Featured Student Poets
i recall the symphony of mourning
doves concealed behind the curtains of
conversation. I stupidly substituted your
serenity though you demanded nothing
in return but my two ears.
i long to rewind the clock, to savor each
bang of the bell, every symphony
overlooked. I failed to cherish your
tranquil tick now our time is out.
this cannot be undone, I desire your
hum, your light bulb buzz, your TV
static. i wish, i should've, you’ve been
replaced by regret, it's louder than you
were, it won't let me rest.
i'm no longer shielded by the veil of
mourning doves. Until the white noise
returns, i shall find solace in the silence.
The nostalgia of knocking on my neighbors’ doors
and all the memories held right in front of my driveway.
Gathering friendly faces and convincing
our parents— let us stay out longer.
Kicks and catches,
running around bases,
as innocence and friendships grew—
Backyard adventures and bicycle races,
running inside for the great satisfaction of that simple sip
of water. The red rubber ball and rosy sweaty cheeks.
Singing “car car C A R” and patiently waiting next to
the curb. Hurrying inside before dinner got too cold, or
before we got too sweaty.
Time passed, as innocence and friendships grew old.
When Andrew Walks In
Still the room
at the cost of the unarrived.
As breath appears, the world stops
followed by drained will—
pale pigments of fatality among the living.
Is the timeless agony of endless
torture worth inquiries of groovy material?
Vile flashbacks of hurt corrode the mind,
insufferable babble pouring out from his smug mug.
The undesired mutters wheeze unwanted.
By Liana Chetty
Sometimes the broken light bulb flickering erratically.
And others the honey put into warm tea.
Sharpened number two pencils or banana flavored milk.
I am the smiling sun on a crayon-drawn family portrait
hung on the refrigerator door.
A caution sign, calloused hands, lit candles on a desk.
I am the infection of a wound,
the murky sky after a fire,
the first place prize.
The ring hidden deep within the pocket
of a man with clammy palms.
Raincoats, taxis on a bustling street,
fallen leaves on an October evening.
By Kate O'Phelan
When I was three,
she stole my birthday.
When I was five,
she’d snatch up all my favorite dolls to play with for herself.
When I was seven,
she ruined our chances of finishing any Mario Bros level because
her little hands couldn’t press the buttons on the controller fast enough.
But I didn’t mind.
Because, in stealing my birthday,
she herself became my favorite birthday gift.
Even though she’d take my dolls,
she’d let me dress her up and play with her hair in return.
And her little hands couldn’t play Mario,
but were small enough to find and retrieve escaped puzzle pieces
wedged under the low coffee table
to complete a wood spotted blue sky.
When I can not find you
and the house crumbles,
I will put down the spade.
I will abandon the brick
and the mortar.
I will find your sweater—
of unraveled merino wool.
And I will pick up the needle.
And I will sit at the loom.
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Photo by Nathaniel Sobina
In a room full of nothingness,
The battle of a million voices,
Is being fought.
It's a blister.
A Bitchy Burden.
A bloated mind.
The clock is ticking,
In a hollow room.
All that is left to do,
Is self reflect.
Why did I—
What if it was a—
Passes through the mind,
As 5 minutes
To ten years.
It would be worthless,
But If I had one wish,
It would be
To block the noise.
I wish our heads stayed clear.
The only guarantee of silence,
Would be inside
A cobwebbed coffin.
conquers all thought.
Cork Board covered with pin holes
from dated information. Rotting
leaves bound to the fall ground.
Muddy airforces worn down to the
sole. The bakeries freshly made
The wasted Lincoln Logs lying
opposite of the newly bought fluffy
teddy bear ready to enjoy its new
A freckled face seen on all ages.
Crackled leather wallet in the back
right pocket of worn down jeans with
pages of little photographs.
Orange Random Things
Anne Marie Lindor
A dress, as beautiful as a California poppy.
Her smile, radiating under the sunset,
sometimes she wears those beautiful hair clips
that are shaped like monarch butterflies.
Gold jewelry glistening in the sunlight summer
Pumpkin pie on a plate. Dead leaves during the fall laying
on the ground, on a November morning. Thanksgiving,
sometimes, there are spooky neon orange signs on the wall.
