RedShiftCreative MagazineVOLUME II ISSUE II SPRING 2008

All work printed in this magazine is copyright of the respective artist.The views expressed in this magazine are not necessarily those held by the Executive Board, members of RedShift, or Stevens Institute of Technology.RedShift is named after a poem by Ted Barrigan, who spent part of his illustrious carreer teaching at Stevens Institute of Technology.

Letter From the EditorAlbert Einstein once described art and science as being “branches of the same tree.”Nowhere is this sentiment more apparent than within the pages of RedShift. In RedShift, there are no lines to distinguish artist from engineer, poet from scien-tist, or student from teacher.

It is, and has always been, the goal of RedShift to serve as a place where art and science converge. We encourage, and will continue to encourage, the exploration and presentation of artistic medium. We are, and will continue to be, open to all members of the Stevens Community. We believe, and will continue to believe, that what we do, as an organization and as individuals, is significant and impor-tant.

The RedShift project is indeed an ambitious one. Between these covers, you’ll find only a very small sample of the creative efforts from the individuals that comprise our, perhaps, surprisingly vibrant community. You’ll find stories of love and of hate, poems of victory and despair, and visual displays of beauty and merit. Keep in mind, however, that the stories, poems and images you now hold in your hands are not the culmination of a few hours spent with a pen, camera or can-vas, but rather the direct result of an individual need to come to express those many details of the human experience.

It is on that note that I close this letter. Let us remember that if art and science are in fact two branches of the same tree, the human experience, in all of its trials and triumphs, is the soil from which that tree grows. Let us strive daily to foster that growth, and let us learn to truly appreciate the significance of exactly where that growth comes from.

It is now with great pride and honor that I invite you to enjoy this semester’s is-sue of RedShift.

Best Regards,J. Kyle YandellEditor In Chief

RedShift is currently accepting submissions for the next issue.Please send any submissions to RedShift@stevens.eduYour submission must be your original work, and you must be a member of the Stevens Institute of Technology community.

ContentsThe Artist..............................FRONT COVERBarbara KierszVenice.........................................................4Caryn ConnollyIn Pages Hid...............................................4Phillip MainwaringI Feel Towering...........................................5Kurtis WatkinsRapid Eye Movement..................................6Barbara KierszOne Way.....................................................6Sheeraz HyderWe Are The Future......................................7Nantalee KitpanichvisesEmbrace......................................................7Kurtis WatkinsMaasai Dwellings Near Karatu..................7Rebecca KolbergThe Good, The Bad, The Ugly.....................8Carl MarcellusCentraal Station, Amsterdam.......................8Jessica FoldhazyMoney.........................................................9Natalia BilchukSnowy and Lonely.....................................10Fatimah Na AmatThe World Is Gray......................................11Barbara KierszLiberty Park Sculpture................................11Maria GiotisTwo Minutes..............................................12Barbara KierszPretzels......................................................12Fatimah Na AmatPepper........................................................13Kurtis WatkinsTo the Further End of Days........................14Phillip MainwaringZanzibar Sunset and Fishing Boats...........14Rebecca KolbergLa Sagrada Familia, Barcelona..................15Jessica FoldhazyInto the Blue...............................................16Barbara KierszSing as Quickly as Possible in the... .......16Zach FreedmanDon’t Just Walk Away................................17Hasan Mithiborwala

Life size chess in Amsterdam.....................17Jessica FoldhazyCura te ipsum.............................................18Kyle YandellAngel.........................................................19Kurtis WatkinsMoonspattered Halls.................................20Phillip MainwaringLimitless.....................................................20Maria GiotisTECHNOchtitlan.........................................20Christina MartinsKey To My Heart........................................21Genesis JimenezStairway to Heaven...................................21Barbara KierszStatic Unicorn.............................................22Kyle YandellWings.........................................................23Zareen MobinExpress Yourself.........................................23Maria GiotisTwiga.........................................................24Rebecca KolbergBirdies and Onions....................................24Kurtis WatkinsWindmill.....................................................24Fatimah Na AmatIn Her Own Understanding........................25Regina PynnTrapped.....................................................25Barbara KierszCounting Stars...........................................26Kyle YandellThe Getty Center, Los Angeles...................27Jessica FoldhazyRotten Fall.................................................28Barbara KierszFjord Sunrise..............................................28Rebecca KolbergAfter Anticipation.......................................29Kurtis WatkinsBear............................................................29Regina PynnThe Flame..................................................30Natalia BilchukSticky Frog..................................................30Barbara KierszRed Shift.....................................................31Dylan Lupo

