Uproot

By: Zoey Greenwald

June 1967

The summer air makes everything melt a little bit. That’s something I’m sure of. The days have been melting for the entirety of the month now, each second dripping away from a solid ounce of hope to translucent film which I find more and more difficult to catch between my fingers. It seems like time moves all too slow. Everything around me— everything outside of me—  moves so fast, but I just stay put. In this little garden, with these little petals, moving slower, slower, slower. And that’s how June’s been.

One thing that melts into the air is the stench of the roses. Their perfume almost blends along with the humidity here, caught right in the middle of the atmosphere. It reminds me of last summer. It reminds me of you.

Some roses get sent out to San Francisco. Some get handed out to policemen or woven into chains that try to hold the nation together. We see it on TV. From TV it looks like they never die. They never show them wilting, anyway. Because everything’s so fast, I suppose. The camera doesn’t have time to catch decay.

When Alice went through through the looking-glass she found roses and they were jealous. I remember just how jealous they were. Alice was a flower that could move. I wonder what my roses think. I’d hope that they would be jealous, too. Unless they don’t know that I am a flower who can move. Do they think that I’m one of them, frightened into a spine-straight shock with roots that reach past where my soul ends?

Some Flowers Who Can Move get sent out to San Francisco. Some disown men like you and find new lives in dreams that smell like herbs and sweat and charcoal. They join the whirlpool stirring up around them. They uproot.

They call it Flower Power, what they’re doing. I wonder if they know how much power it takes to stay right here. To wait. To remain.

The power’s not in the flower at all— not for me. It’s in the roots.

Because no matter how much you feel like uprooting, you just can’t avoid disrupting the soil.

Senses

By: Kyle McCrea

Get lost in your own gardens of hope, that only you alone can create. Listen to the open call of the bird's that have the freedom we all desire. Don't let other's create your garden for you rely on yourself always, no matter how much they mean to you, because the one's you love the most have all the power to destroy you. Feel the soft grass of hope and love. See the beauty in every flowing river bend. Love what you have not what you want. Smell the fresh air of everyday that your alive. Taste the sweetness of every little thing you can.

Sunflowers

By: Sidra Mirza

Beauty in yellow, you are oh so sweet
It seems the silent winds keep you lively
And rising tall throughout the summers heat
May your petals never fall, stay lovely

Colors glisten as the sun strikes your leaves
Warm and bright you sure are like the sweet breeze
You lift one's spirits and they never grieve
People will smile with happiness at ease

And often forgotten you are alive
They crush your existence for oils and dyes
And with scissors and sharp knives they arrive
Coming at your grace by complete surprise

For people pick petals and let them fly
But dear Sunflower, hold your head up high

Little Steps

By: Anonymous

A poem contemplating the universal truths of this confusing dance we call life.

One step forward,

One step back.

Our steps are small

And our journey is long,

Excruciatingly so;

And still, we trek on.

The destination, the journey,

That is up for you to decide.

But wherever we strive,

Let the truth be our guide.

They are a perpetual dance

In which both hope and despair lead.

Redemption may not come,

Our hearts may not be freed.

But we may hold onto that

There is a story to be told.

A beginning, middle, and end,

No matter how bored and old.

A journey we must finish,

And memories we will hold.

Two steps forward,

Two steps back.

And so we trek on.

I, the Watering Can

 

By: Sophia Kriegel

I pour myself into people with such softness

Such clean water coolness

It is my best quality

And my worst

These roses

Wilted long before I arrived

But I will still water them

I will still wait for them

Because I know one day they will smile again

In this garden

Of gold dust and good things

One day they will not hang their heads

In hollow heaviness

They will look at me

They will love me

I, the Watering Can

The fickle flower warrior

I gave them all of me

Their roots

Wrapped around my wrists

So tightly

They must love me

Why hold on so tight

If they do not love me

These cold corpses of petals

And pale pink

I pour out all the pretty pieces of me

Watch them soak up my sunshine

Now I just wait

I just water

One day I will give them enough

Magnolias

 

By Olivia Go and Abigail Abraham 

Magnolias wilt in the fall, as she does

Like a flower, she’s gentle and kind

But no one understands what’s on her mind

Girls say mean things behind her back

They ruin her self worth over their lunchtime snack

She walks home alone, leaves crunching beneath her feet

In rhythm with how her broken heart beats

She tells herself live one more day

 

Magnolias die in the winter, as she does

Winter Formal she gets a date

She sits in her dress waiting for him as it starts to get late

He never shows

He only asked her as a dare

She expected a limo and a rose

But all she got was a dress she would never wear

Feeling pathetic and alone she shuts her eyes closed

She tells herself live one more day

 

Magnolias bloom in the springtime, as she does

The mean girls never stopped talking

But now her heart had an unbreakable blocking

Prom rolled around

She got asked by another boy

But she said no and went alone

Because now, her own company gave her the most joy

She found happiness within herself

And when she walks home along a path of fresh flowers

She tells herself to live another day

Except this time, living wasn’t a chore

And that is the way it would permanently stay


 

 

PERMANENT

By: Alyssa Nicholson

Why do words save writers?

They give them hope, and a purpose.

Fire in their veins.

Skin flushing hot,

The things they can’t say, now permanent on paper

 

Why do word hurt writers?

They bring them pain, and unease.

Head in their hands,

Heart stopping,

The words that certain people can’t bear to hear,

The things they should never say, now permanent on paper

My Favorite Color

By Taylr Smaw

people are getting caught up in the colors
no one ever wonders what’s on the other side
vibrant colors
lonely
please give her love
she is this majestic figure
she is none other than the only one who cares
i love you moon

now that the colors are gone
what are they gonna do now?
fake care?
until the day strikes again
no one enjoys the dark like i do
i may be scared, but it’s my safe place
no one belongs here but me
i wish happiness on everyone

the people with lives stare at us
like we aren’t trying
we all see the sunset
don’t jump off
the air feels nice
jumping into the colors
all feelings go away
all colors leave
except red

she thinks it was a little phase
that it wouldn't last
but here i am
in class
staring at a red dot
hoping i'll be the next spot
right between my eyes
aim
adjust
shoot
we're all dead
not just me
but those without glee
we will fall
without a call


 

Red Walls

By Taylr Smaw

i am from broken relationships

from home cooked meals and drunken slurs

scary, silent, the taste of fear is always in the air

i am from a great oak tree,

it branches to everyone but me

i’m from the barbecues and the judgemental eyes

i’m from the need to take control and the quiet nights

from “ Pour me another glass!” and “You can do better.”

sweet peaches, sour cherries, bitter lemons

the drunk nights, rough fights, what a sight!

upon our walls lay broken relationships, everywhere you look, in a frame, in a book, except my room

what's the point of family, if they broke when i was born.