twilight musings

--by Aliza Billet

Begging the night to stay, I cling
to the dripping sky, gripping the edges
of the black blanket tight
but it seeps through my fingers, leaving sparkles
on my skin. A consolation prize
from the stars tearing free — tearing me —
as they slide. The sun dares to rise,
despite my cries, and I cringe
in the soft burning light, a pink twinge of day
invading the deep peace of night.
A sprinkle of mist kisses my bruised flesh
and the breeze brushes its hand through my hair,
like a gentle caress.
Where is the strength? Pick up the pace.
Blow me away,
like dust in the wind. It's not that I want to die, 
but oh, to drift free, like a piece of the sky

Do I Look Like Him?

--by Linda Dayan

I remember new shoes dirtied by field’s mud
Tarnished by the past day's rain,
and my own insistence to play soccer in its consequences.
I remember your face,
when I came home with freshly brown sneakers.
I remember passion plagued arguments,
Twirling in the tension between us.
I remember going to bed bothered not by new bruises
but by the fact you didn’t come to tuck me in that night.

I remember a silver pair of fish earrings,
each with one sapphire eye.
one drowned in the alphabet carpet of recess gaga games.
I remember searching for hours,
I remember not needing the dictionary to understand “loss”.
I remember tears trailing traitorously onto the letter F.
I thought maybe the fish earring would fall on F,
or maybe E.
I remember going home and suffocating,
on the definitions of irresponsibly and regret.
And I remember the nickname pirate,
Though I forget on whose insistence
That I went to school with my lonely fish.


I remember the last project done for me,
The last posterboard.
it was going to frame my first-ever poem.
we poured over it for hours,
it was a heart completed by puzzle pieces,
as if the surface anticipated heartbreak.
inside each piece, we wrote out "peace"
with steady hands,
we wrote "peace" in every language Google offered.
I remember criticism for crude calligraphy.
I remember wasting a bottle of whiteout,
a testament to my bountiful mistakes.
but most of all I remember patience.
I remember realizing,
you are just a mother doing her best,
so I as your daughter can be mine.

Basket of Strawberries

--by Hadassah Reich

I want to read all the books on my shelf. Instead I bought another one, Abandoned and collecting dust. When was the last time I had a thought? Instead I bought another one, Stacked with shiny new words. When was the last time I had a thought About my hopes and wishes and dreams? A dictionary stacked with words. Sort through my alphabetized mind Of hopes and anxieties and dreams And all the chapter titles that define me. Sort through my alphabetized mind. I forget friends, dates and memories And all the chapter titles that define me. I am broken china on a table of contents. I want to hold on to friends and memories Like Ima’s hand when crossing the street. To flip back to the table of contents, And frolic in a field full of strawberries. One hand with Ima’s when crossing the street. The other dragging from the weight Of a wicker basket full of strawberries. We’ll have to wait to enjoy them. My mind is dragging from the weight Of all the books on my shelf. I’ll have to wait to enjoy them, Abandoned and collecting dust.

A Soul's Thoughts

--by Nechama Grinspan

I've always wondered why I think about the stars as much as I do.
And sometimes, when I look in the mirror for too long, I wonder if I look too much like my sister.
Then, oftentimes, I would look again and see myself outlined with a marker,

crossed out like the science test I failed back in 4th grade.

Sometimes, I wonder why I resist talking to my sister
and why I have more empathy for dying flowers than for my own brother.
But then I remember how he kicked out my front tooth in fifth grade,

But I also think maybe because I wasn't as kind as I could've been.

I constantly watch my love and hate dance like the sun and moon for my oldest brother.
I tire easily of staying stagnant, so I feel the need to hunt, gather, and reassemble every part of my 

    self, soul, and mind,

in order to become as true, and as new as I could possibly be.
And so oftentimes, I'm left wondering if I'll ever know what it's like to be perfectly content.

