By Charlie Green
Once upon an evening at one party Halloween
I came upon a man whose hair was dyed a shade of green
With white paint upon his face, and lips a fiery red
I decided it would be the joker with whom I broke my bread
He sat upon a leather couch and had sat there for some time
With finger food and drink in hand, he jovially dined
There was room left on the couch, despite the joker’s size
With comfort, I sat ‘tween the armrest and his mammoth thigh
With fascination I watched him talk, (he had painted neath his chins)
As he told me of the democrats’ many trespasses and sins
“At least we have free speech” He cried, with mountain dew in hand
free to speak his mind, I thought, though, too fat to even stand
What had happened to this man, raised here in this town?
Chomping on cheese pizza, whilst clad as a clown
One who’d lost his mother’s faith, and dropped his father’s twang
Yet his grand old party loyalty remained the same
As Michael Jackson from the speakers ‘round the homestead boomed
I felt a tremendous sense of loss as I looked around the room
I thought about the yeoman farmers raising cows and pigs
I thought about the echoes of their ulster scottish jigs
Even older, I saw canoes, fashioned lovingly
After months of careful carving from a giant birchwood tree
All of them spontaneous, genuine and free
Committed to their family and community
Suffering from hunger, chaos and disease
Thanking God for every day, and blessing every sneeze
As I had this wondrous vision, I then saw myself
Who’s miserable and yet, to them, the pinnacle of wealth
Staring at myself I then was filled with a great dread
As I pondered the endless bureaucracies ahead
Of cubicles and contracts, of slavery and greed
Of dogs worth more than fetuses, and logs worth more than trees
“I don’t know”, I told the joker, “I don't know who to trust”
“Just a dusty old tome, and a feeling in my gut”
“Alright bro, thats cool, just quit listening to their lies
You need free yourself, man, just open your eyes”
I nodded and told him it was time for my departing
And said goodbye to the joker as I left the party
By Isabella Schremp
“I love you to the moon and back,” you say
Before we part
You reminded me how much you loved me
My little mind imaged your words
Little hearts wrapped around the moon
I smiled with my baby teeth showing
I wish now
That I held onto those words just a little bit harder
That I tattooed our memories on my mind
Before you slipped from my brain
Now I sit here with only photos of you
And the few memories I have
I try to strain out memories of everything you did
I pick my brain to try to remember what your favorite color was
But our memories have faded from my mind
I only remember little pieces of you
And now all I have are stories that have been told to me
I only hope they are telling the truth
But in the nights I wish you were near
I remember what you would say to me
“I love you to the moon and back”
By Abby Davick
By Charlie Green
The world is a bag, and it is bursting at the seams
Like buttons on a glutton, like feasting maggots teem
Some squirm to the top, some crushed underneath
Slaving for their masters, slaving for machines
Filled with filth and poison, poised to reap refuse
Belching evil words, and bulging with untruth
But never spills the liquid, a glum and clammy gray
Spinning, softly suffering, night by night, day by day
Amidst the mist and fog afoul, stands stacks of golden coins
Towering high above the surface of the nation's noise
Amassed from pasts of fortunes crass, they now grow green with mold
Lilting with the twinge of guilt from ages growing old
Though I criticize, my lies are proof of who I'm for
Any action otherwise has motives ulterior
I'm in the liquid, a floating fleck, eternally unclean
The world is bag, and it is bursting at the seams
By Lauren Tyler
Who will carry the white man’s burden
His groanings, moanings, and strain?
Who will bear his labors
Working, hurting, but not for gain?
The answer is this
History’s tragic twist
The white man does not carry his burden
But passes it to the Native man,
Or the African woman
The white man does not toil
His brow does not sweat nor his back strain
But he keeps the fruit and passes the labor
Creating a country built on tears and shame
When his cities become rust
His dreams no more than dust
He’ll give them to you
And tell you to make do
Why should a black man carry the stars and stripes?
Why should a Native American listen to the National Anthem?
The truth of the matter is
They helped build this country
They deserve it’s bounty
They carried the white man’s burden
So now it’s his turn to carry theirs
By Sophia Dowling
By Janie Monahan
You don’t quite remember how,
But somehow you’ve found yourself
Stealing to the ground.
Held hostage because
Your mind is bound
To a memory
A moment
A month
A year.
A time
Where the only thing
You could cling to
Was fear.
There you lie,
Crawling across
On the floor.
Crying out for a door
That maybe,
Maybe someone would
Implore--someone could knock!
But alas,
You’re trapped in a broken clock.
By Ada Young
