47
Harmonia:
Harmonia is the Greek Goddess of Harmony and
Concord. Born from Aphrodite, the Greek Goddess
of love, and Ares, the Greek God of War
Congruence. Concord. Harmony. Balance.
HARMONIA
The Creative Writing Journal
of the English Department
at SUNY College at Old Westbury
Spring 2015
Letter From The Faculty Editor This semester has been so exciting for those of us working to get the current issue of
Harmonia out! We received a tremendous number of student submissions to pour through
and select from, a wonderful and rewarding task. It is no secret that we have incredibly
talented students at SUNY College at Old Westbury and I feel lucky to be able to experience so
much of that talent through Harmonia! Among the many poems and short stories that were
submitted this semester, we were able to accept and print work from eleven students on
topics ranging from love and loss to marriage and creativity.
This semester, we also had the special honor of printing the work of the Professor Mary
Grabher Poetry Contest winners. The contest was held as a way to honor the late Professor
Grabher, who was the faculty editor of the Poetry Club for many years and who helped to
create Harmonia in 2004. The contest was a massive success and, through many kind
donations, we were able to award prizes to fourteen students including one first place winner,
two second place winners, four third place winners, and seven honorable mentions! These
poems appear as part of a special tribute section in the second half of this issue. Even if you
did not know Professor Grabher, we hope that you will enjoy this tribute and celebrate the
power of the written word, as she would have done.
Congratulations again to all of the students whose work was selected for this issue and to all of
the poetry contest winners, and thank you for helping us to create another incredible issue of
Harmonia, the Creative Writing Journal at SUNY College at Old Westbury!
Dr. Jessica Williams
Faculty Editor
May 2015
Spring 2015 Editorial Team
Student Editors:
Alexia Bell
Valerie LaRoche
Jamie Rogoff
Jessica Wroblewski
Faculty Editor:
Dr. Jessica Williams
Cover Design:
Valerie LaRoche
Table of Contents
Aisha Fahim 1 You Couldn’t Stay
Mirza Farhana Shamim 2 The Couple (Petrarchan Sonnet)
Liana Marie Comrie 3 Soliliquy
Lorraine Troici 4 A Creative Mind is Never Lonesome
Jesse C. O’Keefe 5-8 Love and Death in a Hearse
Michael Rubino 9-10 Moving Forward
Jeanette Pena 11 Absolution
Andrea Shaw 12 Ride the Waves
Brooke Kern 13 The Brook Falls Scattered
Courtney Fitt 14-15 Deep Hollow
Marym Khan 16-17 To be on a Journey with the Love of Rain
Special Section: Professor Mary Grabher Tribute and Poetry Contest Winners
18-20 Professor Mary Grabher Tributes
Yanet Damiron 21 Introductions
Craig Shay 22 Still Life of a Poltergeist
Amanda Paige Diaz 23 Intrinsic Grey
Matthew James Williams 24 The Life and Times of Tom Brutish
Brad Vonknsky 25 Consistent Chaos
Christopher Roesler 26 Withershins (Out of Context)
Ryann Riggs 27 X-ACTO
Danique Green 28-29 From a Mother with no Children
William Donlon 30-32 Untitled
K.S. Majka 33 Bye to DieOnNighses
Faith Sorroza 34 Distorted Echoes
Brianna Lambert 35-36 Exit Wounds
Gillian S. Dzakonski 37 Strong Theory
Shandra Neal 38 Why the Cage is Quiet-
39 Harmonia Submission Information
Harmonia
Alexa Bauman
1
You Couldn’t Stay
Aisha Fahim
It was when you held my hands and pulled me close that took my breathe away
You chose to give me your world and I chose to stay
It was when things moved way to fast you chose to run away
Reasons were parents, sisters and a new friend that took our world away
I had to move on, there was no other way
My world had to change in such a way
He was there at the altar waiting for my way
Three I do’s and I walked his way
It was tough then and it is tough today
Especially when you walked right back into my world with such a sway
It was difficult to understand what you wanted and why you wanted me to stay
Go figure it was only friendship that can be played
Jokes, acts and feelings were portrayed
It was wrong to know that I still felt this way
It wasn’t fair to my husband who had always stayed
I couldn’t take it anymore, so I had to say
Sadly, these storms reminded us of the past that made it difficult for me to stay
I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t build a friendship between us that could be praised
With hearts broken we both knew there was only one option that can be played
So we parted our ways, this time for no returns in each other’s way
I miss you, I miss you almost everyday
But I know that this is what God wanted in our days
I will never be able to forget you, your memories will always stay
It’s time to say good bye and smile for our story to be played
2
The Couple (Petrachean Sonnet)
Mirza Farhana Shamim
They have been married for more than fifteen years,
They pretend to care for each other,
They might have been caring so far,
The husband thinks she is a pain that he bears
The wife thinks he is a monster that she fears,
Both of them think marriage is a serious matter,
It really seems difficult to go further!
Both of them are tired and can hardly hold their tears.
Nobody comes in the world for the second time,
Life is not long enough to waste days and nights.
Shouldn’t everybody have the right to live happily?
Living our own lives is not an unforgivable crime!
Let's get out of these ongoing fights,
In true sense, happiness comes to us barely.
3
Soliloquy
Liana Marie Comrie
“She is a lopsided soliloquy. A wounded symphony played by an orchestra of her family’s “I-told-you-so’s.” A tattered woman who
bleeds like an oak tree. Her life story is just a sandpaper love song written on
a napkin full of all the reasons why no one should ever try to hug the rain.
You always end up soaking wet and by yourself.
She: a rusty faucet, dripping self-esteem that falls quicker than short skirts in
motels when the sun blinks for too long. You see, when confidence hits the
ground, it echoes like sin in a room full of God, and I could hear her coming
a mile away. She has violin strings for legs, a graveyard of awkward treble
clefs buried in her knees and I can see the suffering inside of the concert of
her walk.
Her footsteps: they sound like the ignition to a father’s car the day that he
decided that he was too thirsty to pour water on his own seed so when she
calls me “daddy” I never really get excited because I know that it’s just the
title that she gives the branches in her life that are destined to be abducted by
the wind.
She comes over on Wednesdays. She walks into the room like a question.
A question that neither of them has the courage to ask.
Y’know sometimes, words, they get too heavy to sit on the ivory pedestals that we’ve built inside of our mouths.
Y’know sometimes, our actions, they join hands and they become behaviors that are too complicated for lips to say out loud, so
instead, they just liberate their flesh letting skin speak on their behalf, the language of those who are just as afraid of commitment as
they are of being alone and they speak it like it’s their native tongue.
Honestly, he doesn't know her favorite color… her middle name… or even what her face looks like with the lights on. All He knows is
that they are both allergic to the exact same things: compliments… the word “beautiful”… and someone saying “I love you” with
arms full of acceptance and sincerity on their breath.