Then there are the nights I worry that I look too deeply, that I think too much and too closely into 

    God’s Mind.
And I worry my words aren't eloquent or poetic enough to consider my poetry as real as the sun.
And so oftentimes, I'm left wondering if I'll ever know what it's like to be perfectly content.
But then one day, Ariel told me that I was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him.

And one time, my best friend told me she loves my eyes because they turn gold in the sun,
And that's the color she always thought was God's favorite.
And then, one day, I helped an old man pick up his cane and afterwards, I cried for not picking it up    

    sooner for him.
and on the last day of 6th grade, my teacher cried while saying goodbye to me.

I think a lot about whether or not God has favorites.
I picture Him with a list, circling names with a marker,
And I picture Him whispering to the luminaries while pointing at me.
And yet, I still wonder why I think about the stars as much as I do.

Gift from God

-by Naomi Sabzjadid

God,
My Dear God.
My Loving Lord.
My Giving Governor.

My God,

You have given me the right to experience the pain of love.
Now you give me the pain of experiencing what’s right.

Now the right suffers in her white dress.
And the black gown of pain was worn by her once.
Not just once, not taken off and on,
But torn and stitched back together—
With the threads of living.

Made with dead dark animal fur, black and reflective under the light of the 

    winter sun.
Each hair convoluted and dense in its layers.
The sheen of fur appears glossed and smooth on the surface.

Wrapped tightly so that she may escape the cold.
Oh but the sun never gave its heat in the winter.

And the white linen of rightness, expensive and earned,
is too light to be worn against the harshness of its counterpart.
Oh but how the fabric folds.
How it drapes and flows with the pleasant weather.
With the revealing nature of the sun.

And the hot sand reasoned under her feet— crusted over with its millions 

    in number.
Yet she dances with delicate drapery— her white fabric
Flapping and waving.

As if to say:
“I’m here! I’m here, I’m right here.”

From Beyond

--by Aliza Billet

Words itch beneath your skin, trying to break free
Stop drowning your mind if you want the poetry to breathe
Stop shoving music through your ears like conch shells do the sea
Just cut the words loose. But you're too afraid to bleed
Walking in the world, you remember what it's like to breathe
Humanity dances, painting the canvas of earth
In each other's arms, vulnerable lovers are unafraid to bleed
Their smiles and softness prove that they value their worth
Alone in your room, though, you can't paint the canvas of earth
You've no pretty colors; your palette is messy and gray
Try as you might, you struggle to value your worth
And sit there in silence, unmoving, with nothing to say
Today the dripping sky is messy and gray
It's not like the moon, shining silvery way up above
You wish for once that you had something to say
To smother the silence, to fill the world with words made of love
I hope you know that I'm with you, though I'm way up above
If you knew that, maybe you wouldn't yearn to break free
I hope that they find you, my words made of love
And when they do, they hold you, like conch shells do the sea

The Carpet

--by Avigail Levine

I did not know the rules of private.
Seated crisscross applesauce, 
kids line the perimeter of the square carpet.
it nearly covers all of the cold classroom tiles.
the material prickles my legs as I sit still.
Morah Heidy wears a green button down shirt.
She is enthroned huge and heavy on her plastic chair.
She is distant from the carpet.
As she reprimands the insubordinate little boys
who cannot sit still like me,
she releases a guilty giggle.
An obedient girl, I am perfect and beloved.
Assured of my safety,
I finger my nose innocently,
relieving a deep-seated itch.
All at once I hear my name.
Banished, she orders me
to wash my hands with soap.
An unstained girl proclaimed dirty
Ears ringing, a swarm of little eyes follows me
to the bathroom, where I shoulder the lesson.

Tamara Haiku

--by Libby Vadnai

I watch her struggle

She is a pain in my butt

Why are we still friends?

Appendicitis,

She was there when I had it.

She is good to me.

She wastes our time.

We are trying to do our work.

She distracts us both.

We watch videos,

They are incredibly dumb.

