The February Thaw

Welcome to February's literary magazine post!  We are happy to announce that along with the new weather that is approaching, we also have new posts for your enjoyment.  We hope that the departure of winter combined with this month's lovely writing and art work will put a new "spring" in your step.  Enjoy!

The Kingdoms

Let me begin with this:

I want to live happily with both sides, but I clearly cannot.

The war has begun and there will not be peace; I am old enough to know this.

The East kingdom has declared independence from the West.

I am the prince.

My territory borders the two kingdoms, and they both ask me to join them.

Now I consider my heart and nothing else.

While the West may be wealthier and stronger, I do love the East too.

Yet, my heart tells me the West has a place in there as well.

Do I abandon my past loyalties?

Do I break the promises I have made?

Where will I be happy?

These questions do not help.

 They leave me viciously between a rock and a hard place.

But the rock has turned to magma, and the hard place is only ice.

The fighting begins and I am left out of it.

I must decide before it is too late.

by Will M., Grade 9

artwork by Emily W., Grade 9

A Journey I Must Find

My lifelong achievement was to tell a tale.

I yearned to tell my future all about the past,

My life dedicated to a journey.

But I remained unsatisfied with the unknown facts.

A journey I must find.

A simply complex mysterious item.

What truly is a journey?

Must I go and leave for some preposterous adventure,

Out of the place I call home?

A journey I must find.

Is it the escape of ideas?

The thoughts and feelings within myself?

Or is it the exploration of such unidentifiable entities inside my head?

Some things I did not know.

A journey I must find.

Are the answers about this journey in a book

Somewhere on a discarded shelf?

Will I run out of precious time to carry out my voyage?

Must I find this expedition?

This journey I must find.

As I live and dream and think,

Possibilities bloom from seeds of ideas.

I have not gone to travel far and wide,

I simply dwelled on my vast curiosity.

Is this the journey I had to find?

In the future I tell this tale,

For it is one I reflect back upon.

Why should I search for a journey,

When the journey indeed was my searching?

My journey I had found.

by Katie H., Grade 9

artwork by Blair B., Grade 9


Celestial Nightmare

The cosmos daunts me,
Its fiery stars ablaze,
Speckling the somber sky.
 I float, hanging limply
In a celestial nightmare;
It’s been eleven years now,
And my trip is coming to an end.
 I promised my little girl
That’d I’d be back in no time,
But asteroids and meteors
Have left me helpless and hopeless,
Without shuttle nor oxygen tank
To keep me alive.
 All I want is to be back
Home with my daughter,
To eat cereal and watch
Lousy cartoons with her
On Saturday mornings.
All I want is to see her face.
 The waning oxygen tank on my back
Releases its last molecules
Of precious air--
Deep breath in, Hold.
I see my daughters face,
Her speckled cheeks,
Glistening green eyes,
Her warm smile.
 I hear her voice,
Her sweet, innocent laugh
Rings through my ears and
Disappears into the endless void.
 I hear her call out for me,
I attempt to call back,
Screaming and crying
And tearing at my throat
Making no sound.
 I watch my skin go pale,
And my body grow frail,
It’s all over now.
 I succumb to my fate,
Lift off my bulky helmet,
And drift into the flames
Of a nearby star.

by Madison C., Grade 9

artwork by Bailey S., Grade 8

Fully Present 

From hearing to listening,

In distracted mindsets to deep corners of thought,

Closing out others to engaging in conversation,

One only improves by being fully present.

A state of confusion or the lack of interest,

Morphing to curiosity and wonder.

What is unknown must be explored,

It can only expose new light.

And just the help of a single story telling,

one that has lost grasp of the common interest,

May only provide new insight to those who are lost,

For this means the world to the one who listens.

Those who only hear must fail,

as they lose opportunities to grow upon the unfamiliar information.

When they are forced such a story

but do not devote themselves to processing what is being told to them,  

one more chance to bloom suddenly disappears. 

Just when the loss of interest takes over,

take a moment to listen and absorb.

Not a disadvantage within a mile when spending time on letting the words digest,

the realization of the message's importance will resonate within.

Internalize what is being fed to the soul,

appreciate every bit of knowledge and wait,

until the next time advice is desperately needed.

It will be the most helpful spoonful one has ever eaten.

Sitting there staring does a person no good,

as the details slip right past one's fingertips. 

All of the difference is made with focus and attentiveness,

One will be able to catch it before all has escaped.