Sometimes, He wonders what she carries in the luggage underneath her eyes. Sometimes, He... He wants to ask if those bags ever get
too heavy for her face. But instead, He...He lets those questions sandcastle inside of and amputates the parts of him that have grown
fond of her smell.
He waits until she leaves.
He washes his sheets.
And He thinks to himself. "Most men would be proud of something like this.”
4
5
Love and Death in a Hearse
Jesse C. O’Keefe
Guy they say I killed ended up in one of these. Somebody would probably call it poetic that I drive one now. I drive people
for a living. Sometimes I drive famous people, sometimes my neighbors. Most of the time though, its people I’ve never seen before
in my life. It’s these people I know the most. I drive a hearse.
Long black car, meant to hold one or two people in the cab, and then there’s the stretch in the back, meant to hold the body,
enclosed in the expensive coffin their loved ones or savings paid for. There’s more to this hearse though, at least I think it’s the
hearse…It has to be. I see dead people. Sounds like a line from some B movie, I know, but it’s true. Whenever I’m transporting a
body, the stiff appears in the seat next to me. Most of them ask the usual questions: “Why me? What did I do to deserve this?” You
know how it is. But some of them…we have conversations. I think it’s the hearse
that does it. I can’t remember this ever happening until I got the job…then again
I’ve never really been as close to dead bodies then I have been while being at this
job. I’ve filled a journal with all of my conversations with the dead. Maybe I’ll
send it to someone. One of those paranormal experts. Maybe to a psychiatrist.
It was raining. I was in my black suit. Directors want me in suits during
work. I was transporting an old man. This was my fourth drive. The fourth time I
saw a ghost. The first time they spoke to me past pleads of absolution. “I thought
it’d hurt more.” The old man had said. He was bald, pale (they’re all pale)
wrinkly. Typical old guy. Wearing his Sunday best that he’s getting buried in.
“Well that’s comforting to know it didn’t hurt.” I said to him nervously. First time
I actually spoke to one. I never wanted to talk to the pleading ones. What would I
even say? “Everybody’s different kid.”
“Did you just…go in your sleep?” I asked, thinking to keep up the conversation.
Old people like to talk.
“Yes. Closed my eyes, and woke up here. I wasn’t expecting much. But I wasn’t expecting this either.”
“This isn’t the afterlife mister. This is just your hearse. You’ll be out of here once you’re unloaded.” I told him.
“Unloaded! Ha! You sound like I’m just cargo. I’m a…was a man! I fought in wars kid. I had kids, and grandkids.” He got really
animated then, flailing his arms. He had a lot of energy for an old timer. Maybe you’re more energetic in death. Does that even make
sense?
“You’re right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it like that. I guess this job kind of jades you to the whole thing.” I said.
“Or maybe you were always jaded. Maybe you’re Death himself.”
“No sir. Just a man earning an honest living. I’m 32 years old, and I don’t own a single cloak.” I joked. I did own a hoodie though, I
thought it best not to tell him that. He seemed senile. I guess you carry your mental issues over to the next life.
“First person I’ve seen in death. Sounds like the Reaper to me.”
“Yeah well, you wouldn’t be the first to say that to me anyway. If you do meet him, tell him we should talk.” I kept with the joking.
“Tell him yourself. You’ll be where I am soon enough. Everyone ends up dead.”
6
I didn’t know how to respond to that. We were silent for a while. We were close to the cemetery when he spoke again.
“How long have you been doing this?”
“Driving? Just started last month. Easy job to get for an ex con. Nobody to hurt.” I said. I always joked about it, made the whole ex-
convict thing a lot easier to handle.
“Then you didn’t see my wife. I hope I see her soon.”
“When did she die?” I asked.
“A year ago. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that…and I’m sorry about you. This is your stop.” I said, feeling more like a taxi driver. I had parked the car in the
cemetery. The old man’s pallbearers unlatched the backdoors and began to haul him out. The old man looked at me.
“Don’t get jaded.” He said, fading away as they all do when their bodies leave the hearse.
I stayed for his funeral.
My next experience happened about 2 weeks later, after 3 more pleaders. I feel bad for the pleaders, I wish I could tell them
something comforting. Afternoon sun was above us. They just loaded the coffin into the back of the hearse, a little girl, I think they
said she was 7. Hit by a car. Like all the others, she appeared sitting next to me. She had straight brown hair, and was in a white
dress, she stared at me with her dead eyes. I could feel her eyes on me as I drove. It felt like ages had gone by before she spoke.
“Where are we going?”
“Um, your funeral.” I replied, I remember being really freaked out about how nonchalant she had asked.
“Oh, I’m dead. Are you Jesus? You don’t look like Jesus.”
“Not Jesus, kid. Just the guy taking you to the funeral. Thanks for not calling me Death though.” I said to her, she looked a little
disheartened when I said I wasn’t Him.
“Death is a person?”
“Nevermind”
“Oh.”
A few seconds went by before she had more questions. Even in death, kids want
know everything.
“Where are my parents?”
“Following right behind us.” I said, hooking my thumb over my shoulder to show
her.
She looked over and waved. I almost hoped that they would see her.
“I’m going to miss them”
“I’m sure they’ll miss you too.” I tried comforting, I thought I’d have better luck
with her then the pleaders.
“Where are your parents?”
7
“Dead” I said flatly.
“Do you still visit them? My mommy took me to visit grandma sometimes. I never knew her.”
“No, I don’t visit them.”
“Why not, don’t you love them?”
“I moved on.” I said, hoping that’d be the end of it. The cemetery was coming up.
“So you don’t love them anymore?”
“No…I, I just…I don’t visit them. They’re dead, they’re gone.” Her question took me by surprise, and I think my answer took her
by surprise, she seemed upset.
“I’m dead. I’m gone. I don’t want my parents to stop loving me. I don’t want them to move on!” She started to sob tearless sobs.
I pulled into the cemetery, feeling like crap.
“Listen…I’m sure your parents won’t stop loving you. There’s a difference between moving on, and not loving anymore.”
“What is it?” Her voice was shaky from her crying.
“There just is.”
She looked like she was going to say something, but she faded away. Her coffin was taken out of the hearse. I laid awake all
night trying to convince myself that there was a difference between moving on and ceasing to love someone. It didn’t work. The next
one who spoke past the screams made me think even harder on this.
Teenage suicides. You read about them every now and then. It’s sad, but I’ve tried to never dwell on thinking about the
whys and how’s of a kid taking their own life. Religions call it sacrilege. Even not religious people think it’s wrong. I think it’s
fucked up. I see articles in the papers every now and again about some boy or girl, barely old enough to drive or to drag on a cigarette
legally, cutting themselves open with razor blades or swallowing whole bottles of their parents pills and turning their bodies against
them. I get upset for a moment, then a throw away the paper or close the computer window and move on with my day, I stop thinking
about them, nearly forget them. Is that because of my job? Or are we all like that?
