Posted in 2015-2016, Arts

Like the Seasons

By Nicole Zimmerman

It’s winter, and icicles hang from our noses
and our toes curl deeper into our boots,
searching for shelter.
We cling to our friends
as if we were penguins huddling together,
hoping for our last chance of warmth.
We are snowmen walking through windy streets.
Our scarves blowing into our faces,
frozen hair catching in our mouths.
But as we cling to the sun’s few rays,
and leap from snowbank to snowbank,
We are together.
Grasping hands
and lifting chins,
we rise.
Now, with winter pulling away,
we realize that its cool hand
was only pushing us together.
And as it leaves,
a frostbitten trail spreads
over new blooms.
I lay in the pollen dusted meadow,
flushed tremors will soon be running over my skin.
Now I am warmed by us,
and I no longer need the sun.

Nicole Zimmerman is a Freshman at Barbara Ingram

Posted in 2015-2016, Arts

The Transformation Into Spring

By Kellie-Ann Morris

She was a tree, frozen in time
with a spine that once stood tall like bark.
But she succumbed under harsh winds,
bending in defeat,
bowing to the enemy,
hunched and ready to snap.

She was a bear, with a coat too light for the cold.
So she hid away
at the first sign of snowflakes  
in a nice cold cave
with only echoes to keep her company.
The cavern walls protected her from the world,

but kept her from exploring it.

She was a flower,
wilted by the weight of snow.
Her petals curled up, vibrant shades crumbling
into colors as dark as the sky without sun.

She was fragile, terrified, vulnerable.
She was stuck in an eternal winter
that was causing her decay.

The harmonious bird song every day
was her wake up call
to wage a war on the cold.
Tweets that delivered directions
to a better place,
gave birth to new beginnings.

So she migrated towards a land
where she could control the clouds,
and fall in love with the way the sun kisses her cheek
and vowed to never return to frost.

She melted the ice from her shoulders
with steadfast determination.
She gained the strength to be unwavering against all forces,
learned how to stretch out her branches
without worrying about how much room she took up.

Now she is spring.

Kellie-Ann Morris is a Freshman at Barbara Ingram

Posted in 2015-2016, Arts

Symptoms of Love and Addiction

By Kellie-Ann Morris

Nausea (known to me as butterflies),
shortness of breath,
sweaty palms (that you never mind holding),
and an accelerated heartbeat.

These are defined as symptoms of love,
but they are also signs of a panic attack.
I find that quite fitting
since I’m terrified of loving you.

While I’ve always admired the view
of firework kisses
and star crossed lovers
who find each other despite the darkness,

That’s not the life I desire
for sparks only last a minute.
True love kisses are deadly
and I don’t want to become another tragedy

Insomnia (losing sleep with the idea of losing you),
neglecting other responsibilities,
risk taking (always in alleys after midnight),
and obsession.

These are defined as symptoms of infatuation
but they are also signs of addiction,
and I don’t think I could handle
if you withdrew.

I never wanted the space between
your arms to feel like home
cause if you evict me
I won’t remember how to support myself.

The way I mourn the loss of your touch
and count down the seconds till you’ll return
proves that I’m already
hooked on the drug called love.

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Kellie-Ann Morris is a Freshman at Barbara Ingram

Posted in 2015-2016, Arts

Two Christmas Trees

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By Maddie Sokoloski

A few weeks ago, my sister Lily and I put up our Christmas decorations. This year, due to the fact that we live in a new house, we had to do things a bit differently. Our old tree was too tall to fit under our shorter ceilings so we bought a new, smaller Christmas tree. We hung over a hundred matching gold and silver ornaments, newly bought. My mom climbed a ladder to place a brand new silver star tree topper with rotating disco lights. The ceiling was splashed with red, blue and green lights, spinning and whirling in some pattern I couldn’t follow. The tree is organized, beautiful, uniform, everything I always wanted a tree to be and I’m still not sure about it. It’s all as new as the house we live in. This isn’t the tree I’m used to.

A few days after the tree was put up, we broke out the rest of the decorations, including the box of sentimental, kiddy ornaments that didn’t match the gold and silver theme of the tree. To accommodate for this and use the extra decorations, a second tree, the scraggly one we put on the porch of our old house, was set up in a different room. On it, we hung all the ornaments that didn’t match the gold ones. Aside from the silly, homemade crafts that were slowly falling apart and the few bits and pieces that belonged to my dad, we hung up every one until the artificial branches drooped with the weight. All five of my mom’s nativity scenes were scattered throughout the house. We strung garland along the rail by the steps and accented it with some big red bows. We hung five of our six stockings on a shelf across from the gold tree because they looked better there than on the mantle.

Five stockings. Just like our house and our Christmas tree, this was different too. Even though my parents split up some time last year, we still had Christmas together in our old house. This year though, my mother bought a new house. The garlands and bows are on a new railing; our fake tree is color coordinated in a way my dad would never have appreciated in the old house. All the decorations are beautiful and I still can’t help but feel something is missing.

“I don’t believe in Christmas,” my dad told me when I asked him what he wanted. I still harbored every intention to buy him a gift anyway. As opposed to my mom’s house, my dad’s apartment still looks exactly the same in December as it did in August. Even though he took us shopping to buy gifts for our mom, we have no tree or garland or big red bows. To my dad, Christmas was always about family. It was about going to tree farms to purchase the perfect tree then taking it home and coating it in a thick layer of ornaments, each laden with memory. Now that it’s just the two of us in our two-bedroom apartment (with the occasional weekend visit from my siblings), there’s no need to hang stockings or string lights. There’s no point in rushing out to buy a tree when no one’s going to appreciate it. Without family, there’s no reason for Christmas in the apartment.

Christmas is more different than I ever imagined it could be. At the new house, there is no balcony overlooking the bottom floor for my sisters, brother, and I to look over and stare at our tree on Christmas morning. There’s much less space to decorate at my mom’s and nothing to decorate with at my dad’s. As much as I don’t want to admit it, our new Christmas makes me sad. I knew Christmas would be different when my parents split up but it’ll be a challenge forming new traditions, trying to uphold the old ones with one less person, holding onto old memories with nothing to reinforce them every year, getting to spend time with both parents during Christmas break. I assumed I’d have two trees this year. I didn’t know they’d both be in the same house. But it just means I’ll be forging new holiday memories by both the light of our two Christmas trees and the glow of the regular old lights in my dad’s apartment.

Maddie Sokoloski is a Sophomore at Barbara Ingram 

Posted in 2015-2016, Arts

Forgotten Riches

By Kellie-Ann Morris

I forget to count my blessings,
pay more attention to what’s not there,
see the glass as half empty,
complain that it’s not fair.
I have a bad habit of underestimating
the value of fortunes in front of me,
paying no attention to their shine.
Privileges lose their glamour
because they seem immortal;
Thanksgiving reminds me that everything can rust.
It is an excuse to
consume copious amounts of food
and to put a spotlight on being grateful.
Before the holiday
I’d use my fingers to count off everything
I felt was missing,
forgetting I have
a shelter to protect me from howling winds,
shelves stocked with a variety of food,
friends who are willing
to hold my hand when it gets dark,
a mom who believes love
is worth the sacrifice, and
a sister who will always be my company.
Thanksgiving reminds me
to praise my forgotten riches.

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Kellie-Ann Morris is a Freshman at Barbara Ingram