The Lack Of
Student: Josie Steen
Inspired by the lyric of Emily Dickinson
Class of 27
“Success is counted sweetest
By those who never succeed”
It appears absurd to me
That you can almost understand better
What you don't have
Like after eating a crumbl cookie
Water didn't used to be that necessary
But after the icing, the sugar, the crumbs
The mouth waters, the tongue dries
Water becomes that of greater value
I understand the water now
Water is deemed sweeter
Followed by that which is sweet
Life is deemed sweeter after death
Family is deemed sweeter when you lose a piece
When I lost a family member
9 years old
We arrived at the house
On a hot Florida night
One before the celebration of life
Very sunny, ironic
My little brother came up
No prompt or prior meeting
Hugged the mom
My mom’s cousin
She cried
And cried
And was thankful
Family is counted sweetest
When you have a lack of
This little life in front of her
Counted very sweet
When she didn’t have her own
Through the tears on her face
She understood more
But like Colbie hugging Raquel
Life has a way of providing a taste of the sweet
A way of filling the lack
But only temporary
Until on that glorious day
We’re filled within
Step One to be the Hero is to Be
Margo Windemuller
Class of '27
Every Morning, Barely Past Seven
Carlie-Ann Pell
Inspired by my L’ange flat iron
Class of 27
Every morning, barely past seven
I swing the mace of the
Hairstyling world,
Without a second thought
It comes last in my routine
A bloody finish,
Despite the baby pink and
Angelic branding
It is deceptive in its mere
Conception,
Startlingly soft to the touch
Yet a hard log of apathetic fire
Firm jaws ajar,
Anticipating that
With the press of a rosy button
Heat will spew forth
Mowing down, scalding
Pressing fibers of imperfection
Into sweltering submission
As the fan whirs in placation
Hisses between lips
Locked shut,
Smoke between
Blunt teeth
A paragon that fits
Just within your palm,
Fuming credence
To decades of human desire
The desire to flatten
To twist a tethered rod
And burn
Our loathing away
American Goldfinch
Margo Windemuller
Class of '27
Another Day on the Farm
By Anabelle Osbourne
Class of 27
Waking up to beautiful pink and orange hues–
I put on my old t-shirt, overalls, and muck boots
Don’t forget to grab a fizzy water, or two
I walk out the back door and up the gravel drive,
The birds sing their anthem and the cows chime in with their “moos”.
Fluffy white dogs run up to the fence–
The cows not far behind–
I pet their heads, one at a time
I keep trekking back to the barn,
The gravel crunching beneath my hand-me-down boots–
One size too small.
I walk in the shed and put the fizzy waters in the fridge
Then check the chart for the day ahead–
Morning Schedule:
6 buckets for pasture #1
2 buckets for each pin in the barn
8 buckets for pasture #2
10 buckets for pasture #3 and #4
With a long day ahead–
And with hungry cows awaiting–
I walk out of the shed and to the feed barn.
The gravel turns to grass and the cow’s moos grow louder,
I grab gallon buckets off the shelf
And the metal scoop off, too
I open up the giant white bags of cow feed
And drop the buckets down beside me with a clunk.
Flies surround me as I plunge the scoop into the dusty grains
And as I pour the feed into the buckets,
A cloud of tan dust comes back at me–
Drying up my throat.
Oh how nice one of those fizzy waters sound right now,
But instead I keep shovelling, shovelling, shovelling.
Untitled 5
Olivia Yandell
Class of '27
Observational Drawing (My Bedroom)
Roark Shoemaker
Class of '30
Doodles
By James Hood
Class of 27
on the back of my clipboard,
illuminated by glaring fluorescent strips,
Someone once drew a sky.
stars sketched by pencil tip,
digging into the hard masonite,
a Signature, half-erased
by years of oily hands.
there’s still some life to be found,
the lines drawing shallow breaths,
when the Light is angled just so,
shadow-casting gouges resuscitate the shapes.
i can’t help thinking about the Hand that made them,
hovering, pressing, lifting, dropping, dragging, shredding into synthetic wood
this Artist must have been waiting, or
perhaps just bored, or
trying to pin down a fleeting inspiration before…
it slipped away.
only their incomplete sky remains,
a doodle outlasting its purpose or name,
even as the graphite is worn away,
the etchings remain,
proof that Something once reached outward,
and, for a moment, stayed.
Rusted String
Roark Shoemaker
Class of '30
Pokes the Sky
Inspired by the Seattle Space Needle
By James Hood
Class of 27
It
is
a
wasp-waisted dancer.
Cast in steel, pirouetting on its tripod.
Arms stretched up; tall and twisted together
“The future is a destination,
we can reach–standing
on tiptoes!”
She sings for
all to see.
Ridiculous
saucered
tophat.
Pokes
the
sky.
Telling
me that
skies…
Skies aren’t,
Quite ceilings—
But just neighborhoods
Waiting for us to move in.
360-degree promises to show us the world.
Her hat declares, “We are no longer earthbound.”
Northern Flicker
Margo Windemuller
Class of '27
Untitled 4
Olivia Yandell
Class of '27
Title Needed
By Donnis Boochie
Class of 27
I too, taste the didgeridoo…
Over yonder, in those sacred lands,
There, the didgeridoo does stand.
Hollowed out by fiery termites before,
Then yet taken, by human-folk for their ever twisting sounds…
Did the trees yet agree to this?
With their wisdom untold, Cut…
Short by the mandibles of a new kind.
I too, taste the didgeridoo…
Does the future hold what the trees once did?
Or have the trees been weeded out?
Overtaken by an invasive species.
Metal does ring.
A sound resounded ‘round the earth,
A revolution holds no leverage.
And that ever twisting sound wrings out a bit too much of those four sacred elements, and stops.