Kid killed himself. I don’t know how, doesn’t really matter, point is he did it. He wasn’t one of those cases who hear or see
God or some Angel and change their mind about leaving the world. He was 16, or 17. He went to the local high school. He appeared
to me just like all the others before him. He wore his Sunday best, his face still holding the last bits of that awkward puberty phase.
He looked like an alright guy.
Kid looked at me, didn’t even look upset. He looked…peaceful. I guess that’s what they want, what would I know? “Married?” He
asked me. Kind of a random question, but hey, conversation is conversation, beats driving alone. Jesus, I’m at the point where I prefer
to talk to the dead.
“Nope. Alone.”
“Are you one of those guys who’ll never get married? You know? Eternal Bachelors.”
“Not out of choice. Just haven’t found her yet.” I said.
“I found her. But I just couldn’t take the rest of it, you know? I got rejected from all the colleges I applied to. I lost my job. I had no
money, and lived with a drunk of a father. It was all eating at me. Have you ever been through something like that?”
“I had a drunken father too. I didn’t go to college, didn’t even try. I knew what they’d say, and I couldn’t stand the thought of
someone else telling me I wasn’t good enough…I had my own voice to deal with.” I responded. Talking to that kid made a whole
mess of memories go through me again.
8
“She’s back there. My girlfriend. She’ll cry for a while, but she’s young, she’ll move on, find someone new, have some kids, have a
life. I’ll be nothing but a foot note in her history. ‘Oh, and she had a boyfriend who offed himself in high school’”
“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine.” I said sarcastically.
“Hey man, life’s a bowl of cherries. I just got stuck with the pits. Can’t survive on pits.”
“She’ll remember you though. If not her, someone will.” I offered, thinking maybe I could cheer the kid up a little. Eternity of
sorrow doesn’t sound much better than a life of sorrow.
“People will remember me for what I did. Eventually all the memories of my life will go away, and I’ll only be remembered as ‘that
boyfriend, or just friend who decided to kill himself.’ Then whoever they were talking to about me, will say that they’re sorry to hear
that, and the conversation will change. That’s how it goes.”
I was at a loss for words. This kid was bringing back bad memories. I couldn’t handle it. Is that what people thought of me?
As that friend who went to prison? Not the same as death…but…is that really it? I couldn’t say anything to that. I parked at the kid’s
grave and kept my eyes on the wheel as the kid was loaded out. I couldn’t say anything to him. I couldn’t say anything at all.
9
Moving Forward
Michael Rubino
“It wasn’t always like this, you know. . .” I
said dejectedly, turning to face my
lawyer. “The honeymoon days were
some of the best of my life; to think that
it’s come to this.” My hands fidgeted
with a pen as paperwork was laid out
before me, the smooth silvery cylinder
was as cold as my now terminating
marriage. My lawyer remained silent,
glossy eyes fixed upon my hand.
Somehow the thought of divorce always
seemed so foreign to me. How could
something as immortal as love be changed by a dusty piece of paperwork in a box at the courthouse? But it didn’t matter
anymore; come tomorrow James will be signing it all the same, and the picture perfect Conways will be lost to memories of
blissful Christmases and rage-filled weekdays. Speaking of memories: it seems I catch myself reminiscing about the long days
of our past far too often. We were the epitome of whimsy and love--our courtship going over like a romantic comedy--and
we’ve managed to stick it out through eight long years of a gradually souring marriage. The only thought that kept me going
was of James going back to being the man I fell in love with. There has never been a greater fool’s dream.
It wasn’t long after we wed that I began to notice that there was something darker to James than I had known before. I had
just finished ordering us take out when his car pulled into the drive. It was the six-month anniversary of our marriage and we
had decided to spend the rare evening off on laid back intimate time alone. In the years before we got married we used to
love to cuddle on the couch and watch bad movies over a bowl of cheap Lo Mein and an eight dollar bottle of Pinot Noir. I
figured that joking about those “good old
days” might help brighten his mood.
However, as I got to the door it became
clear that it would not be the evening I had
hoped for. Through the French windows in
the front room I caught a glimpse of him.
The scowl on his face gave away his mood.
As he approached the front door I heard his
keys smash against the ground followed by
a violent scream from James. Thinking that
something horrible had happened I ran to
the door. The noises that followed turned
out to be the demise of four panels of siding
on our house and a potted plant on the
veranda at the hand of the first of James’
bouts of rage. I rushed to stand between
him and the house, asking him what was
wrong, in hopes of calming him down. This
was the first and last time I’d make that
mistake.
10
It was just a under a year ago, in late October, that I began to consider divorce more seriously, shortly after attending a
family reunion with my in-laws. James' mother was well known for throwing these picturesque little white collar wine parties
where immaculate etiquette and attention to detail was expected at all times. There was a familiar starchy sentiment
permeating the air. Unlike previous gatherings, this party was not limited to the elite of the family. Invitations were also
extended to anyone a family member "deemed a friend." James had made a point of inviting his colleagues from his
accounting firm as well as all of our neighbors. Typical of gatherings of this nature, half-understood jargon masquerading as
sophisticated conversation could be heard throughout the halls. I opted to use this time as a way of validating my sanity as I
was now surrounded by friends. I took the opportunity to consult with my group of friends about how our "domestic
disturbances" were becoming more frequent. To my dismay, however, when I brought it up, not a single friend would offer
me counsel. My closest friend who was heavily religious, despite despising her own marriage, espoused that divorce was a
sin and that she, “could not believe I would consider such an act.” Others simply did not wish to deal with drama, sitting
quietly and nodding awkwardly, my having dealt with theirs notwithstanding. The person who hurt me most, however, was
my cousin. As I turned to face him I was greeted with a sympathetic expression, though as everyone else followed suit it
drained from his face. “I think you’re overreacting,” was all he said, in a curtly simple manner. Admittedly, looking back on it,
he never had many friends until he integrated into my circle and I suppose this is why he sided with them. Though in private
he has repeatedly apologized and said that he disagrees with their assessments, when prompted to do so publicly he
attempts to move the conversation along.
The situation reminded me of how James spoke of his mother, Judith, and the tyranny he faced. He spoke of how she would
twist and manipulate his feelings, thoughts and emotions from a young age, seemingly on a whim. By the following morning
she would make as though nothing had happened. As I recalled this and the weight it put on James it felt as though the
threads that held together my sanity were beginning to fray and snap.
It was not long after the party, during an average every day dinner in November, that I finally gave up on trying to work
through our problems. James lumbered through the door sometime around six in the evening and dinner would be ready for
him, in spite of my own responsibilities. The two of us gathered around the table and ate in silence, broken only by terse
small talk punctuated by snide insults that were poorly masked by half-hearted complements. “My god this steak is dry.
