Long Poems
A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte
By: Dalin Johnson
Playing Masterpiece as a child,
the card I never auctioned off,
the card I always hoped to be dealt,
the card I was always willing to buy,
no matter its worth.
Then, at the Art Institute in Chicago —
a rather boring field trip for me otherwise.
Right at the entrance,
the only painting that caught my eye,
“Hey, that’s the one in Masterpiece!”
Then, in Digital Design
the last class of the day,
senior year of high school.
The painting I chose to modernize
for my project, without question,
“I’ll use the painting from Masterpiece!”
A cartoon puppy, in place of the brown dog.
A rainbow beach umbrella, in place of the black parasol.
A floppy baseball cap, in place of the flowered hat.
A sunbathing Barbie, in place of the kneeling girl.
A blue lightsaber, in the hands of the woman facing the shore.
A bike helmet, in place of the black top hat.
A robotic dog, in place of the runaway puppy at the lady’s foot.
A lone outhouse, in an empty space of grass.
A modern drone in the air to the left.
A red fire hydrant, at the waist of the lady with the orange umbrella.
And plans for a vibrant New York skyline across the pond,
and a cartoon cumulonimbus behind the trees.
Plans made on Friday, March 13th, 2020,
my last day at that old desktop in the art room.
And now, just snapshots of my progress,
hidden in the memories on my phone.
“One year ago today,” but left unfinished.
Still no vibrant New York skyline across the pond,
Still no cloud behind the trees.
Plans left for a Monday that never came.
Sunday
By: Dalin Johnson
Awakened by the painful sun,
that now marks the middle of the sky.
A full morning wasted —
the result of a foolishly late Saturday
and the bitter fantasy of a productive Sunday.
A putrid gasp at the clock
that has somehow travelled much too fast.
An eye roll at the list of to-do’s,
that seems much too long for what is already
a late Sunday afternoon.
The colorless nostalgia of the weekend,
Overshadowed by the thought of an early tomorrow.
In rigid reflection of the procrastination,
and a roaring mumble, never again will I say,
“I’ll just leave it for Sunday.”
As the ominous clock of the sun sets,
and the loud honesty of tomorrow shines through,
The idea of morning furrows my brow.
In muffled pondering of the dreaded week,
What has become of this dwindling Sunday?
Awakened by the peppered shriek of an alarm,
And the chilling cold of the bright moon,
Burnt exhaustion freezes the illusion
of yesterday’s angers —
For anything is better than this rancid Monday.
Toys
By: Dalin Johnson
Ouch!
I yelled, running
to the kitchen between classes.
Why are toys in the hallway?
I can’t wait for the kids to go back to school.
I have class in less than a minute.
Ouch, again.
I kicked another toy,
This time, into my room.
A yellow wooden block,
with a letter carved on one side.
Scattered behind me,
Red, blue, green, and yellow —
The remains of a tower,
One just like I used to build.
My grandparents bought the blocks,
And Opa built me the wooden box.
Stacked together, they fit perfectly.
Four blocks wide, four blocks high,
I still remember.
And a sliding lid, with “Dalin”
painted on top.
¡Hola clase!
I hear, still pondering
how far I have come.
Lying in the hallway,
scattered and strewn,
is my very first teacher,
that taught me colors,
letters, and numbers.
The toys that laid the foundation,
The building blocks,
For the education I am receiving,
In this very moment,
Education that not everyone is blessed to receive,
Not even Oma and Opa.
Don’t take it for granted,
I tell myself,
Even if it’s not how I imagined it to be.
¡Adios clase!
I hear, just as quickly as it begun.
The Midwest
By: Emily Samp
Bright flowers, the sun shining,
cannon balls off the side of the pool.
Barbecue on the grill.
Children running toward the music playing
from the ice cream truck down the road.
Dogs barking and leaping through the freshly cut grass.
The smell of burning wood on a warm night,
as angelic laughter filled the air.
The earthy pine scent and long lit days
left a prosperous joy.
Then one day, a crisp wimper comes
from the trees. Crying sunflowers
everywhere you look. A colorless gap between
what was and what is.
A screeching sizzle driving on ice.
You feel the burning cold as it hits your face.
Trapped in the trigonometry of torture.
The next 4 months, a static climb.
