Table of Contents
11 Hands of Bananas by Lauren Oelke
Musings of Insomniac by Gabri LaFratta
The Great Beauty by Leila Breen
Individual Swimming by Leila Breen
He by Michaela Fitzgerald
Sleep by Mabel Kha
Lukewarm by Makenna Olson
What Do You Appose? by Aija Sclafani
Life by Ashley Silvestre
Age of Inertia by Ashley Silvestre
In Time by Tai Mitchell
The Room That Stands Silent by Mattea Wortmann
Just a Drop by Josh Miller
Count My Misery by Anne Littlewood
Our Cluttered Sky by Anne Littlewood
Poetry is not Personal by Alex Obert
Eternal by Alex Obert
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11 Hands of Bananas
by Lauren Oelke
We are just like bananas,
think about it.
What is the difference between you and a banana?
Potassium rich,
yellow,
a good source of vital nutrients.
Bananas bruise easily, like us.
Peel back its outer layer to reveal its soft, vulnerable state.
Squeeze a banana and turn it into mush.
The most common banana is the cavendish.
Bunches of bananas are referred to as hands.
Did you know?
Bananas are a fruit,
NOT a vegetable.
People often confuse those categories.
Monkeys love them - as do humans.
In fact, bananas are a monkey’s best friend.
So, as you can see, bananas are more than just a food.
The peel of a banana can come in handy.
People love slipping on banana peels.
Hide a banana peel in the home of your worst enemy.
People love eating artificial bananas.
Candy, shave ice, ice cream; the possibilities are endless.
But these are not REAL bananas!
Banana bread is very popular,
But it is FAKE.
It is FAKE banana flavoring, you see?!
Don’t fall for their marketing tricks!
They will tell you that it’s good for you!
They will tell you to eat artificial bananas!
Nothing will ever be as good as the real thing.
Only buy real bananas from the banana plant.
NEVER settle for less!
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Musings of an Insomniac
by Gabri LaFratta
There are many things I will never understand in this world.
Like, why does Night have such a frightful reputation?
He is only doing his nightly chore.
Sure, he dresses in dark blues and blacks.
And, sure, his clothes like to billow behind him as he walks across the Earth.
And, sure, he drags around a colossal blue blanket,
But who are we to judge?
For all we know, he could have received the short end of the stick.
Day, Dusk, and Dawn got the preferred jobs.
Right?
They got the jobs full of color and light.
It is not his fault that he is the one that has to cloak the world in darkness.
It is not his fault that the only two colors he can use are dark and darker.
It is not his fault that we consider his shadows to be eerie.
Maybe he didn’t choose to toss the blanket over our sky.
That dark blue blanket with the holes.
At least he was considerate enough to snip peepholes in the blanket.
He even ripped out one greater peephole to allow us an orb of light.
You see, Night is not cruel.
He is, in fact, very kind.
In my opinion,
Our blanketed sky is beautiful.
But maybe I am just lost in the shadows,
Wide awake at hours of the night which people should not be up at.
I can’t be certain about a lot.
But I can be certain about this,
There are many things I will never understand in this world.
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The Great Beauty
by Leila Breen
If Los Angeles is a 25-year old experiencing her mid-life crisis
and if London is a edgy teenager making his mark
then Rome is a timeless deity resting in a golden armchair
twirling her dark hair through her adorned fingers
inhaling the jasmine above her and the smoke below her
overlooking the expanse of chaos that was once hers
smiling at the good riddance of her omni-potent ways
If New York is a bustling business woman
imploring the Chrysler for a 15 minute break
and if Tokyo is a child wandering in the perplexity of a daydream
then Rome is a gratified goddess of the ages
strolling through the proud grounds of Villa Borghese
whose paths lead to the center of the universe;
a place where the wolves still prance in the darkness of her heartbeat
If the New World is a woman crying out in awe
over the news of her bestseller novel
and if the Old World is a handsome man,
smoking his cigar and humming Debussy
then Rome is a matron of the homeland
still as the evening, laughing fondly at the fools of the Whole World,
who could never forget her, even if they tried
Even without the rest of them, Rome will always be as so:
eyeing the senescent man who carries yellow carnations,
another day of sunlight, and the tireless phrase,
“boca lupo, bella ragazze” to his children
who are no longer girls, but women
raised by this crumbling, ceaseless old man
and the Great Beauty herself
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INDIVIDUAL SWIMMING:
by Leila Breen
a conflicting collection of why I love swimming and why I’m not the right person to be saying so
I
I learned to swim in a river
in a land with an excess of beaches
but I wouldn’t have it any other way
II
Swimming always makes me think of a midwest summer camp, I don’t know why
maybe it’s because of that one episode of Arthur
where DW can’t swim at day camp
III
My happiest memories are all set in water
the past as clear as the pacific
my arms alone stirring the currents of Polynesia
IV
I keep my head above water because my mom always told me I’d get an ear infection
I never got one
I wonder why I still listen to her
V
The gradient of a lake makes it feel like an adventure
from tan to taupe to greenish to green to green green green
the ocean doesn’t always do that, but when it does, it’s like winning the lottery
VI
My arms doggie paddle like a newbie, its embarrassing
my legs froggie paddle, its even worse
I’ve got no finesse and it’s ridiculous
VII
I feel like an ambassador of the oceans when I think of the ones I’ve swam in
all I’ve got left is the Arctic and the Dead Sea
how awfully cool would it be to say you’ve swam in a deceased sea?