Didn’t I tell you not to use any salt? Salt dries it out.” He sighed, seeming to notice my growing annoyance, “It’s okay, your
cooking could be worse…” I remember how strange it felt as his voice faded from my consciousness. My head got hot as my
gaze fixed upon him, my face tightening in a sour expression. I swore that I wouldn’t take abuse any longer, small or great. I
would shove his words back down his throat. My understanding was gone. I cut him off mid-sentence, and the words came
pouring out accompanied with a tone of voice almost like a laugh, “You’re exactly like your mother.” James paused mid bite
and silence filled the room. His gaze was fixed on me with a look of pain and sadness that I knew would melt over the
embers of fury that filled his heart. He stood and I reciprocated. Rage filled his eyes as he swept the plates from the table
and dashed them against the wall, screaming that I was to explain what it was that I had said. Once I regained my
composure, seconds later, my mouth could utter only one thought: “I’ve had it, we’re getting a divorce.” The words were the
first thing I’ve ever seen steal the air from the fires inside of him. It’s a shame that they were only replaced with the chi ll of
hatred.
I can almost see him now, sitting across this mahogany, rolled-edge desk tomorrow, silver pen in hand, scratching the final
death sentence into this nightmare that began as a dream. Stranger yet, is that I no longer feel as though I will feel sympathy
for his condition. He brought this upon himself and now he must endure
11
Absolution
Jeanette Pena
There’s an ache in my chest
It won’t go away
The pain reminds me that I am ALIVE
But, am I really living?
Or am I just going through the motions?
I yearn for so many things…
To travel, see the world
To write until my hands hurt
To be recognized for my writing
To love and be loved
To get married on a beach at sunset
To feel a child growing inside of me AGAIN
To feel alive
To feel free from everything…
Free from pain, sadness, guilt, and grief, but
Until then, I’ll welcome the pain, the ache
Because it’s the pain that has kept me alive
Because it’s the pain that gives me hope
12
13
A tree without its leaves she always feels.
If you are in love then you are the lucky ones.
Most of us are bitter over someone
Alone, wind in her hair
Nothing but the strewing flowers Beneath her feet
Take her while she’s helpless
Guide the brook where she needs to go
She is guided by some
Those that come her way don’t stay too long
A tree without its leaves she always feels.
If you are in love then you are the lucky ones.
Most of us are bitter over someone
Alone, wind in her hair
Nothing but the strewing flowers Beneath her feet
Take her while she’s helpless
Guide the brook where she needs to go
She is guided by some
Those that come her way don’t stay too long
The brook falls scattered once again
Say something I’m giving up on you
The book needs a guide
It can be either
The brook has so much to offer
The people do not see it
The stream feels unhappy and alone
Save the brook before it’s too late
The brook needs a guide
Can you be the one?
The brook falls scattered once again
Say something I’m giving up on you
The brook needs a guide
It can be either
The brook has so much to offer
The people do not see it
The stream feels unhappy and alone
Save the brook before it’s too late
The brook needs a guide
Can you be the one?
The Brook Falls Scattered
Brooke Kern
14
The three of us bounced along the bumps of the
highway with some quiet music on, and the windows
cracked open, and a general sense of guarded
excitement and false pleasure. Off the bat, that was the
mood: something good here is about to happen, but this
grouping is not yet comfortable, or perhaps not a good
blend. Ann apologized for being so tired; she was
excited but had had such a long day at the inn with the
cooking and the office work and everything and was so
sorry that she was yawning but she just couldn’t help it.
Debating directions and technology, we arrived at the
horse ranch.
DEEP HOLLOW RANCH: OLDEST CATTLE RANCH IN
THE U.S.A.
Ann is sixty, Kristin is nearing forty, and I am early in my
twenties. The stepladdered three of us mount our
companions for the next hour or two. I am asked to take
lots of pictures of the two “besties” on their horses, but
that I had to get closer, and get this angle, and then they
didn’t like that one, and so I tried again, and then I said
that was Enough. Eventually we line up with the group,
guided by a young Irish law student. I’m a fan; actually,
we’re all a fan, and he is gracious and informative. He is
tan, fit, able, and accented.
The trail opens up to the beach after a half an hour of
curving through brush. Smoke would stoop his head and
make his preferences known (little muncher! always
eating the plants).
My main concern was not bumping in to Kristin’s horse’s
ass, or losing control of Smoke, or having too much
control of Smoke, while trying to swallow the refreshing
landscape.
Kristin was enjoying and getting laughs out of Ann’s
curls bouncing as we jogged. This was received as an
apple-bruise and thus exposed that Ann’s biggest
concern of the moment was her appearance on the
horse.
15
I was repeatedly asked to pose for pictures or to take
posed pictures. Heads were thrown back in laughs,
purposeful glances shot over the rims of authentic 1970s
RayBan aviators. Affirmations and suggestions of the
great time being had, abound. I mostly didn’t speak
unless spoken to
.
On the last leg of the beach ride, Ann turned to me and
pointed out that she had taken sausage out of the freezer
to serve for breakfast the next day; I would be serving that
to the guests. I said ok. About the same time, I hear the
couple behind me mentioning it is their anniversary, and I
offer to take their picture. We shortly arrive back in the
pen with the horses, and I take more shots of the couple
for their remembrance, and of course, more snaps of Ann
and Kristin.
Back in the car, we are heading to meet Carol for dinner. I
am grateful for this, because Carol is so likable and
present. I don’t even want to be associating any longer,
and they ask me if something is awry. I smile and say no,
just enjoyed the ride, I guess I’m a little bit out of it.
We would go on to eat at a hidden gem, a feral cat’s
playground covered in goose feathers and flies. But as
Carol had promised it would be, the unprepossessing
hatchery offered the most delicious seafood, and its view
of the sunset was unrivaled.
16
To be on a journey with the love of rain.
To fly away with the sun, leaves and wind.
He attempts to become one with life’s will. To
become
One with a leaf that rolls all around and all over.
The story of the Man begins with a leaf
Coming to rest on his shoulders.
The leaf when touched by the Man starts
To bubble and froth sheer desire.
Desire of every man gushes forth. Beauty in
Abundance and quantities bled. Such beauty
Was never seen by the Man and he slowly
Drifts into a sleep of Blissful Ignorance.
Blissful Ignorance morphs itself into the Man
And adopts his ways and his life. It takes over
And becomes the Man’s worst fears. He grows
And ages into a colorless dark and morbid creature.
The face burnt with scars of evil. The body twisted
And mangled. His stature and presence strikes all
In the middle of their existence. Blissful Ignorance
Moves swiftly and quietly throughout the mind.
He dances and he prances on the Man’s
Desperation and melancholy. He burns the Man’s
Thoughts with longing for what could be and what
isn’t.
Blissful Ignorance leaves in its path the footsteps of
millions.
