”
But I hate it.
I want to be Celeste, blue like sapphires.
Or Celeste, blue like the shimmery dress of the princess
movie I watched as a kid,
so light it looks almost silver.
The sky though— it isn't tangible.
I can't reach it, or wear it.
I can't bathe in it at the ocean because that's turquoise's job.
The sky is where the gates lie and angels roam
and I lay on a worn down chair, unstitching itself more by the minute.
A murky sort of hospital blue, wrapped in sticky plastic.
I am more than just a color,
and I am certainly not blue.
I am Celeste, a soul awaiting its wings too.
bloom
Emma Lucana
(NYSPTA Finalist: Award of Merit Winner 2024)
my mom plants a garden
in my heart.
she tends to the yellow tulips
and the purple hydrangeas.
me, a flower—
i can do very little for her.
i provide no physical sustenance.
i take from her—
i need her effort to sprout.
but her hand caresses me
and my stem perks up,
leaning towards her touch.
when winter comes
i begin to shrivel— i wilt.
my petals fall off.
she picks them up.
how can something dead
look so beautiful in her hands?
my mom plants a garden in me
because she wants me to live
to see tomorrow.
so when my mom
wakes me up with her voice,
warm as sunshine,
nurturing as soil—
i know i have a second chance
to bloom.
Art by Kiash Arjune
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.
Photo by Demi Botta
Art by Eva Blaney
I’m Made of Skin, and Your Love is a Knife Judy Reilly
I’m made of skin, and your love is a knife;
strong, cutting deep, drawing blood. Peeling
back layers until it’s inside the most vulnerable
part of me. Past the wave-like wrinkles
that show just how hard I worked for those
three, stupid words. Through sensitive tunnels and pathways,
see the flowing blood I pump for you. Into the beating drum
of my heart, know it only beats for you, I live for
you. But I’m still made of skin, and your love is a knife;
powerful and destructive, cracking my most fragile parts.
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.
A Postmortem Guide
-for my eulogist, in advance
-after Stephen Dunn
Lillian O’Phelan
Tell them I was human.
That I lived a life I loved.
And despite my selfish complaints,
I never truly wished to die.
Tell them I knew bliss.
That although my eyes grew tired,
I still looked to the light.
Squinting, glassy-eyed, but
One eye always open, watching the hopeful glow.
Know it was not easy,
As our lives rarely are.
That each morning I was sluggish,
Each night I watched the stars.
Do not praise me for my academics,
For there was stupidity in my silence.
Despite the worldly knowledge I had,
I was not all-knowing.
A big dumb smile plastered on my face,
Each time my pessimism was betrayed.
Sister, though I’m gone now,
Know I loved you to the end.
Please, do not scorn the mirror.
Do not weep when water lays still.
Rest assured that I was loved
Throughout all of my time alive.
Remember the joys and turmoil,
I always hated when you cried.
All my life, I battled satisfaction.
Striving for more, for better, for enough.
Tell them that in the end, I learned to live.
In my last moments, the hunger did subside.
Art by Lilah Black
❧
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.
A Postmortem Guide
-for my eulogist, in advance
-after Stephen Dunn
Kate O’Phelan
Do not praise me for my exceptional patience,
It has cost me too much energy.
You should know I respect myself too little,
Allowing myself to be dragged around without complaint.
Go down to the old cemetery; you’ll see a hundred broken souls
Who thought that they had love.
But what I crave is not a touch,
Fleeting love dies with my body.
And please, resist the temptation of speaking about the dark days;
No matter the time spent in tears,
What’s important is the smile lines
And the countless deep laughs.
And since you know my hardships,
Understand they’re but splotches of ink on
The paper of my life.
Despite the pain,
My character will remain.
Tell them I had wit.
That I didn’t hold back smiles,
That I played in the rain and the mud
But also the sunny grasses.
Tell them that at the end I had no need for regret
The timeline doesn’t turn back for petty thoughts.
I learned to live without needless shame,
To treasure all my feelings, fleeting or sustained.
What makes me human is what makes me emotional,
And I have no need to apologize for that.
You who are one of them, say that I loved
My acquaintances more than they knew.
To all the hellos I wish to have said,
I forgive you for being shy. It’s okay,
And to all those I did not spend enough time with,
I pray for our souls to reunite one day, I love you.
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.
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 Ariana Arambaru
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 Cailin Claus
Katie Mondry
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.
Featured Artists
Our Dear Cool Father.
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