The Dance of The Barter

Vowed ambivalence

Perhaps a burning oracle with pledges of assurance

Forged in dreams of unyielding warriors

trapped in a slow dance with hopes shadow

For here hearts ache of anguished repentance

Even sorrow has its season

Yet the Bluebird sings songs of aspiration and renewal

Every breath humming sounds of fortune

Every heart beating the pulse of exchange

A desire for stability amongst simultaneous agility

This symphony of vignettes echos through the quiet surrender of jubilation

Haunted recollections fabricated to compensate for unstable odyssey

Persevere I plead for this is no place to concede

Yet roads are worn thin almost obsolete

bearing illusion and leaving certitude

For we ventured here judiciously and the merciless suns bears no illusion

There lies no cause for masquerades or fate stricken perversity

Transformation is omnipresent and surrender remains forbidden

The ache of uncertainty metamorphosed into the accentuation of palpable control

For you are the architect of order and ambition

For you are the divine artisan permitting light in a paradox of darkness

The essence of our profound sanctuary must not be misconstrued

Freedom emerges from surrender for which converts fear into authenticity

Within this delicate season of urban vitality

Remain untamed and accept all forms of duality

Certain Summers

Drawn cement silk on champagne shutters

You flesh the margins on the page

Not before studying the seconds

It took for me to predicate

How plain it is denounced to one

But looking back the tide was low

That night of currents so unkind

Played tricks of light upon my face

I need to hear it

Why certain summers had to fall

And serve as fodder to the flame

While we pretend the long way home

Was folly first and final fate

In a World of Wires, We are the Animals

Light used to be a thing that breathed—

Making us work for its warmth.

Lips puckered beneath the twigs

Breathing air for life, life for flame.

Now the lightbulb crackles and hitches,

And I can feel a change coming.

Like cows laying down in the field—

Like the knee that aches.

The Skin After the Shed

By: Hannah Bagley

My fingers press over the bowls of my eyes

To awaken, to moisten—

A cool dip of water to splash upon my face,

Upon the shore, before the ocean receded

Like the hiccups beneath the sand.

I’ve put the old kettle on and the steam

Rises to make the tiles glisten.

The blue tiles with the crack—

The rebuilding of something broken,

The something that’s left.

SpeedBoat

By: Sophie Gordon

I can taste the sunscreen you just lathered all over my face. It tastes sour and like summer.

The sun-in is highlighting my hair in all shades of yellow.

You are driving the speedboat and dancing and all the kids laugh at you.

I am six years old. I am happy.

I stand and bite my nails on the side of the court.

The smell of the basketball is like rubber, and the gym smells like sweat.

You cheer for me to go for it.

You are my coach, and listen.

I am twelve years old, and I just started to fall in love with basketball, our favorite sport.

My mind feels heavy.

I don’t really understand myself.

We can’t find common ground as I am unable to find my footing in life, but you love me still,

and I love you.

I am seventeen years old, and I feel lost.

My puzzle finally comes together.

I feel so happy.

You are proud of me.

You say I’m smart, smarter than my years.

You call me just to say hello, and you are my best friend.

I am nineteen, and I am happy again.

You tell me the news.

I cry. I cry like I have never cried before.

My tears drown me, and I feel weak.

I can’t swim. I lost. I’m drowning. The speedboat drives past me. I can’t catch it and I’m stuck. I

can’t fight it. There’s no point. It’s gone. And I can’t see it anymore. It’s useless chasing it,

because that speedboat is gone.

The day you told me the news, a piece of me left with that speedboat.

Ever since that day, there has been a you shaped outline on my heart.

I think back to the memories I have of you everyday. I daydream of days on the boat, days in the

park, days with you.

I hope I have an infinite amount left, but if I don’t, just know that the outline on my heart is my

favorite part of me.

I am twenty, and I will spend the rest of my years loving you.

Echos of Admonishments

By: Isabella Lazzara 

A flower resides in the middle of a field, 

It’s delicate petals quivering from the passage of time. 

Beside it, a tree remains, its bark worn by innumerable winds, its branches etched by storms unknown. 

Both remain bound, as the seasons pass each year 

Spring’s tender warmth 

Summer’s fierce blaze, 

Autumn’s soft decay, and winter’s weight. 