Millions will come and go. They will come euphoric
And leave with a crack. A crack that breaks their
darkness.
The Man feels a crack from the tip of his fingers to
The tip of his toes. A twinge, a spasm an enormous
ache.
There is a shift in the Man whilst he sleeps. He
Tosses and turns and fumbles and mumbles.
With a frolic and a whirl comes the Spirit of the
Man.
All together the Spirit and the Man drift high and
over.
The sky flames through the clouds. A blush of
crimson,
A blooming gold. A drop of plum with a dash
charcoal.
The colors colliding and caressing. They fly through
a
Depiction of iridescence and stumble on the ship of
a Thaumaturge.
The sound equal of all delicacy and eloquence.
The Captain then captured and clutched the
booming
Thunder and heaved it at the Man and the Spirit.
Shocked were they to be thrust back into
The brilliant yet somber sky. As if their presence
Is not wanted, the sky flings the Man and Spirit
Into a world of illuminating Emerald mountain’s.
Illumination ablaze, aglow. Tender are the Emeralds
17
To the cones of the eye. So tender are they that its beholder
Blooms and sprouts and flowers. A growth of forest. A spice
Of jade. A splash of spring embracing the senses.
They flew and weaved between the mountains.
They touched, they saw, they heard the Emeralds
Rumble and scream with every fiber of rage. Rage of
A thousand dragons breathing a volcanic inferno.
All at once a mountain is hurled at another.
The earth vibrates down to its very core.
The Emeralds have noticed the Man and the Spirit.
They grumbled, they howled, they roared.
Fog settled over the mountainous Emeralds.
The clouds lowered from the heavens almost
Bowing to the Emeralds. Eerie silence fell at once
Upon the mountains. Everything numb and frozen.
The Emeralds shattered into millions of fragments.
The Emeralds gone, the mountains gone, their light
Forever gone. The Man and Spirit frozen at the sight
Before them. Their brains thoughtless and their blood chilled.
Heartbeats pounding to the drop of every fragment.
Every beat a flight higher to the sky.
The Spirit flies, the Man flies. They fly together, they
Fly separately. They fly over the Emeralds.
They fly over the ship of the Thaumaturge. The brilliant sky
Loosens in hues. Loosens in shape. A nudge, a graze, a
Brush. Man and Spirit distance from each other.
A kiss is sent from the sky. A bead of drops.
Droplets of rain. Pearls of water descend from the sky.
The Man lowers himself. He cascades down the sky
In levels. The rain cloaks and blankets him. A shield of
Armor capes the Man. An armor of beaded pearls.
The armor encases the Man. He is captured and brought to
His body. He shakes off Blissful Ignorance. He is roused
And awakened. Awakened to the rustle of the leaf picking up wind.
The Man gone on a journey with the love of rain and back.
18
A Tribute to the Late Professor Mary Grabher
Memories Shared by Mary Grabher’s Former Students and Colleagues
“She was the first teacher I ever had at Old Westbury. A lovely and generous
teacher who encouraged all of her students. The world has lost a beautiful
light” – Kerin McElhenny
“My memory of Mary Grabher is of her sitting with a senior thesis student, in the old conference room of the
English Department in Academic Village, going over the student's thesis page by page for grammar and
expression. This is an image from a particular day, with a male student whose name I don't remember, but the
scene must have been repeated many times over the years. Mary probably got a good number of students
through the thesis process that wouldn't have succeeded otherwise. She was always completely devoted to
[working closely with students] and had just about endless patience for explaining grammar and structuring
points. Her work ethic represented a level of individual care for student training that we don't find time for
anymore with our larger major population” – Professor Christopher Hobson
“The one thing I remember instantly when I think about her, was how understanding she was. I
was experiencing some pretty severe hardship during the time I took her classes and missed a
lot of classes. I completed the work, always late, asked a lot of questions since I fell behind, and
she took me to the side and asked if everything was alright. I explained my situation and she
didn’t say anything more than, “I understand, you have to take care of yourself. That right
there made me appreciate her nature as a human and as a teacher more, which pushed me to
do more. Not only for her but for myself. She didn’t scold me, nor did she let me off the hook,
she just understood. She was a fantastic teacher, and such a warm soul, that pushed me to take
charge of myself and succeed as a student” – Maxine Weiner Webber
“When I think of Mary Grabher, the overwhelming image that replays in my mind is one of a body in motion. I
don’t ever remember a time when I ever saw Mary sitting down. Every time I saw Mary, she was either going to
the poetry center or locking it up on her way out. And she was rarely alone. Surrounded by students planning
the next event or next reading, she seemed to possess boundless energy and limitless zeal-for her subject, her
students and for Old Westbury. The very first time you met her it was distinctly apparent: Mary was a person
who truly loved what she was doing” – Professor Paul Shaw
19
HAIL MARY……. A TRIBUTE TO PROFESSOR MARY GRABHER
I first met Mary Grabher in the summer of 1995 when she came to Old Westbury to participate in a seminar,
Harlem Renaissance Seminar for Teachers, of which I was project director. Funded by the National Endowment
for the Humanities and part of the growing demand for Multicultural Literature, the seminar endeavored to
acquaint high school teachers on Long Island with that significant, but forgotten literary/artist movement, which
teachers, in turn, would share with their students. Then on faculty at Newtown High School in Elmhurst,
Mary Graber applied for a spot in the Harlem Renaissance seminar: “Unfortunately, I have not had the
opportunity thus far to study the Harlem Renaissance in great detail,” she wrote. “I would enjoy furthering my
knowledge in this area and I look forward to bringing this knowledge back to the classroom.” Mary then had
the ideal profile for the seminar. Hail Mary!
Her performance matched her profile: she took eagerly to the texts, to the text-related visits to Harlem, to Old
Westbury and to the English Department. “I believe in a multicultural, interdisciplinary approach to the
English curriculum,” Mary had written in her application. Retaining her teaching position at Elmhurst, Mary
joined the English Department and became a significant part of its work in Multicultural Literature, earning
excellent evaluations in two of the department’s popular courses, Reading Multicultural Literature and
Adolescent Literature. Hail Mary!
As a result of Mary’s impressive work as an adjunct, she joined the department as a full-time instructor,
assuming a greater role in a department that was student-centered and committed to co-curricular education.
As coordinator of the Old Westbury Poetry Center, Mary attracted many students to the readings held there.
She frequently served as faculty advisor for students participating in the Student Conference on Language and
Literature. Under her guidance, students submitted their own work for publication in the department’s poetry
journal. Her involvement with students and student-related projects radiated concern and caring for her
students in and outside the classroom. Hail Mary!
Mary Grabber was also an outstanding colleague, who was cooperative, considerate, caring. Her concept of
friendship embraced compassionate companionship: I was particularly moved by Mary’s generosity to a
colleague who was adopting a child from a South American country. “I’ll go with you,” she declared, and so
she did, assisting in the bonding of a new family. Hail Mary!