Be there with everyone and everything else,

and only there,

not off in the distance ignoring the environment,

Surrounding one's very body providing such comfort.

Do not hear them. Instead listen.

by Carley K., Grade 8

This month's recipe is for Chocolate Truffles. Enjoy!

Do Not Fear . . . It's a New Year!

It is 2017, and you know what that means! No, not failed resolutions. New writing and artwork! This month we have two poems that shows how to handle adversity while young. These poems may not be very cheerful, but since it is the beginning of the year, we can put all our fears and despair behind as we move forward. We also have an essay about a phone obsession, a recipe for a healthy chocolate cake, and some artwork for you to enjoy. So sit back, relax, and pray for snow as you read this month's post.    



artwork by Max R., Grade 8

The Dreaded Ride

Waiting, in the cold dark morning 

For the blinding yellow eyes to distort my vision.

As the bus turns the corner,

The same old dreaded feeling arises from my stomach.

Oh, who shall I sit with today?

Is it the boy who reeks of month-old underwear,

Or is it the girl who purposefully moves her feet so no one else can sit?

I have no choice, I must sit with the cougher.

As I take my seat, the rough leather clutches the fabrics of my clothes.

Then it begins.  It is the same coughing I hear while in the front of the bus,

Only this time, it is inches from my ear.

I try to drown it out with music that pulsates loudly through my ears,

But it is no use.

Cough, Cough!  Hack, Hack!

Sadly, the irritations grow as if they are insects.

I can feel every bump in the road

And I start to develop a bruise due to the unusual amount of potholes.

Finally, a safe haven arrives on the horizon.

As stressful as it can be sometimes,

School can always save me from the dreaded ride.

by Jack D., Grade 9

The Roots of my Obsession: My Phone

I picked up the plastic toy phone which was lined with different symbols on the colorful fake buttons. I was fascinated by the over-exaggerated sounds the buttons would make when I pressed down on them with my little fingers. My easily distracted three-year-old mind was intrigued. I would yell "Hello" to the fake phone and proceed to talk to the non-existent person on the other line.

As the summer rolled around going into my sixth grade year, all I wanted was a phone. All of my friends were beginning to get phones, so of course, that meant I needed one. I begged for a phone, but my parents were persistent with their answer. And that answer was no. Being the technologically advanced eleven-year-old I was, I created a Power Point listing all the reasons why they should allow me to get a phone. To my delight, it worked.

 I finally had a phone. It was a deep red color with a touchscreen and slide-out keyboard. I carried it with me everywhere I went, sliding the keyboard out and typing away. I boasted about my new cell phone the way a proud parent brags about their stellar child who just got back from winning a math competition after returning from their volunteer job at the animal shelter. In those first few weeks with my phone, I do not think I went fifteen minutes without checking it.  I was on top of the world.

After Christmas break of my sixth grade year, everyone returned with iPhones. Well, maybe not everyone. But those who did return with iPhones—which was actually a lot of people-- showed them off and made sure to let everyone know they had one. I'm not going to lie, I was just a little bit jealous. But who would not be? Those kids had the newest technology that a lot of adults did not even have access to. Not surprisingly, I wanted one. But I did not say much to my parents because I knew what the answer would be if I asked for one, and I would not be too excited about that answer. The one time I did mention my desire for an iPhone to my mom, her response was right along the lines I assumed it would be. She said I did not need one.

I remember looking out the window of our new home in Pennsylvania to see the huge truck pull in with the words "Moving Service" printed on the side. I watched with agony as the movers piled boxes throughout the house. My parents knew that moving away from Massachusetts was hard for me. I knew that they knew that, and I'd be lying if I said I did not use that a little to my advantage. If there was any good time to ask for an iPhone, that time was now. With a little help from the tears pouring down my face at the mention of starting a new school, my parents were finally convinced that I could get an iPhone. 

From the very first moment I held the iPhone 5S, silver and gleaming, in my hands, I knew it would never leave them. I was drawn to fact that now I could do almost anything I could do on both an iPod and a phone, but do it whenever I wanted to all on one device, which is exactly what I did. I was constantly on my phone, texting, snapchatting, scrolling aimlessly through Instagram, and listening to music.

