LHS CLASS OF 2021

Keegan Thourani // IMAGINATION

The time has come.
A year in waiting.
I walk into heaven.

Black smoke flies.
Burnt chocolate flew.
A volcano filled of Hershey’s milk chocolate
Spurted out of the chimney.

Oh no! It’s snowing ice cream!
The chocolate drizzled to make a sundae.
I bolted back to my house
Opened the refrigerator door
Grabbed a perfectly pudgy plump cherry

I raced back outside
Chucked the cherry on top a mound of a
Perfectly scoop of strawberry ice cream.
I could feel my stomach growing in size
As I continued to devour several pounds of ice cream.

But, Halloween was just as expected.
Little kids bolting house to house
Getting chased by their parents.
The annoying rings of doorbells.
Jolly ranchers. Candy corn.

Lachlan McLaren // AFFAIR

It happened
I wasn’t thinking
I only realized at day end
I have to say I was kinda grinning

You’re overreacting
It’s not a big deal
When I came home you wouldn’t stop asking
You wouldn’t even make me a meal

But I enjoyed her company
She even made me feel kinda bubbly

Jake V. // THE PIE OF A POEM

A poem should be like a pie.
From the surface, its bland.
It can be any color.
It will always smell divine.
But it’s what is on the inside
That make it fine.

A pie can be sweet.
Or It can be sour.
It needs some some wheat.
It needs some flour.
It can be hot.
It can be cold.
Maybe eat it a day old.

A poem is like a pie.
You dont know whats inside.
Until you cut it up
And take a slice.
Eat it slowly,
It will be nice.

After you take the first bite
Then
you know what the pie is like
A poem is like a pie.

Jimmy S. // ROMEO’S WILL

Church is the only place
Where I can decide my fate.
But the last time I walked into it,
Everything looked fake.
The coldness Here, the end of our date.
Don’t tell me whom to trust
And what to shield-
I am tired of ironies and will!
I will follow my own path now.
There’s nothing more I can feel
Nor protection I can give.
I am almost home for you…

Athena M. // COST OF CANDY

Im sorry.
I truly don’t know why I did it
I will give it back
Back onto the shelf
Slipping the candy down out of my sleeve
Crinkling like leaves
Until they blow away, busted

I promise
I won’t do it again
One thing
Led to the next
My mascara and heavy eyeliner painting my face

Forget it
I don’t know why You’d believe A girl.
Like me anyway.

Im sorry.

Alyssa Zhang // IN EVERY LIFE, A CANDLE BURNS

A dutiful match begins its ritual. Draws a flame with a scratch,
And a spark tags the wick. Shedding rings of light, the candle Consumes itself inside out, Leaving only a lucid puddle, a pool of smoke, slathered in waves.

You peer over. For a moment, you see your foggy reflection
Before its waxen memory solidifies, With your image locked inside. Even in darkness, it has known your face, Even extinguished, it remembers.

Adair Treadway // UNDERNEATH THE LAYERS OF A POEM

Words flow across the page like a jet plane in the sky,
leaving behind a trail of wispy clues.
It does not stick like a car in the mud,
unable to move.
What’s on the other side of a cloudy sky?

One relishing bite
into the delicious peel of a red apple
reveals the white underneath
Leave it like an iceberg;
don’t let them below the surface
into the deep.
Lock the door.
Hide the key. What’s on the other side of a cloudy sky?

Dress it up nice
like its winning awards on the red carpet stage.
Let the bubbles fizz out,
until only few are left.
Unpopped.
Soak in the sound of the symphony as it serenades you.
Water it,
watch it grow
What’s on the other side of a cloudy sky?
That’s for you to decide

Caleb T. // WELL-ROUNDED

Poetry is circular.

You can
think you are going somewhere, but
there is no set destination,
endless edges, endless exits.

You can
look through a glass of water
and see what is on the other
side, but
It is blurry.
It is distorted.
It is altered by the contents of the circular glass.

You can
ride on a bike
and the circular wheels will move, but
only if you steer
and spin the petals.

Poetry is circular.

Helen T. // WHAT A POEM SHOULD BE

A poem should be like the view
of the ocean from the shore,
Ending, but endless.

An ambiguous blob,
of words,
engraved in paper,
or manifested in speech.
of silence,
an idea, just waiting.

Like a child,
Understanding, expressive.
Yet wordless.

A poem should be like the sky,
Seemingly empty, but full.

That’s what a poem should be.

A shapeless identity,
Made from
The shadow-like
fragments
That was once a whole story.

Like the color Black.
One color.
But a mixture of all.

It should be like a flower shop.
Containing not some​thing​,

But something ​more.

Maria P. // SNOWDAY

There is no better feeling
Than crawling into your warm bed
Late at night
Knowing that the next morning,
The ground will be blanketed
With snow up to your hips,
And school will be cancelled,
And the roads will be closed,
And everything will be quiet,
For an entire day