The Mary Graber Poetry Award appropriately creates bonds among the department, student-poets and
the marvelous Mary Grabher.. Hail Mary!
– Dr. Onita Estes-Hicks, Founding Chair – Distinguished Teaching Professor Emerita
“I did have the very lucky privilege of being in one of Professor Grabher’s courses right before
she left the school, and hearing the news of her passing was honestly one of the saddest things
I’ve come home to. I think what the school is doing for her is a wonderful and fitting tribute to
her, and though I only ever got to spend one semester with her, she was honestly one of the
loveliest, most kind-hearted people I ever got to work with” – Christina Urban
20
“Professor Mary Grabher was a very special type of educator and truly earned the respect and admiration of her
colleagues. She was extremely creative and innovative, which was evident by the extra events and projects she
pioneered. I was extremely impressed with the ‘Fright Nights’ which she planned so thoughtfully each fall
semester for not only her students but for other students as well. It was an open microphone session, where
students were able to express themselves by selecting various excerpts, poems, etc. which conveyed the feeling
of horror to the audience. Each semester was most successful, and I was so thrilled to have my students
participate. Refreshments and conversation followed, and it was truly an event to be remembered. Students
walked away with a feeling of accomplishment and delight; many continued to write their own poetry relating
to the topic of horror and have their work recognized by others in the field of literature. This was just one of the
many activities with which she was involved. Her absence is sorely felt by all who knew her” – Professor Karen
Landau
“A remarkable educator, Mary taught with profound respect for her
students and shared her joy of multicultural literature in her
classes. Students flocked to the student poetry readings she
organized. Comfortable and exciting, they were full of a sense of
possibility and community, very much a reflection of Mary's good will and
welcoming nature” – Professor Margaret Torrell
“I have lived a full life with Fanconi anemia. I graduated high school and was a pretty fun
teenager. I fell in love and got married. I graduated from college, taught at an inner city
high school for 13 years, adopted a beautiful daughter and taught at a local university for
10 years. I did the math once and figured out that through my years of teaching I have
influenced more than 5,000 young adults. I have a wonderful support system of family,
friends and doctors.
At the end of the day, all we can ever do is hope” – Mary Grabher
21
Introductions
Yanet Damiron
I come from,
The slums.
I am residue
Of what could not be undone.
I am a canvas made dark by chimney sparks, I am the beatings of an unknown, late, 3 times great grandmother's heart.
I own the sought out gold, in my undertone,
Given by the 3times great grandmother 4 times sold.
When I am less of me, & more like you, I am required to erase a hue or two.
I am countless generations, involuntarily displaced by forceful immigration.
I am B-eautiful, L-acking nothing, A-ttractive, but still missing something, C-hromatism, K-illed off in the name
of chauvinism.
But sir, I beg of you, where do black people come from? cuz I'z searchin for a land called blackness & I ain't sure there
wuz one-.
Ever wonder which few
Had the blueprint of how to manipulate and create differences
Instead of just labeling them shades of coincidences?
Gain control of following generations, justifying why old money is entitled to remain rich from slave plantations. Enough
tears to overflow the nile, the ships from being home, to homeless, then exiled -to someone else's comfort zone,
Who only planned to use them, abuse them, & historically confuse them.
Conflict their hearts with the controversies of light vs dark
Given a ladder missing rungs.
The spiritual hymns my 3 times great grandmother STILL unknown sung;
probably are translated to mean:
I am a descendant of kings, queens, an offspring of greatness. But because I cannot be sure, Instead, I simply take my
seat, & apologize for my lateness. I tried to catch up to those given chariots as transportation as I blindly stumbled
across a guiltless, stained from bloodshed nation with diminished understanding of natural tones, I simply raised my
hand when called for attendance, & stared at my bloodstained shoes in remembrance.
"Very well, we can start with you, since you were the last one, tell us about yourself & where you are from.."
It was then that I realized, I had been painted by the Sun, fire in my hands, I would burn down their slums.
1st Place
22
Still Life of a Poltergeist
Craig Shay
Outside a storm assembles−
a troupe of weather-reporters
swamp dance feverishly in the clouds.
Whispers say a great blizzard will arrive−
the worst anyone has ever seen.
Prisoners shuffle onto the empty stage−
their spirits half dissolved,
dressed like luminaries of the court.
They’ve rejected those warnings
entrusted to them by the murmuring fields−
When you break open up the soul
the inner workings are astonishingly chaotic
and coated in engine grease−
The crowd waits patiently for transport
from this extended century of winter and war.
Me, I’ve drowned all my poetry
in a wellspring of hemlock,
salamanders are crawling out a myriad
of waterlogged manuscripts−
My path has always amounted to nothing
but an infinite number of missteps−
maladjusted to this somnambulistic state.
This cage is cold but clean−
The voices I hear outside are faint, idle
directionless sermons−
calling for their Fool.
When the jailer wakes me up
I sense the lack of conviction in his heart.
When I get to the stage
my hands fall on silent keys−
There’s a scrawny cry from behind the clouds,
ripping the skin off my flesh
slowly tearing out the pages of my history−
But I’m only striking those old choral rings
hitting the cues of lone stranded tunes
with hammer and volcanic steel,
still trying to justify the moment−
2nd Place
23
It came naturally, entering the world as the most beautiful Calla Lilly
Chosen to be picked by the upmost prestige of men, and the gods
themselves
Worldly conflicts over me because of my blinding beauty
And the affliction I pinned onto those who would cease to hold me
But couldn’t.
As many times as the bees flew over me, sweet talking me and the
dandelions swaying in the
wind
Leaving whispers to dillydally throughout my stem, and to have veiled
enigmas penetrating my
petals
Because nobody warned me of the selfishness of the rich man and the
hunger for more
But I’d just watch the stars for the last time and for once, I saw a beauty
in them I didn’t see in
myself
And I counted and counted and counted, because I didn’t know if they’d
wait for me in eternity.
And so it was I was picked by the most handsome man, with hands so
powerful and eyes so
fixated
I felt myself dying.
The stars were no more and in the absence of light, I could see my own
blurred greyness
But I liked it, I could see what I was to him who dared rip me out of my
birth place
There was no remorse or sadness for what he had done
But I could not expect anything more than a quick spec of sunlight that I
craved for so much
And the water that livened my thoughts and gave me the strength to
dance
So the greyness was my own because I owned nothing else.
The beauty was no more nor was the awe I would see in his eyes
Abuse was acceptable to me, for no one would stand up for me
And I could not stand up for myself because I could not speak.
The bees I once thanked, and the wind I once whispered to couldn’t
surpass him
All the fairytales he would recite, and the passion I saw within him
Could not make up for the pain I felt in my soul
And so I thought of the stars and how beautiful I remember them
And if they would be able to shine brighter without me watching them.