VIII
I almost failed the swim test at camp because I had no idea what “freestyle” was
idiot
but whats the point in calling it “freestyle” when you can’t do whatever you damn well please
IX
I hate it when you can feel the water change temperature
in my mind its all one, not different parts and different temperatures
homogenous and all
X
It’s kind of nice to be hidden underwater
the water “refracts” or something like that
it’s so my froggy swimming style isn’t so visible
XI
Water evaporates and glaciers melt
but the oceans that runs through my fingers
I think surely ran through those of queens
XII
If I was ever on the swim team, I think I’d die
and it’s not because of those hideous suits
I just really hate people telling me how to do something as self-explanatory as swimming
XIII
I love how the salt concentration in the Mediterranean makes it easier to float
and keeps the sharks away
so I can rest on the sea’s humble affection without fear
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He
by Michaela Fitzgerald
You can see him in the stars,
As they chase each other across the night sky, leaving a trail of wonder behind them.
And you can see him in the sunshine,
His radiance reflected on the faces of his people.
You can hear him in the laughter of the children,
As the wind kisses their cheeks and tickles their skin.
And he can be heard in the chirps of the song birds,
Their soothing melodies bringing peace and serenity to the souls of their listeners.
You can see him in the tears of a little boy,
As he cries, because to him, a forgotten goodnight’s kiss means the end of the world.
You can see him in the cries of an infant,
As she takes her first breath of life that will forever hold her captive.
You can see him in the blood of our soldiers,
As they selflessly defend our country, warriors of the right to be free.
And you can see him in the body of a young woman,
Each new night brings another new man, but she has no choice,
This is her life.
You can see him in the gloved fingertips of a doctor,
Carefully spinning the wheel of fate.
And he is in the hands of a husband,
As he takes his grief out on his daughter; a constant reminder of his mistake.
He is in the pleading of the children,
That long for anything to soothe the panging aches in their empty stomachs.
You can see him in the scars of love,
Each jagged line represents another broken piece, another broken promise.
He can be seen in the prayers of a father,
Whose son has given up the fire in his eyes to the succumbing darkness.
He is in the sobs of a mother,
When she remembers that the child she once held in her arms,
Can now only be held in her heart.
And he is in the feet of his people,
As they mold their imprints into the face of the earth,
And yet, he is not here.
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Sleep
by Mabel Kha
What do you think of when you sleep?
Perhaps of all the dreams that you keep?
Or do you think of a cloud literally above your head
When you are cooing away Z's in bed.
Does the sharp ticking of the clock tend to calm you down?
Till you find yourself roaming a place where only you wear a crown.
Is this dream a dream so good you can't forget?
Or so terrifying you often find yourself waking up in your own cold sweat.
Have you ever had a dream so overwhelming that it ruined your day?
One that woke you up crying?
Or maybe you dreamt of a golden day in May
With sparrows and butterflies flying.
Do you enjoy flipping the pillow to the cool side?
Feeling your skin rest on cold sheets.
Or listening to the rough sound of the ocean tide
Each time the sea and the shore meet.
Do you wake up to the sound of your bothersome alarm buzzing?
Forgetting to press 'Off' so 'Snooze' makes you start your day with cussing.
Can you hear the chickens exercise their unpleasant vocals in the dewy morning?
And the voice of your mother waking you up with the tone of a lion who's roaring.
But no matter what euphoric dream we seem to be dreaming,
To be able to wake up is a bittersweet feeling.
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Lukewarm
by Makenna Olson
9pm
a once hot dinner waits on the mahogany table
with a formerly heated cup of tea,
now lukewarm.
10pm
she sings her daughter the empty, deserted lullaby,
her 7 year old son goes ignored in the next room;
he bares a striking resemblance to his Father.
11pm
He still hasn’t returned.
His meal of chicken and broccoli
still waits on the table, cold and omniscient,
as if it knew all along
that it would never be consumed.
12am
she sinks into the tattered, beaten couch
staring vacantly at the old photos of the golden times
hanging distant on the plain wall.