these words cold flung too far too fastat marks blazing through the burning pastor was it burning through the blazing pastfor who is this man who walks in fleshhe drives on, spurs withoutrest but who is to care or callout his name to spark hisfallwithin a helm of golden dreamsgilt images of his life they gleamtoo near to go too far to cometoo dark to see what has begun

life wrought from those unlivedby men who howled, gibbered, in pages hiddead rotting but alive again to better those bested, the tried untestedfare no worse than franklin frozensubsiding in far stiller watersscream, upholden, like gerrouj chosenwhen finally the torch is litlight rises and endless hammers fallshaping the silver strands, the casting of men

4Venice--Caryn Connolly

In Pages Hid--Philip Mainwaring

5I Feel Towering--Kurtis Watkins

The alarm clock goes off;Its small, metal hammer pounding on the bellJust like my brain is smashing up against my skull.

It is 9am;I am already late for my dateWith my boring fateOf daily routine.

Will I ever be free?

Rapid Eye Movement--Barbara Kiersz

Wake upFor what?Another day of sitting downAnd getting distracted by the chalk particles Floating in slow motion around the room.

What an expensive price, giving up sanity for success!

Sometimes I think ofNot reviving after a night of sleep;Giving into this conniving fantasiesTo avoid dying in this nightmareAnd slip into an eternal dream.

6

One Way--Sheeraz Hyder

We will not be apathetic We will not sit idly by while the riv-ers are polluted We will not watch while the govern-ments are corrupted We will not turn away while the in-nocent suffer We will not rest while intolerance and hate reign We will not quietly await destruction

We will fight for the future We will reach farther than ever We will build stronger and better We will create new methods We will love with all our hearts We will dream of a brighter tomor-row

We will not wait We are the engineersWe are the scientistsWe are the executivesWe are the artists We are the future

We Are the Future--Nantalee Kitpanichvises

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Maasai Dwellings Near Karatu--Rebecca Kolberg

Embrace--Kurtis Watkins

Life’s pretty good at the momentGood friends, good moneyEven have a few good grades…well for right now anywayToo good in fact Which is why she’ll sayHe’s too good for herUnfortunately, good in a bad way

So, he swears on his good name He’s not finishing last this timeJust that bad chick wait and seeIt helped greasy kids get the one that they wantSo it should work for him

He puts on his cruel game faceAnd filled with crueler intentionsTo be his worst in the best wayAnd what a surpriseShe now wants him in the worst way

But too late now he’s on to new girlsOr as he now refers to them new hoes

Can’t forget the new wordsHe learned from the badass’ dictionaryAnd of course good ole’ MTV

So he settles down at his lowest and ugliest pointWith the top of the top of cutiesJust so he could break up n break downAnd That Chick who was once too badJust aint good enough now

But even as his rep spread far and highHis new chicks still thinks she’s the one to change himBut in consoling her, He’s really just lookingFor a way in which his new life could be justifiedBy falling back on that trademark fallacy“That I just can’t help itIt’s in my bad boy coding To be inclined to infidelity”And she just has to knowThat this just aint Grease part 3And unfortunately as the immoral moral story goesWhen the good goes the bad gets ugly

The Good, The Bad, The Ugly--Carl Marcellus

8

Centraal Station, Amsterdam--Jessica Foldhazy

Even MONOPOLY was boringMy friends would cheat to get Park PlaceAll I ever wanted was a house on PennsylvaniaDespite all my efforts; most of the time I went to JAIL