But quickly I learned
I shone brighter than the stars
and it was too late for saving
Because I feared
I had already died.
2nd Place
24
3rd Place
25
3rd Place
26
It fell upon him
It fell hard enough to killem'
Crushed
Even ground, pound against pound
Beneath a miller's stone
Or ink spread upon the typeset
street
He was not dead;
No more but pulverized atoms
Broken down again
Split into atomic cells
Never can again
A windy when
Not this dust of these atoms
Thought to be no more;
They were swept up
By the sweeper
That brushed the pavement floor
Collected by coarse bristles
That transferred them to store,
Until they reached
That bitter place of waste
Where nests of things were born
Pathetic particles rested
Scattered apart from one another
Grasped by all of life
This mound was made of
Held together by its roe
Carried by the sticky little stones
That do their job because it's in them
Brought together
By gravity's need to nurse, then
wean
and make a form
This child would be reborn
As God does have His way
Climb his way to the top of this
mountain
To see the rising of the day
As we are born
Without a choice to live
He was put back together again
To give and take
And be made into a tool
To suffer, take, and give again
Withershins (Out of Context)
Christopher Roesler
3rd Place
27
X-ACTO
Ryann Riggs
Something about the way you drove your fingertips across my skin-
Not like he did,
X-acto, acute and stinging,
I learned to safety proof the room,
Avoided his strict, sharp voice
And when his fingers felt like razorblades,
I learned to dress my wounds with compliance.
Something about the way you dug into my thoughts-
Not like he did,
Unkind, toxic and eventual,
I learned to maneuver around “sorry”,
Avoided tending to his callused hands
And when his mattress felt like quicksand,
I learned to let myself sink into obedience.
Something about the way you simply ask-
Not like he did,
Jagged, rough and becoming,
I learned to ache for resentment
Although it only came quietly,
I swam to the surface of your bed,
Cut myself out of your room silently and
Learned to love something about the way
You taught me forgiveness, X-acto
3rd Place
28
From A Mother With No Children
Danique Green
I have bore no children from these loins of mine.
But I have whats necessary to create one.
Fuck it, even if I don't have the stretch marks, I done raised some.
Yea I know maternal instinct,
Even if it's gotta be from a distinct distance.
Where I come from the babies have babies.
And the man that took his time impregnating his lady,
He has no means for the baby, And even him being there is a maybe.
I've watched mothers leave their children,
For the love of many more men.
Some of these disgraceful women.
I ain't knockin you, but just know your child is.
And trippin over some new dick just makes you look so childish.
Now we know life is never a fairytale, I ain't knocking no abortion.
Not everyone is gon gather the feelings to say they bore one.
But me? I ain't deep, I ain't stressing about no embryos.
So what if it coulda been a president, a lawyer, a martyr.
That one could been a sociopath, a drug dealer, a fuckin killer.
You just never know, so I don't take it personal.
I can't tell men to man up, cause some of you never knew your own pops.
Never got to play sports with the dude, and throw pop rocks.
But the same thing goes, same old nigga who claimed to be "killing these hoes".
What can you say when your bank account on froze, and your education on hold, but your
Honorable Mention
29
pockets on swole?
I can't help that, and God can only judge you.
And I hope yuh momma embraced you and told you even once how she loved you
Left you in that cell a night, teaching you a lesson.
And have you coming up looking back like, "what a blessing."
I ain't throwing no stones in this house of glass, believe me in all truth, Im not perfect.
But I hope having children shows you your humbleness, and you unearth it.
The bible says children's are God's loan to us.
The bible says clearly that man is dust.
But off that religious tip? My baby gon be a DIAMOND.
And for them and my sisters I'll be shining.
Cause I? I have bore no children from these loins of mine.
But I have what's necessary to create one.
Fuck it, even if I don't have the stretch marks, I done raised some.
30
Where we dream, we find a palaescent wonder,
a miracle of Jehovah, G_d in a different incarnation.
Seeds planted in winter sprout dead branches,
broken fingers reaching for heaven,
a gallery of the occult in New York City
compiled by a small girl who forgot her name.
She forgot it during a long winter in the mid-90s,
the only blizzard of my youth,
when she lived in a hollow
and the shadow it cast across Jerusalem.
That’s not the holy city, the avenue,
but if you follow it down long enough you’ll find someone who believes.
It used to be better here.
Or maybe it was just me. Colors run,
stories and dreams bleed together,
people do. One night you realize you’re sober
and you wonder if it’ll be the last time.
Another you’re driving and you can’t keep your eyes open,
looking out the window for a place you know doesn’t exist anymore and,
for a second maybe, you can see it. Before the telephone pole wakes you.
She forgot it on the bus,
surrounded by those people who exist
only on buses, in Walmarts and at the DMV.
Snow falls. It hits the ground and is gone.
She watches it as they pass a strip mall,
deciding what to order in.
In these moments she is unconsumed,
a part of the less than overwhelming world.
But then she is off, into the void
of thoughts she keeps in a book on her lap, folded open.
When she forgets it will be in a fit of understanding.
The quart of milk on the seat next to her will topple with a fwup.
Nobody else will notice.
Some nights I sneak into her room
into dreams of when she was just a little girl
and watch her father telling her stories.
Untitled
William Donlon
Honorable Mention
31
It feels perverse and I, out of control of my body,
react to her who I’ll love and touch and wonder
what would it mean to love her now as I will when.
I could touch myself now thinking
what she would but
instead
I listen to the love in her father’s voice
and become lost in that different kind.
There’s so much she would never share with me,
things I could take from her now but
won’t,
won’t ever.
Still I find myself here while asleep.
The stories are so warm and simple and
I wonder how her insides ever got so twisted up.
She’s falling asleep now but he keeps telling the story,
just to be sure. I guess that’s why her dad never liked me.
I’m the one now who whispers to her in her sleep.
The little girl closes her eyes and sees long green shadows
touching the edge of the blanket
and she screams,
and is alone with me now, the first time we were together.
I wish I could take them away
but they were inside you when I met you
and as long as you were mine.
I tried a few times to reach up inside you and pull them out,
curling my fingers to find the place where they hid.
They would always sneak back in though,
and you’d ask me to try again another night.
I could do it now
and you’d writhe like a rapturous spirit trapped in a burning body
right before it bursts out through the ceiling
and I could do it now but
where is the consent in a sleeping body?
32
I see your kneecaps
where the bones all grew out from.
From there down the roots snake
down into the earth
to make their way to my heart.
She would go to a performance of Hamlet in an abandoned asylum,
unsanctioned and raided by the cops while Ophelia drowned in the yard
and she watched. Ophelia gave the wrong boy a flower.