She wonders who at that moment is falling victim
to his twistedly charming smile.
1am
the bathroom is a mess
q-tips and smeared toothpaste frame both sinks;
one of the mirrors is undamaged,
the other is cracked, looking as if
it should have fallen apart a long time ago.
she enjoys gazing into the broken one’s crooked
interpretation of the world.
2am
is a blur
her bag is on their bed
filling with headscarves and sweaters
and old jeans
and cash
3am
she is gone,
leaving behind her children
and a hollow lullaby.
4am
He stumbles through the front door left ajar
with small bloody scrapes on
His palms and knees,
wearing yesterday’s lunch on His buttoned up shirt,
and His pants unzipped
He passes the mahogany table,
not even noticing the cold chicken or
the lukewarm tea.
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What Do You Appose?
by Ajia Sclafani
What do you suppose
you would say if I ask:
what do you appose?
Would you say slobbery dogs
or the cat that’s lying on your floor?
Maybe rats, those are inadequate.
But what about those furballs giving you an eye sore?
How do you feel at school?
All those free flu vaccines
Many loads of homework,
and non-modest bimbos in apple bottom jeans!
Do you dislike a certain flaw?
Like that realist boy who is unable to believe
and that putrid man who lives in the sewer
or maybe you detest the common name Steve?
Even though, it’s not Steve’s fault.
Do you not like the taste of pickle?
Or do you defy annoying interruptions,
perhaps when that one man dropped his nickel
in the middle of your meeting/speech/presentation!
No one knows what you disapprove of,
which is why I ask
the same question as above.
It can be anything, we’re all different
So what do you suppose
you would say
when I ask, what do you appose?
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Life
by Ashley Silvestre
they buried my corpse
into the ground by my house;
it nourished the plants
_________________________________________________________
The Age of Inertia
by Ashley Silvestre
We are stuck in the age of inertia
Stagnant, unmoving, still
The linear strands of time progress forward
as we are left rooted in our own spot
The slightest bit of change can result in high casualties
It can lead to ultimate greatness or utmost tragedy
How do we break free from the torment
We used to craft such beauty through our words
Our words were so piquant and pleasantly sharp
They used to tumble out of our lips like smooth, satin sheets
Now we are trapped in this static epoch
Our conversations come through in C minor,
ANd our voices are now so small that they make all the wolves cry
How do we escape this age of inertia
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In Time
by Tai Mitchell
Dark, very dark
Creeping up your skin
Vast
Engulfing
Blackness
Swallowing anything in its path
Traitor!
Hiding what doesn’t want to be seen
Run
But you don’t
Embrace it
It’s so easy
It smiles now
Your once iron will
Rusted and decayed
Your so called freedom
At a high cost
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The Room That Stands Silent
by Mattea Wortmann
Little light glows, seeping through
the crack in the door, at the end
of the way.
The silent walls remain, and
the floor keeps hushed.
A seemingly silent room,
if not for the beating
of a curious mind,left to venture
through an extent of texts,
that will never be enough to quench,
the poor soul.
Even the whisper the leather makes,
as the barrel kisses its back,
ceases to pull him back down to earth.
He unknowingly takes his last breath,
and the walls cry and the floor screams,
for one, single moment.
Warm is the gun, as smoke
still rolls from its barrel.
Unknown, unwelcoming hands,
clasping to the guilty pistol.
He lay there now,
with no interest at all,
as the room is fled.
The innocent eyes, he made with love,
succumbs to the grievous sight.
A mind once made, much like his
fills with hate and fury,
left with the charge of mercilus vendetta
in a room that stands silent.
_________________________________________________________
Just a Drop
by Josh Miller
Waves are something big but so much more
The sea rushes the streets
No one notices the one little drop in a sea
Not a care in the world for anything around
No one sees all that this one little drop does
We’re not individualized but just a crowd
No one understands that without this little drop there wouldn’t be a sea to see
Without every one of us there would be nothing
Thank the little things
Because the sea is made out of
Just one drop
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Count my Misery
by Anne Littlewood
1 blueberry is one too many for a muffin
2 rings from you encircle my fingers
3 avoided letters from mom sit unopened on the table
4 blades spin as my eyes chase the fan all night
5 darkened bruises follow the line of my breastbone
6 beers lie beside your bed
7 hours each day feels much too short for independence
8 demands from you as your arrival announces itself
9 waves break on the distant shore before I give in
10 fingers flatten against our window in desperation
_________________________________________________________
Our Cluttered Sky
by Anne Littlewood
the summer is swollen shut
no key exists as a remedy
even if it did, trust me
you’d rather not find it
a door locks away all private secrets
private which became public
definitely too personal for publishing
but not for remembering
are you a sail
or a white flag
hung in surrender
the place a marshmallow
meets the forest
was our point a
the thing is
congress concurs rarely
but more often than we did
cualquier idea que sea contigo suena bien
you told me
is it the truth?
translating to spanish
takes me too long
good thing you speak both
you cluttered my sky
with your cheekbones
on occasion
does point b exist
or is it a mistake
long smudged
a bee on the windshield
long gone
when we both boarded planes
and inevitably
summer’s wave crested and broke
leaving me washed up
on the shores of this new life
looking back at
a locked door to the past
and the mainland.