The bitter reality of living in the Midwest.
Give Me A God I Can Relate To
By: Giana Mingilino
Give me a God I can relate to,
one whose brain out of the blue
and for no good reason at all reminds him of that one time
of that one super embarrassing thing he did five years ago
that probably no one even remembers but like, for some reason
it matters right this very moment.
Does he hang his head low when he asks himself,
“Why did I do that?”
Give me a God I can relate to,
perhaps a God with a bad habit
he just can’t seem to kick.
A habit like, ugly torn up cuticles he keeps reminding himself
to leave alone as he tears off another piece of skin
because instant gratification feels so so good.
Does he feel question his persistent habits,
“Why can’t I stop?”
Give me a God I can relate to,
give me one who is downright terrified
of what the future holds because suddenly
nothing feels right anymore.
A God who is so worried that he feels
as if concrete has been poured down his throat,
left to harden until there is no more air left to breathe.
Does he hold himself tight with hot tears and an aching chest asking,
“What is my future? Why can’t I see?”
Tell me.. can God relate to me at all?
Canada Farm
By: Jada Golden
The glass window separates me from
Chilly,
Yet, friendly air.
Green scenery moves far too quickly
Making it hard to clearly
See.
Being lost in thought of being greeted,
With warm hugs from the sun,
With the love language of the rustling leaves,
With in-tune singing from the baby birds.
The glass windows picture
Halts,
With a mesmerizing canvas.
Green corn stalks come into view.
Emerging from the cage to become
Free.
The greeting of the new country is remarkable with
The air kissing my skin
Shocking the hairs on my arm,
The laughing of the gravel grows
As the shoes walk upon it,
The home invites the girl with open arms.
Psalm
By: Joey Ruddy
Today I am a teacher
Yesterday I wanted to be a rock star
Tomorrow I want to be a priest
laid out shades of plaid
with the tenderness of a new parent soothing an infant
a pair of grey
cargo or khaki
pressed and cleaned
faintly smelling
of lavender
in my plaid, I am property of the establishment
Today I am a teacher
Yesterday I wanted to be a rock star
Tomorrow I want to be a priest
awakened black denim
splashed with bleach
jagged rips and tears
intentional homage
to the unintentional icons
in my jeans resides the carcass of a smoke
in my jeans I am property of no one
Today I am a teacher
Yesterday I wanted to be a rock star
Tomorrow I want to be a priest
Behold the robe
Plain and simply displayed
Still in its sheath, the muffled call of the rosary
Olive tree beads click in the deep pockets
Like tiny heartbeats
In my robe, I am property of the Lord
Today I am a teacher
Yesterday I wanted to be a rock star
Tomorrow I want to be a priest
Baseball
By: Makenzie Rehfeldt
I watched the Superbowl on Sunday,
rooting for the underdogs to win.
Wrapped in a blanket to keep warm from the frigid temperatures outside.
As I watched men run up and down the field
and longed for warm summer days
a word popped into my head, baseball.
That word brought back happy memories
Wrigley field on a hot summer day,
the smell of hot dogs and pizza,
crowds of people walking around the stadium.
Walking seventeen blocks to the stadium every game
Freezing on a cold day behind the first base line
Or sweating out in the left field bleachers
Watching memorable games from the upper deck
game six of the NLCS, Rossy’s last game at Wrigley.
My dad sitting next to me,
the two of us sharing a nacho helmet
bonding over our love of the game.
And when the new season starts
I will put on my dad’s favorite Cubs hat
and watch games knowing he is watching with me from up above
Black Hole
By: Makenzie Rehfeldt
All I feel is pain
Like being stabbed in the heart
All I feel is emptiness
Like a vacant building
The rain falls in a thunderous stream
The drops stinging as they hit my skin
Creating puddles of mud in the grass
I look around the open field
A vast space filled with lost souls
Reminding me that nothing lasts forever
I look at the faces of those here
Looking at me as if I am a fragile piece of glass
Waiting for me to break at any moment
Standing next to the wooden box
I admire the shiny sleek look of it
An array of purple flowers laying atop it
My eyes travel to the hole beneath it
Like a black hole that will suck me into oblivion
This hole is not meant for me though
It is meant for the one that created me
And as he is lowered into the ground
I feel another piece of my heart break and go with him
Brave New Love
By: Meghan Kelly
The night we met, you took my hand and twirled me around,
Your emerald eyes glistening from the Christmas lights on the tree we spun around
When I laughed out of surprise,
You told me we didn’t need music to dance.
