The Backporch Review 2022

1

If you have to be stuck,
get stuck in something good.
This is a good place to start
to get stuck.
2

The
Back Porch
Review
2022
STUCK
Vernon Township High School
1832 Route 565, P. O. Box 800, Vernon, NJ 07462
www.vtsd.com
VOLUME 46
3

Through more than two years of pandemic rules, restrictions and quarantines, many of us
have felt stuck in disappointment, boredom and loss. Normal is almost back, though, when
we will be free from the pandemiverse, free to trace our own contacts. Stuck No More.
Cover Illustration by Julia Crafton, grade 10
Advisor: Mrs. Kathy Weyant
Table of Contents
The Literature
Olivia Benker-- How Yellow Fades, 8
Ella Brown -- Our Way, 6; Pennies in the Windowsill, 13; Sunglasses, 41; We Remember
and We Mourn, 50; Farewell, Not Yet, 69; Free My Ancestors; 77;
Boredom, 102
Noah Brown -- Midnight, 29; Indigo, 32; Bars, 44; Computer Crazies, 45;
The Color of the Fire Truck, 58-59; The Last Passenger, 66
Sabrina Bucknam-- I am the Moon, 61; Over My Head, 85
Celeste Castro -- Connected, 18
Julia Corsi – Nightmare, 104
Madison Cuoco -- Pink Bic Lighter, 65; Home Away, 93
Kevin Coulther -- Free But Not Free, 25
Angelina Dagion -- Blue, 14
Ava Duffy -- Pink Star Comforter, 22; Trapped, 34
Chloe Esposito -- Pandemic, 30
Breanna Fattorusso -- Filled With Red, 53
Alexis Fernandez -- Lost and Disoriented, 82
Chris Goritski -- Here in Eternity, 81
Natalie Hasert -- The Fish Tale, 38; Freedom, 90
Jake Klein – Passing the Glove, 39
Sam Kulik -- Moving, 21
Jordan McCann -- Prison of Technology, 46
Natalie O’Keefe -- Hands that Held the Ocean, 10-11; Cithosia Biblis, 37;
Stuck in Jokes and Rotting Laugher, 74; Panic is a Race, 101
Wil Polaris -- Good Souls Pay the Fine, 73
Emily Reindeau -- Absent Father, 26-27
Idalis Santiago -- Island Connection, 17; Bioluminescent Bay, 57;
Over Practice, 94
Gabe Scotto -- The Last Coin, 89
Jillian Speakman -- Dominoes, 62; Sailor Stuck in a Bottle, 86; Stuck with Capitalism, 97
Gabrielle Tavares -- Portugal, 33; Red, 42; Imprisoned Fairy, 78
Carter Wright -- Color Blind, 49
Vaida Yesse -- The Dusty Guitar, 54; My Mother, 70; Blizzard, 98
4

The Art
Joanne Baez, 44
Rachel Barnable, 9
Sabrina Bucknam, 35
Olivia Burdzy, 80
Zoe Burns, 69
Kimberly Campbell, 12
Erin Collins, 79
Avery Crafton, 99, 104
Tyler Douglass, 19, 91
Nicholas Frey, 100
Keely Greenhalgh, 24
Erica Gyori, 67
Kaden Haw, 96
Nate Horn, 72
Damaris Howell, 75
Laura Landon, 36
Christina Lavorini, 63
Riley Lewicki, 51
Elizabeth Magella, 43
Michael Malolepszy, 88
Leandra McMahon, 31
Amber Menier, 32
Ryan Monesmith, 87
Kayla Patterson, 23, 71, 76
Austin Reed, 40
Jonessa Rodriguez, 16, 55
Bria Rolle, 56
Jack Santaita, 7
Idalis Santiago, 95
Kelsie Shinall, 20
Justin Simone, 15
Sofia Staley, 83
Aydin Tirado, 27
Estreya Tirado, 103
AnnaBella Tozzi, 48
John Vanderhee, 84
Alyson Van Gulick, 47
Amanda Weston, 28
Amana Yamisha, 52
Vaida Yesse, 92
Annie Zhu, 60, 64
5

Our Way
By Ella Brown, 12
Towns are different here,
smaller, friendlier, quieter;
full of light,
like the city doesn’t exist.
Your roads are made from dirt and cobblestone.
My road is dark and paved.
While you rest on a bed under the stars,
My slumbers live under a blank canvas.
The tide is bloodstained,
feeding off the fiery ball in the sky.
Your home absorbs such warmth
but mine has frosted over.
Maybe
we don’t have to live like this,
disconnected.
Maybe it doesn’t have to be this lonely.
6