I too, taste the didgeridoo.
And just maybe, that argent sky in the night,
Will say, stuck in an ironic plight,
with its ancient sound: “To what dear dust, are you now bound?”
That question posed by the soul itself,
Will resound clear.
For that frequency is quite familiar.
Almost, like the nostalgic, blurred, noise; spoken, by that instrument of long forgotten tribes.
I too, taste the didgeridoo.
Step Two to be the Hero is to Move
Margo Windemuller
Class of '27
The Wayfarer
By Madeline Jarrett
Class of 27
Do not ask me where the wayfarer has gone.
For, I do not know myself.
If I were to wonder where-
I’d say- he would be
Sitting atop a high mountain shelf.
Blowing his smoke to the wind-
While praying against a day's past sin.
And I hope he strays away, from the world-
Filled of draining, fake formalities.
And- I send my word to God,
To bring him a sense of calm-
Before he fulfills the journey met with casualties.
And I hope he keeps my letter in his pocket.
So, he may read it every once in a while,
And think of my presence with my word-
To remind him not to drive over 85.
Just for time to stop on his watch dial.
And I am hoping he learns to stop-
Smothering his sonder feelings.
In return- learning how to say goodbye-
And embrace a difference between-
“Farewell, we will meet sometime again!”
Or an ending where both cut their own ties.
So, do not ask me where the wayfarer will arrive.
For- I do not want to realize he is gone.
I saw him leave when the sun set low,
And I will carry his boldness in my backpack-
As I approach my own morning’s dawn.
And each lesson that he taught me-
Will bring me closer to being free
Dishevelled Deguerreotype
Roark Shoemaker
Class of '30
“No live organism can live sanely under absolute reality”
Tessa Knutson
Class of 27
A crow is dying nearby on the highway
And I’ve perched my car– beside it
A lousy, dry stick I wield
And prodding the twisted corpse around
Its neck
Snaps–
Up / to my glaring face,
Beating down
It’s dead, lazy eye limped to my gaze
Black wings–splashed like a dark stain
On the corrugated road
And what could it say with its last ounce of Life?
“I fell from belief in an absolute reality.
–The burning asphalt in my talons
And the twisted trees and shiny things
I flew, because my wings could carry me
And lived for my guts and the Red
That rushed and rushed all up and down inside me.
But I could not–for all that was real–
Find The End of the spiral
In the snail shell.
And my eyes wore grooves–
Around
Around
Around
Until my brain split–
And I could only see in circles:
Burning asphalt,
Twisted trees,
Shiny things,
–And the Wings I once trusted for themselves
Distorted in the fray,
Lost what was up or down...
–I fell.
And when I fell,
–I met The Road.
The World spiralled out before me.
I could not see You:
A large, rumbling, blue bullet
met Me on The Road,
In a flash,
I was crippled
In a flash–
I met The End.
Now the guts I felt are all in front of me
–Now I see it all in front of me–
I see the madness in believing
That I could find The End before arriving
And now that I am ending,
I see that Everything is
Infinity.”
Untitled 3
Olivia Yandell
Class of '30
Do Not be Afraid
Margo Windemuller
Class of 27
Do not be
afraid to feel
gutted by losing
something heavy.
Sure, you’ll be cut
loose so quick you
spiral–
up–
the neck–
of phantom
vapors; of sky.
And there’s no–making–real
ground from air.
So dizzy you don’t
realize you’re
flying
Do not be
afraid to hike back
from the–razor–clear peaks
even though the view
blurries with each lowering
step–
down–
the strap–
of muddy boots.
Descend to
the every bit
of beauty the mountain is
made from
and let it all go
as you pass it by.
Do not be
afraid of the cloud-covered
Sun. It’s hard to distinguish
the bulb from the glow.
The target diminishing
With greater pressure
to aim true.
Shoot–
aim–
fire–
Is the trigger pull
Your will or
another’s desire?
Do not be afraid of the egress:
embrace it
as you will the return.
Osprey Blues
Margo Windemuller
Class of '27
Untitled 2
Olivia Yandell
Class of '27
Spit
Olivia Yandell
Class of 27
Spitting.
Typing.
I type thoughts-
Words spit out like phlegm on a document.
Words which have no significance.
Words that have a truth.
They’re real.
But how do we perceive what we think is true?
When truth is just a deception of what we perceive-
I type my truth, my thoughts, my feelings.
But nothing of significance.
My words have value yet my tongue has no taste.
Grasping the tip of my tongue.
Clenching the keys of my keyboard.
I type-
Word vomit…
But vomit is just the descendants of what we feed ourselves.
Untitled 1
Olivia Yandell
Class of '27
Watching
Olivia Yandell
Class of 27
Watching.
You think, just because.
Just because what?
I think- I think just because.
Because so much has changed?
Because of everything?
People come and go.
Watching- Waiting on something.
I don't know…
Do we know why we go on?
Changing- Seconds, minutes, hours.
Time is flying, but who's counting?
If you think about it, time isn’t real.
Days change, people change.
But do you?
Watching, you watch yourself whirlwind down.
Trembling down the rabbit hole you've been in so long.
Questioning, but what's to question when you've already faced that truth?
You sink, swimming up for air but nothing fills your lungs but water.
Drowning.
Days go by.
Wanting air but you're still in water.
Procrastination, wanting, feeling, thinking, watching.
It's the consumption.
It's the process, a process which reputation disowns itself.
You dial deep.
Watching you see.
Thinking you consume.
Procrastination you waste.
Feeling you hate.
Wanting you love.
Feeling versus fleeting- we fleet from what we feel.
But why do we flee? Because we feel.
We feel the same.
Because what is a feeling?
Games of the mind.
Tricks upon your own understanding.