            Although my phone may distract me from studying sometimes—okay, maybe all the time—I still take pride in my obsession.  My phone is more than just a device. It’s something that allows me to call my friends when I miss them the most, watch endless hours of Netflix on Sunday afternoon, and blast my music on a long car ride to temporarily tune out the world. I am completely obsessed with my phone, and I would not want it any other way. 

by Melina T., Grade 9

artwork by Camille L., Grade 9

Role Models

Little girl
Shorter than the shorn blades of the garden,
Fragile as the fragments of her mother's heart,
A delicate dreamer of tomorrow. 

Little girl
Watching the remains of her once wondrous mother waste away
Her courage crumbling faster than the coffee cake her brother captured from her rightful clutches,
Dreams deteriorating

Little girl
Wondering as to what would become of her
Self. 
Mother.
Brother. 

She's only a little girl, after all.
A beautiful little girl.
But the world wishes to break what is beautiful.
That's just how it works.

by Iliana S., Grade 9



To accompany this month's literary selections, we have this month's recipe, thanks to our editor and baker extraordinaire, Emily W.:
Healthy Chocolate Mug Cake



artwork by Courtney C., Grade 7

In a Deep and Dark December

The snow may not be falling yet, but winter break is almost here, and the darkest day of the year is already behind us!  We are proud to bring you both poetry and an essay this month.  The poetry is inspired by parallel structure, using repetition to artfully arrive at an insight.  The essay is about tracing an obsession to its roots, its beginning. And can you name the classic song that inspired our title for this month?

We hope this month's post brings you some inspiring reading during your time off from school!


Gone

It could've been prevented.

If only . . .

If only you weren't stubborn.

If only you listened.

If only you went to the doctor.

If only you weren't sick.

If only you didn't always deny the fact that you weren't feeling well.

If only you made the call.

If only you went to the hospital weeks before.

If only it wasn't too late.

If only it was a dream.

If only it didn't happen to you.

If only I could have prevented it.

If only I had forced you to see someone.

If only I could build a time machine.

If only I asked you if you were okay more often.

If only I could've been around more.

If only I dragged you to the doctor.

If only I could go back.

If only I said goodbye in time.

But it's too late . . .

You're gone.

You and your sister have the same face.

It hurts every time I see her, cause I also see you.

I miss you.

She misses you. She's not the same since you left.

She sees the light in life, but it's harder when you're not there to guide her.

She's different, she's changed.

I've changed.

I'm not the same.

It's been what, four years?

Four years without you.

Four years ago cancer took you away.

You fought beautifully.

But it wasn't enough to keep you here.

It wasn't enough to save the kindest soul that God has ever created.

If only you were here...

If only cancer didn't exist.

If only I could go on with life.

If only there wasn't a gaping hole in my heart where you should be.

If only--

by Grace A., Grade 9 

artwork by Sophie M., Grade 8

Growing Pains

I was a little over one year old the first time I spoke,
And even then, even at so small, my parents knew I would be a talker,

A rambler, a storyteller.

I was seven years old the first time I dragged out the miniature keyboard I found buried in the bonus room upstairs and began to record notes until I found an arrangement I appreciated, to my parent's confusion and wonder.

And even then, before I reached the fifth grade, my parents knew I would be learner,

A thinker, a mind so malleable it was practically clay.

I was ten years old the first time I was painfully aware of the emptiness of my lunch table,

The first time I realized I pushed a little more than I pulled, that the silence was as comforting as it was empty.

And that was the first time I realized I liked being alone, but even more, I hated being lonely.  

I was twelve years old the first time it came clear to me that I was sad a little more than I was happy,

The first time it was clear that my tears flowed too freely, that I craved even a word from a stranger.

And that was the first time I knew I needed someone, anyone, if I wanted to escape the dark that plagued me. 

I was fourteen years old when found myself giggling for no reason, with people that had no reason to like me but did.

That was the first time that I realized my heart no longer crept into my throat with jealousy every time I looked upon people that were so painfully and obviously happy, that I knew I had the potential to finally be a full piece of a person. 

And that was the first time I knew I deserved to be happy.

by Jessica I., Grade 9 

artwork by Grace S., Grade 8

The Roots of My Obsession: My Baseball Glove

11:43 PM. The bright screen of the desktop illuminates my face, for it is the only light in the house. The clicking of the mouse fills the room, and it is the only noise: Attempt number twenty-one of creating the perfect glove. Red . . . no. Navy blue . . . closer, but still no. Then it all comes together like two pieces of a puzzle. I furiously put in the options: the lace length, my name font, and the webbing type. I have done it, the perfect glove, and the glove of my dreams. It’s a Wilson A2000 size eleven-and-a-half. The baby blue and grey melt together like a glaze on a cinnamon bun.       