Graphic by Jack Santaita, 11
7

How Yellow Fades
By Olivia Benker, 10
Entering into the world, the space was bright
The baby begins to cry as the yellow fluorescent light shines
From that day forward, the mother claims to see yellow in its eyes
To cry was a rare occasion, for the baby was pure joy
Specks of yellow brought out the light in its eyes
Giving everyone a light, full feeling when they saw them
For nothing had damaged the baby since the womb
They were nothing but pure joy
As they got older
The more they began to live
Their words having nothing of a negative connotation
Speaking with love and kindness
Their smile shining like sunshine on a warm summer day
For they had yet to witness the hatred of the world
They stood out in a room so dull
Until one day, and every day after
Their classmate walked across the room and spoke with a mischievous smile
The child's bright smile was no longer wide and bright
The yellow in their eyes wasn't visible any longer
The yellow had faded to a saddening gray
8

Photo by Rachel Barnable, 12
9

Hands That Held The Ocean
By Natalie O’Keefe, 10
The morning air welcomed me through an open window as I thought:
“I’m eleven soon. I’m eleven soon. I’m eleven soon.”
So suffocated I didn’t notice until a metallic chill struck my foot
And cold iron weighed in my palm.
Through oceans of silver steel, dolphins danced
So synchronized that they must have been rehearsing for years
Looking straight ahead, sharing only motion and glistening eyes
And I knew they’d been waiting for somebody to perform for.
I felt their songs lulling me to sleep
And fingertips around no longer cold polished skin
And pride as I held a world in a child’s hands
And hope that once I fell asleep they’d be able to swim outside carved
borders.
At eleven fears are futile
But one child was up until midnight worrying about things she couldn’t
control,
Things she couldn’t hold in small hands,
So she slept with a world under her pillow and a universe in her head.
A dolphin’s skin feels like rubber.
I’d read it in paperback books
With pictures I could examine for hours
10

But two had skin made from the melted bones of the earth.
They could be stronger, they were indestructible.
They were graceful, delicate, soft;
They fought off every shadow that moved the wrong way
Chasing away hands that turned stomachs
They warded off shapes on walls that plagued an overactive imagination.
As you get older, comforts and fears are less infantile.
You feel less of a shiver. More of a racing.
Thirteen year olds aren’t afraid to sleep anymore
There is no longer cold stinging wind, you drown.
Dolphins carved in steel aren’t swimming, they’re just art.
A sculpture no longer anywhere to be found.
The morning air welcomed me through an open window as I thought:
“I’m fifteen today. I’m fifteen today. I’m fifteen today.”
So suffocated I didn’t notice until I heard the rustle of a printed photo
A toddler who turned fifteen today in the loving arms of her greatgrandmother
Two pink dolphins dancing on a silver chain around her neck.
11

Photo by Kimberly Campbell, 12
12

Pennies in the Windowsill
By Ella Brown, 12
I found a penny on my windowsill –
a weathered, bronze reminder
that we are all one, tied in spirit,
searching for new beginnings.
My grandma was a kind soul
dealt a cruel hand
made casual by five children at 21 years,
drained and darkened with age,
yet still deep in faith.
I was five when the first penny appeared,
a dark period, where the sun hid
and allowed the rain.
My grandma would open her windows
and sleep to the sound of the downpour.
At first, she lost her hair,
the warmth in her skin, then the body,
the strength, the hope
until her voice lost itself in memory.
No longer deep in faith,
I still find pennies on my windowsill.
13

BLUE
By Angelina Dagion, 10
I never knew what it was like to fall.
Not to fall on the hard, cold ground
But to fall for someone.
I was curious to know what it was like.
But now that I have experienced it
I wish I hadn't.
It's not like the movies or the books
Not as amazing as they’ve all
Made it look.
I mean it does have its good times.
But when it comes to an end,
Your whole world suddenly turns blue.
You can attend to your daily activities,
And somehow get Deja vu.
When everything you do or say
Reminds you of them.
You’ll wake up and go to bed
With the thought of them.
You’ll think about what you could have been.
This tends to go on for weeks on end.
But one day you’ll suddenly realize
Blue isn’t your color.
14

Graphic by Justin Simone, 12
15

Jonessa Rodriguez, 12
16

Island Connection
By Idalis Santiago, 12
The countryside of Puerto Rico is where mango trees thrive,
I was told by my grandmother--
tales of living off the land, where the poor reside,
and children spent their days running into the forest--
foraging for the sweet nectar of fruit.
As I grew the stories intrigued me,
the island held memories unknown--
ready to be sought without hesitation.
Over the years, the mango slices turned whole,
until the mango trees stood before me.
My hand met the tree--
filling me with generations of memories,
the oranges, reds, yellows, and greens called to me.
Unlike my mother and grandmother, I didn’t climb.
Yet, the tree stood tall with island pride.
The first and last bite of the fruit--
are the most delicious and unforgettable,
the smell, the taste, the surface of the smooth skin--
the blooming freshness of picking one on my own,
a reminder that my family once called this place home.
17

