Minnetonka High School Issue 5: Spring 2021
MUSE Magazine 2021 Editors: Mahdi Khamseh and Scott Sorensen Advised by Stuart Pease All works featured are original contributions from Minnetonka High School students. Powered by Lucidpress
Poetry and Short Stories Zhou Benson Grace Campbell Aileen Dosev Emma Nevala Alexandra Wagner Mahdi Khamseh Scott Sorensen Visual Art Harriet Bennett Aileen Dosev Harrison Kauder Ariana Moe Kayla Stevenson Alexandra Wagner Inara Zayic Music Katie Garner Ruby Martin
Page(s) 4-8 9-10 11-20 21-23 24-31 32-42 43-45 46 47-49 50-53 54-58 59-64 65-69 70-73 74 75
CONTENTS
Junior
Define Me Defy me Define me Go ahead and try me. From the shape of my eyes to the size of my thighs You cannot define me. From the color of my skin Through the experiences I have been You cannot define me. What others may say To what I may experience today Those do not define me From the purs to the slurs Those will not define me
Zhou Benson
Those will not define me How my skins looks bare What I reveal to what I conceal That doesn’t define me. I’m not a little doll No, not at all. Though I am small I do indeed stand tall. Although I may fall At least I am showing it all Remembering to stand tall Through it all For my weaknesses don’t define me Nor will my achievements always be there beside me, to guide me Define me not, I have been told. For I shall go through life living it out. Be bold. No one will defy me No one will define me I will define me With others who will help guide me Only I can define myself.
Say Their Names Say there names enough with the games Enough is enough Well if you’ve heard it before then tough Shame Shame. Ashamed, we should be We’ve let discrimination and prejudice run free. Whether it be a man sitting in his car Or a man jogging out by his yard Who we all know didn’t get very far. Asleep in her bed just trying to rest her head. Whether it be walking early in the morning or late at night It looked suspicious What a fright. Excuses Excuses It never seems to end
knee to the knew What the actual heck? Suns out guns out. Toy gun. Nerf gun. A taser or a laser What’s the difference I couldn’t tell? He was restraining No, he was maintaining his will to stay alive. Well it was self defense Way to use past tense. Excuse me it was just Fabreez. Excuse me it was only a sneeze. Hate is the true crime. It is an unfortunate sign of the times. Oh but that’s all fine. For everyone else who isn’t aware. You really should care. Because no it’s not fair. Relax, you say?
What about those who went to a spa? Little did they know that they'd be met with a gun. Well doesn’t that just sound like a lot of fun? Racial attacks. Come on, we must fight back. Hate is the virus That has doomed us all Yes it has consumed us all. Hate crimes. Same place same time. History on repeat itself we have been told. Our privilege has distorted our values Our ignorance has consumed our feed. Say their names now For their stories will be use as fodder For those to tell their future toddlers. Stand with me to stand with them. Say all their names For they will never live in vain.
Grace Campbell
post-quarantine conversation between old friends(?) Woah, man, good to see you! How have the last months been? Oh, well, those clouds over there look like rain-- I’ve been doing fine too, it’s just so great to see people again-- Which reminds me that I need to get a haircut, I’m starting to resemble a bowl-- I think it’s been at least a month since I talked to someone beside my cat... And I think I need to pick up toilet paper, I’m out of receipts-- I’ve probably forgotten how to converse! Anyway, how are the kids? Has the sun always been this bright or have I been in the basement too long? No, my kids are still learning from home, I’m about to lose it-- Maybe later I’ll pick up sunglasses if this excessive light doesn’t stop-- Hang on, you’re not Jared, are you? What’s the point of reentering society if I just go blind afterwards-- Yeah, Jared is in Colorado this week, so who are you? You’re not my mom?
Sophomore
I thought you sounded a little masculine. I thought you sounded a little masculine. Hey, even though you’re not my mom you wanna come to my barbecue? That’d be great! You better use lots of spice, because I can’t taste a thing lately-- Hey, come back! Where’s he going?