I used to think I was unluckyLuck was what everyone had but meThat must be why I didn’t get it!Why I’d always hate money

Don’t get me wrongI’ve had plenty…Maybe even put some awayBut then Mr.Softy would stroll byAnd despite the weather conditions; it would turn into a rainy day

Then I thought it was the weather!Sun becomes RainSometimes the other way aroundBut that wasn’t it eitherEven the rich got wet some days…

No it was not their umbrellaWe both owned the same one.It was how they reacted to a drizzleI wished I could run through it barefootThey were too busy wishing it away

I’ve realized now, I’m like the weatherIt too’s confused `bout stocks and bondsWealth can’t protect you from the rainI on the other hand, am not afraid of MUD.

Money--Natalia Bilchuk

These past few days it has occurred to me: The world is all about moneyEVERYTHING about dear Mr. BillIt’s why things get doneWhy people HurryAnd why sometimes the world stands still

Quite frankly I can’t say I blame themTheres something mystical about these coinsEven the clatter of loose change in a pocketCreates a jingle one can dance to all the way to the bank

What is it about cash…please tell meThat makes people hide it in the floor?Is it a secret? Why’s it so special? Am I the only one who doesn’t know?

How could a tokenLead to bloodshedCause marriages to breakHow come they’re all heart broken?Whenever dollars lose their rank

Everyone’s always so unhappyDepression rates are through the roofOne day they have millions… next day they are beggars.. or vice versa...Something about dough makes them aloof

Kids are in strollers when they realizeThey’ve got to be good and must behaveBecause come Christmas, old man KringleWon’t feed their pigs with what they crave

Growing up, it never matteredI never liked those weird green thingsThey weren’t sweet-THEY DIDN’T EVEN SMELL

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10 Snowy and Lonely--Fatimah Na Amat

Realization.

The world is gray. Well, at least my world. Although it is not actually gray, but rather a colorful mixture; it’s hard to describe. I chose the color gray, because it is the only color that people know lies exactly be-tween other two: black and white. If I were to have chosen, let’s say, blue and orange, I wouldn’t know what word to use to describe the color in the middle, the one that found the balance between blue and orange. The fact that we do not always find the words (in this case colors) to describe our world brings me to my main point.All my life, I have thought that I needed to find a balance; I was always speaking of extremes. For exam-ple, I always feel happy and sad at the same time; happy for everything I have, and sad for everything I’m missing. But whenever I try to describe how I feel, I either talk about the how-happy-I-am part or the how-miserable-I-feel part; so, naturally, the people around me (who care about me) always think that I am either depressed (which I have never been) or ecstatic (which I seldom are). What I have recently discovered, is that I have found a balance in life. But the problem is that there are no words to explain it; which brings me back to colors.We all know the colors blue and orange, but when we want to describe the color that lies exactly in the middle, we tend to say “blue-orange.” Our language, as complex as it may be, is still missing words that (it seems) would make communication much easier.

The World Is Gray--Barbara Kiersz

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Liberty Park Sculpture--Maria Giotis

She wiggled the chalk between the fingers of her right hand as she walked from right to left, wait-ing for an answer. I knew the answer she was looking for, but said nothing. My brain was too busy cal-culating, conspiring. If I use 10 weeks to train my brain, I will have four weeks to satisfy my urges. She stopped walking and listened to the dead silence; a playful smile painted itself on her face. I was smiling on the inside too. It can’t be that no one knows the answer, can it? They must be like me, they are simply too tired of answering questions they know the answer to because it’s just too easy. No challenge. I want a challenge. I was embedded in my own world, caressed by imagination. I would corner him, show him that he was at my mercy. Then, I would stare so that my eyes would perforate his. He would fall to his knees...