connected
by Celeste Castro, 10
The clock ticks as I lie in wait
sitting by the docks,
the waves of the sea making their way to shore,
never quite able to reach to land.
I laugh with my teammateswe
are fishers today,
living another life in a world
where our lives never end.
We were warriors yesterday,
thieves yesterday,
survivors the week before.
Although our lives do not end,
we are subjected to the ticking clock,
for we have lives elsewhere, outside of this world,
that we must attend.
I manage to get a catch and the sounds of the sea
cast me in a daze after a time
lulling me, tempting me to close my eyes,
like sirens of old.
I feel myself drooping and as I hear my team mates converse,
as I strain to hear what they say as I close my eyes, as I fall victim to the sirens,
I can hear the sounds
of tomorrow in my dreams.
18

Photo by Tyler Douglass, 11
19

Graphic by Kelsie Shinall, 12
20

Moving
By Sam Kulik, 10
Time
Life
Space
It's always at a constant movement
A constant change
Never a break
Never a time to catch up
Moving
We can always count on movement
It's a constant in life
Something we can depend on
Something we do depend on
It can be good or bad
It's unpredictable
Unreliable
It’s like life
21

Pink Star Comforter
by Ava Duffy, 10
You were there when I was a young girl
Longing for the arms of my father
Holding you close to fill the absence
You're one of the only things left
He was here for a little while
We could all see his smile diminishing
As his bones began to emphasize
He tried to hide it with a fake smile and laughter
I knew he was sick
Your worn pink star pattern filled the hole he left
Providing safety for my heart
Hiding behind your warmth until I'm ready
The real world can be scary
But you protect me like a father
Your pattern faded like his smile
And it was time to let you go
Just as I did him
Now I look to the sky
And see your similar stars
And his sparkling smile
22

Kayla Patterson, 12
23

Keely Greenhalgh, 11
24

Free but Not Free
By Kevin Coulther, 12
From June to November,
dawn to dusk,
on the large plain
behind the school.
No time to rest,
working like horses,
giving everything we have,
to be the best around.
September hits,
school in session,
last bell rings,
but we aren’t let go.
We work,
work some more,
going the extra mile,
to be the best team around.
25

Absent father
by Emily Reindeau, 10
We were just little girls
four little girls you decided to leave
Children you made cry every night before bed
Your “Princesses” who wanted to hear you say goodnight
after tucking them in
Daughters who loved their daddy
Looked forward to the daddy-daughter dances
Always imagined your face as they walked down the stairs in a prom dress
Wanted to know what it would feel like having the words “I love you dad”
slip from their lips
They crave attention from guys because they never got it from you
You made them unable to trust as well as they used to
Another man had to teach them to ride a bike
These little girls know their own father won't even see them in a
wedding dress
Their daddy won't walk them down the aisle and hand them off to a new man
because he was never there
Your little girls watched you fall in love with a whole different family
They watched you love the kids that weren't even yours
But now we're older
Now your oldest daughter has 3 kids and you've only met them once
Now your second daughter is about to graduate high school and you won't
even be there
Now your twins are about to be 16 and get their permit but
you won't see that either
Your youngest watched your relationship with your real kids slowly die out
One of your kids tried to talk to but it was too late at night so you yelled
Your middle child asked for a computer for college but you couldn't
help with that
And when your oldest gets married you won't see it
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All of us are older now, Dad
And at this point we all look at you like a stranger
I bet you don't know any of our favorite colors
Honestly, I bet you don't even remember our middle names
I'm glad you helped bring us into the world
But I'm even more glad you taught us what a bad man is by being you
I can’t wait till we all get married and our mother walks us down the aisle
But you won't be there because I don't want to see you for a while
Graphic by Aydin Tirado, 11
27

Photo by Amanda Weston, 12
28

Midnight
By Noah Brown, 12
Two hours past midnight
The television would buzz to life
A warning
Who could that be at this hour?
A news report
A breaking news report,
Warning of the recent asylum escapee
Recently spotted in the area
A storm outside
The whipping winds
The phone would ring
Who could that be at this hour?
Picking it up
The line was dead
The power cut
The wind screamed outside
The rain knocked against the window sill
A flash of lightning illuminated the figure
Standing in front of my door, there was a knock
Who could that be at this hour?
29

Pandemic
By Chloe Esposito, 11
News broadcast streams
live, loud, and clear.
Don’t leave your house, 6 feet away
please don’t come anywhere near.
School went virtual, everyone was panicked. Cutting everyone off, my dad got fired.
Everyone online is going crazy. The days are starting to feel so hazy. Stay inside,
and wear your mask. Dye your hair 20 times. Experience very intense boredom.
Sleeping through class, a depressive episode begins. Slowly stop caring, act like
you're okay. Eating all of the food out of your pantry. The world is crazy
and you’re in your bed. There's so much hate, too much to handle
stay off of the internet or you’ll get canceled. School is online,
sleeping through classes. No more free passes, to get out of
school. Life is so boring when you can’t leave at all
can’t go to the store, can’t go out with friends.
Life sucks a lot when everything ends.
Things get weird when your
teen years and a global
pandemic has made
everyone
fear.
30