A baseball glove is the most important thing for a baseball player. It catches the ball to make outs, and if you don’t have outs then your team won’t get to bat to score runs. And if you don’t score any runs then you can’t possibly win the game. So you see, the key to winning all comes back to a good glove. As early as I can remember I was always having  a catch in the backyard with my dad. Baseball was -- and still is -- a religion that I eat, breath, and sleep.

It is the longest three weeks of my life waiting for my beauty to arrive, like a wife waiting for her husband to return home from the war. Every day after school I go online and track my package like I was tracking an enemy ship. Long days pass until after school on one seemingly ordinary day. “Ding-dong”. I become Usain Bolt and the doorbell is my starting gun. I sprint as fast as I can down the stairs, each thump meaning getting closer to my destiny. As I approach the door I see a man wearing a brown UPS uniform with a glove-sized package. “Hi, I have a package for a Mrs. Mary B.” My hope then dwindles. I take the package and close the door.

I slam the box down on the table as I suspect it is for my mother. I plop on the couch and think, “Wait . . . I used her credit card to buy the glove!” I stand up and I am Usain Bolt once again, darting for the package. I extend my commute to the scissors. I grasp them with my hand shaking and pause. I take a deep breath and slice the box down the middle and see something like never before. I delicately open the bag with my forefingers, and a rush of leather scent flies into my nostrils. I become a surgeon and take the glove out of the box without touching the sides. I put the glove on my trembling hand. My hand greets the newest member of my family with nurturing and love.

If I am at practice or in a game, every time that glove wraps my hand in laces and leather, it feels like the very first time. I get that rush and emotion that bubbles inside me like hot water.  I use that as fuel to play better. This glove makes me the baseball player I am today.

---

by David B., Grade 9

And now for the recipes of the month, discovered, as always, by our editor Emily. Enjoy!

Chewy Chocolate Chip Cookies

Hot Chocolate

November's End

The leaves may have fallen, but the poetry has not!  Enjoy two poems and two works of art to finish off the last days of fall.  Afterwards, bake yourself a pie with our monthly recipe link.

We Cry the Tears

We cry the tears that shield the certainty

Drowning in their own bouquet of sorrow,

To hide our terror-stricken lips and eyes,

The answer to our helpless cries

And heart with so little love.

When does this cover-up end,

Lives forming and falling down this twisted path?

Yes, we can see the looming future,

But still we cry the tears.

Blinking and prying back these clear water scars,

To hide the regret that stains the skin,

We whimper but the water is too deep,

Our self is quickly changing, drowning

But somehow a new day comes and so do we.

We cry the tears.

By Sarah R., Grade 8

artwork by Sophia M., Grade 8

Eyes see but are blind.

Ears hear but don’t listen.

We sit in the present, there but not living.

We talk but without purpose.

We smile, but it’s fake.

We laugh but without emotion.

We eat but don’t taste.

We say thank you and please but don’t realize what it means.

We breathe the air trees give us but continue to extinguish woods,

For development, for homes, for a Wawa gas station.                                                                   

We marvel at animals but continue to chase them towards extinction.

We warn future generations about the warming world but close our eyes to our contribution to the greenhouse effect.

We say sorry but without remorse.

We urge people to think world peace but continue to declare war in our small lives.

We say "don’t bully," but we say wounding words with intent to feel good about ourselves,

Whether to friends, foe, or family.

We say be thankful for what you have, but we take everything for granted.

We humans are peculiar, from how we continue to learn so much, experiment with and defy the basic laws of nature.

We explore things only known to the creator, looking into space and genetically modifying curiosity to expand with our consequence.

We are scientists, doctors, teachers, engineers, and musicians.

But we are also betrayers, ignorant, stubborn, thankless, and thoughtless.

We need to heed our own advice, learn from our mistakes, trust each other the way we would like to be treated, laugh truly, smile genuinely, see the world as it is, listen to others with your heart, be truthfully sorry, and live the life that is meant for you, not the fake one some choose to live.

by Samantha P., Grade 8

artwork by Nick S., Grade 8

Our monthly recipe is for Apple Crumble Pie.  Enjoy!