Aileen Dosev
I hummed a small tune To the drip, drip, drop Of the last strains of rain at the city bus stop. The sky was a fresh breath of cornflower blue, Whipped vanilla cream clouds matching its hue. While the heavens sang, happy and aglow, There was something else to say about the city below. The sun shone bright, golden and pretty, But every corner was rudely marked with somebody’s graffiti. All the buildings stood beige, sad and alone, Not a living soul around, an urban jungle made of stone. Everything sat melancholy and gray, As if a thousand storms had washed the joy away, I hated this place, didn’t want to stay, I wondered, is this where the children play? I shook my head, for one thing I was glad, That I didn’t live here, it would make me so sad! How did the people of this metropolis feel, When all around them, a cage of concrete and steel? How could humanity have made this, our wonderful race? No happiness or color, an awful disgrace! Something is missing, I had to remark, Where was that merry, vibrant spark?
As the bright red bus pulled to the curb, How much I wanted to leave that frightful suburb! I stomped up the steps, said thank you to the driver, Thinking of home and a warm cup of cider. The bus started rumbling down the street, As I marveled, what a day, what a week! But I looked through the window as I let out a sigh, And who should I find, but a dragon in the sky! His pupils beamed like two silver moons, Glinting like the star-filled nights of June. Iridescent scales rippled down his spine, His armor possessed a lustrous shine. He lay curled up on his cloud, dreams in mind, Of the most fantastical dragon kind. From his snout came puffs of smoke, And his barbed tail twitched as he slowly awoke. He lazily stirred, glancing around, Awakened by the trolley’s rattling sound. He was such a beauty, you see, I had to call the attention of the man next to me. A curious gent he appeared to be, From a most honorable family tree. A man of business, his appearance told With a sleek, black suit and buttons of gold.
A little monocle teetered on a groomed mustache, The very quintessence of the higher class. He sat rather pompously, at the edge of his seat, A puffed up, proud penguin glancing with disgust at the street. “Sorry to bother you, sir, but look up there, Don’t you see him, up in the air?” He squinted through the glass with old wrinkled eyes, He straight up guffawed, and out he cried, “What, what? What’s in the sky? There’s nothing up there, it’s a whole pack of lies.” “I swear I saw a dragon, they’re really quite rare, Their magnificence is far beyond compare.” He cocked an eyebrow at me, and let out a laugh, Stared at me incredulously, “Sir, are you daft?” “Oh no, good man, I’m quite right in the head. I still stay true to the things I said. I’m not crazy, I’ll have you know, He was just there a moment ago.” “It was a trick of the light, a figment of imagination, Now for both our sakes, quit this witless fixation.” He adjusted his position, let out a groan, We sat in silence for a while, all on our own.
Although his ending was abrupt and his message clear, His harsh words still rung in my ear. I tapped him on the shoulder, which wasn’t wise, But I was desperate to reach some sort of compromise. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I must argue my views, Whether to believe me or not, that you can choose. Imagination isn’t something completely absurd, I think your definition of the word is actually blurred. Creativity is a colorful, wonderful thing, It simply gives life a little more bling. The bounds of wonder are limitless, From giants and fairies to the monster of Loch Ness!” By now the old man was very perturbed, He looked at me sharply, “Don’t say a word! Enough with this ‘imagination’ of yours, There are things that exceed its importance, of course.” He motioned toward his pocket watch, proud as a peacock, “Now, it’s alright, go ahead and balk. This watch is top-notch, the latest model yet, Look at how exact the numbers get! 7:32 precisely, isn’t that neat, To have a timepiece like this is simply a treat!” Smiling smugly, he added one more thing: “You can see how this watch may greatly appeal, Not only is it art, but it’s actually real.”
Now that for me did greatly suffice, I felt the temperature of the autobus rise. My face became red, it was just too late, I drove myself into quite a state! “Who are you to say what is art? True beauty originates from the heart! You’ve a screwed sense of vision, Yes, that’s what I think! The mind of a mule, The brains of a skink! Don’t speak of what you don’t know, you pansy, Only riches and markets suit your fancy! Counting your quarters, pennies, and dimes, No sense of happiness, no sense of rhyme. There will always be people in the world like you, Who only care about money, the only thing they do! You’ll always pursue that endless goal, I pity you, sir, from the depths of my soul!” The gentleman said not a word, As if he hadn’t even heard. He stared out blankly, his arrogance gone, The skin of his face looked tight and drawn. I sat there silently, and quietly cursed, How could I make such an outrageous outburst? I’m sure we both were quite a sight For everyone in the bus that night.