Graphic by Leandra McMahon, 12
31

Amber Menier, 12
Indigo
By Noah Brown, 12
Like a meteor,
She fell from space.
A different girl,
The same old case.
It’s never easy,
To fall from grace.
A different mask,
The same old face.
32

Portugal
By Gabrielle Tavares, 10
Beneath the sky of blue
Paddling through the lucid currents
I shriek in terror
Fearing the creatures that lurk beneath the waters
Exploring the deep Atlantic Ocean
Scavenging to discover items or species
We haven’t come across before
Marveling over luxurious objects we discovered
Walking through the narrow roads
Of Lisbon
Grazing over the elegant boutiques
And dazzling accessories
Gelato melts away in my mouth
Filling my stomach with delight
Watching the boats slowly pass by
Breathing in the sweet smell of fresh crepes
33

Trapped
By Ava Duffy, 10
Trapped in a jar
Forced to watch the outside world
Everyone I've loved
And left behind
Continue without me
The clear walls become white
And fluffy
As time stopped for me.
It carried on for them
I watched from above with a smile
And wished I could be with them
But my time had come early
And I had to leave
Though I'll never stop watching
34

Photo by Sabrina Bucknam, 11
35

Photo by Laura Landon, 12
36

Cethosia Biblis
By Natalie O’Keefe, 11
Through the prison door Fear stood guard and asked her,
Will they look at her as one of their own, is she enough, is she real?
She is cethosia biblis and what if she’s hated for it?
She could fly far from the lepidopterist’s gaze, to the forests
The forests which she’s longed for, the spectacle
Those who had flown already, out the taunting window,
Out of the entangling lies and into awaited truth
Every denial of safety and strength six feet under as scarlet wings
blossomed
No longer would she fear the snakes that hid in trees giving the world
victims to forget
She wouldn’t suffocate over youth struck down in ill timing, the
percentage who nearly gave up
A percentage she was afraid of joining, attempts to surrender beauty to the
conqueror worms,
So why does she sit here and sing her predecessor's laments?
37

. The Fish Tale
By Natalie Hasert, 12
Listening to the wind, birds chirping,
fog lifting off the water, the water, crystal clear.
Whipping the line forward, my turn, casting the pole with ease.
My father, I watch him reel and cast, better than me.
Feeling a tug, a fish just below me.
Lit up with excitement,
I feel the pole move, the water starting to ripple.
The fish just out of reach,
finally relieved, I had my first catch.
Gills and fins, slimy and cold, full of life but almost lifeless,
was that small creature.
Letting go, I watched the creature swim away.
The boat gliding through the wind,
the sun’s rays glistening,
the water appearing as crystals.
The blue heron above, on top of the world.
I sat and watched my dad, his happiness,
glowing from within.
I was happy, free, full of life.
At that moment, I couldn't imagine doing anything else.
From that time on,
I have loved nature,
everything it symbolizes,
everything it offers.
38

Passing The Glove
By Jake Klein, 11
I put on my father’s
glove—
worn high school through college,
dark tan in color with an old leather
scent,
dirt stains and remains of what once
was a ball
in the old and tattered Rawlings.
This glove reminds me
why I play
why I had a great love for baseball as
I went
through childhood,
how baseball and its importance was passed
though my family,
Over the years this sport has changed my life,
and all of it began with an old glove.
When this glove was made, in its prime,
every player wanted this revolutionary Rawlings,
But now, for most, the glove sits in the attic.
But my dad used that
glove every game.
then he put it in the car to
stow away,
then it made its way to the
attic,
like the others.
One day he took it out to play
one last catch with his son.
That was me.
It never rested again.
39

Photo by Austin Reed, 11
40

Sunglasses
by Ella Brown, 12
I see through this lens
of complication.
Unlike a magnifying glass,
it is untrue and unreal.
Filtering the scene
with colorful lies
as if it’s never been anything
but beautiful.
It doesn’t make sense
to add a red tint
to a blue sky
and reason that it’s
simply dimming the sun.
Why even do that?
41

Red
By Gabrielle Tavares, 10
Red is something trapped
Inside of you
It lingers through your veins
Pleading to escape
Until your mind and body
Break
Lines releasing the pain
A breath of fresh air
The pain has escaped
Creating another sort of hurt
Red remains only in your mind
Waiting to break free
42

