Propped up against the wall
Waiting and holding on to the last grip of civilian life.
Our heads were shaved and that was when it set in,
We were now recruits.
The swamps of both the training grounds and the packed barracks was home.
I had entered what was supposed to be a barber shop
But what barber shop has only one option?
Three chairs were laid out,
Three barbers waited parallel to the chairs.
Hair covered the floor like leaves on autumn grass.
All 18 years prior erased away with the buzzing
Sting of the razor.
Drill Instructors barked orders,
Move move move!
The words bounced off the cold, gray slabbed walls.
Simple instructions now became complex orders.
I practiced in my head how to march
Lo right layo!
I had hoped the earlier I started the faster we would march on the concrete parade deck
Filled with the footprints and stories of those before.
Soon we entered a room with grey plastic boxes stuck to the wall.
The boxes were rounded off on the edges
Stirps of plastic flakes were barley holding on the main box.
Before I knew it the box was opened and my hand on the phone that was inside.
We read off a laminated paper with instructions that sounded robotic.
I have arrived safely at Parris Island.
Peter McCallion // AYE SIR
Max Ostrowski // FOREST
The wind is soft on this hollow night
Gently pushing the strong, thick branches
Rustling the tall, thin grass
Which is just starting to freeze over
The trees towering over it all
connected with the world above and below
Anchored in the firm ground
Holding up the dark blue sky
In the sky is a distant star
Shining bright in line with the moon
It sees all on this clear night
If you took a look around
You’d see a river flowing in the distance
Or a lone wolf howling at the moon
And you’d smell the freshness of night
Sohail Mohammed // WARM COLORS
I ask people to take in all the intoxicating smells
And hear the wind whistle like a flute
Or admire the satisfying colors that nature has painted
Hear the birds and squirrels, singing and playing
Leaves crunching beneath their feet
Feel their hearts listening in peace
And eyes satisfied with the beauty
Only to realize that the tree has no more life
Hearing the leaves crunch beneath their feet
Slowing deteriorating to nothingness.
Inviting the air that brings along a cold death
Slowly freezing all the lakes and ponds
Everything comes to an end
Nicholas Favazzo // VENDING MACHINE
A1 A2 A3
What’s next?
I am not in the business of placing bets
But C5 has been selling so fast, be hasty
And F3 is looking ever so tasty
And for the customer looking for more
I head D2 has cookies galore
But if it were me choosing, I have a hunch,
If I had a penchant for a tasty munch,
I would look past the chips and treats,
For I have no interest in sugary sweets,
I would go right past the old vendor itself
And grab a fresh apple from my own shelf
Jocelyn Hsieh // THE LAST TIME
The timer went off at four years, so we moved.
Past green, picketed flatland,
Past yellow stalks yearning towards the East,
Past wide highways wandering West.
My parents promised my weeping sister
It was the last time!
Her fragile fumbling roots could rest,
Teetering on the banks of the Atlantic.
I was freshly ten, a budding daffodil
Exhausted by monochromatic peers, and
Looking forward to the city lights that surely
Would illuminate the thrill of the threshold.
The car sputtered.
Five years passed in five miles:
The Mormon church, the high school,
The Hawkeyes sign, the muted college.
A burst of speed to the unknown:
Nothing but corn, hills, and glimpses.
Past Indianapolis, Cleveland, Philadelphia,
And arriving in Boston.
I set my timer for 8 years.
Collin M. // THE RING OF KERRY
Rolling hills, filled with green
Water rolling in on the shore,
Sunlight reflecting a golden sheen,
Climbing to the top, making me sore
One day lapsed
Only 7 more to go
Exhausting heat, I almost collapsed
How much more can I take? I don’t know
The third leg of the journey is underway,
Slightly late, overslept
Headed west all day,
Towards the sea we crept
Got lost, not surprised
Started to dim, we could see
A never ending night,
On our way to Killarney
Punya G. // EL SUEÑO AMERICANO
¡Mamá! I shouted. It was so wonderful to see
someone familiar again.
The guards, white as abuela’s
mejillas, Stared at me as I ran
down The hallway of the
enclosure.
I saw my mamá and papá,
Tears in their eyes, We
sprinted towards each other,
As though we were
maratonistas Breaking
through the ribbon,At the
finish line.
Earlier this year, We had decided to go to
the land of the Gringos, Live the American
Dream – el Sueño Americano.
But mamá and papá were taken from
me – No, I was taken from them.
All of a sudden I felt these hands around me, As
though my abuelito was hugging me, His warm
chubby hands holding me As the smell of pan
dulce – sweet bread, engulfed us both.
But something was different about those hands,
They hurt.
I looked behind me and saw a man, half
hombre half toro.
I tried to pull away to no avail – And
screamed, “Mamá, papá
ayúdenme”
Suddenly memories flashed through my head The
tortillas we used to make together, The time we spent
looking at the sunset, at my favorite playa And the
smell of my abuelitos… And then the memories
disappeared.
It occurs to me now that I won’t be there
anymore, Under the sol mexicano, Laughing
and eating tamales with my cousins, Tíos,
tías, abuelos, abuelas, and other relatives.
And now I might never even fulfill the
so-called Sueño Americano.
Rebecca W. // OPPOSITES
Let them be as volcanoes
always fiery and blazing
but turning land into coal.
I’d rather be a mountain
tucked in with the others like a single snowflake
falling down with so many.
To have broken away from the others,
to stand tall and proud.
To be blanketed in snow
or glisten in the sun.
I’d rather be cold and hidden, and if
then shivering instead of an uncontrollable madness
than to be a ball of flames
where lives are destroyed
by their own decisions.
I’d rather be serene
than angry and always seen.
If I could hide within myself under the sky
I’d rather be a mountain than the other kind.
Driscoll // DUBAI
The tickets are expensive,
The security is strict,
The plane ride is long and uncomfortable,
As if they don’t want you
to go there.
But when you see the
Spectacular buildings,
Man-made landforms,
Materialistic man,
After materialistic man,
With a Bentley to show his worth,
You know why you came.
A whole city built on nothing but
Oil, and vast desert.
Corrupt politicians,
With absurd laws and regulations
Make living there dangerous.
However the visible dust particles
In the air making it dangerous to breathe,
Are drugs
That make you want to stay forever.
Camilla B. // THE GRANITE STATE
In the Granite State is
a small town special
to me although, maybe not
to you. Up Route 3 then over
to I-89, where Vermont and
New Hampshire meet, just
south of the snowy White Mountains.
Sweltering summer days at Storrs Pond,
autumnal apple picking at Riverview
Farm, skiing down the frosty cold snow
at the Dartmouth Skiway, hiking up
Mount Cardigan in the blooming spring,
where each year, we returned.
The bustling main street
filled with the familiar bakeries,
restaurants, and shops.
Where I used to spend
so much time, and now,
hardly any.