The chalk in her hand fell to the floor and interrupted my fantasy. Still, no one had answered the question; some even laughed when her lumbar vertebrae cracked as she bent down to pick up the small white piece. My brain was not working anymore, no longer absorbing thoughts. My body was atten-tive, but my brain was not letting any input past sensory memory. Her wait for an answer continued as my brain turned back on. I wonder what Dexter would say: ‘’You should answer her question; you never know, she might be a serial killer.’’

12Two Minutes--Barbara Kiersz

Pretzels--Fatimah Na Amat

13Pepper--Kurtis Watkins

to further the end of daysto blind with brightness and make whole the sightlessraise up the roots of the tree of worlds

too lengthy the discourse of agestoo weighty the name of the sunthe skill of muttering sagesthe skein of life half-undone

so we write in the blood of our fathersso we write for the light in their eyesso we will howl, names to the pagesso earth will roar, so oceans will speak.

ice-hallowed swept with madnesssand-blasted plain of glassa forest of dead birds and treesthe slow burning of the heavens

the words we scribed upon high my brotherbring what hammer ye maybring what bleakness ye maythey will yet recall the rhyme

lay rest still be o brother my brotherwhat rent not whole againone story, sagateller, for my kinone note upon the wind.

scream in the face of the thunderlet loose your rage at the skyas the gods crack the earth asunderlet wind will our words to fly.

a single soft song, o singer of menrise from the deep, come againa single soft song, o singer of menthese songs shall be sung to an end

To Further the End of Days--Philip Mainwaring

14

Zanzibar Sunset and Fishing Boat--Rebecca Kolberg

15La Sagrada Familia, Bacelona--Jessica Foldhazy

This world is blanketed with those who lack the vision to forgo their lives and integrate yoursGo forth, and Save them

Tell them to build up castles and then sell them the bricksDesign your daily work to break and you can sell a fixSlave away your days and nights for feats of artificeYour children shall walk naked upon fields of crackling ice

Catalytic crack ancestral ground for fossil fuelCut down your production costs by drawing kids from schoolTheir shores were made for garbage dumps, their fields for factoriesRender cultures to liquid assets and skim off finder’s fees

If you can’t see the victim then the act is not a crimeYour worth on Earth is hourly wage multiplied by timeYour future is secure and safe no matter you spendYour government looks over you and your dealer is your friend.

16Into the Blue--Barbara Kiersz

Sing as Quickly as Possible in the Tune of Your Choice--Zach Freedman

Every time we think we know each other,we think we were wrong to be sure.Often we hide under lips and talk no further,we hope we would find some cure.

As delicate as it could be, my dream,we know we dream of us together.Then what in our hearts; stops our requiem,we still do not believe each other.

Simple lives keep us busy and away, may be,But i know you miss me as i do when we are away.How does then the ego not dissolve in the sea,while we cry for our pain, fight for no gain anyway.

Some distances never melt on waiting, but patience,glance at the empty moment by my bed tonight.I believe we have little time to feel too much these days,can you just let me know if you are alright?

17

Life-size chess in Amsterdam--Jessica Foldhazy

Don’t Just Walk Away--Hasan Mithiborwala

Cura te ipsum--Kyle Yandell

When I put her to bed that night, I knew it would be for the last time.Her face was red with fever, and her bones shook with chills. As I brought the blankets up to her chin, I began to sing to her the song she so many times sang to me. I sat over her, sweeping the hair from her eyes and watching as the chorus brought her to sleep. I sang for a while longer, perhaps more for my benefit than for hers, until I felt comfortable that she was asleep enough to not notice her pains. With the same whispery breath I had used to sing to her, I blew out the candle by her bedside, knowing fully that by the time light had again found its way to the room, she would undoubtedly be gone. Delirious from her fever, or perhaps just nostalgic, I could hear her form words in her heavy breaths as she reenacted her part in events long past. I stood, listening and wondering about these events that she had never thought to tell me about. In my sorrow or in my fear, I know not which, I closed the door to her bedroom.