Elizabeth Magella, 12
43

Joanne Baez, 12
Bars
By Noah Brown, 12
Something silver,
Steel, metal, iron, they keep me in.
Cold, like the nights of January.
The cell is bleak, gray and bland.
My only friend goes by the name of
Midnight’s Moonlight.
The sun and I are no longer friends.
I missed out on that a long time ago.
I’d give anything to go back.
I want to be warm again.
44

Computer Crazies
By Noah Brown, 12
My computer has a virus,
My son called it “diseased”
So I took it to the doctor’s
He wasn’t all that pleased
So I brought it to the pharmacy
In hope to get some medicine
They called me crazy, security came
I had no choice but to jettison
So back home I went,
Maybe hot soup would do it good
But when presented with the bowl
It didn’t try any, I insisted it should
Warm milk and comic books
Always cheered me up as a kid
So I presented them, to no avail,
No matter how many times I bid
Running out of options, I think
My computer’s just lazy.
When I told my son what I had done
He only called me crazy.
45

Prison of Technology
By Jordan McCann, 12
Trapped inside of a prison.
A prison in which the doors are left open
Nothing is being guarded in this prison
But all the prisoners are there voluntarily
There was a banner that hung slightly tilted at the top of the entrance
It was surrounded by LED lights and all distractions of some sort
But if you focus you can make the letters out.
It was called the “Prison of Technology”
The prison was full of addicts
People who were addicted to technology.
The worst of the worst, were the ones addicted to their phones
They were on the top floor.
Their brains were completely fried by all the screen time they accumulated
But it was sad to see these people like this.
Sad to know that they used to be normal people and not addicts.
If only I had told them….
46

Alyson Van Gulick, 12
47

AnnaBella Tozzi, 10
48

Color Blind
By Carter Wright, 10
Color is a way to see
I do not have the range of all colors
With color blindness
I see colors but not as you
Colors blend together
Green is the worst, bland
Dark purple and blue look the same
The colors blend I can never see
All the colors merge together.
My heart is darkened by my lack of sight
Colors I don't see.
49

We Remember and We Mourn
By Ella Brown, 12
the weather is mourning
these past days.
I taste the bitter on my tongue
and know the grounds of sorrow
for the trees they cry
and are unheard.
Parents
children
teachers wept
we blame this earth
instead of inhumanity
that even in a forest of life
this land
cannot save him.
-RIP Jordin Tenk
50

Riley Lewicki, 11
51

Amana Yamisha, 11
52

Filled With Red
By Breanna Fattorusso, 10
I walked beside you in the night
Taking the path back home
Both exhausted, worked all day
Reached my hand out
Walked a little closer
You took my hand
Warmth took over me
Turned to see your face
Lit by the night sky
Everything was red
Felt love everywhere
Wouldn’t walk home
With anyone but you
Felt safe, felt right
My heart filled with scarlet love
Hand filled with yours
Life filled with you
53

The Dusty Guitar
By Vaida Yesse, 12
The guitar that once brought peace to the family
Would collect dust in the closet for years
The picks would miss the grooves of the strings
And the fingers turned to ash
As it sat there, the peace would fade away
The glue that held the family together
Was now cracked and dried up
We all fell apart slowly but surely
We all thought the acoustics
Were gone forever
Until the day the chords were played again
Not by my grandfather’s hands
But by the young hands of my brother
Who picked up the old guitar, not knowing who it belonged to
It was too big for his body
Yet he played it so well
At that moment I knew
A small piece of my grandfather was born again with my brother
That same guitar brought some peace to the family once again
54

Jonessa Rodriguez, 12
55

Graphic by Bria Rolle, 10
56

Bioluminescent Bay
By Idalis Santiago, 12
Hues of a setting sun infused the sky:
Oranges, blues, purples
Faded into night--
Until only moonlight shown above.
The rocky shore was infested with sharp rocks,
Cutting at the softened feet--
The warm salty sea healed those wounds
As the groups climbed into kayaks.
On the journey, a warm tropical breeze
Took over the night air--
Working hard in the dead of night,
Soon stumbling upon a shore.
The journey continued across land--
Groups lost in the dark,
Finding their way to the hidden bay,
While carrying a hefty load.
Placing the kayaks down--
In a narrow, salty pathway,
Water was the only route to the secret bay--
Where then the touch of water glowed.
Specks of blue light rippled through the water--
Hands now dragged, eyes glimmered,
The beautiful phenomenon left children in awe
as brilliant fish swam by with a flash of light.
57

The Color of the Fire Truck
By Noah Brown, 12
New York City
Circa 2010
The incessant
And annoyed honks
Of hundreds of taxi cabs.
They hoarded the roads,
Up and down,
Back and forth,
Like flies buzzing around a decaying carcass.
So too was the smell of the city alike.
The ground beneath my feet shook
As the subways tunneled below.
Seven year old me and my mom.
I don’t remember what I was wearing
Most likely something red, or orange,
Anything to combat the city’s drear.
A beacon of light.
I was good for that,
At least that’s what my folks said.
But things were about to change.
Chinatown,
A capitalist ploy,
I knew nothing of it at the time.
Dragon reds, golden yellows,
Shop signs stuck out,
Lures to the mindless fish we were.
Content with plastic trinkets
And small nothings.
I was drawn in, too.
58