He took her down into the earth to teach her a lesson
about what men do to women. Sweet Ophelia was snuff’d
the moment she went under the covers,
stuffed in a box and dropped in the earth.
She’ll start to collect bird bones and make little statuettes
to sell to the children. Occultus in the Latin means clandestine.
Her eyes trace shapes in the mirror at the pizza place around the block,
she writes an acrostic with her fingers on the bathroom mirror and commits
it to memory. Later she sews it into a tiny body,
hollow bones cracking with the effort, but the joke is lost
on all the girls in her art class. Some nights she goes out
with old friends who don’t know her, to bars and other dark places
where nobody notices if you talk. Always she gets home and feels
the prickling at the back of her neck, though,
so she converts the bathroom into an exhibit
and changes everything the moment she gets bored.
And sometimes its Malcolm who climbs her body in the night
to rest between her breasts, and sometimes
it’s another pair of hands in the dark,
but mostly it’s tense silence
as the ghost watches her touching herself.
33
Goodbye to the grotto the
Shell of forgotten elms and the
Bittersweet taste of your lips
I swear I cleave to and kiss
Spread on sheets with
Am one with the
Cool river of tracks the
Calm vessel of silos and circles and
The angled bend of the cross
And think nothing other than this this or that or this it
is them—all—I will forego them
for nothing
(I have buried
my death at the core)
I will be beautiful and self-possessed, I will
Dance with light on the scales like
Skins of the sea
It is when the vaporous lilting
Silhouettes drop down from beneath me
I cannot stand to breathe
Myself the world caves in on itself my mind—I am not
mine—
I am swallowed by the hollows that are at once
Too far and too full
Nothing would I not sacrifice for these some times larghetto Some times staccato Innocent heady fleshandblood liturgies of tongues laving These land-locked islands I say goodbye to the throes all the Thorns of the rose ((but for when I am alone)) Bye. Bye. Bye. , Bye.
Bye to DieOnNighses
K.S. Majka
Honorable Mention
34
The voiceless echoes
Caved her in
And shattered her to pieces
From within.
There was nothing more to lose,
No blood was spilled,
They took it all away,
Her soul was distilled.
You came in,
A dark shadow,
The voice of imperfection,
The reversal of positive self-perception.
Creeping in the night,
Hiding in the day
Looking stealthily for their prey,
Stealing souls away.
They asked her to dance,
And they stepped to and fro,
And they whispered in her ear,
Spun her, then let her go.
She saw the silhouettes,
Those dark hidden shapes.
They waltzed to the window,
Then they opened the drapes.
The light came in
And made her see it,
All of those words
That those shadows repeated.
The tears stained her cheeks,
As she sat down wide-eyed
And looked into the mirror
And her mind decided to abide.
Curled up,
Left Behind,
Choked up,
Out of her mind.
They exposed her body,
They exposed her soul,
They twisted her view,
And set fire to coal.
And the coal turned to dust,
And the fire stopped burning.
They achieved their goal
And the tables were turning.
What was once picture perfect
Had started to fade
She turned into the monster
That the shadows had made.
The voiceless echoes
Caved her in
They set fire to her home
And locked her in.
Honorable Mention
35
Exit Wounds
Brianna Lambert
Your touch, your taste, your brace, your sound
How true to you, my feelings bound
By bands, can’t break what can’t be saved
The things you never held, but laid
Upon your lips. I can’t contain
The bridges coming down in flames.
From novels of your stories past,
I swam in them and felt the thrash;
The beating of my heart collapsed
And drained for you the rest I had
I toss, I turn, I lie awake;
The imprint of your body’s shape.
Sell my soul and trade the pain
To hell I seek the saving grace
For all the lust has come to pass
Nonexistent, burning ash.
In thought of you, I’d lay my life
Let it dwell and suffer in strife
My hands, they shake and long for you
The lack of times we followed through
Honorable Mention
36
Your promises, I fell for them
Watched as you left, part of your trend.
I’m incomplete, my lifeless self
You blighted me and fled, such stealth
My soul is weak, my heart is sworn
The dust has spilled, been spread to mourn.
I cry, I sob, I drowned in awe
The exit wounds, open and raw.
Sell my soul and trade the pain
To hell I seek the saving grace
For all the lust has come to pass
Nonexistent, burning ash.
A drug runs through my veins
And you’re the overdose that floods them
I wish there was someone to blame
For the high that often mends us.
Sell my soul and trade the pain
To hell I seek the saving grace
For all the love has come to pass
Nonexistent, burnt to ash.
I cry, I sob, I drown in awe
The exit wounds, open and raw.
37
STRING THEORY
Gillian S. Dzakonski
I ALMOST KEPT IT
NOT THE DOG
NO
NOT THAT
THE DOG, I DONATED TO THE PEOPLE
BEHIND THE DESK
NO
NOT THAT
BUT A PATCH
SOME TAPED UP BALL OF THREADS
OF THE HAIR OF THE DOG THAT BIT ME
IN THE CHEST
ITS TEETH WERE ICICLES
LONG, SHARP & COLD
AS THEY SUNK INTO MY FLESH
AND SCREAMED
THERE WAS BLOOD
YES
THERE WAS SO MUCH BLOOD
YES
SO I DRANK FROM THE RIVER OF BLUE
UNTIL MY HEART TURNED INTO A SNOWFLAKE
AND EVERYONE ELSE’S HEARTS DID TOO.
Honorable Mention
38
.
We all know the story why the caged bird sings
But now the cage is quiet and we can’t hear a thing
There’s no whisper, whimper, hum nor cry
The cage is quiet and we ponder why
Did the bird leave? Did it escape?
Did someone check the cage? Did the lock break?
Did someone let her go? Did someone let her flee?
Did someone let her free without permission from me?
No the body's been identified she lays in the cage cold
No sign of escape just a note where her story is told
"I’m tired of being caged up, locked down in captivity
I am a free soul who needs to leave and find the best of me
I understand I’m locked down to protect my beauty and grace
But these methods of "love" are a disgrace
I need freedom and I need my own life
I don’t need tough love or your excuses as lies
This is why I chose my own method to be rid of the lies you told
Now my body is still captive but I received freedom for my soul"
This is the story of why the cage is quiet
The bird's singing days are over, no song comes from inside it
She found a way to leave a way to retreat
The caged bird killed herself, setting herself free
Honorable Mention
39
To submit your work to a future issue of
Harmonia, The Creative Writing Journal
at SUNY College Old Westbury….
Potential contributors can submit up to 3 pieces per semester.
All written submissions must be sent to
[email protected] as Microsoft Word files (.doc or
.docx). You must include titles for each of your submissions as
well as your full name as you would like it to be published.
Short stories should be no longer than 5 pages. Poems should be
no longer than 3 pages. You will be contacted with the editors’
decision approximately 4 weeks after the semester’s deadline.
For more information, see the English Department website
www.english-ow.com
