By Sarah Van Clef

“She was just seventeen,” my teacher said
as she sobbed in front of our eighth grade
English class.
We didn’t know what hall
she was traveling down,
we didn’t want to interrupt.
The silence bounced off Walt Whitman’s face,
the salt water melting through his white beard
we all looked for some answers in the dull poster.
He was the man who discovered the world,
if only we could travel
through The Leaves of Grass.
We watched our teacher grab her coat and leave
with the twenty eight chairs full, not looking back.

Toxic Cycle
By Chris Bedell

I think about this toxic cycle
One minute you’re hot
The next you’re cold
Then hot again
Only to distance yourself again
It’s like a drug
Making up
Fighting again,
Before I know it,
Only to repeat this toxic cycle
The addiction grows worse
We’re both drawn to each other,
For whatever reason
I just want you to love me,
Or at least treat me right
Is that too much to ask?
Every time I think I’m done,
You pull me back in
Do you even care about me?
Why do you act like this?
You might just be my undoing

A Collection of Autumn Haikus

By Kristen Ordonez

Thanks, Dunkin Donuts
Cinnamon, pumpkin
Two tastes we tend to forget
Until autumn calls

True Life: Autumn
Irony of fall:
Colors and life of fire,
But killed by cold breath

Few of My Favorite Things
Leaves crunch underfoot
A more pleasant sound opposed
to cries of heat stroke

By Christi Peace

Changing Weather
Sweat drips down my back;
The next day I have goosebumps.
What will it be next?

Leaves Falling
As they slowly die,
The leaves begin to pile,
Hiding what’s below.
The Progression of the Season
Halloween candy.
Thanksgiving and relatives.
Waiting for Christmas.

By Sarah Van Clef

The sun is shining
The leaves are changing colors
Our toes are coldish

By Christi Peace

Ancient walls whisper their secrets.
At every turn, a new surprise.
A student listens closely enough,
And views it all through virgin eyes.

Well-worn carpets, wooden pillars,
Suits of armor that guard the halls,
Fireplaces that stay forever cold,
Previous owners that watch from the walls.

The stairs creak and the wind howls,
As animals cry out in the night.
The walls are far too thin,
And when it storms there is no light.

No light that is, save the students themselves.
These young, passionate inhabitants
Who make it through storms of every type,
And bond together in catacomb basements.

The bonds that they have formed,
Through both times of good and bad,
Encouraged by this insulated place,
Are the best they’ve ever had.

This land that was once foreign,
The streets and fields that they have roamed,
This abbey that was once mysterious,
They now view as their home.

Though it lasted only a semester,
Our journey was not miniscule.
We were more than just students.
Wroxton is more than just a school.

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