We laugh till it hurts.

Ha! Time management,

It is not her greatest strength

She is always late.

Something has been said,

There is something to be said

For a week one day.

Love Is a Gentle Thing, Yours Is Thicker Than a Velvet Ring

--by Linda Dayan

I am Wreathed in a red gown of your care. 
Ruby studs slowly creep from my neck, 

Reluctantly joining the rose lace adorning my chest. 

My arms are wrapped in blood lace, 

So fine no one can see the cuts 

You put so much attention into. 

It is most admirable at my stomach. 

There the incisions are made sharp and deep, 

The blood flows profusely and freely 

Creating the world's first all organic maxi skirt. 

It pools around my feet, 

Hiding the stilettos you gave me, 

The ones your mother gave you,

And her mother gave her. 

The one’s which stop me from running. 

Which force me to stand here in an ocean of myself,

But I cannot find my reflection in my excess. 

When I look down I see someone else. 

I see a girl toying with a magnificent ruby choker,

I see a girl adjusting her real lace sleeves,

I see a girl twisting her rose fabric skirt. 

I see a girl loving her first real heels. 

I see the girl you have always wanted. 

"Try a Sestina," She Said.

--by Hadassah Reich

The lemons didn’t stand a chance 
Seeds ripped out of their opaque yellow homes

Squeezed sour into a white mug 

Over steaming mint leaves of forest green. 

I hold the mug in my palms 

Not listening to whatever you just said.

Yesterday after a meltdown, "I love you," my mother said 

Giving me a second chance 

While rolling cookie dough in her palms.

Standing in the kitchen, the heart of our home

In front of a cabinet painted sage green  

Where we keep the coffee mugs.

Reaching for the top shelf, “would you like a mug” 

Is the most formal apology I have ever said. 

I offer to make your favorite tea, jasmine green,

Though we both know eventually I will need a third chance.

She just wanted peace in our home

I watch it slip through her palms. 

I guess I’ll drink the tea from my palms. 

Staring at the wreckage of a shattered mug

Forces me to consider never coming back home. 

"Please clean it up," she said. 

But the crash stopped me in my tracks, so fat chance 

Like I’m waiting at a red light that never turns green. 

I remember when my favorite color was green. 

I was five, painting a canvas with my fingers and palms.

The art teacher gave me another chance 

When she saw me resign my brush to a collective water mug. 

"Try again," was all she said. 

I couldn’t bear to bring mediocre artwork home.

In my backpack I carried the landscape home 

With rolling hills of pastel green.

"It’s beautiful," my mother said. 

Like a critic, she held it gingerly in her palms, 

Studying the technique and sipping from a clay mug,

"Do you want to be an artist," she asked, "you have a fair chance."

"When you fly away from home, take every chance" 

She said, "grasp the opportunities that fall into your palms,

Potential isn’t evergreen nor does coffee pour itself into a mug."

Meade St.

--by Nechama Grinspan

There was a time when all I wanted was to stare at the sky
I would count the clouds and feel free in the wind.

My best friends were the old woman who lived next door,
The public school kids who I’d watch from my bedroom window,
And the cherry tree that sat triumphantly across the street
And I thought that’s what made me happy


Last August I drove three hours away to find what truly makes me happy
I walked and listened to the river and spent my nights under the sky.
Though it was beautiful, there was something ominous about having a river 

    in the front yard instead of a street.

As if at any moment in my sleep, the tide would rise and I’d be swept away 

    among water and wind.

The thought paralyzed me so much that I had to find a thicker curtain for the 

    windows,
And make sure all the locks had found their places in the doors.

During the day I made sure to open all the doors.
I sat on the grass and asked God to teach me how to be happy.
I asked Him to make me a vessel and a window,
And deserving of feeling like I’m contained beneath the sky.
And maybe it was my imagination, but I could've sworn I felt a lighter 

    weight in the wind,

Causing my hair to blow across my face just like it did when I would bike 

    down my old street.