It was a long walk to my bed that night. My head was a jumble of vivid flashes of memories and the heavy foreboding sense of what would await me come morning. I wondered, at this point, if should I actually ‘say’ my goodbyes, or if thinking them was enough. When I had found my way to my bed, it was clear that my pillows could offer me no real comfort that night.

The late hours came with an unforgiving storm. The dark clouds hid the moon and the stars, so that the only light came in violent flashes. The wind, furious and unpredictable, tore shingles from the roof. Throughout the dark there were the sounds of breaking branches and falling trees, barely audible over the static of the rain and hail on the windows.

Sometime in the night, when I either slept in my resignation or sat awake in my concern, she had fought the wool blankets until they were only a ball at her feet. Perhaps it was the storm that woke her or perhaps a stubborn independence rekindled from the few remaining embers of her life. Whatever the case, she awoke with a sort of strength and determination that had not been present in her since before the sick-ness had set in. In the night, as the storm raged around us, she had managed to lift herself from her bed. She had managed to stand.

The morning came as mornings do. The storm had passed some time earlier, and the sun had been in my window for quite a while before I had garnered the courage to pull myself from my sheets. My thoughts forbid me peace that night, and the only change the morning offered was the fact that now, I could wait no longer. When I had forced myself, weak and wavering, into the hall, everything was sadly as I had left it. My hand held to the doorframe, reluctant to allow me to tend to what I was certain waited for me. I left my room, slowly and quietly, as if to keep myself from being noticed. My stomach felt as if it were filled with stones. I stood just outside her door with my hand hovering about the knob, my fingertips reluctant to do their duty. In my apprehension, I shifted my weight, right to left, on the creaking floorboards beneath my feet. With deep breaths, I muscled down the lump swelling in my throat.In one fell swoop of careless inevitability, the wood swung inward on its hinges. My first step into the room was accompanied by an unfamiliar chill. I watched as my breath danced, suspended in the air. My eyes began a careful survey of the room. The nightgown that had not long ago hung loose over her frame now rested limp on the floor, the boards damp from the storm. The curtains swayed in the morning breeze let in from her open window. The sun came through in thin beams separated by branches.

The morning light shone on her bed, and she was gone.

18

19Angel--Kurtis Watkins

TECHNOchtitlan--Christina Martins

A flash of fire blazened on my breastMy dying ire, it’s poison in my chestIn this rotting decayed ageI fell below the rest

Why should I harken to these deep, in-toned soundsWhen before this sky darkensThey fade and cease resound

When will you harken to this black wailing roarTraversing the moonspattered hallsOf these spiral, tilting shores

20

Limitless--Maria Giotis

Moonspattered Halls--Philip Mainwaring

How many have thou heard? How many will thou hear? That cry they have found the one?

Thine incredulity offends.

Dost thou proclaim love? Young naïf! Thou knowest not of what thou speaks. A love so young, so innocent, so rebellious, it wants not to ask for direction but follow the path the leads to its own destruction of being.

Utter no words of what thou not comprehends.You stand weak with thine argument for I do not choosewhere to roam, I am led by elements out of my control.But perhaps it is so. If not from my own discovery, thou must know why his smile illuminates the dismal days,why mystical creatures flutter in the core of my soul,or why the sensations of his kisses ripple throughout my body‘til it penetrates my bones?

Child, you are blinded by superficial feelings. What thou perceives is not genuine. Infatuation perchance, but love? Nay! Preposterous ideas; youth dost not understand love.

Speak no more thou foul, arctic words.You articulate logic and reason.Love is not to be understood.Have thou not been given the gift of joy or given the chance to soar on the wings of pure love?For if thou have not experienced a love that makes thou strongand in turn weak, thou hast not lived. If thou has notfelt the world is only a fraction of what love can offer,thou is the one that knowest not of what thou speaks.Now Hush! For thou gives no chance to hear the melody of his song. Does it not lure?Halt! For thou distractions does not let one see thestars in his eyes. Does it not captivate?Speak all thou wants but thou cannot sway love to doubt.For as much as thou likest it to be untrue only his is thekey that fits. Only he has been bestowed to reign over my heart, and he has opened up a heart that wants to love without bounds.