There it sat, on one vendor’s cart,
Red, maybe like my coat,
But a bright, blood-like red,
Unlike the surrounding garnet designs,
A fire truck.
A plastic, red, fire truck.
Growing up, I was obsessed with them
And here one sat before me.
Could this trip have been worth it?
I grabbed it from the vendor’s cart,
Inspecting it in awe,
A sparkle filled my eyes,
The beat of my heart increased,
I turned to show my mom.
Then the blow came.
I was knocked to the ground,
My mom spun around.
The vendor screamed
a language I couldn’t understand.
I think she thought I was stealing
The fire truck.
It didn’t matter,
Not like I was paying attention.
All I could focus on
Was the color of the fire truck
Running from my cheek.
59

Annie Zhu, 10
60

I am the Moon
By Sabrina Bucknam, 11
In the beginning,
My world revolved around you,
I was the moon
You were my Earth
As time went on
We grew apart
No longer was I in your orbit
Drifting out into nothingness alone
Searching for somewhere to belong
Floating through space
I stay hopeful
Because there are millions of planets in this universe
In the end
I'll find my place to stay
Gravity will put us together
I'll be someone else's moon, caught in an orbit once again
61

Dominoes
By Jillian Speakman, 10
I glance over to the shelf on my bedroom wall
Displaying multiple treasures family passed down to me.
My eyes find the faded and fraying leather box of dominoes
That have traveled through two countries
And passed through three generations.
I’ve known these ivory blocks my whole life,
Each chip in their yellowed bodies memorized.
I learned the game as soon as I could walk.
I’d play every chance I’d get
Picking ceramic prisms of dots over wooden alphabet cubes.
I was ten the last time the dominoes were used;
The day my grandfather couldn’t play anymore
He handed them down to my mother,
Who passed them down to me
Upon her father’s passing.
I keep our ivory in its emerald leather box on a shelf on my wall
Along with the other forgotten mementos my family gave up
That would’ve been tossed away otherwise.
These fragile blocks hold nothing but positive memories
And though they remain untouched, they still serve purpose.
62

Christina Lavorini, 12
63

Annie Zhu, 10
64

Pink Bic Lighter
By Madison Cuoco, 11
My mother used to smoke a pack of cigarettes a day.
Each one lit by a pink Bic lighter
And the smell of menthol would fill the room
Teachers, parents, priests would judge her for smoking near a child
Saying my clothes stunk of the stench of tobacco
Yet they never knew that the stench smelled like home to me.
My mother and I would go outside,
She would light up a smoke and I’d pluck some flowers
And we would talk for hours
This memory lit by a pink Bic lighter
My mom would take me on long drives,
Just to stare at the southern countryside
In her black Hyundai, with cigarette ashes in the cup holders,
And a pack of Marlboro Lights sitting on the dashboard
This memory lit by a pink Bic lighter
And now my mom’s light is gone.
Her black Hyundai was taken to the car dealer
And I was taken away from that southern countryside.
But one thing they never took away from me was that pink Bic lighter
As the lighter she once used to light cigarettes with now allows me to
light candles that give me light to see my brighter future.
65

The Last Passenger
By Noah Brown, 12
A forgotten newspaper
A crumpled soda can
The incessant bzzz of an overhead,
flickering fluorescent tube’s bulb
It’s 2am. I am the last passenger
And this is the last train.
My companions have all but departed,
The aforementioned items, evidence of their existence.
There is something unnerving, uncomforting
A near-empty train car, if it weren’t for me.
It’s almost peaceful, surreal, am I ruining this?
My presence ruins such beauty.
Should I label myself
As forgotten,
As discarded?
This is making me green,
Yellow too with haze.
Yellow, the color of fear,
Green, the sickness.
It’s all reflected back to me
By the claustrophobic,
Mocking
Arsenic tiles.
66

Erica Gyori, 12
67

Wood, cardboard and acrylic paint, Estreya Tirado, 12
68

Farewell, Not Yet
By Ella Brown, 12
I want to say farewell to the waters that follow you.
a stream of troubles biting at my lips.
I wish for you not to come to my dreams and leave my soul aching.
I wish to not worry my love will break me in the way that you did.
I want to say farewell but I haven’t yet.
Sculpture by Zoe Burns, 12
69

