Untitled by Ella Bagchi / Untitled by Erika Petersen

Untitled

Erika Petersen

Untitled

Ella Bagchi

Cold, thin air whisked through my nostrils and sliced across my face like the blade of a grim reaper. I could feel my toes numbing as I trudged upward in the snow. Gusts of snowy wind howled in my ears like a haunted chorus of wolves. The storm threatened to throw me off the mountain, into the sharp rocks so far below. I felt the storm and my own fear like liquid fire in my bones, seeping into my shivering veins. Jetstreams of ice pelted my eyes, making them water. My legs burned, but I kept climbing, fighting the unstoppable forces pushing me back. I kept climbing through the treacherous terrain ahead of me. I kept climbing the mountain, carrying the fear in my soul. I kept climbing because I had to. And then, suddenly, everything stopped. The howling wind became a soft murmur, a memory of what it once was. Sparkling snow fell sparingly and gracefully in calm flurries. My body ceased to burn, because I had stopped climbing. I had reached the peak of the mountain. I inhaled the fresh, still air and took in the panoramic postcard around me. The aggressively gray sky had melted into a serene blue that touched the majestic mountains surrounding me. A river weaved through the mountains, glazed over with a veneer of ice. I was enveloped in a surreal, freeing silence. Warmth bubbled in my heart up into my face, and I smiled uncontrollably. Frozen in time, I had never felt so warm.

Christine Curley Memorial Award 2023

Christine Curley Memorial Award 2023

The Christine Curley Memorial Award for Creative Writing has been established by Christine’s parents to be presented annually to the students who display interest and potential in creative writing.

During Christine’s high school years, she showed great promise as a poet, and the hope of her parents is that this award will encourage other students to pursue in their writing the spirit with Christine so beautifully demonstrated in her own.

A faculty committee has chosen

Cristiane Richardson

to receive this year’s award. 

Bagged Oats

Inspired by “Caged Bird” by Maya Angelou 

Some oats slide into a bowl. 

They soak in milk and sugar,

Mixed with care and attention.

Their flavor and texture are delightful –

Sweet, creamy, and puffy –

As they pervade my mouth,

Claiming my admiration.

But other oats remain in the bag.

They crack from dehydration.

They are flat, thin, and small,

Their flavor lackluster.

They are tasteless and their skin is dry,

So they shuffle and dance around.

They dance,

They fly,

They jig,

They glide.

Never has a bag of oats seemed so energized.

Some oats dazzle with cinnamon. 

They swell with love,

Cherishing their time in the spotlight.

They tan and warm up in the oven;

Toasty is their flavor.

As they cover a dollop of strawberry jam

They make the plate their own.

But other oats lie still in their bag.

They roll over each other and sag.

They sit, wanting the light.

They sit, wanting the warmth.

They sit, dreaming of their own flavor.

They are tasteless and their skin is dry,

So they shuffle and dance around.

They dance,

They fly,

They jig,

They glide.

Never has a bag of oats seemed so energized.

IN MY HEART

Inside my heart there is a sacred place. One can discover the candy red walls and high arches and be humbled. One can discover the deep red marble floor and feel grounded. One can discover the back rooms and center room (or the drawing room) saturated with warm, dim light, and feel at ease. One can discover the soft, candy red, velvet-covered lounge chases and enveloping egg-shaped chairs and feel comforted. One can see, almost at the wooden, burgundy, arching front door, the round glass table with flecks of various shades of red and a silver platter of jam cookies sitting in the middle of it, discover the chairs with backs of black-painted metal, configured into a soft diamond shape under an arch, with candy red cushions on the seats, and feel welcomed.

“Fill The Page” by Cassandra Clovis

“Fill The Page”

Cassandra Clovis

“Fill the page,” my teacher instructed to all of the students in my writing class.

But how should I? And why do I need to fill a page,

a lengthy, long page, to get out my deepest feelings

in the form of a poem? Yes, I write poems-

I feel that a poem deserves the blank spaces

between the lines and empty holes in the margins

and the pauses snuck into each of the stanzas

with the whispers of the white page.

A poem needs the emotional connection to quiet, 

as quiet resembles peace, loneliness, and much more;

A crowded poem isn’t as clear without the choppiness

all over the page, and a poem with too many words

may become meaningless, no matter how sophisticated or repetitive it

is. 

So, I can get my message across in half of the words you expect

and perhaps maybe that message has more of a reason

to exist in its shorter form.

I do not want to ruin a pure piece of writing to meet a minimum

requirement,

I do not want to push my wondrous brain further than it already works,

For if I do, I may not be able to tell my stories.

It all comes back to preference and imagination. 

With my scarce amount of words,

I will construct a whirlwind of ideas for you.

Poems have no requirements. Poems are written with freedom.

This spot intentionally left blank.

Sprinkled Donut – Desiree Bailey / Sprinkled Doughnut – Jakob Womer

Sprinkled Doughnut

Jakob Womer

Sprinkled Donut

Desiree Bailey

A donut without sprinkles is just a frosted donut

a donut with sprinkles is a kids favorite order. 