21Key to My Heart--Genesis Jimenez Stairway to Heaven

--Barbara Kiersz

Static Unicorn--Kyle Yandell

22

wingsthat s all i needto fly awayand fill the airwith who i am.i couldn’t imaginea world without you

tired of being held backsaid you needed timeto find the world what was out there.

said i should comefoolishly encouraging youto go without meafraid of what we would find.

and now that you’re gonefrom the very thing you searched

and now that i am completely alonei need to fly.and maybe even drownto drive away the pain.

that has latched on to me.

and what can i domy feet seemed to have taken root.

and all i want to do is drown.but my wings have started to take flightmy feet still on the ground.

23

Express Yourself--Maria Giotis

Wings--Zareen Mobin

24

Windmill--Fatimah Na Amat

Twiga--Rebecca Kolberg

Birdie and Onions--Kurtis Watkins

She doesn’t use the crutches, two years after they said a wheelchair, soon. The cane won’t disap-pear, though she tries ignoring it. She can only choke it with bony knuckles. She is keeping the secret between her hand and the handle. Plain white sneakers: sensible, comfortable, traction, the illusion of activity and long walks. Hair learns submission quickly. It lies flat, holds its breath, it slides though her comb and does not present tangles. For a long while now it has been less than ornamentation, trained to hug her skull and not to dangle its trim feet below the line of her ear. “I am,” it sighs, “defeated. This was not the way I meant to be. I am a mane. I am a trophy. I like parties and hair spray, pony-tails and people saying cascading locks or chest-nut bangs. I do what I must.”

Still, she carried two sons and no daugh-ters and a husband, several cats and an old dog. I look at her, and I see the wind.

Many times I image how it was in those early years- her swollen belly below her thin cheeks. The pregnant hue to her skin and a tired smile on her lips gently touching her husband’s arm. It is early and there is breakfast to make, but the moment seems too much to let go of just yet. She is the mother of an infinitely awkward boy who loves his fire-truck at four years old and eight in the morning. A daughter would have been nice but her son looks so much like his father. Already, though, she can see the signs of deep empathy: the world crushes men who try loving it and she hopes he manages to stay safe. This next child will be a boy also, she thinks. It demands so much of her, even more than moving from the couch arm and making breakfast. My men, she thinks, watching them and rubbing her belly.

This will never be finished, because I will never understand her, until I am a mother myself and she is dead. So here I stand, kneading dough for soda bread.How does she watch another woman’s daughter with her son? She takes it too well and it frightens me. Mothers are supposed to glare at women like me but she is mild, polite and friendly. She looks at me and the fervor of our relationship embarrass me. (I am so sorry, yes, your son has said these things to me and we really do mean all this to each other. We have walked and touched and he loves my tangled hair and my strength and words, hands, voice, hips. Please don’t be angry.) That is not a yelling voice, that voice would never screech or growl but only bang like branches or trashcans flown about by the wind. She will never be wrong. If she disapproves of me it is only her truth and my failure. That woman makes me think of the wind

In Her Own Understanding--Regina Pynn

25

Trapped--Barbara Kiersz

The two of us had just run a marathon through early morning sprinklers, laughing about how our par-ents were going to be furious if they were to discover our open windows and empty beds. Our laugh-ter died down as our heels hit the asphalt, and just as the silence had prevailed, she pulled me into her and gave me the longest, sweetest hug I have ever known. I was 16 and stupid, and she was pretty, developed, and soaking wet.

We trotted a little further and sat in the grass of a baseball field that still rang with the phantom voices of ten year old boys in an uproar about the girl on the opposite team.

I tried to do everything right, just like in the movies. I let my words slip through my teeth soft and slow, half out of hesitation, and half out of the hope that they might somehow sound more brilliant that way. She told me about her dreams, and about how she wanted to be a pediatrician and all the while the only thing going through my mind was how exactly to make my fingers moving up her blouse seem less pervasive and more romantic so that she might tolerate it.

