Vision+Voice

It’s something like being interested                                                                                      in dollhouse miniatures … Or, you know, putting a ship in a bottle.                            – Lucia Perillo, on modern poetry

 Dollhouses are gilded                                                                                             gingerbread with windows the size                                                                                   of fingernails and furnished                                                                                           with polished plastic picnic tables. They                                                                 canonize flawless families                                                                                                     in flimsy fabric ensembles, delicately                                                             assembling copies                                                                                                           without originals. The building will                                                                                 be abandoned in the bedroom corner.

 A boat in a bottle is a cloud                                                                                                       in an hourglass: water kept in                                                                                                a closed circle, tumbled into seaglass.                                                                                It was made in the century                                                                                                      of whale hunts, now clouded by dust and                                                                          tidal with condensation. My grandfather                                                                          kept it in his study the way a shark holds its egg purse or                                         how a sailor clutches a locket.

 There are so many lives                                                                                                             we are not living.                                                                                                                         There are so many lives                                                                                                              we are no longer living.                                                                                                      There are so many ways                                                                                                             to build with precision.

---

James Bowie High School

12

The in-flight map says                                                                                                                              we’re over Winnetka,                                                                                            but the suburb looks the same,

and I get the same feeling:                                                                                                                       I could card my hands                                                                                                                 through tiny trees                                                                                                                         and puncture frozen ponds.

I want to trace                                                                                                                                                the lines the farmers made.                                                                                    I want to work                                                                                                                                                 with my uncalloused hands.

If there is sadness here,                                                                                                          it is stowed                                                                                                                                                      in the overhead compartment.

Arrogance peeks its blonde head                                                                            through the cabin door.                                                                                                                               I pretend to look out the window.

Separated from Earth                                                                                                                                by a thin layer of vapor,                                                                                      these streets could belong to me.

---

James Bowie High School

12

 My dreams have grown                                                                                       mundanely vivid. I can’t                                                                                             nimbly untangle                                                                                                                 their milky opacity from                                                                                                    my waking life. Last night,

 I dreamt of folding paper animals,                                                                     touching corner to crease,                                                                                 mimicking breathing                                                                                             creatures: crane, cat, fish, and fox.                                                                                     I ordered them

 on the horizon of my dresser –                                                                                             a patient pageant towards the ark,                                                                           spaced airily,                                                                                                                           like nightgowns on a clothesline                                                                                       or owls in the night.

 When I shuddered into morning,                                                                                         I woke not to a rush of cranes,                                                                                         but to the wind                                                                                                           fluttering a map                                                                                                           through my open window.

 The topography covered me                                                                                             like a quilt. My dreams were                                                                                           thin, blue paper, but                                                                                                                   I could put a pin through the map                                                                                 and trace the interstate with thread.

---

James Bowie High School

12

Your lonely whisper such a song across the plain

Through the treetops Flying is a blast

Yet your thinking of how much you could gain

Would it ever last

Sneaking by, experiencing so much hurt

Trying to be heard falling to your knees

Thoughts could be heard bet ween the dirt

You are lesser only the breese

But you have feelings too

Deep down inside about to break

If only they knew

Your feelings s w e p t away with a gentle rake

When you take a STAND when you need a friend

Who better than the wind

---

Gorzycki Middle School

7

I count the hours, the minutes, the seconds on my hand.
The journey has begun, around me, a nauseous dome.
I sit there, I wait, wait for the motherland.

I imagine my feet running in the sand.
My mind, in an endless roam.
I count the hours, the minutes, the seconds on my hand.

The moving carts are like a loud, unsynchronized band.
The noises overwhelm, but the clouds outside a calm, soft foam.
I sit there, I wait, wait for the motherland.

I watch them waiting for the dreamland.
Rotting away, still as a garden gnome.
I count the hours, the minutes, the seconds on my hand.

I listen softly to the music strand.
The journey is at its end, around me, a sleepy dome.
I sit there, I wait, wait for the motherland.

The long, long minutes we all have to withstand.
I just want to go home.
I count the hours, the minutes, the seconds on my hand.
We sit there, we wait, wait for the motherland.

---

McCallum High School

10

My love, slowly fading away in my eyes,
her bright blue ominous eyes, getting less threatening,
slowly, the color washes away from her beautiful face,
drowning in a mass of confusion.

Water, slowly trickling down my parched lips,
landing on my dry bed in a “Splash!”

Colors, all around me, like a loved scent that you could never turn from,
skillfully drifting away in the dark shadows.
“Call back,” I say, with no conviction in my voice,
but the beautiful bright colors that once used to overwhelm me with pride,
are now black and dusty like a dark cavern.

My eyelids flutter closed slowly and soundly,
all my precious items disappearing in my view,
drifting back behind my socket.

My heart, strumming its last beat, like a guitar strumming its last note,
and then finally stops with a drums final beat.

My life has slowly slithered away from me,
and everything I cared for has

vanished.

---

Gorzycki Middle School

7

you favor the contrast between the red
and the black

my elegance swings but hangs

what if you have no way of determining whether this entertainment is just an excuse to disguise my fall as something beautiful?

(yes) i have glitter in my eyes
and perhaps you can’t see my particular pain?

i
have to glorify this lie
although it is true that
i
am but a trapeze acrobat

in no way am i just red or fancy or flexible

you are not vexed by my nature because (to you)
i am an orchestra (too)
easily you develop an adoration for my tunes

i am so high and
(i know) i entertain your loss(es)

the red i sport
you
do not envision as blood

i am love
i am the seasons
hurting or pleasing

why is time a bore?
you shouldn’t think (that) i was born this way

i sparkle for a reason
even if the first time is the last
even if the landing isn’t pretty
i know why i stand

nonetheless
i crave an immediate and sudden end to this (ride)
it feels like 25 cents
hunger is past 12
and fun is only a 3 letter word

---

Stony Point High School

12

In a freezing Costco I look for
the warm orange
of some freshly harvested
pumpkin
or the deep smell of dried hay.

Out of the window I imagine
a tiny car and immeasurable
countryside,
but I just see boundless
streets and intrusive trucks.

Pale places
used to bored me
in my memories now
I’m intrigued by their joyful color.

Family
an expert puppet master that
used to suffocate me,
now I search for them
in my dreams.

Voices
were loud and oppressive
a barking noise
now I can hear them calling from afar
like Ulysses’s mermaids never-ending song
imploring to go home.

My stomach is full of stones,
there’s a weight in my lungs,
Not air,
but
nostalgia.

---

James Bowie High School

11

The sand and dirt hit my face
As I stepped into a mysterious place
One from a memory long, long ago
From a place where the wind never blows
The sand was a fiery field on hot summer days
Where you could only really sit and gaze
At an unforgiving place that was never home
And think through the possibilities and roam
I saw trees with birds that flew so high
Twinkling in that same summer sky
But in a different place that I could see
A little girl finally full of glee
Through adventures and car rides that lasted days
I found this peace in unfortunate ways
But the end was blissful and finally I
Found the place where I could touch the sky

---

James Bowie High School

11