Jekyll & Hyde
Royah Nunez
Martin Luther Highschool
What am I really on the inside. Am I the player or will I sit on the sidelines. What are my guidelines, the rules and regulations. Will I stay calm, or am I the type for debatin'? Stand my ground or go with the wind. Never bat an eye or will I flinch and cringe. Commit a sin with an evil grin or study the Bible turn around with a spin? Maybe wear flats high heels get the mature feel...or cop the jordans. Do I steal...or do I purchase? Bold or hide behind the curtains? Do I feel great, or am I really hurtin' am I lurkin'? Or do I walk like I own the town? Head to the sky or shame face walk with my head down? Act like a clown or the business type? Solid colors or polka dots with pin stripes? Cellphone addict or go payphone manic? Flat screen TV or am I seeing static? Do I--travel to the city or work at the corner store? Am I the soft type or am I just hardcore? Do I appreciate what I have or do I ask for just one more? Am I with the peace group or do I say on with the war? Pent house status or apartment building right on the first floor? What am I really...on the inside? Two different people...like Jekyll and Hyde.
Brisk Desert Sunset
Toriane Agostino
St. John's Preparatory School
Walking along
Like a turtle on land
Looking up
To see my surroundings
I observe an astounding sight
Of the endless horizon
Twinkling Sky
Swirling
Like the rain in a
Puddle that we run through
Smooth
Like the water in a
Pool before you jump in
Mixing
Like paint as an
Artist begins a masterpiece
Flowing
Like blood
Out of a cut
Dense
Like a chalk board
Colors on the
Sky canvas
Pink
As a dress of a princess
White
Like the first
Fall of snow
If you could touch the
Sky
Many things would cross
Your fingers
Smooth like glass
Polished like brass
Glittering like gold
Friday
Angela Pan
Garden School
It was a good day
For a walk in the park
Spring was coming. Everything
Was green and lovely. It was Friday.
I enjoyed the wind pass by
The smell of daffodils
Closed my eyes and tried to taste
Spring around me. It was Friday.
I picked up a rock. Tried to play with it.
Birds were singing happily all the time
The forest was their home,
But where was mine? It was Friday.
I missed you - My mom, my friends,
And you. I didn't cry.
Spring would bring your smell back to me.
Didn't want to go back to that house. It was Friday.
And I missed you, Friday.
"Reminiscent Symphony of Summers Past"
Cristina E. Valbuena-C.
Bard's High School Early College
The silence is deafening,
it fills the room
and seems neverending
until the assembly.
And as it begins,
music rushes towards you
and is like chocolate
for the ears.
Winds, strings, and
percussions.
All of them clustered
into a tiny space,
but no one cares.
No one notices
the mystery musicians.
Only the sound
that flows like a river
out of their instruments.
The shiny flutes
timidly recall
that picnic last year,
from adults
conversing and laughing
to children
running around at play.
Clarinets to oboes,
resonating the sounds
from many summers ago
where people came together
to chat,
have a cocktail or two,
and enjoy the evening jazz.
The violins, cellos, bass'
echo love sonnets
and shattered hearts,
serenades underneath
the mesmerizing moonlight,
dances under the starry sky,
feeling carefree
before brokenn dreams
of the future.
The enormous grand
tucked away to the side
emits a gentle sound gracing our ears and memories of happiness
stream back.
Endless nights,
fun-filled days
where work has not a concept.
Trumpets and trombones'
rumbling notes
resembling each time
the exploding fireworks
and brings you back
to where you lay,
counting the stars
until nature around you
lulled you to
a peaceful slumber.
The drums' steady beat
recreating
the parades and fairs
where you tasted
the thrill of excitement,
where you thought
anything was possible,
no boundaries.
The soft cymbal crash
accompanies you as you
return to the shore,
where waves pounded
against the steady
rocks and cliffs.
Returning to reality,
everything comes
all to one end.
You try to listen
again to the music.
You focus,
concentrate,
throw yourself
into the music,
all you get,
all you see,
all you feel,
all you hear
is a normal orchestra
with notmal musicians
playing normal instruments,
their notes intertwining
to only make
normal music.
From the eighteenth...
Vanessa Charubhumi
Stuyvesant High School
From the eighteenth, I stare across the bay
over a forest of reds, oranges, and yellows,
a breeze rustling the unfallen leaves,
like the draft, circulating around my ankles,
from the swinging doors near the ICU.
Hardened faces in long white coats
pass by without recognition of my existence,
like they've seen my type before,
coffee in hand to get through the long hours
of glancing over dozens of charts,
monitoring hundreds of vitals signs,
and assuring the heavy-hearted visitors
in the waiting room, weighed down by grief,
yet, full of hope. The windows are stained
with the fingerprints of children, teenagers, adults,
who have stood here before, staring mindlessly and
glassy-eyed, relaxed because there are no nurses to
dodge and no loud speakers to usher you away,
because from here, the canopy of leaves shines
with a vivacity that can help you forget why
you were here to begin with, because your heart
aches to blend with the bright dyes of autumn that
have lain dormant beneath vestiges of chlorophyll, to
have that feeling of aliveness pump throughout
your body and run through your veins,
because when you put aside that hope you
cling so tightly to, everything feels dead inside.
From here, I can see his window, the curtains
pulled back to let the sun permeate the bleak
atmosphere that eats away at his heart.
He hasn't been outside for weeks.