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.

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)

“How Is The Earth So Beautiful Still” by Lara Luczak / “Wandering” by Ashlyn Arnold

“Wandering”

Ashlyn Arnold

“How Is The Earth So Beautiful Still”

Lara Luczak

“How is the Earth so beautiful still?”

Birds still singing in the sycamore trees,

Forgotten are the sighs of December’s sullen seize.

Blighted forest no longer fraught with real ill,

How is the Earth so beautiful still?

Still Spring bears abundant fruit,

Prospering from what was pollute.

Why dost thou hold the treasure fast 

Of youth’s delight, when youth is past?

Many their morning melt in tears,

Days to months to years.

How can your clouds still disperse,

When it is easier to turn to worse?

“Distance” by Regan Doherty / “Untitled” by Shashank Salgam

Shashank Salgam

“Distance”

Regan Doherty

It’s suffocating 

being so alone. 

Surrounded

but separate.

Within

but without.

An onlooker

who stares instead of sees: 

there’s no understanding

in this isolation.

Some cruel captivation

where one is the attraction

but neither is noticed.

Any feeling of belonging evaporated

when I realized it has always been

and will always be

their lives: my intrusion.

Their gaze: my wound.

Their music: my noise.

Their forms and figures never known –

never understood – 

let alone picked apart from the crowd.

The inescapable throbbing from sounds

that fly and marr instead of mean.

Too hard. Too fast.

Hitting where it hurts because

these wounds have festered.

This noise pains.

There is a silence to this sound. 

Christine Curley Memorial Award 2022

Christine Curley Memorial Award 2022

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

JEremy laparl

to receive this year’s award. 

EL Camino

I used to wonder what it feels like.

There were endless possibilities 

on what it would be.

Was it at the coffee shop?

I wondered. 

Was it to be found in a swirl of 

endless artificial flavors which would

all add up to what you call a

“Venti American Pie Frappuccino?”

Now the flavors had tasted real at first,

but once I had a closer look, almost every flavor

that you promised me was real in this coffee, 

turned out to be fake. 

The more I drank, the more I realized, 

and I wish I would have found out sooner 

that everything you told me about how authentic

this drink was, about how good it tasted, about

how it was worth the money, was all a false 

reality.

Since that day, I’ve never gone to a coffee shop.

It reminnds me of just how fake things in life can be.

Okay, so it definitely wasn’t felt in the coffee shop.

What about at that steakhouse?

I wondered.

We both got the “Top of the line,

Extra most-fabulous, Can’t beat it,

New York Strip Steak!”

Or at least, that’s what they

called it. 

To be honest, it didn’t just live up to

the name, it exceeded it!

I thought it was perfect.

The seasoning was just right, 

the taste was outstanding,

and it was cooked to a perfect

medium rare, just like I asked.

It was everything I had ever wanted

in a steak, and  

I loved it.

But you; you didn’t love it.

You liked it.

Or at least, you said you did.

But most people usually finish

food they like.

They’ll even take it to go if they’re

not hungry enough to finish it.

You didn’t.

And the thing is, you were hungry;

just not for steak.

You wanted a burger,

a slice of pizza,

a pulled pork sandwich, 

maybe even seafood, 

and whatever else it was

that you said you craved.

Just steak wasn’t one of them.

I ended up paying a whole lot for 

your uneaten dinner that night.

Now, at first, I’d never thought I’d 

be able to find it at a car dealership.

Still in debt from the steakhouse, 

I walked into the shop with little

to no expectations in 

finding anything at all;

and then, I saw her.

El Camino.

Made in 1979.

Now, she wasn’t perfect.

Her once sleek crimson red color

had faded quite a bit.

She had bumps and bruises

all over her.

And I was told her windshield was 

broken beyond repair,

yet the closer I looked at it,

it was just cracked.

Even I was hesitant to take

her for a test drive at first, 

and for good reason.

The ride was bumpy, at the start,

and we hit a lot of roadblocks.

I almost went back to the dealership,

and thought it was time to give up

on her.

I was seconds away from the dealership,

and just then, 

the wheel got a bit easier to control.

And so I thought to myself,

“Maybe she’s not so bad.”

So, I drove past the dealership.

All of the sudden, it was as if

the on cracks windshield slowly

fixed themselves, onne by one,

Making the view as clear as day.

And every time I put my foot on the

gas, the ride felt smoother and smoother,

so smooth that I floored it.

All the way home.

I used to wonder what it felt like.

But the day I took that car for a ride,

I didn’t have to wonder anymore.

I found out.

I know now.