My early self didn’t understand then what I know now;
We are the music.
The girl that showers twice a day has found herself
Wearing the same sweatshirt to sleep every night.
I find myself dizzy in your cologne,
find it hard to change my sheets because you linger on them.
My concrete barriers have melted like snow in Spring.
Every day is flowers and sweet grass
And that perfect warm breeze that tickles the skin.
I feel your heart beat against mine and it is more familiar than my own,
The sweet thumping of finally being called home.
Face Mask
By: Meghan Kelly
My bright, bloodshot eyes stare back at me in the mirror
The attempt to rub away sleep was unsuccessful
My eyes wander the bathroom and land upon the bottles on the shelf
CeraVe and Cetaphil and the Ordinary and the Aztec Healing Clay
The bottles litter the shelves the same way my acne litters my face
I want to wash my face. I want to apply my serums.
I want to exfoliate and moisturize.
I just can’t.
The haunting consumes me.
When I sat next to you in that hospital bed,
The one where I watched your skin recede into your boney cheeks
The one where I held your hand, your grip no longer strong enough to clasp back
In your darkest and last days,
The days the cancer ate you from the inside out
The days where the chemo forced your eyes closed, unable to carry conversation
The days that the sacral infection made you fight harder than you should have
The days that the cancer made you lose the parts that made you you,
The days that I no longer knew how to help
The days I realized you were beyond saving, beyond miracle, beyond living
We did face masks.
My Life
By: Moncerat Santiago
I am from pictures worth a thousand words,
From pillows that are soft and full of sorrow,
From fairy lights that are small, blue, and bright,
And a dreamcatcher that gives me hope.
I am from a room that is cold, yet full of memories.
I am from three small and spacious bedrooms,
From a living room where we spill all our problems,
From a kitchen where everyone argues,
From a yard where both of my dogs play,
And a garage worth a ton of memories.
I am from a beautiful, yet broken home.
I am from a small town,
From noise of the boats racing that everyone enjoys,
From roads being constructed all the time,
And the home of the biggest impacts in my life.
I am from a place I left yet missed greatly.
I am from people who are not afraid to embrace their culture,
From hard workers who don’t get credit,
From a land known for problems,
And the place I gave my heart to.
I am from a country so beautiful, yet so dangerous.
I am from people who left behind family to give them a better life,
From people who sacrifice everything to get nothing in return,
From people that who yearned for more knowledge, but ended up working instead,
And from drama caused amongst each other.
I am from kindhearted, yet cold hearted people.
I am from a world of no violence and racism,
From finding a cure for cancer,
From dreams of becoming successful for my parents and myself,
And a wish for society to change its ways.
I am a future full of seemingly impossible expectations.
Nosey Critters
By: Nathan Yockey
It was November, a clear morning, cold too. I was crunching old snow hiking through a muskeg below Luck Crick 2.
My old lab Red and I hiked side by side under white skies
As cold ached my knees and wind chilled my ears. We ducked under trees and climbed hills in search of blacktail deer.
Steam blew out from under my old cap that stunk from my morning coffee, black like the chewing tobacco dip beneath my bottom lip.
Arms tucked tight to keep my warm, with my thumbs under my suspenders against my wool flannel, worn.
I looked down to Red, where his gold fur had turned grey under his eyes and the foam around his mouth agape told me that the old dog needed a break.
Him and I found a dry, mossy log in the timber to pop a squat. Protected but peeking out of the trees in case a buck walked out, and we had a shot.
We rested while I rubbed behind Red’s ears until I heard something crack a stick in the muskeg over yonder.
I put one hand on my sling and the other on Red’s collar.
The butt of my rifle against my torn Carhartt denim, 30-06 bullets jangling against the can of Copenhagen in ‘em.
I stood up and my face turned as pale as my scraggly beard, because what had trotted into that muskeg was not a deer.
A ma and pa pair of Alexander Archipelago wolves and their pups, a few months old, no more than three, were in that clearing less than 25 yards from Red and me.