Soon enough, we reached our next mark, The moon was out and the sky was dark. The driver of the bus hollered a decree, “Attention folks, stop twenty-three.” No one else got off, how awkward it must be, As we hopped off the bus, just him and me. I breathed in fresh air, cool and clean, While towards the man drove a black limousine. He strutted stiffly to the curb, and opened the door, But I just wanted to tell him one thing more. “I apologize sir, for that fight.” He looked at me through his monocle, and said, “You were right.” With a quick, brisk action he slammed the door, And sped away down the road-I was alone once more. That was the last of the man I ever saw. But really, we both had major flaws. He simply cared more for numbers and time, I’d been obsessed with my lyrical rhyme. It was getting cold, no reason to stay, So I turned to the left and was on my way.
Salt grits on my tongue And the waves undulate never ceasing. Your smile uneven, mind cloudy, Its depths brew enticingly. My hair is the wind: Indecisive, flicking at my cheeks. My fingers are wet, from curiosity or addiction, I couldn’t care less. My hips melt into a nothingness, fluidity, Devoured by the greedy tongues of the sea. You want to swallow me? Do it then. Seize my body, toss me fine, Throw me against the tide, bite off all you can chew. Fill my lungs with brine ‘Til I reek of sand-tossed wine. Drown me. Spit me out on the sediment when the human taste is gone, Or keep me in your clutches, I don’t mind. Bodies float in the sea. It’s the salt, y’know? And like that I’ll always be Part of you somehow.
I find him dead on the patio; I nearly crush him with my weight. My bare feet brush against a smidge of green, iridescent against the cold stone. The sky bruises blue and grey. His body lies weightless in my palm. My fingers cradle the fragile wings; his delicate neck lolls to the side. I search for life, but once-darting eyes now stare, devoid. A sliver of a tongue protrudes from his needle beak, for the last sip of nectar that never came. I once heard that a hummingbird’s wings whir at 53 beats per second, while their hearts beat 20 times faster. Like a ticking clock, or a river I’ve never seen one just stop
But his tiny chest is still, and the beginnings of rigor mortis have sown these shimmering feathers tightly to his body. No more counting beats. Time halts its marching and my heart swells, my breath hitches and my mind spins in circles, and the whole of Life seems like a twisted joke. Logic asserts, “Death is natural” And I plead, “Not for a hummingbird!” I recall summers when I’d watch the hummingbirds bathe in the golden hour. “Flying jewels” they were called, flashes of ruby and emerald in the honeylight.
Now heavy clouds hang low, ready to soak us with their tears. I know I’m not supposed to cry for the loss of something so small. It seems a crime for a pure thing to die, Something flawed in stealing its soul. Even beautiful flowers expect Death and the like, But that was never the hummingbird’s role. It doesn’t make sense to bury a hummingbird. For such an airy spirit to be covered with earth is unnatural, but I do it still. After all, it’s our human custom. What else can I do? One length of a hand spade is an adequate grave, a handful of topsoil and all appears as it was before.
Freshman
Emma Nevala
A hazy sun dips over the Yukon River Drowsy tourists drift away from bustling escapades Back to familiar, plush relaxation And eager-to-please hotel employees Itching to get that commission check From their wealthy, frivolous customers. Spying from exuberant foliage, A stealthy gray fox With shining amber eyes Takes a tentative step away from her shrouded burrow A willowy white-tail fawn leaps toward disappearing sunshine With a proud doe following close Keeping a watchful eye As their vigilant herd trickles behind A timorous snowshoe hare Yet to shed his coppery summer coat, Reluctant to leave his safe underground den Inches out into the dim, quiet dusk A noble Alaskan moose in her immense frame Marches to a riverbank Her chipper yearling bounds behind, Ecstatic to absorb this brand-new experience.