_________________________________________________________
Poetry is not personal.
by Alex Obert
Poetry isn’t made from your soul,
you don’t leave pieces of yourself on the page,
you write with your head,
void of emotion.
No one writes about their pain,
about the lonely nights,
No one writes about their hope,
about standing by the door,
waiting,
No one writes about their happiness,
about just not being able to stop smiling,
No one writes about their passion,
about falling into the arms of a lover,
No one writes about their addictions,
about the sweet poison of dependence,
No one writes about their anger,
about the twisting feeling in their gut,
No one writes about their fears,
about the goosebumps climbing up their arms,
No one writes about their guilt,
about the things that keep them up all night,
tossing and turning,
No one writes about their boredom,
about the little things like rain,
No one writes about their pride,
about finally accepting.
People write about themselves,
about the things they couldn’t say out loud,
about their past,
their family,
themselves.
Poetry is made from your soul,
you leave pieces of yourself on the page.
Poetry is personal.
_________________________________________________________
Eternal
by Alex Obert
The moon glows dimly behind the clouds on this cold, lonely night. My legs ache as I drag myself forward, one foot in front of the other. My eyes no longer hold the curiosity and strength as when I started this journey. The wind seems to mock me in my sorrow. The trees moan and creak, giving me chills up my spine. When can I rest? A pond is illuminated just to my right as light begins to pour through the trees. The moon is admiring it’s beauty in the pond’s reflection. I look up into the sky and see the millions of stars. They’re almost as old as me. I lower myself to the ground, laying back on the damp grass, resting for a short while.
When will my soul be at peace?
_________________________________________________________
Biographies
Lauren Oelke is a beautiful woman who eats bananas day and night. She loves to pet her cat and abuse her dog Buster.
Gabri LaFratta is still waiting for her acceptance letter from Hogwarts. Whilst she waits, she bids her time writing down spouting nonsense stories that her brain likes to think of and adding the finishing touches to her rocket ship.
Leila Breen: Amatuer time traveller, professional worrier. Part-time student, full-time superhero.
Michaela Fitzgerald enjoys writing poetry for fun and purely for the sake of making words come together on paper. She loves her dog and eating a gluten-free diet even though she isn’t allergic to gluten, especially kale and quinoa. AKA Hippie poop And yoga too:)
Mabel Kha is a future cat lady who enjoys going to the beach and traveling in Asia. You can find her petting stray cats or eating curry while petting stray cats in Burma.
Makenna Olson is an extremely freckled individual who enjoys watching Criminal Minds and devouring gallons upon gallons of chocolate ice cream. She also likes pina coladas and gettin’ caught in the rain. She has never been to Saturn, but plans to travel to there soon.
Ajia Sclafani was raised at Wammy's House for her early years. She then became an intern for producing music, and now owns a large music producing company. That is her main job besides being a secret agent.
Ashley/16/f/Dog Owner/Will recite the entire Shrieking Shack scene from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, if asked.
Tai Mitchell is a boy who enjoys everything from reading to cliff jumping. He likes Lasagna and high surf. His dislikes include green beans and dry grapes.
Mattea Wortmann is a confused young person who enjoys Snap-Chatting pictures of her dog, Oliver. She wishes you could meet him, too. She is an avid procrastinator, and enjoyer of breakfast food. She has never been to Jupiter, but is hoping to make plans soon.
Joshua Miller has been writing forever, his first word was Oooooooo in his Spaghetti O’s. Joshua B. Miller has always wanted a hooker, aka a toy tow truck.
Skilled python trainer Anne Littlewood is a driven fifteen year old, who plans to spend her life hitch hiking across the continental US to critique American cuisine and open her own online British hat business.
Alex Obert is a lonely soul, who lives in the middle of nowhere, with cows as neighbors. Soon, she will lose all skills in human interaction.
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Staff
Voting manager: Leila Breen
General Organizer/Planner: Mattea Wortmann
Content organizers: Michaela Fitzgerald, Makenna Olson, Alex Obert
Chief Editor: Ashley Silvestre
Editors: Ajia Sclafani, Mabel Kha
General Supervisor: Lauren Oelke
Publication Designers: Joshua Miller, Tai Mitchell
Media Directors: Anne Littlewood, Gabri LaFratta
