November

Published on  
November 2, 2020

Are you coming back?

Kayla Youell

The days continue to pass

As I wait for you to come back. 

When you left, 

Did you ever plan on returning?

Or was this a forever escape?

I lay in bed at night,

Hoping to see your headlights pulling into the driveway,

But they never do. 

Did you ever think how this would affect me?

How you leaving would make me feel?

I just want you back

Or so I think.


After witnessing the look on my student’s face when he talked back to me and later apologized.

Mr. Slaten

Is it the tongue I need to tame?

Or is it just the quickest line of defense

for the heel stomping heart,

the tingling cheeks,

the whipping eyes, 

of my unexpectedly cornered 

inner circus master 

that’s always known he 

was really the wild one.

The Irritating Reality of Writer’s Block

Lauren Tyler

A complete lack of inspiration

There’s nothing in my brain

Hopefully writer’s block is like a virus

I’ve had it once

So I’ll never have it again


I’ve never felt so bland

I’m just a ship stuck on land

Sinking in the sand

A night sky without stars

And a sea with no water


This poem may seem inspired

But trust me - it’s not

This is more out of desperation

And agitation

To get rid of my writer’s block


Bleu Éclaboussure by Brady Neighbors


Jump

Henry Horne

Larger than life

Jack Hurley

Amity Ruiner 

Addie Miles

I have had Amity Ruiner glued to my side

She’s pointing to people who seem to be having a better time 

now that I am not there 

Pointing at the hands hiding their mouths as they whisper into another’s ear 

 

When I am at an outing with friends, 

Amity Ruiner puts up a translucent tent that surrounds me 

Making me feel like my voice just bounces off of the fabric 

And the other voices are removed from me 

All because she wants attention 

 

When I get in the car from the outing 

she dampers my mood even more. 

Telling me that they didn’t care what I had to say 

That I should just shut up next time 

Or just not even go at all.

 

When we get home and settle in 

She continues to go on and on 

about why:

Why I should never hang out with them again 

and stay with her instead

And do her favorite things 

Sleep 

mope

Wallow 

Cry 

In no particular order

 

But sometimes I ignore her 

Or at least try to 

And do the things that I want to do.

 

Sometimes she follows me 

allowing the cycle to continue 

and sometimes I force her to stay home 

To pause the cycle 

She does put up a fight 

But for once I have a carefree outing


I have had Amity Ruiner glued to my side

She’s pointing to people who seem to be having a better time 

now that I am not there 

Pointing at the hands hiding their mouths as they whisper into another’s ear 

 

When I am at an outing with friends, 

Amity Ruiner puts up a translucent tent that surrounds me 

Making me feel like my voice just bounces off of the fabric 

And the other voices are removed from me 

All because she wants attention 

 

When I get in the car from the outing 

she dampers my mood even more. 

Telling me that they didn’t care what I had to say 

That I should just shut up next time 

Or just not even go at all.

 

When we get home and settle in 

She continues to go on and on 

about why:

Why I should never hang out with them again 

and stay with her instead

And do her favorite things 

Sleep 

mope

Wallow 

Cry 

In no particular order

 

But sometimes I ignore her 

Or at least try to 

And do the things that I want to do.

 

Sometimes she follows me 

allowing the cycle to continue 

and sometimes I force her to stay home 

To pause the cycle 

She does put up a fight 

But for once I have a carefree outing


Summer in Savannah by Ava Killian

Lilac

Keegan Imami

Deepest lilac shade

across evermore draping hair

How at when she moves it swayed

Dawning smile soothing flare,

 

Gilt-edged thread

Glow a torque meteor's heart

'Twas I wish to have said:

"How, my love, we are so apart,

Poets spend departing days

To tell of a perfect beauty

that ought to linger a maze,

Darling, you exist the Divine, they compose

to define,"

 

How the ashes of my tender soul

enkindle once more within cheeks I blush,

At a mere sight of your hand, Don't rush,

He whose absent hand held hers began:

"Forthwith my love ought to never fade,

As time couldn't touch her delicate form,

 

Let us not drink from cups of tea

But from freshwater streams that calm a mountain's sea,"

I tell of a beauty

who's brow crescent and dream-dimmed

who's beauteous eye all things behold,

I tell of a beauty

who's blossoming mallow boughs

and helms of Lilac rose

unfurl whilst a moved star-laden skies

Who dilate within her cosmopoietic eyes.

Thrifting

Emily Day

Used and reused.

I am like an old corduroy jacket.

 

Soft and warm, 

Yet only worn a few times.

Someone’s favorite jacket at one point,

But eventually left in the back of the closet.

 

Taken to the local thrift store.

Different people walk by and take a look -

Pretty, but not pretty enough.

 

They lower my price until desperation buys me.

Worn once again,

Forgotten once more.

I am taken back to that thrift store.


Future by Henry Horne


absence of acknowledgment 

Lizzie Ross

The world turns around our heads in a constant orbit

Spinning, revolving around our personal desires 

How must we not be self-centered when we lapse empathy? 

How must we interact with others who do not align with our orbit? 

We believe in a narcissistic mind

Plotting to be the best person we can be 

With no thought of others in our path 

How sick.  


The Little Girl’s Lemonade stand

Lizzie Ross

Warm ice,

White styrofoam cups,

Leftover lemon seeds in hot water


A pitcher of lemon essence 

With a cardboard sign leaning against a fold-out table 

Covered in messy handwriting and magic markers

The word “lemonade” sketched out in crooked letters 

My sister’s lemonade stand is proudly located at the end of our quiet street  


Pennies, Dimes, 

And sympathetic quarters 

fill the mason jar that sits next to the pitcher 

Soon to be divided between the 4 girls 

Each of them receiving a dollar from the long day of selling 


We can hear the screaming from the house

“Lemonade 25 cents” from the mouth of sweaty little girls 

Standing for hours upon hours next to their creation, 

waving down the few cars that race by 

The neighbors stop out of sympathy  

encouraging the childhood necessity of having a lemonade stand


I admire them from the window, 

They are so sincerely passionate about a pitcher of lemon remnants 

I am jealous of their enthusiasm for life 

For it fades so quickly when the stand is returned to the garage 

And the pitcher returns to the cabinet never again used with the same joy

The Gateway by Chloe Paul


Another Puzzle With a Missing Piece

Lauren Tyler

I don’t think I could ever

Describe you in words

They’re too little

But also not enough


You’re more

Than I could ever say

But not so much

Something I’d talk about


Something tells me you’ve moved

On to greater things

Perhaps your starry seas of blue

Have kept a weather eye on the horizon

I finally found a way to describe you

An anagram is the best I can do

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