A crinkle A rustle A crease A snap Yellow-and-white cigarettes litter the ground Scattered amongst plastic wrappers and aluminum cans “Mountain Dew” Reads one bottle “Pringles: Buffalo Ranch” Reads another aimlessly discarded can Abandoned by careless people Claiming themselves to be Activists- calling for climate awareness “It’s just a wrapper” They say While destroying complex ecosystems That took decades to create In just One Little Action.
Deer and hares and foxes evolve to elude natural predators With night-sight And fine-tuned hearing But do they have the unimaginable genius to outsmart the greatest predator of all? Careless people In immense positions of power. The great, glistening Yukon River ripples as darkness falls Darkness hides the fox and her wiry pups Darkness covers the deer herd Darkness conceals the snowshoe hare Darkness camouflages the moose and her calf Darkness, buries the litter. How deep can it go?
Alexandra Wagner
I can’t I’m too stuffed Your love is too dense To wash down with water To throw up To digest I can’t stop thinking about The plate I was served With trickery Ploy And a side of duress
I remember imagining How airplanes could be stars, And if they were, We could grasp one with ease. I could board my wish And shoot across the sky with it As you below Chase around galaxies. If you were kind enough To let me fall, My toes could slit the atmosphere, So you could drag the sun into the sky And unfreeze yourself from time. Yet you remain stubborn Drawing me across the heavens Painting streaks of bold colors Behind our heels. And when I wish on my star To let this moment last forever, God shoots the star And my dreams Into the dark.
Don’t go Too far away We want to watch you Fall And help you up Again We want to catch you Racing And remind you to Be We want to find you Hidden And pull you out to Reality We want to have you Blank To draw across a Smile We want to see you Cry Then embrace you with Love? Is that you? Maybe the best way To save Myself
From drowning in you Is distance.
People often tell me, “Don’t inspire writing with experiences,” But then how am I to make sense Of the mess That goes unspoken? If I collect tears from the heavens It should be a sin to dilute them, Stripping them of pain That weighed them down to earth In the first place. How can one find hope Without hearing the thunder others have endured? It’s like asking the public to assume the bitter winter will pass Without Phil’s affirmation of spring’s coming. “What about the intimacy? Aren’t you afraid of vulnerability?” Of course. But do we learn anything About ourselves Without vulnerability? If we tape together pages To conceal certain chapters, The story is incomplete Regardless of their significance.
Blood stains and teardrops on the pages Have a role in the manuscript, Too, Showing empathy felt for the writer, Proof of healing brought with candor.
I assume my identity as the exception Looking at my reflection I can see why I am deserving of the scars etched onto my heart Never will I think I am worthy enough of love Because everyone always tells me My blistered soul is satisfactory to none I have never felt Deserving of freedom from perfection’s clutch As I know I am Far from what the world desires me to be Who cares about being Loved by family who sees me for who I am If I am Unsuitable for Hollywood’s pruning hands. I shouldn’t care about being Able to overcome challenges, Empathetic towards the homeless and Empowering to those of little faith If God’s crystal ball only tells me it matters to be Beautiful. Conforming to the crowd doesn’t mean You’re a coward. To the boy who believes only the Porcelain doll with sapphires as eyes propped helpless on the bleachers is worthwhile, I’ll say Nothing. I’ll only wish I was her.
As the Good Samaritan hardly dressed in rags at the homeless warehouse labors through the night to provide for others, I’ll ask for The number of lovers she’s had As it doesn’t matter How many hopeless children she’s clothed I’ll grin imagining Children scrapbooking my face from Covergirl magazines, and I’ll always frown thinking of What an outsider I’ve become.