The night wore on and our hands got closer the longer we kept up counting stars. “The dugouts look creepy,” she said, and she leaned her head on my shoulder.

She kept talking about everything and nothing and I just stared at the top of her head, and the white streak her scalp made from the part in her red hair. She seemed calm and relaxed, but my heart hadn’t slowed since her wet, lilac scented curls had made contact with my cheek. I had finally summoned up the courage to make my pass, but almost exactly as my muscles had made their first twitch, she spoke.

“You know,” she said.Her tone was different. It somehow seemed more dreamlike. It resonated inside my ears for just a little longer.The sky had lightened without my noticing and the stars had long since said their goodbyes. “You know, “she said, “When we see the sunrise, the sun isn’t really coming up over the horizon just yet.”“What?”“It’s not really sunrise. The sun just looks like it’s coming up because the atmosphere bends the light rays. You know, like, refraction. We’ve got about another three minutes of night time left, I think.”

I wondered if all those movie makers and dime novelists that had made a living on teaching people the standard of associating love with sunrise had once had this exact conversation. The moment before she had said that, I was 16 and just horny I guess, but afterwards, I grew up and suddenly I was in love.

She turned and looked at me, and I just kept looking at her and trying to figure out exactly what had just happened. I sat and I stared, and then her lashes slid down her big green eyes, and she kissed me.

And so, for the rest of that summer at least, I loved her intensely.

Counting Stars--Kyle Yandell

26

27The Getty Center, Los Angeles--Jessica Foldhazy

the crippling leavesfallwith her every exhalation.

as the sun goes down,the brown, red, yellow,crack.

no gold, no bronze, just dry wrinkles.voidof expression.

a breeze appears to revivethe deadin vain; leaves reduced to dust.

no longer a smiling someone in the sky,the breeze turns to storm,they are taken.

no longer a smiling someone in the sky,the breeze turns to storm,they are taken.

not gliding, butviolentlyremoved from their nest.

ever again, will her pink cheeksriseto caress her blue eyes?

threads of goldferociouslywrapping and trapping.

exhale no more,breath no more,the angel has come,she’s gone.

28 Rotten Fall--Barbara Kiersz

Fjord Sunrise--Rebecca Kolberg

Though my glass eyes watched for years of nights,they never saw those monsters in our bedroom. Insteadthe moon tangled and untangled itself in the cedarswhile you tangled in more of our sheets.But I stopped believing in branches scratching win-dowsillslong ago, dear little one, and so must you,without my stuffing pressed against your eyes.

Bear--Regina Pynn

Let me brush off your hair, brush out my furand lose myself in your closet. I must not stay.

I free you (who found comfort in me from chimae-ras at duskand every kind of nightmare, winding me tightlywhile the night breathed with you, child)from nostalgia. Live before you miss me, cub.

29After Anticipation--Kurtis Watkins

The wind blows sparking desire,My heart is sick of joking, I am tired.Of being played with by them too,It started long before I met you.

You made me see the love in life,You made me put away the knife;The knife that bled inside my soul,Ripped my heart and made a hole,It broke away and floated into the sea, Until you found it and brought it back to me.

Lost and wandering without me,How dark must my world turn so that I could see?See all the good there is to do,And all of the joy that could be brought by you.Yet I am frightened of bleeding again,And tired of searching for a friend.Ignoring you cannot be done,You are one of many, yet I am one.

Looking into your eyes I feel safe,As thoughts of us together overcome me in waves.One side is purple the other blue,To listen to reason or succumb to you?Yet one thing on both sides is the same,A little red, blue, and black flame. It stands and lights my path,From the dark moments’ wrath.A part of me that is true,The part that loves and has feelings for you.

Try and understand where I am coming from,Hurry before the flame dies, and I am gone…

The Flame--Natalia Bilchuk

Sticky Frog--Barbara Kierzs

30

Red Shift--Dylan Lupo

31