Summer Poems/July 2019

The cold tuesday seeped through
both sides of the tunnel embracing
the dark station in its nocturnal aura. The alabaster tiled walls blackened with rot. the
train was not here yet.
there was something here lurking beneath a fog of uncertainty, waiting.
the cold tuesday still shrouded the station with an uneasy fear. I grew sick and watched
as demons stood above me, judging
whether or not I should flee or stay
stuck to my mind. the train still did not come. the floor began to swell and breathe,
scheming to eat me whole. I began to vomit nothingness. the fear was real but there was
nothing to fear, the pain was real but there was nothing to hurt me. In seconds, a
deafening silence filled the station, there was no rot, no demons, no breathing floor. it
had only been an hour. the train had arrived.

 

Wilson is a seventeen-year-old Afro-Latino writer who currently lives in Andover, Massachusetts, but spent most of his life in Lawrence, Massachusetts where he grew up. He just graduated from Andover High. His favorite things are music (mainly hip-hop and 70s funk/soul music), reading and writing poetry, watching movies and playing video games. To others he is fairly quiet and shy— but very warm and welcoming when you get to know him.

 

the day you kiss me is when i sing
the funeral song: goodbye to my mother,
to the lake i almost sank in the summer before,
to the hands i crashed into my wall,
to the sinews and vessels i’ve known so long.
after this there is no end, because
it’s the end itself; a migration of memories,
until i lose my sight or my heart pulses
once too hard, until i veer off the shaking track.
this is me skinning existence until
it loses its meaning—i’ve learned
how to call myself real, and now that
you’ve seen me like a skeleton i
take back all of it. there’s dust
on my fingers like yours on my body,
and the night collapses in, and with it, me.

 

Annie Williams is a sixteen-year-old high school junior from Ohio. She likes to read when she’s not supposed to, and make Spotify playlists for every occasion.

I don’ t know where I am from
Am I from waking up in the burning morning
and going to sleep in the dead of the night? Or am I from grandma’s cooking, whisks spinning, bowls clanking
In our tiny, warm kitchen
Perhaps I am from those bizarre summer excursions to
The roaring Barbados
The hilly St. Vincent
the aromatic Bahamas
Visiting, spending, making those nutty memories with my fam
As the rain plays a little sleep-song on our roof at night
The fresh ocean breeze passes through our windows
And my aunts catch fish while my cousins fall down the stairs

Maybe I am from rich, snarling reggae blasting,” Don’t worry about a thing,
’cause every little thing is going to be all right.”

I’m probably from lofty Saturday road-trips with dad
To wishing, I was an ice cream sundae with a cherry on top daughter

I am from people judging me based on my looks
And me doing the same
I am from trying my best to please others
But they don’t do the same

I know I am from an
accepting community
where I am surrounded
By people like me
With the same dark skin
Making me feel at home
Even with the drama

But yet again
maybe I am from the split families who
Were never one
And you can’t forget about those nights of bawling in bed
Hearing that phone call
you’ve been waiting for only to hear
Why didn’t you call me
you did this
you did that
Why don’t you take the blame dad
every time I walk back into Golden Krust on
E Gun Hill Rd, in Bronx, NY
I hear,” Oh you Delroy daughter.”
Am I from waking up in the burning morning
And going to sleep in the dead of night?
I don’t know where I am from.

(Attributions: Langston Hughes for: The rain plays a little sleep- song on our roof at night.)

 

Chaeli is thirteen years old and loves hanging out with friends, writing, and spending time with her family. The reason she loves all of these things is that she doesn’t have to worry about anything and can just be herself. Writing helps her the most because just getting thoughts out onto the page shows her how much she’s grown not only as a writer but as a person in general.

 

I.

The air is dead in the city,
the politicians too.
Teeth click and babble wordlessly
and polished shoes flatten
dry leaves without a single crunch.
Only the silence screams.

The horizon stretches
along a single breath of wind.
A tuneless song chokes, and drowns
in the screeching of rusty gears.
Bloodied fragments of history have
long since faded into the cold.

II.

There is a fracture in the wall
where the universe ends.
A stray bullet. The scientist
discovers the future and returns to
scorched earth.

III.

Eventually, someone will uncover
a stack of glass bodies with dewy skin.
Ghosts sigh across their lips.
Here.

 

 

Annie Ma is a rising senior at The Harker School in San Jose, where she is an editor of the school’s literary magazine, HELM. Her poetry, prose, and photography have won several Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. She is the founder and president of The Book Bank (www.bookbank.org), a nonprofit organization that serves underprivileged communities by collecting and distributing free books to K-5 school children. Her favorite author is Jane Austen.

 

 

there is a wish, call, and ache for something greater than you or i. a desire that seeps over bones and coats the muscles, calling for more.

a wish for freedom, a call for adventure, and an ache so deep that embodies the forever pining of human nature.

these are the fundamentals of which i am based from. my form, the cultivation of greedy magpie feathers kept afloat by the whirlwinds of want.

i see and i want. i hear and i want. i want for wanting’s sake. the desire for something/anything greater that can lead me elsewhere and my pen to form words and phrases larger than their lowercase prisons.

i nurture myself on a dream and base my ideologies on a blue bird known for its viciousness. i keep myself locked in a box of hedonism. denying myself nothing, feeling no shame but preparing for the guilt to come bearing down.

i call it magpie mentality, that wish, call and ache. that strange desire for something more, for something shiny that i allow to propel myself forward.

this magpie mentality that i hope to lose myself in. shedding my skin and donning blue and black feathers and a swooping viciousness, building nest from stolen shiny goods in thorny bushes

this magpie mentality that i hope will allow me to embody my wish, call, and ache and carry my selfishness as a weapon.

 

Taylor Washington is a novice writer listening to the same three songs on repeat. When she isn’t scribbling down words only to scratch them out later, she’s dreaming of a placid life in the middle of the woods. Aside from reading and writing, Taylor is also fond of lower case letters, Twitter and everything superstitious.