They endure the same sun’s burning gaze, 

share the quiet wonder of the same cold moon, and wish upon the same shooting star. For something beyond the tangled roots that conceal them. 

The flower, frail yet wise, 

wished no more for the trees worn down apologies 

and the tree to not be tied down to his strong ideologies. 

For each one is a sigh, worn thin by repetition, and false dawns. 

A melody of regret that never finds its end. 

They dwell intertwined 

rooted in the same field. 

The flower unable to detach from perspicacity 

The tree dreams of breaking free from the weight of his own beliefs, Of shedding the thick bark of rigid certainty. 

The tree is unable to escape from his thoughts. They surround him like a sea of crows. Yet the flower knows the truth hidden beneath the soil, and the tree’s deceptive strength. 

For his thwarted roots stretch deep. 

Leaving no space for the fragile threads of her own dreams. 

Here, in the stillness of the field, they tarry.

Not by choice, but by the cruel wisdom of the earth— 

A flower, a tree, 

Both yearning for the sky, 

But anchored in each other’s shadow. 

The Haze of a Young Girl’s Gaze

By: Meredith Gilbert 

A small child peers over the fence to the yard next door,

An adult grieves their youth with heartfelt sympathy. 

The grass reaches for the sun's rays, 

despite the landscaper with cracked knuckles.

But the sunshine fills the air with mother’s smell

and holding dad's calloused pinky finger. 

Keep moving, never stop, it was all meant for you. 

The deep brown eyes of the moon watch you grow up,

But the flush in my face comes from the constellations. 

Brown eyed girl and sunshine's touch, 

The waves kneel to Orion's three. 

As I look over the fence, 

I meet the gaze of myself as a young girl. 

I tell her, “You are golden, 

Freckled with beauty, 

My star, 

A Tough Pill to Swallow

By: Zara Smith

I never really understood

the people who would say,

I love you so much it hurts.

I never comprehended

that complex dialectic.

It was quite unimaginable to me,

to my soul

without its other half,

to grasp the concept

of the two most intense opposites.

I never really could empathize

with what they all were saying

that is,

until I fell in love with you.

Fireplace

By: Sophia Gordon 

Love is a funny thing. 

It has no doors or windows. 

It has no structure or bones. 

There are loves like bonfires, turbulent and untamed. 

Some are like matches, a spark that can dwindle down quickly, leaving the match frayed and thin. 

But fireplaces feel like a space to come home to. 

They don’t require taming, rather roll a slow and steady burn. 

I picture blankets and warm lemon tea. 

I picture my grandparents telling stories, recollecting the memories of their first kiss on the doorstep of my grandma’s North Carolina home. 

I picture soft music and the soft glimmer of flames. 

I picture you. 

And when I picture home, I picture you. 

I picture windows and sunrooms where morning light creeps into the cracks of the wood floor. I picture soft pillows and sleepy eyes. 

I picture magnolia trees and climbing branches with mud covered knees. I picture you. 

I hope you’ll see that through my closed doors, there are windows where my sun peaks through. When clouds emerge, I sit on the worn leather couch, soft from the people who came through that North Carolina house to tell stories and laugh in their bellies. 

I hope that one day, I’ll have my own house with windows and fireplaces. I hope that when the light creeps in, I’ll sit on that linen chair and doze off to the sound of wind chimes. 

I hope that I’ll sit by my own fireplace, and watch the flames glitter. 

And I hope most of all, that I’ll do it with you. 

Because when I picture love, I picture you.

If I Knew What I Knew Then

By: Alison Amarain

If I knew how my life would be would be would I even try

Would I have spent all that time studying for the minor I won’t use

Would I have made the friends who would betray me

Would I date the guys that were bad for me

Would I go to those parties with people I’ll never see again

Would I go on the trips that ruined

Would I do anything to change my present?

If I knew how my life would be would I like it

Would I hate who I became

Would I be proud of my accomplishments

Would I even be me without all previous failures

Would I learn or make the same mistakes

Surround myself with the poisonous people who haunt me

If I knew how my life would be it would it even help me

Would the future even be able to change my past

Should it?

What person would I become if I knew everything without experiencing it

Would I even recognize myself

Would I have the passion inside me

Would I have the same hobbies

Ignorance is bliss and knowledge is power

But sometimes you need to experience to grow