The cold wind blew our faces like the back of a sail, Red bowed his head, tucked his tail and whined a low wail.
But they trotted right past us across the muskeg, idle without a care. The wind. They didn’t know we were there.
The fluffy calico pups wrestled and played, and their parents found a shade tree to watch and lay, just like Red by the fireplace.
Slowly with a raised eyebrow I sat and laid my rifle across my thighs, and Red and I looked on with cataract eyes until we realized, these critters are just dogs we have demonized.
So, we sat in the winter wind and watched humbly for a while.
And as papa napped with his head on his snow-white paws, mom laid her chin across his back, one of the pups and I locked our gaze, and I gave him a wink.
Panting, with his tongue out he returned my grin with his own puppy dog smile.
3am Thoughts
By: Nolan Thilk
Isn’t it strange how the Earth
is constantly turning, but we
don’t even feel it? We’re
just aimlessly floating through
space and time, completely
untethered, entirely alone.
I feel like that right now,
aimless and alone, like I have
no direction, no purpose,
nobody to turn to but myself,
and I’m afraid I don’t really
enjoy my own company.
I’m afraid of a lot of things,
really. Death, life, myself,
the universe, the future…
Isn’t it kind of weird how the
future never actually arrives,
because the present always
comes to take its place?
All I can think about right now,
though, is the past, my past, and
all the things in it that I’m
ashamed of, all the things I’ve
done but wish I hadn’t done,
all the things I didn’t do
that I wish I did. I really wish
right now that I could put
my mind at ease again, and
drift back to sleep, because I
know that when the morning
comes, I’ll forget all of these
thoughts, forget about my
fears, regrets, musings. But
until then, I’m stuck with them.
I could fall back asleep, I suppose,
but I can’t seem to be able to
right now. These burning thoughts
are keeping me awake. What is
it about 3 a.m. that makes it so
easy to dwell on everything you
hate about your life? What is it
that makes this time so ideal for
thinking about life, death, time,
the universe, all the things you
don’t really think about otherwise?
I don’t know. I guess that’s a
thought for tomorrow’s 3 a.m.
At the Crossroad
By: Teagen Petersen
Do you dare look behind? Glance over your shoulder and you’ll find me
Shadow stalking, crawling and then walking, rising up after you beat me into the ground
Gravel in the cheeks and grass in the teeth, this is the only time I actually want to hear you speak
Beg, scream, I want you to sound like me, echoes of memories where you made me weak
Choking up, fear’s got your tongue, there’s salt in your wounds and in your eyes
Go on and seek out the light, seek out your god that you named after yourself
Find him and you’ll find me in his place, fallen from grace, but stronger than you’ve ever been
You think you can run? You think you can hide? You think you can fight?
You can’t escape me, not when I’m in your mind, not when I’m a corpse in your bed
Just keep fucking the dead, dragging them through the mud and doing it all over again
The smell won’t leave, sweet perfume turned sickly, seeping into your veins
A drug, a drink, anything that won’t make you think, forgiveness forgotten
Forever doesn’t seem to falter, immortality once set you free
Now it mocks, it spits in your face and calls you by the name you gave me
Do you hear the whispers? Can you understand me now? Those last words were a curse
You always knew I was a witch, well, I’m owning it now, no longer your bitch
Watch out, you’re passing by another mirror, another terror, so don’t look away, don’t blink
‘Cause I’ll be there, replay it all until death comes, but not for you
You’re somewhere else, far from the hell you created for me
Far from your throne, it became my terrain, taking the title as the one true king
Queen, get on your knees and pray for mercy, you don’t deserve it, was there any for me?
Under the Stars
By: Daniel Chacon
Hear how the winds shriek and whine
As daylight swiftly fades, still
Remember what for, the stars do shine
Shadows loom among the tree and vine
Our bond wanes, our courage chills
Hear how the winds shriek and whine
Turn to the dim glow for which you pine
Warm your heart, steel your will
Remember what for, the stars do shine
Despair around our hearts entwines
From the howls, dire and shrill
Hear how the winds shriek and whine
We had ignored the ancestral sign
So the starlight deserted the hill
Where are all the stars that shine?
From the heavens, justice divine
Eternal terror it did instill
Hear how the winds shriek and whine
As the stars no longer shine