Mahdi Khamseh
Oh Dearest, I sit here etched in stone, breathing into these spring leaves which purse the ruptured and rugged mountains upon my lips The pulse of your heart flows near these rivers and down the hollow branches of the growing trees The bushes lay blushed, and the flowers remain milky, reminding me of my fingers crossing the great expanse of your face, climbing down the valleys of blue hills scattered with red blossoms down to your lips The thunder like me awaits, yet for what plea does the grumbled sound of God wait for, is but a mystery untold in the fairy tales murmured down the ears of children The wind is calm and tense As if a duality between everything and nothing As if it seeks to whisper into your ears And hide itself from the words which it says Much to my wonder, the cool and brisk air spreads the sweet scent of your body upon the lands across. Like a wildfire burning through the driest of twigs and leaves, exposing the hardness of such a delicate existence
It has been almost a week since you left the ground in which I bury myself in everyday, waiting for the shadow of death to take me into the deep expanse of the tainted gray skies Yet although seven days have passed, I feel as if I have aged a million years, as the crops have all been harvested many times, yet lack the dignity to become the fodder of a waking beast I do not know how to feel I feel sick, I feel miserable I feel as if illness has surrender to a great wrath which tightens around my neck, like the vines of the shallow growing grapes The same grapes, which even after a thousand passing years, shall never prove to be worthy of becoming wine Yet still, even if I dance in the stone scattered paths and hide myself underneath the blanket of the stars, something bothers me to a higher extent; as if it is a chain pulling down on the pages of a book, obscuring the hands of the reader who wishes to go to the next page. My heart has a heaviness to it A heaviness which pulls only gray clouds in the evening, as I stroll through the highways of solitude and reflect on the wilted flowers which hold onto the wet ridden grass for dear life;
as if they are sinking just as I am, into an abyss of unknown which brings forth a plea of honesty, though an act of unparalleled violence As I write to you in the shaded glow of the candlelight, with just enough brightness to blur my hands and numb the desperate calls of my heart, the ink with which I write is so dark that it rips the endless pages of words into utter frustration; too bright that it melts the wax of the candle and scatters it upon my hands and upon my pen, both of which write in the name of pain though are restrained to the shaking and trembling being by which they are possessed Nothing feels right, as my eyes veer off into the distance, and my vision flies away into the sweltering ocean of blandness The trees all grow in their green gowns and the flowers give birth to pedals Everything seems to grow in a rigid selfishness as I lay here dying, slowly fading away like the vibrant calls of the bird; falling into the mystic movements of the wind And the more light I bring into my darkness, the more my darkness fumes in pain Though as the rain jumps down the clouds
and sacrifices it’s pristine being into a submissive wetness upon my cheeks, I too fall into a puddle of lost direction For my West has become your East, my South has become your North, and nowhere seems to lead to you It seems that I do not belong And although the wind whispers its secrets into my ears, in attempts to soothe this mysterious ache which has wrapped me under this cloud of rain, everything seems to pull at my heart; and from all directions, I feel a tug which only serves to disassemble this throne of worship I have set for you In confusion, I look around from side to side and yet, I am stuck in a standstill; pegged to the walls of fear, frightened by the warm hands of hesitation running up my neck like the slithering movements of a snake reaching the innocent eyes of its victim My eyes lay upon the handles of the ticking clock with which each second, splinters a sound of continuation into my ears Yet if every second, if every moment is different from the next, then what explains the shooting pains of loneliness which have nested themselves upon my back?
For in essence, the sky gets darker and darker as I approach the holy hour of midnight Yet in practice, I have approached nothing but the beginning of the previous end The cardinal stares at me from my stained window as it seeks to pull the song which is missing from the shivering and pale creature to which it stares at And the more I look, the more the cardinal reminds me of you For it is but inches in front of my sighing head, which lays on the windowsill, though so unaware of what goes on within me Yes, the pains of an unrequited love are the dry twigs that provide the fodder for which a heavier flame burns upon, though like the tears which tumble, trickle, and fall down my eyes, they shall be visible to no one. Sugar no longer tastes sweet to me, yet the burning sweat which falls down the laborer harvesting the sugar is what brings a delicate sweetness upon my tongue You are on one side of the world, leaping into the blooming festival of spring, and I am on the other. And though the moon shines equally on both sides, only I can see its saddened glimpse, and look of desperation which paints its face.