What We're Cooking Up This Year

Welcome back, all you Holicong Colonials, to the 2016-17 Literary Magazine.  We know that you are curious adventures, and this year we are venturing off into new territory, and extending our "culinary" flare. For example, there will be a themed recipe posted every month. So come and explore the vast entertainment and edification of sevenatenine! We are glad you discovered us!

The Fallen Angel

artwork by Angie B., Grade 9

A fallen angel

Thrown from the sky     

Wings torn from his back

Unable to fly

A broken angel

Now bound to the earth

Neglected, unloved...

Doubting his worth

A tormented angel

Once strong-willed and fierce

Now cowers in shadows

Holding back tears

By Julia B, Grade 8

Wisdom from Wawa

            The droplets of rain, dappled across the car windshield, blur the headlight hues into resplendent orbs.  Faintly at first, the distant roar of thunder could be heard.  A moment later, the thunder rolls angrily, closer than before. This is no ordinary storm, though.  The thunder, it seems, is emanating from my stomach.  “Um, Mom,” I sputter, “can we, uh, stop at Wawa?”

            “Sure hon,” she replies curtly, almost oblivious to the storm within me, ripping my conscience apart.  I breathe a sigh of thunder and a spark of lightning flashes momentarily in my eyes. 

            Excursions to the Wawa have become a ritual.  Wawa, to me, is a sacred place – it’s heavenly gates guarded by somewhat enthusiastic employees, its aisles stocked with Tastycakes and :Lay's chips.  Within its walls, I have tread many a time.  Among all the Italian hoagies and chocolate milkshakes, there hide life lessons, and I think in my many hours perusing the store, I’ve stumbled upon a few of these.

            Once, years ago, I stood below the iconic lemon-yellow sign that reads W-A-W-A.  I threw open the doors with the vigor of a four-year-old thrashing open birthday gifts.  The scent of a million sandwiches enveloped me.  Quickly, I grasped one of the touchscreen kiosks that had revolutionized the art of sandwich ordering.  I contemplated each one of the many options.  With all the many hoagies staring back at me from the luminescent LED screen, I felt that to select one would be to condemn countless others.  In a moment of decisiveness, I tapped frantically, knowing the routine well. My pointer finger bolted from the “little bit of mayo button” to the “extra cheese option”.  In a moment, it was done.  A little slip of paper was ejected from the machine.  It read in its bold black print: “Shorti Italian Hoagie.” I shivered with anxiety, yearning for the sandwich, dreaming of its tender meat and its creamy mayo, enclosed neatly within a toasted roll of white bread. 

In those moments, waiting, I was taught patience by Wawa, a patience so strong that I could stand silently when every muscle in my body urged me forward.  I learned from Wawa, that in waiting, the pleasure derived from that first bite of succulent hoagie is increased ten-fold.  Now, whenever I wait for the molten sauciness of a meatball marinara or the classic spiciness of a sloppy joe, I stand there with a knowing grin spread wide across my face, content with the knowledge that what lies ahead is worth the wait.

Later, in the car, I cautiously unsheathed the Italian Hoagie.  I took a moment, just to indulge in the beauty of such a wondrous creation. The waxy paper that the sandwich was once wrapped in capered in a gentle gust of wind.  The scent of fresh-cut salami, wafted throughout the car.  This was a moment of companionship — just a man and his sandwich.  My glossy brown eyes suddenly lost their luster.  My smile suddenly morphed into a frown.  I utter a single solemn word: “No.”   There was a massive glob of creamy white mayo sitting innocently among the meat. I shuddered.  After all the waiting, the anticipation, the love I had developed for my sandwich, it was broken, shattered.  The damage had been done, the action irrevocable.  Wawa had lied.  The little bit of mayo button was only a ploy to get unsuspecting 14-year-old to spend an extra three cents.  My sandwich had been sabotaged.  This was not a little bit of mayo. 

That day I had spent four dollars and eighty-two cents on an Italian Hoagie.  What I didn’t realize was that it had been a bargain. In the process, I uncovered an invaluable gem of wisdom: In life, you can’t always get what you want.  This holds true even for Wawa hoagies – in fact, especially for Wawa hoagies.

Wisdom is not always gleaned from the likely places. Today, I stand, practically a sage, and I have Wawa, my favorite convenience store, to thank for this wisdom.  Thanks, Wawa.

by Liam M., Grade 9

artwork by Angie B., Grade 9

Insecurities

His eyes were so cold,

and so were his tears.

His smile was stolen,

and so was his laugh.

