A pocket poem by Brennan Nick
Two doors–left and right,
Each in equal rank and light,
One was bad, though I couldn’t flee,
The other good, though I didn’t see.
Without this insight,
I chose the bad,
which did invite the tragedy I had.
Editor: Makena Behnke
By Leo Milmet
I’ve been called a liar.
A bit excessive.
A weak little weasel who has just gotta toughen up.
A cold-hearted young man with a face of stone.
A slave to my fears.
A bitter soul.
I’ve been asked “What the hell is wrong with you?” countless times.
I’ve been unfavorably compared to the accommodation-needing, annoying kid in the car who constantly asks “Are we there yet?”
I’ve been told, by well-intentioned people, “Mine is different. You wouldn’t have a problem with mine.”
All I said was,
“I’m afraid of dogs.”
Editor: Peter Kadel
By Anne
She has a
bizarre
point of view.
An unusual
way of being.
They say she is
weird,
strange,
freakish.
She feels
unearthly.
She wishes she were
dreamlike.
One day
all of her
will be an illusion.
Editor: Makena Behnke
By Swan Weasley
A bird
who clipped its own wings
was lonely
because it couldn’t fly.
Whenever its ability to fly
began to return
it would clip its wings.
Again,
and again,
and again.
Whether or not it realized it.
Editor: Makena Behnke
By Renée
Our names
Are us.
They’re poetic in meaning.
Some common,
Some unique.
Sometimes we choose them;
Sometimes they’re chosen for us:
A family heirloom,
A memorial,
An aspiration,
An inspiration.
Our nicknames we give to those we know.
A name becomes beautiful when it belongs to someone we love.
We present ourselves through our names.
We are behind our signatures.
Us: complex and ever changing beings
Represented by our names.
Editor: Claire Jenkins
By Ivana Crie
I am afraid of relationships.
Of love.
Of being dependant.
Of leaning on someone
who isn’t leaning back
because the moment they step away,
I am unsupported.
And when I crash,
the ground will shake;
tidal waves will form,
and my world will turn itself
inside out.
I am afraid of people like you,
who make it so easy to fall in love
and so hard to forget.
Editor: Claire Jenkins
By Leo Milmet, with anonymous collaboration
Breakfast.
Jim and I, with our son John and daughter Lynn.
Daddy Jim started acting strange.
Then he started talking strange.
“I’m going to watch a sp-sport t-todd-ay, where they hit a b-ball in the hole.”
“Golf?”
“G-g-gah-lffff? No, Victoria, n-no, not g-goh-lf.”
John said he was having a stroke.
The paramedics came running.
Doctors at the hospital asked many questions.
“You got a wife?”
Daddy Jim gave no answer.
The doctor said, “Any children? A baby?”
Jim said, “D-doll.”
I asked Daddy Jim, “Doll? What doll? Do you have a doll?”
He answered, “Baby. Baby…Babydoll.”
So, I said, “Babydoll? Who is your baby doll?”
Jim said, “Victoria.”
Me.
Then he closed his eyes and died.
I cried.
Editor: Claire Jenkins
By Peter Kadel
Pop.
Formerly of snap, crackle, and
Pop.
The prequel to lock it.
Pop.
Previously associated with soda.
Since divorced.
But some say they are still together.
Pop.
Once conjoined with over.
Pop.
Had a brief affair with corn.
Pop.
Used to go with weasel.
Pop.
Once involved with up.
Pop.
In the business of ads.
Pop.
Editor: AJ Patencio
By Claire Jenkins
Gentle reminders to take care of yourself and de-stress from the tests–AP’s and Semester Assessments. Here are some tips!
Pet a cat, for you feline lovers.
Pet a dog, for you canine lovers.
Ride a horse, for you equine lovers.
Eat some junk food, for you calorie lovers.
Drink some tea, for you herbal lovers.
Listen to some music, for you rhythm lovers.
Go on a hike, for you nature lovers.
Light some candles, for you scent lovers.
Play some video games, for you technology lovers.
Take a nap, for you sleep lovers.
Watch a movie, for you cinema lovers.
Take a deep breath, for you oxygen lovers.
Editor: Renée Vazquez
By Leo Milmet
Dark.
Cold.
Bleak.
Nothingness.
That’s all that ever was.
All that ever will be.
All else is just distraction.
The window you look out of and the images on television are no different.
Fiction and fantasy.
Masks of darkness.
But nothing’s really there.
It’s just a second away from destruction.
Your mother, your father, your greatest friends–all of us.
We are nothing.
Editor: Renée Vazquez
