(Trig)gered
By Gurshaan A.
A Triangle
Triangle, why must you
always haunt me
with your many angles and lines,
vertices and properties,
forever embedded in my mind
like a song with a catchy tune?
I still happen to shudder when I recall
every test,
every quiz,
every
single
question,
having to scourge my mind to remember
which distinct formula,
which specific property to use,
all to find the angle measure of ∠XYZ or to prove ∆ABC congruent to ∆DEF.
You are the reason I dislike Geometry,
you are the reason I still know that ½ base * height is your area,
and strangely enough,
you are why I don’t seem to enjoy pizza as much anymore.
Now, I am out of geometry. Now in Algebra II I am meant to be free.
Free from the pointed reaches of your sides,
which follow me like a pack of angry dogs after a car.
But like the scent of strong, spicy cooking, you cease to leave.
You persistently remind me of your presence like a jealous ex,
from street signs and cross-cut sandwiches, all the way down to a small Dorito.
You have become an old enemy that I must embrace,
as I venture into Trigonometry next year.
I guess you can’t be that bad - after all,
It is you that gives a frame to a solid bike, and
it is you that is the foundation for lasting bridges.
Hey triangle,
maybe we can be friends after all.
Stanza
By Jia S.
my front yard
was not always as it is
ink did not always blossom
out of my mind
like california poppies invading
and establishing their territory
on the miniature desert
that used to be my barren lawn
the orange petals open
every morning
when the sun rises
as if on cue
every evening
they close
as if to say goodbye to the brightness
that is when I open
the crevices of my brain
least touched by the light
like the poppies’ greetings and goodbyes
writing has evolved
into a fixed action pattern
I can never run away from verse
poetry places her calloused
fingers around my throat
they linger until
each stanza states its verdict that I
have sufficiently confessed
and that is when they let me go
so I give back
through ink spreading
black hieroglyphs reproducing
red smears like scars perpetuating
two years approaching
composing soundless melodies preserving
a history of me
so I give
not because I hold myself
at gunpoint to write
but I give
because I am not a slave to my art
because donating my own blood
may be the thing that saves me
and I give
for the garden in my mind
is meant to grow
my words are the seeds
my heart has sown
and only when they blossom
will I let myself go
tarnished UniformS
By Gurshaan A.
let’s take it back to the times that I miss
all those times upon which we still reminisce
no social battles back when we were kids
living life free, think of how great it’d been
fresh off the press, now we’re seeing more stories
somebody got shot, cops are making scenes gory
saving our society has become mandatory
can't raise our generations in this purgatory
living as a people isn’t long gone and through
but there’s talks of unrest up on the avenues
black lives - they matter - and the rest they do too
serve and protect was all the cops had to do
but they’re causing violence, danger in the streets
nothing is changing the cycle repeats
i’m tired of these horrors can we have some peace
racism and violence when will it all cease
what happened to people, what happened to fun
what happened to responsibly handling guns
bullets are causing losses of brothers and sons
defenders of the streets are now a threat to everyone
notice not once did I call them police
that word means somebody who protects the streets
not carelessly causing people to get beat
violating the rights that he loves to preach
that is somebody who protects his people
stranger to race as he sees all equals
defending rights making sure it's peaceful
instead these protectors are becoming lethal
--
they went from cracking down on new cases
to now cracking down on new colored faces
CLICK - CLACK the gun cocks, aimed at certain races
slowly imbalancing society’s stasis
Sever
By Jia S.
here’s to the surgery
in my freshman year
a doctor and his team
sliced off
a benign tumor
from my upper lip
it had been there
for seven years
six hours later
I woke up
my mind drowsy
my tumor replaced
by black threads
perfectly
stitched
I woke up
my head heavy
with anesthesia
my conscience light
with confidence
here’s to the haircut
in my sophomore year
a stylist sat me down
an electric shaver in hand
worked her magic
I left
twenty minutes later
with unfamiliar
locks charred black
tickling my neck
I left
holding ten inches
of my hair
in my own hands
the remaining strands foreign
yet much lighter
simpler
than they had been before
here’s to the celebration
of the ease
with which I can sever
tangible
parts of myself
here’s to the moment
of realization
that giving away
the gifts I can touch
is effortless
by comparison
to those my hands cannot grasp
Smitten
By Jia S.
the idea
of her
is a cursed tennis ball:
even when there is no one
defending the other side of the court
it still comes bouncing
back to me
the idea
of her
is a boomerang
crafted by the devil himself:
it targets the speechless space
between my eyes
it returns
it flies
and the reality of who I am
hits me
the idea
of her
remains a constant thought:
a blurred face in my mind
six slippery syllables off my tongue
when I saw her
for the first time
it was as if she channeled
the spirit of the 10 a.m. sun
into her physical being
and the idea
of her
became a blinding spark
of fuchsia fireworks in the dark
outside the window of a hospital room
illuminating the silhouette
of a mother
holding her baby daughter
for the first time
and the idea
the afterimage
of her
has never faded since
Synesthesia
By Jasmine K.
the jagged edges of daffodils cut
me as i pass
and the thin line of blood that
those f-sharp colored petals leave tastes
like
desperation
sky blue songs pour from
my fingertips
lumpy like oatmeal
and when i finish that bowl of brown-blue mush
i begin another
song
i sip a cup of
glass-shard coffee
sweet as sin
and rough against my fingertips
not unlike
Chopin's
g-minor nocturne
and at the end of the day
i
am left with
the indigo blue of
seventy-eight
and the faint smell of Saturday
in the air
to comfort me.
Currents
By Della F.
It’s strange, how characters divide up their lives into before and after.
They’re certainly different things, but neither are so very distinct.
The line is more a score that has not been quite rubbed out than any great wall.
There’s no real dichotomy to life.
I think there are events, and there are Events.
Strange, how the greatest one of all, for me, is not the one that qualifies for the latter.
It was much more subtle, more soft, than that.
It felt more that my eyesight changed than that I woke up from the dark.
Sometimes I skip stones across water and watch them splash.
Often my fingers and wrist don’t move quite right, and the objects sink instead of making ripples.
Sometimes they hit at the right angle and touch water many times, radiating out patterns that settle in minutes.
The change they make is only temporary, but it was there once.
The river knows it has stones beneath its moving currents.
I remember splashing as I fell into my own river,
And I both swim and am swept away.