His personality taken,

and so was his heart.

His family broken,

beat up and wounded,

just like him.

By Delaney K., Grade 8

Recipe of the Month: Pumpkin Spice Roll, selected by Emily W., Grade 9  https://www.verybestbaking.com/recipes/32372/LIBBYS-Pumpkin-Roll/

Allusion and a Fond Farewell

Miss Levin's ninth-graders concluded the year with The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins and here is a poem one student wrote inspired by this book.

Inferno

Exhaustion whispers me to sleep as the third day comes to a close

My dreams are dull and full of darkness since fear takes a hold of me


I hear the sleight sound of the symphony bird songs fading

But I don’t know why, but I would find out because the Orchestra was about to start

I’m so intend of dreaming that I don’t feel the faint sting on my skin

The feeling grows stronger making me wake up to a terrible nightmare


A fiery inferno is about to in gulp me in one swoop but my instinct react

I fall from my tree I was perched on like a young predator would do

When I land all I can feel is the burning ashes, dig their way into me

It’s devouring my flesh, causing pain runs its way through me

I try to awake from this nightmare but I can’t, this is the Hunger Games, this is real

I run from the hands of the death, trying to fight the pain and anxiety


But anxiety takes control of me and makes me fall down for death to take me

I can’t but think it’s my fault for this terrible death, this terrible event to happen

But then my hatred turns to the capital, their fault for me to die this way

I can’t give up this easily, I need to fight, for Prim, for myself, for revolt

I take a grasp on the anxiety and hide it for later

I grab my bow and my backpack, dashing through the woods like back home

I look to my side seeing a figure, it’s Gale! He’s here! We’re hunting together

“You can do this Katniss! You’re better than they are!” I hear him whisper

Then I see Gale fade into the flames, He’s given me courage to win

I shake my head trying to make the memories leave but then I see Cinna

He is hugs me, telling me in his soft tone that send chills down my back

“You can win! They love you! Keep the audience hooked”

Then the hug consumes me and the memory of him does as well

Cinna gives me faith of winning the games

As the fire plays it tricks on me while I’m running away from the inferno

It has showed me Gale and Cinna, who’s next?

I close my eyes and open them again, Its Prim

Of course it is, why it wouldn’t be, I fall under the flames spell again


I remember I told her I would win for her, and that’s what I plan to do





Well, we all made it to the end of the academic year.
And we'd like to thank you, our readers, for your loyal support.  After all, without you, we would not exist!  Now it's time to celebrate the year and all the ups and downs it has brought our way.
Think of taking the stand and appreciating the good things in life, stopping to smell the roses and never letting the thorns drag you back, as you read this powerful poem, created by Mr. Hepler and Mrs. Vogelsinger's students during a fusion poem activity.  They blended language from poems they found during National Poetry Month to create this fond farewell! And one last thank you to all of our editors for making this year's magazine great!

Artwork by Ethan V., Grade 9

The Art of Not Giving Up

As the script of life progresses,

Hold fast to your dreams.

Live simply and wisely,

Stay faithful, kind, and true,

And don't lament the things 

You will never have,

Control of,

Or do.

Perched on mountaintops,

You gaze down upon the awaiting world below,

Crystal waves crash,

Grandfather trees grow,

And golden grains of sand sparkle,

With infinite possibility and potential.

Step confidently forward, and the road shall rise to meet you.

Even when life is ravaged

By flaming hate,

A single asphalt flower

Shall rise from the ashes. Your love will not die.

Even when you feel like a bird with broken wings,

Don't let your spark go out.

Keep on trying.

Keep on fighting.

Don't forget to LIVE.

Be hopeful, but not oblivious to the future.

Stand your ground,

And take this world by storm.

by David H. (and his group), Grade 9

Silence Poem

As the end of the school year approaches, please enjoy the final eighth grade post. In the following poem, Brearly S. presents deep thoughts into the topic of silence.

Silence

Peacefully, softly, tranquilly.

Water falling fast,

but soft

Blues, greens, teals show

as the sun shines

its bright rays

so quiet, so peaceful

The scene so quiet. The only thing heard

is the soft pitter-patter,

as water hits water.

So quiet as if

in its own bubble with all outside noises

gone.

Even the people who come

make little noise

almost as if they were afraid to disturb it,

As if the whole thing would shatter

with the smallest noise

by Brearly S., Grade 8

Artwork by Gillian S., Grade 8