Dear World,If I were a doctor,
Sapient and bearing,
A prominence my good name would sustain,
And within the walls of hospitals, luminous limelight shines where
So dexterous would I lacerate the harbingers of pain, and still
Would juxtapose my gallantry with subtlety and unassuming grace;
With ivory overcoat that sways so cavalier
As I would stride composed down the corridor that is determinant--
Life 'round one bend, Death contaminating the other.
I would capture all the seeming of omnipotence,
And still so chaste would hone a pewter-bay mien,
Oh, the pastures I would pace that dress in cool white silkiness,
And shed warm bastions o'er seas infectious and overgrown.
If I were a doctor,
Boundless glory of celestial reach would forever reverberate,
Greatness through fidelity my soul would sweetly sate. But not so--For I am but antimatterWhich the good doctor-- unconcerned-- did annihilateBefore I came to be.James P. Elliott, NY, Maine-Endwell Senior High
Silhouettes in SaigonImpoverished, soiled hands of poverty
amidst a dust-filled third world country I used to know
shattered into a scene of oxen sauntering
through thick rice paddies and stork-like
silhouettes gracefully hovering ao dai dresses
above copper-red mud
Regrets faded into Polaroids of cherished moments;
hardships thawed into a cup of lavender tea
at my favorite café.
A world played in slow motion,
slowly identifying pieces of the
Technicolor mosaic of my life:
the bohemian stepping on the cracks of asphalt sidewalks
in the metropolitan twilight--drawn to nothing but the
neon-lit scatter of moving vehicles.
the architect of new ideas on the gently-swaying swing sets—
plastered in front of a backdrop of rustling autumn leaves.
the shadow of a thinker sitting on an ancient fire escape—
contemplating the significance of Baroque art and
waiting for something more out of this kalaidescopic life
Tri Chiem, TX, Langham Creek High School
Naught but These Revere ReposeThe gift of respite from a day
For which exhaustion breeds its home,
See naught the welcome face display,
But that of weary figure’s moan
Of pleasure, now the toil done
In mid of mindless midnight scene,
A shaft of droning light succumb
At last, lethargic torpid dream
Reward the narrowed pupil seam,
Screaming silent, anguished hate,
Defunct and dry of lashes wean
To meet a union, fall and meet.
When body’s arms – inert and dead
Have reached demeanor void of use,
Their tendons now a somber lead
Exhaustion now their pulse profuse.
Appear this time, nocturnal shift…
Discernment now – it’s wit to close.
To be, can be a blessed gift,
For naught but these revere repose.
Kevin Smith, NY, Bishop Grimes Jr./Sr. HS
Train Tracks IVthere is nothing here but you and I
Facing the folds of time again
passing us by like some sort of ghost train
Flashing spots of black then fading into white
We’ve followed these tracks for months and we keep going
but they never end, of course.
We’re only waiting to end up where we started.
But I’m sure we’ll end up in the junkyard covered in rust.
When the sky is light grey and the air is soft and sharp
My hands are dry and cool and the water is only calm
you’re skipping over the holes in the bridge but
you have to catch me when I fall through.
the years pass and the cycle continues.
history repeats itself and so do my words.
we speak in redundant tongues and neither of us will ever leave.
your mouth spews an eloquent flood but I shut mine too long ago.
we speak our so-called love again and again and neither of us will ever leave
this cycle of tracks and trees and gaping holes in the bridges.
each day we pass and pass and twilight fades to starlight, and
time is irrelevant.
Kaylee Frick, NY, West Seneca West Senior High School
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