My Mother
By Vaida Yesse, 12
My mother loves me unconditionally.
She looks into my eyes, hoping
To still find that little girl she once had
But that little girl grew up too fast.
She had no choice but to
From a young age, she was like a phoenix.
Fire for a soul, beams of light shining through her skin
Eventually the fire burned out, all was lost.
The fire burned bright until it burned away to smoldering cinders
She became dull
Because
She never had a stable household.
Or because she never truly loved herself
Or maybe it was because the person who loved her the most
Lost himself.
She was stuck in evil
The cinders turned to dull ashes
My mother still loves me unconditionally
Even as I am like ashes
She tried to reignite the fire that was once there
I am still dull.
70

Kayla Patterson, 12
71

Nate Horn, 11
72

Good Souls Pay the Fine
By Wil Polaris, 11
of the grafters, the simoniacs, and the thieves
like in the mines
& the destruction they've left
& the discord you've sowed
so our coping made cleft
by grafters we are hooked
with our wounds we stammer
& in death again we are played
Those with the keys and manner
have locked the citadel of taste
& in life they turn our eyes upon the banner
office to office, same sin
but how we are sentenced
to pay in your din
& when it's rising torment begins
we will say "it was me all along,
I've made the waters rise, I’ve made the ice thin
Those unmangled fly at birdsong
The panderers new territory claimed
They pay no bade, to those who stare daylong
Because of his poetry one mistake was made
That of your conscious, you cannot be swayed
73

Stuck in Jokes and Rotting Laughter
By Natalie O’Keefe, 10
One with nothing opts for the status of the Funny Friend.
Jokes thrown across the table born out of self-loathing,
jabs at the room that hasn’t been cleaned in weeks
met with laughter that confirms one’s part in all of this.
Because what is living without the validation
of making somebody else smile?
Yet on bad nights, the one who holds this position
clings to an empty voicemail box,
rusting static in escaped greetings
and goodbyes held at an arm's length.
For somebody who doesn’t answer a single phone call,
they crave nothing more than to know somebody notices.
Nobody ever does.
The walls of inboxes rot and mold
and the chime of a new text message is suddenly foreign,
and suddenly the world stops caring.
Jokes expire and laughter trickles to a drought
and their voice grows silent.
There is comfort in this tragic decline
and eventually, the drip finally stops.
74

Photo by Damaris Howell, 10
75

Graphic by Kayla Patterson, 12
76

Free My Ancestors
By Ella Brown, 12
I stacked maybe 500 bricks,
all marked with lost names, and long distance wails.
A few more bricks, and there would be no way out.
The city ignores my calls for help.
The city ignores my aching empty stomach.
Trapped in a town full of people who only know
indifference.
The experiment is over.
The heartbreak lasts a lifetime.
Piece by piece I smash each brick with a
sledgehammer
And shine light on the names left in the dark.
77

Imprisoned Fairy
By Gabrielle Tavares, 10
Curled up
Flowers braided through her hair
Down her back
Green leaves wrap around her
Viewing the world
From afar
A lonely fairy
Dreaming about the world
fluttering in the blue skies
Listening to the birds
Smelling the fresh flowers
One day, she awoke
A tiny butterfly
Sitting on her finger tip
Leading her out
From the jar
Containing her
78

Erin Collins, 10
79

Olivia Burdzy, 12
80

Here in Eternity
by Chris Goritski, 12
In a room with no windows or door
Just me and my thoughts, alone on the floor
This room is cold and empty
here in this place of no exit or entry.
My dismay on display
as I wither away
I lie curled in a ball
When I notice a crack in the wall.
Through the light from this hole
I feel a spark in my soul.
Could this feeling of hope
be a metaphorical rope?
Would I finally be free from this room?
I thought you would be my doom.
Like an animal, I claw at the hole
my once useless nails now having a role,
Finally, I break through the damaged wall
so eager to escape that I stumble and fall.
What I found
would now bite me like a wicked hound.
I knew this ceiling, I’d seen it before
Again, I find myself laying on that same horrid floor.
81

Lost and Disoriented
By Alexis Fernandez, 9
The persistence of a girl
With an iron enclosed heart containing
a forest fire’s extremity
A mind seeking rescue from a reality lost in
time
The weight of a ton on her shoulders
A body which plays several tricks on her
self-worth
An education worth six figures, but her
motivation as good as dead
The persistence of a girl
Who is lost in herself.
82

Sofia Staley Self- Portrait, 12
83

John Vanderhee, 11
84

Over My Head
By Sabrina Bucknam, 11
world engulfed in water
never learned to swim
reaching for the surface
panicking
I stay still drowning
held down to the ocean floor
seaweed
wrapped around my ankles
I struggle to
break free
desperate
I come up for air
pressure
the waves are too much
they crash over me, pinning me down
one day
I'll make it back to the surface
until then
I'll fight the current
every day
85