Drizzled in strawberry flavored frosting

purchase a twelve pack and you become a hoarder.

Coffee on the side to compliment your donut 

all together you have a morning idea of a meal.

Add some sugar to the cup and you have some taste

Put them together and you may seal the deal.

To start off your morning class you get an idea of it

A morning that’s calm and is filled with excitement.

Soon you look down to see that your smile is gone

Your teacher has just handed out your next assignment.

The Pretend Princess – Katherine Condon / Soda Shop – Alicia LaBarge

Soda Shop

Alicia LaBarge

The Pretend Princess

Katherine Condon

the soft flowy nightgowns

going high on the swings

these are two of my favorite things.

curling up by the fireplace

warm mug in my hand,

watching snowflakes fall from the sky onto the land.

running down hills

watching cars 2 on rewind,

lying down on the couch trying to unwind.

twirling and spinning

always statins on my shirt

hearing birds sing while I play in the dirt.

designer dresses and clothes

wooden toys handmade in germany

counting the stars, never knowing how many. 

being chased by the moon

staring up at the sky

sitting at the park watching birds fly by.

baking cookies with grandma

watching curious george

drives with my grandpa, me shotgun in his porsche.

ballet, tap, and jazz

singing some tunes

always awaiting for the month we call june

“guess how much I love you?” 

my mother always asked,

“to the moon and back I” say, looking back on the past

now that I think about it, 

I remember that song

that song my dad sent me before he passed on,

now I can’t just do I must think and think,

for anything I do might make my heart sink,

not from the movies, books or shows, 

but from the name calling of the people below,

sitting high in my tower all on my own,

wondering how I came to be alone.

the window bursts open,

a bright light shines in,

“come on, what are you doing?” she says with a grin.

i sigh, and slouch.

“it’s the end of my childhood, now the fun stops.”

I look back at the set with all the old props.

She smiles at me and says: 

“not the end but a beginning, i’ll help you out”

and she did, without a doubt.

she made me smile and laugh,

new times began,

making new memories just like back then.

yes times are fleeting, 

I won’t disagree, 

but accept some new greetings and you’ll be just like me.

“Untitled” by Yassin Hag-Elsafi / “The Flower” by Jakob Womer

“The Flower”

Jakob Womer

yassin hag-elsafi

“Painting a Dream In a Night”

After “Awaking in New York”, by Maya Angelou 

The traffic light yells a

paralyzing, hallowed shriek. 

Cars stop parallel, 

simultaneously in front and behind one another. 

Some don’t

as they look up, seeing past the mechanical lives of 

Blue, Yellow, and Green.

Blue? Nevermind it.  

Passing the yellow light with just a second left

so they can view the constellation of stars, 

billboards, for half a second more.

The vastness of the night sky only competes 

with the radiance of a City enamored with dreams.

Color the stop signs a sunflower yellow

Or perhaps a boring, 

bland beige.

“Left Behind” by Yirou Kao / “What Lies Ahead” by Phineas Moustakas

“What Lies Ahead”

Phineas Moustakas

“Left Behind”

Yirou Kao

Falling

Falling

Tumbling down

Wind swept under feet

Making a ‘woosh’ sound

Trying to grasp the ledge

As I fall down

I reach out to you

Trying to make a sound

You’re oh so close

Close enough to grasp

Only for you

To turn back around

And not look back

As I tumble

tumble my way down

“Mother Gaia” by Isabel Fowler / “Beyond The Water” by Catalina Boutros

“Beyond The Water”

Catalina Boutros

“Mother Gaia”

Isabel Fowler

Gaia declared

Earth was made. 

Green pastures, blue seas,

In which Humanity maintained. 

Not anymore would there be

Darkness, emptiness of a 

Starless sky. 

Her generosity was sung

By the Muses themselves. 

Harps and lyres shining

The Mother.

Remember her.

Afterall,

We are her daughters.

“Revised Poem” by Sahana Vinothkumar / “The Under World” by Catalina Boutros

“The Under World”

Catalina Boutros

“Revised Poem”

Sahana Vinothkumar

The following are poems一plucked out.

Call this the gone, the long, the unlove

year.

The key.

It’s the writing.

The undercurrent

beneath the water of words drowning.

To enhance, 

evoke, 

explore, 

expose 

the truth, 

the voices that have always

been exiled from imagination.

In this we find.

Several of the following are erasure poems, meaning

they’re documents with their pieces plucked out, just as

some will call this the gone year, the long year, the glove

year, the unlove year. The key to constructive一& not

destructive一erasure is to create an extension instead of

an extract. It’s not erasure, but expansion, whereby we 

seek the underwriting, the undercurrent beneath the 

watered surface of words. It is to keep the words from

drowning. Hereby the pen looks to enhance, evoke, 

explore, expose the bodies, the truth, the voices that have

always existed but have been exiled from history & the 

imagination. In this case, we erase to find.

(Erasure – Amanda Gorman)