January

Published on  
January 3, 2022

Rose Jar

By Kayla Boren

Missed Shot

By Matthew Patrick

Extending my arms, lifting off the glossy wooden floor with my legs, 

watching the pebbled brown ball rotate while it moves in an arch

The phrase “he don’t miss” is uttered as my Curry’s reconnect with the ground

The black-striped ball collides with the orange hoop,

Refused safe passage by the rim, it makes its descent,

Coming back down to the earth from which it came

My thoughts go to the thoughts of my coach and teammates. 

My muscles tense, and my head shakes,

Trying to run off what feels like a fatal mistake.


Untitled

By Matthew Sellers

Death is not the end

Another world waits

Subtle like salt

But strong enough to taste

A light path piercing oblivion

The mind can’t grasp

In fighting reality

Logic lacks

To guess it leads to uncertainty

To gain it, people endure

Criticism and persecution

Crucifixion of the pure

Faith, a game of tag

Trips up chasing reality

More than tradition

Correlation is not causality

Enthusiastic sermons

Spiritual gravity

Nothing stops the truth

That reveals the cavity


Typical Summer Morning On the Water

By Kalysta Crawford

It is early morning, 7:30 A.M,

There I am sitting in a boat with seven other people in front of me.

The reverse pick drill just finished

Now we are going to the actual workout.

Moving up the river, fighting against the current,

Rain dripping down, hitting my skin, getting in my eyes,

A straight back, slow recovery, and quick catch,

A hard press with the legs,

body swing,

Bend in the arms,

Hands gripping a starboard oar,

Fingers moving as I feather and square,

Blisters forming.

A loud thud, as oar hits oarlock with every finish.

Can’t stop, won’t stop.

must keep pushing on,

Water is calm and quiet,

Only a splish and a splash as oars bury into the water.

Not a peep in the boat,

Expect for an occasional yell from the coxswain,

We are focused, we are concentrated.

Everyone in sync, following the person ahead of them,

Keeping even handle heights,

Getting blades off the water.

Few more minutes than I can rest,

Must keep pushing on but it is getting harder.

How to pass the time? How can this piece end sooner? How can I do better?

What’s for dinner? What should I eat for breakfast? Is my gas tank full? 

My mind starts to wonder, I have to snap myself out of it.

I double-check that every part of my body is in the right place at the right time.

I take a few strokes reminding myself to breath

“WEIGH ENOUGH IN TWO.”

“THAT’S ONE...AND TWO.”


9 - 5

By Logan Roy

I wake up unwillingly.

I want nothing more than 5 more minutes.


I eat dust in a bowl.

My stomach won’t last past 10.


I wait to leave ready to go.

I wait anxiously on the ones I can’t control.


I ride along silently.

My thoughts are quieter.


I get out of the bus briskly.

I note the time: 9 minutes left.


I walk efficiently.

My legs work like a machine.


I reach my destination.

I step into the churning, boiling pot.


I leave, hours later.

My entire being crying for rest.


I fall asleep late.

I dream nothing.


Only to wake up unwillingly.


Icarus

By Isabella Schremp

Everyone looks upon Icarus

With sharp eyes

And cold hearts


They ask 

Why couldn’t he fight his thoughts?

How hard is it to obey your father?


But we never think of the full story


Of how he could only think of the warm and bright sun

That filled him with joy

For he was free he could do anything he pleased


His wings were filled with wind

Brushing his face

He wanted to be friends with the sun

Like how much he loved the wind


For he didn’t think of the wax that holds his wings together

Of the fragileness of the feathers


Until it was too late

Until the wind who was once his friend 

Tried to destroy him

Until the sun showed his hate for young Icarus


And now all that is left of him 

Is his story 

The tale we tell to our kids

Showing how we should never become like him


But how would he feel about his legacy?

How would he feel about our one-sided story?

Not thinking of how he felt

Before he flew too close to the sun


Rose Jar

By Kayla Boren

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