Pacifist Coastline Child

The Catlin Gabel School Senior Poetry Writing class final projects.

2022 CGS Senior Poetry Chapbooks

As blindingly barren as the page lying before me my thoughts falter, fade, all bleary and leave me drowning in the tock click clocking louder than the cold computer keys clacking. As my shaky hands stress, my palms drip tears beecause I’ve heard, spelling bees can sense your fears.

~ ~ Word War Me ~ ~

~ ~ Role-ationship ~ ~

a humble home holding our hearts as one, the floors of wool cradle our feet to rest. Mother of all seeks rest upon the couch though her boundless charity is unmatched. his endless security, a gold patch, Father of all, unspoken badge to wield. she first bears bricks maturity brings forth, to be Older, a model for years on after her, my Second sister is both a friend, a foe, someone to which, I go as the child and sibling, I Am now we humble and hold onto being one

But, inspiration’s sweeter than a suckle flower, honey! celebrations chuckle for an hour, isn’t that funny?

As my fingers fly, my brain oils its gears so that this may bee one of my better years. on a submarines door, I’m knock knick knocking over the whelming odds, so they’ll stop stacking. As clear as a kaleidoscope, I see words lie before me &nbsp;my thoughts did win this war and believe me.

W e wade with the wishy washy water, I n the boat above or beneath the bow? L eft with the lulling of the waves? L eft with the lulling rolling waves. A n aquatic chime equates quality time, with M e, my family, and mine&nbsp; E qually beloved. T he teeter totter swishes the water, T he father fishes with his daughter, E qually beloved, bubbly. R each for a hand to hold I n the boat above and beneath the bow V ivid memories made, a mental vow. E qually beloved, bubbly, breathing R each for the sand too cold.

You grasped his stone-cold hands once more,&nbsp; that once tended fires at our grassy campsite where we’d stomp and trod,&nbsp; the goat heads prod and&nbsp; the devil horns prickle, but you were smiling, right? How does a grandchild, praying to heaven&nbsp; since age eleven, endure such a plight? You dowsed around in poetry, you cursed&nbsp; the reaper’s sickle upon heads,&nbsp; and faces,&nbsp; that were bowed by night. The final stanza, your final line;&nbsp; “but I miss him so much…” you write. Beneath a plastered mask, your stifled,&nbsp; eternal tears trickle, but you were smiling, right? Upon your head, and your face,&nbsp; that you bowed that night?

For Grandad... where love was lost but not forgotten as you sailed away the many years ago

**Cover photo by Charity Spires**

~ ~ re:Our Rock Done Crumbled ~ ~

But you were smiling, right? In God shall you trust?&nbsp; In the five solemn sense of a nickel&nbsp; upon heads,&nbsp; and faces,&nbsp; that were bowed by night. the sun’s etiolated memo-rays deprived of day light one by none,&nbsp; whence the keystone’s gone brickle,&nbsp; but you were smiling, right? Upon the casket of our cloud-bound boulder,&nbsp; innocence numbed the sight&nbsp; of a child’s first loss and emotions you lacked.&nbsp; Your heart&nbsp; seemed fickle upon heads,&nbsp; and faces,&nbsp; that were bowed by night.

~ ~ ♡︎ ~ ~

~ ~ Table of Contents ~ ~

Role-ationship . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I Flow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . II Hearsay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . III Our Rock Done Crumbled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . IV re:Our Rock Done Crumbled . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . V Word War Me . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . VI

I'd love to thank and acknowledge family who have helped comfort me, my senior year poetry class for supporting me, my poetry teacher for encouraging me, and special thanks to Henrietta C. Ray and Amanda S. C. Gorman for inspiring me.

Upon the casket of our cloud-bound boulder, innocence numbed the sight of a child’s first loss and emotions you lacked. Your heart seemed fickle upon heads, and faces, that were bowed by night. You grasped his stone-cold hands once more, that once tended fires at our grassy campsite where we’d stomp and trod, the goat heads prod and the devil horns prickle, but you were smiling, right? How does a grandchild, praying to heaven since age eleven, endure such a plight? You dowsed around in poetry, you cursed the reaper’s sickle upon heads, and faces, that were bowed by night. The final stanza, your final line; “but I miss him so much…” you write. Beneath a plastered mask, your stifled, eternal tears trickle, but you were smiling, right? Upon your head, and your face, that you bowed that night?

~ ~ Hearsay ~ ~

The faintest whispers the swiftest winds bear May not be as jarring as a white whistle That floods our bustling ears. Might a thin thistle Of sharp discord poke and prod? They share Of what bruises ours drums, They care Enough to speak. A softened tone, soft as bristle&nbsp; Echoing from me to we, resonating, abyssal, Spiraling down lower to the soul, aware, Balancing virtues over vices. Yet who can tell A tale akin to a fairy or a tattle? Who hears The brown bat’s precise echo-sensation? We cling to the rope swaying beneath the well, Dwelling in the bucket of muddied dictation.

**Inspired by Henrietta C. Ray's "Limitations"**

~ ~ Our Rock Done Crumbled ~ ~

But you were smiling, right? In God shall you trust? In the five solemn sense of a nickel&nbsp; upon heads, and faces, that were bowed by night. the sun’s etiolated memo-rays deprived of daylight one by none, whence the keystone’s gone brickle, but you were smiling, right?

Name

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