I loved how the cabin wasn’t visible from the street.
I felt more secluded and as if it was just me and God behind closed 

    doors,
Where it was quiet enough for me to hear His voice in the form of the wind.
I asked Him again to show me how to be happy.
And I continued to sit there, waiting for an answer while staring at the sky.
It was then that I saw all that was meant for me looking down as if peering 

    through a window.

I closed my eyes and heard the creak and opening of the windows,
And I felt comforted like I did when I’d pick cherries from the tree across 

    the street.
I opened my heart as I inhaled what fell from the sky.
And for a split second, I worried that maybe I had come too close to locked 

    doors,
And that maybe I was supposed to find out on my own what makes me 

    happy.
Moments later, my worries were moved by the wind.

I then let myself be taken by the wind.
And when I opened my eyes, I saw myself colored by the reflection of a 

    stained glass window.

And suddenly, for the first time, I knew what it meant to be truly happy.
I saw my life as it had been back when I lived on Meade Street
When I couldn’t tell the difference between an open and closed door,
And when I only saw God as being the one who holds the sky.

I’ve always played with the idea of what makes me happy, like a kite plays 

    in the wind.
It moves between the clouds in the sky and often reminds me what it was 

    like to hang out a window

Above a street that held my childhood behind its wooden oak doors.

Drapes

--by Naomi Sabzjadid

Mother of God, and wrenching inked palaces seven hundred paces into the forest. 

Holy nearing the bridges and creaking bricks to nearing their final edge. 

Torment the place with everything the night can possibly possess 

Hunting and waiting 

Hollow and etched, gasping bare windows 

Cold metal stirring with the deserted air;

Armor banded to old walls.

Carry out and deplore yourselves, for the clock will definitely soon strike twelve. 

I told you now,

and I have told you then, 

and you will be told 

that there is nothing to be done. 

Now the place dips and shivers 

Like a bad feeling,

As one’s heart drops. 

The whole palace whines through wind bitten windows, 

And the drapes whip and thrash and flail and cling for dear life. 

Silver satin held by deep-browned brass. 

You can never pale its song, 

Slamming the walls and tattering the ceiling with its gigantic wings 

Its silky sheen glares;

It’s angry 

It’s hurt 

It’s confused 

It’s helpless 

It’s trying 

It’s pleading 

It’s holding 

And gripping. 

And no one knows where the wind blows from—Outside or in? 

Hungry for the view it gives, and forever tied up to cover it. 

Stagnant

--by Ayelet Siev 

with the sun beating down this way on Hannah's boat

the sound of margaritas blending and Ella's playlist

the entire group together

it was a perfect day

the morning had been spent laying in the sun

getting freckles and comparing tan lines

Margaret and Ella made sure we got it out of the way early

yacht time was for chugging margaritas and playing mermaids

yacht time was for filling Davina in on everything she missed year round

when all our visions' were sufficiently blurred

Davina and Hannah did a parody of Ella's old vlogs

Margaret pretended to be her mother, storming in

I laughed along

Margaret and Davina got into a dance battle

Ella appointed herself DJ

Hannah appointed herself judge

I appointed myself audience 

Hannah teared up at the third song

and began to tell Davina why

Ella stroked Hannah's arm

Davina told her she did the right thing

Margaret told her it was all okay now

I told her they were right and she'd be over it soon

Hannah suggested we do cannonballs

Davina grabbed her hand and pulled her to the edge of the boat

Hannah grabbed Ella

Ella grabbed Margaret

I grabbed Davina

we all jumped on three

from under I saw Margaret pop up 

Ella next

I heard her yell something about Marco Polo

I saw Davina pop up

Hannah right after

but my ankles were stone

I couldn't go up

I couldn't move

I flailed my arms to get someone's attention

to tread up

to stop the descent

arms treading

feet weighing

keeping me in place just below the surface