A deep shade of uncertainty colors my blouse as I lay hopelessly counting the seconds between each ray of thunder which runs through the twisted curves of the sky. An alluring sensation of your proximity gallops through my heart, and alerts the prisoners which have been trapped inside these blocked caves Yet still, however much I tried, nothing would grow from the cinders and ashes that painted this confusion I possessed. Then I dropped my pen upon the ground as it frolicked through the rusting wood below me. Though instead of lying dead and bare, the ink stained the pages I had written, and dimmed the candle further and further. Till light had become but an anomaly, a surprise which I associated with love and a gift that brought me more pain For light was what illuminated my wounds and displayed my body soaking in this pool of agony This pool which stabbed me from end to end, and dropped me to the ground, screeching and howling to the beat of the perpetrator of my attacks. The shocked victim lay upon my corpse and the swayed leaves that were stuck to the ground lifted themselves; resurrected into the twilight My hands trembled on the poems I had written for you as the pages, one by one, leaped into this abyss of nothingness and came out like me:
Nothing but cinders and ashes. All the words I had written: Cinders and ashes Every plea and every laugh, every smile and fit of madness: Cinders and ashes. I had become nothing but the nothingness of which I feared And in fear itself, I thought I heard your voice, like the last sparkle on the blank sky. Though no, I had heard the cinders and ashes
The twelve o’clock rain came around three thirty; briskly leaping through the clouded meadows, sliding, through the humid air that had relentlessly attempted to follow the wind currents, lamenting into a heaviness: A deep heaviness of which with each breath, a long sigh would muster from a shallow and emotionless face. The drops of rain, dropped their parachutes and glided through the window, exhausted in their attempts to bring a sense of cleanliness to the harsh summer sun. The rain, it had a slight attraction, a quality which would pull you closer and closer, chest to chest, eye in eye. A quality which even in the most dreaded of storms, would leave a certain group of people to rush into the wet fields, like cattle given pardons from the slaughterhouse. Even in its sound, alas, it did not grumble like the sharp and pointy thunder, it instead carried a mysterious, a comforting though delusional sound; a sound that played the pieces of Chopin with excellency, retracing the keys on the backwards-played ballads of Liszt. And in its landing, as if awaiting a warm embrace, it would sprawl a rather odd, slightly mis-worded testimony; One which would bring a justice in the court of arms to bear but look into the vast green expanse which lay open across the left hand, corner open, and tether-framed window.
The rain, as they say, it smells different: As if the flower had blushed, and instead brought forth a new scent, a new image in the frame of the camera lens; the sort of smell that leads one to open the window in the dimly lit bedroom, slightly not completely, sit down in a confusing sense of despair, and dwell on the number of rain drops which would lack to be seen by the human eye. To be a poison, indeed it required the approval of the magistrate of sorrow, and the sad glimpses which were all too familiar as one would pass through the empty streets; scraping dust from the ground, kicking the rock forward until it eventually became lost in the thousand roads which followed. Yet however much I tried to retrace the seconds, even the minutes which would trickle down my cheeks, I could never find myself intoxicated in that peculiar scent. It took a while before the rocks I tossed and skipped across the lake, would come back and stumble upon my convoluted paths again, and in waiting for that summer breeze to pass through my face and rip the shades of misery which has nested themselves through this winter full of tears, I think of how those tears tasted: Bitter yet forgotten, in their salt brushed drops which themselves wrote the words to the poems which would halt me in my sleep, and lend me to thoughts of a face unknown to my eyes, yet familiar in touch, familiar in soul.
The light on the sky is dark, yet it is a different dark, one that shades a light that remains hesitant to glow, embarrassed to glitter. As if like the words which remain in the restraints of a sentence, waiting to be read out loud and set free by a faceless reader, the darkness almost glows; a color which at the behest of the spring-filled odor, would follow my fingers like ants through the lines of the poem I now scribe. And yet the more I think about it, the more lost my thoughts become. The more the railroad of confusion, twists and turns my train far away from the eternal glow, the eternal bliss of that Saturday evening, cold but humid, summer rain. The more I stare into those fragmented tears that drop from the sky, the more the images of the past come to poison me in my current state, curtail me from my peace; and remind me that behind the shadow of this crouched writer which leans into the warm glimpse of the candle light, no other body roams this empty room. No other person comes over to say hello, to see if the wax remains burning on the candle, or if the candle has burned through its own flame in loneliness Those branches, those august yet raw branches, however stubborn they lay watching me through my laughs, across my cries, bearing through my fits of anger, and following me though my tears abroad; they too smell like the rain with which they had been bathed with. And no matter how many times I write about such phenomenon, that wistful and yearning scent of rain still strikes me time after time.