Old cowboy boots or a lute laying on the sidewalk
on a cold Saturday night.
The Beginning of The End
In the cockpit, a canvas of endless blue,
Upon wings of wonder, the sky's embrace,
And where the sky meets the cowling with the
Whispers of adventure from the humming
Her insides rumbling, almost like a
Bad stomach ache, but she can still lift me up
Like no one else could and bring me happiness I
Thought that I could never have.
Wings cutting through the sapphire sky,
My spirit surrendered to the splendid symphony
Of a maiden flight.
In a silver chariot, through clouds we race but
The clouds below, like a dangerous ball of
Cotton candy, waiting to send me back down.
The black and white runway, lights gleaming,
Directing me to safety and to my future.
Full of blank paper,
eager empty canvas waiting for the thoughts
of the owner.
My thoughts that no one
can see, a gathering place for thoughts I
need to let out without the judgment
of a community who hates
The thread that holds the paper together—
a bow holding the banquet of flowers
from falling apart.
Notebook covers made of leather and fabric
with a variety of colors, many options to pick and choose
Endless amount of pages to write with
blue lines horizontally along.
as I write,
Ashley Rivera Siguencia
I still remember the nights,
even if now they sometimes blur.
An occurrence that happened so often,
It feels like it only happened once.
I’d rise from my bed,
the frame would creak.
Under messy hair,
tears would fall
As I walk out of my room,
I would cry over it all,
for no purpose but fear.
And you’d say nice words,
teach me how to fight against it,
and urge me back to bed.
I’d return to my dark room calmer,
but I’d still be scared.
Now when it happens,
when my chest gets tight and the tears swell,
I simply breathe, and fight the way you taught.
A breath in, a breath out.
The fight ends in a draw.
Gin Rummy on Late Summer Nights
You eagerly hopped out of the car and punched in the garage code,
causing the door to protest with
rattles and warped groans of old age before slowly operating.
Up the stairs, you pulled the 52-card deck out of the kitchen cabinet.
You shuffled and divided the deck —
4 piles, 10 cards in each.
You made a scoreboard on a napkin
and wrote at the top, “first to 300 points wins.”
With dripping hair — still wet from a day at Private Beach —
and a store-bought cherry ice in hand,
you yelled through the house that it was time to play,
startling the Greenport deer munching on fallen apples in the lawn.
Everyone gathered, and our turns rotated around the table,
each player grabbing additional cards,
forming sets of the same number
or runs of the same suit.
With every match, you saved the aces,
hoping to reach a set of 3.
Yet, by the end of the game,
you were always 1 ace short.
Photo by Kelly Breaton
Sharks & Minnows
The sky bleeds
snipped by its
Hydrangeas, impatiens, tulips and daisies.
The gatekeepers of the forever poisonous
Splashes and giggles
accompany the pollen
in the thick, moist air.
The baby blue bikini pulled and tightened,
my little body lost in the polka dotted
Pleading to our elders we say,
Watch this guys!
The diving board,
our throne to the rotating monarchy.
Clenching the pavement,
miniscule rocks embedded
in my palms.
neck bobbing above
Hair dancing on the surface,
fingers and toes pruned underneath.
Will they hear me? Can they see me?
Tiny lungs filling
Preparing for the
ear popping pressure.
The perfected act
of sliding swiftly along side
the perfectly paved
Survival located ten feet
Screams or struggle,
to them what is
eyes assaulted by
the chemically curated
The awaited attack—
the see-through surface
attacking its opposition.
Fingers grazing the perimeter —
Free from vulnerability.
A defenseless fish
in the sea,
snatched in the midst of
Heads penetrate the
Laughter and love
from trees and children,
kissing the caves of my
big ears and button nose.
I tagged you anyway. You’re it.
Smiling in joy—
the baby of the
Being the youngest,
I know you won’t want to play much longer.
I won the race,
I know I did.
Never to state a rebuttal,
not taking the risk to call it quits.
How my hand once gripped the cement,
my brain now with memory.