Sailor Stuck in a Bottle
By Jillian Speakman, 10
I’ve sailed these seas all my life
And though there are no clear trails in our waters
I know the pathways of these seas
Like the grooves in my palms
It’s the same water it's always been
And the only boat we’ve seen is our own
Everything in my life has been an unchanging constant
And the monotonous pattern of my existence is beginning to bore
All I yearn to do
Is to sail new seas and meet new folk
But no matter how many years pass
All that I know stays the same
Though I can’t read it
There’s writing in the sky
All I can understand is
“0$— ɘlttoᗺ ɒ ni qi⑁Ƨ”
86

Graphic by Ryan Monesmith, 10
87

Michael Malolepszy, 11
88

Centered in a large room,
it lay cold and quiet.
The bottom of the barrel,
representing all the
struggles and hard times,
One single coin remained.
Staring at the jar closely
knowing they had no choice
they let it sit.
Stuck in a large jar so empty.
One single coin remained.
The Last Coin
By Gabe Scotto, 12
Letting it sit,
Struggles were accepted.
They knew there was no hope,
So there it sat in the bottom of the jar.
One single coin remained.
89

Freedom
By Natalie Hasert, 12
Moving through the ripples,
the boat treading upon the water,
floating as if it were a cloud.
The green hue gave the water life.
The hair upon my head,
fluttering in the wind,
the feeling of freedom
was different from before.
Freedom never felt so filled with bliss.
The birds that flew above,
the movement of their wings,
replicating the soft thrust of the motor.
The wind brushed my sunburnt cheeks,
the coolness of the water,
splashing off the ridges of the boat,
all brought the feeling of pure freedom.
90

Graphic by Tyler Douglass, 11
91

Vaida Yesse, 12
92

Home Away
By Madison Cuoco, 11
The blades of grass were sitting and soaking up the sun,
slowing drifting side to side, following the pattern of the wind.
The wind blows the dandelions,
puffs scattering through the lawn,
planting themselves gently in new pastures.
The house doesn’t move.
Sitting sturdy since 1985
through several families and several storms.
The house sits sturdy in the place I call home.
Until yesterday
when the storm came.
The heavy winds surged through my hometown
ripping up the blades of grass
and taking my house away.
93

Over Practice
By Idalis Santiago, 12
The glare at the music,
sweat dripping down the face
of the musician who stands for hours on end –
practicing.
The body always in motion,
almost a dance –
to become one with the music,
embracing the small wooden body at hand.
The fingers bouncing from string to string
the vast strides of the arm
need to play the melody longer --
so that the mind could travel into paradise.
But the pegs keep slipping,
the fingers fumbling,
the arms straining to gain strength –
only to feel fatigue settling in.
94

Idalis Santiago Self Portrait
95

Kaden Haw, 11
96

Stuck with Capitalism
By Jillian Speakman, 10
I am stuck.
Trapped in this mindset
That prioritizes work over health,
The worker bee pipeline is driving us to ruins.
You order us to give you good grades
But don’t teach us how to maintain
The balance needed to live long
Enough to taste success.
We tire ourselves out
Fulfilling your need
Of the American Dream.
We are stuck in majors we hate,
Hobbies we hate,
Careers we hate.
We stay stuck in these patterns
To please your need to see
Your own dreams played out
In someone else.
Monotonous lives with robotic routines.
We stay stuck in this pipeline
Until the train’s fuel tank runs dry
And our minds are emptied of the sensation of true living.
97

Blizzard
by Vaida Yesse, 12
The leaves fell in love with the wind
So they went with it
But the wind fell in love with
The snow
Went hand in hand
Creating something wondrous
The snow fell
and the leaves were crushed
under the snow
The wind picked up the snow
leaving the shriveled leaves behind
98

Graphic by Avery Crafton, 10
99

Graphic by Nicholas Frey, 11
100

Panic is a Race
By Natalie O’Keefe, 10
On most days
I am a fleeting thing
Running away from hellos
Towards insufferable goodbyes,
Harmonious strands of words
Holding me back.
In the past,
I was still.
Moss and ivy
Over planted feet
And roots entangled my ankles
While vines entangled my chest.
In rain, I rusted
And every joint screamed,
“Keep moving, keep moving, keep going.”
The escape of oneself is a rhythm,
Harmony between swift footsteps
And shallow breaths.
This Panic is a race,
These words are a snare.
Eye Contact is a fierce “don’t go.”
This Panic is living.
This Panic is escaping.
This Panic is a race.
101

Boredom
By Ella Brown, 12
I feel slow
Like long and endless highways
And wind in the summertime.
I feel slow
Like gray rainy days
And boring timeless time.
I feel slow,
Stuck in the same month
Same year
Same time
Boring timeless time.
I feel slow.
102

Estreya Tirado, 12
103

Graphic by Avery Crafton, 10
Nightmare
By Julia Corsi, 12
normal human,
stuck, nowhere to go.
Impossible to get out,
the world is ending
around me.
normal wasn’t normal anymore.
by myself, not being able to move,
I was living my worst nightmare.
104