It foolishly gives me the anticipation of your coming, an air of nervousness which tracks my thoughts to you. That damned and harrowing aroma, which I savor through the dark and moist bedroom where the lips of lovers play games which remain hidden behind the love-glossed laughs, and the high-held laws of chastity. It is that agonizing and torturous fragrance, that arousing odor of the scattered fragments of an unfinished painting that exasperates the mind of an artist, which whips a violent coup in my peaceful thoughts, and rose-filled emotions. When the mellow and rather quiet steps of the rain creep across these fields, I am reminded of how fast the minutes in my day run further away from me; how, I am left with a loss of time though a gain of fear that if another week passes by, how shall you be aware of the deafening cries of fervor and vehemence I have for you? Indeed it feels as if the dusk of tomorrow, is approaching the dawn of yesterday; that my heart is setting into a lamenting state, dressed in black, veiled from the condolences of those who have no clue of the plights of love. Indeed the rain is still falling through the crisp glow of the gloomy sky, as night is steady approaching...
Scott Sorensen
Sunrises rush by my window until I build a tolerance To beauty, Calluses on the cape Flying from the nape of my neck. There’s so little inspiration in whiteboard markers, Dopamine and pre-arranged Love affairs. The moon is rising beside the Shell station In a one-horse town. Too modest to be a beacon, She sings soft and true As the first skipping-rock of the summer. The gifted young spend all their time Shaking the world like an Etch-a-Sketch And waiting for brilliance. Times turn trite; I stir spirits with my words, All too carefully chosen To stumble upon art. My brother grins and snags a camera, Running to the edge of the parking lot. I watch from the car; He’s never taken a photo before. Neither one of us knows How to capture the night. Love is a patient, Unremarkable endeavor. Don’t fall for her now— Putting out cookies and milk for Cupid Only scares him off another night. He bounces back to the car Full of scrap bin snapshots of the moon’s bleary visage. The lip of the concrete Catches the sole of his shoe And he spills every oily shade of the night Beside the pumps. I stare at the lucky strike of brilliance; The moon smiles on her apprentice. Intermittently fasting On talk and tenderness Have rendered us devoid of fear. Gazing out on The end of the world, We toss popcorn in our mouths and watch Ourselves drift and flail and smile. There’s no endgame For sleeping soundly and living safely. Let’s gamble.
Love is a patient, Unremarkable endeavor. Don’t fall for her now, Scott— Putting out cookies and milk for Cupid Only scares him off another night. He bounces back to the car Full of scrap bin snapshots of the moon’s bleary visage. The lip of the concrete Catches the sole of his shoe And he spills every oily shade of the night Beside the pumps. I stare at the lucky strike of brilliance; The moon smiles on her apprentice. Intermittently fasting On talk and tenderness Have rendered us devoid of fear. Gazing out on The end of the world, We toss popcorn in our mouths and watch Ourselves drift and flail and smile. There’s no endgame For sleeping soundly and living safely. Let’s gamble. --
I watch the cars stream by me, Counting from the left lane of the freeway As they dribble past like rain On living room windows. I had left them to converse With high brows and cutting edges; Their passive, flitting slander carved my feeble brain From oak and snow while I stood and watched. Do I need meter in Poetry? Is it a crime to live promiscuously Or bear every thought on cracked lips? In defiance of the status quo, Is it possible to ensnare oneself In some lesser brand of oppression? The deconstruction of my unwieldy human spirit Falls on my teammates, And I’ve already died before they flash their teeth And call it even. Those cars beat me home After I left them in the parking lot.
Harriet Bennett
Senior
Harrison Kauder
Ariana Moe
Kayla Stevenson
Inara Zayic
MUSIC SUBMISSION CLICK NAME TO LISTEN
Katie Garner
Ruby Martin