by The Cowl Editor on March 1, 2018

---

Portfolio

---

by Dawyn Henriquez ’19

 

The smoke danced,

Curling into our minds and

Selling us paranoia for cents of sobriety

Like a vendor of beans labeled magic,

Giving us stalks through each pass.

 

After, all that remained was ash

Spread across the coffee table.

The snore of a giant

Lying on the couch the only sound

Cutting through the drizzle

Dripping outside my window.

 

And, as the blue before dawn

Peeked its head through the darkness,

 

I stood there

 

Watching

 

The rain filled sky

 

With cloud filled lungs.

 

So much depended

Upon

 

A late Monday

Night

 

Drowning

In air

 

Coughing up

Silence

by The Cowl Editor on March 1, 2018

---

Portfolio

---

by Marisa DelFarno ’18

 

His name was Jones,

and the whole bus was his soapbox.

Any regular on 21 knew about Jones;

his rep for being tossed out onto the pavement,

and his volcanically loud

voice,

while the mice of the bus,

myself included,

judged him in our collective silence.

 

He hid himself in the rear of the bus,

deep past the rows of sticky seats,

and his voice

held in by the foggy, closed windows,

and the metallic shell of the bus.

 

Till this day,

I don’t know what Jones exactly looked like.

He was more of an apparition;

a ghost with a deep, gravelly, and rambunctious voice.

 

He talked

and

talked

but no one dared to join his conversation.

He only talked into the smoggy dirty air

enveloped in the bus.

 

One day,

he claimed to be a relative of James Brown,

and from Raleigh, “just like James Brown.”

A bystander fact-checked him,

saying Brown was from South Carolina.

Jones retorted back, “No, I am from Raleigh,

just like James Brown.”

 

We ignored him,

dismissed him as a loon.

And then,

he modulated his usual baritone voice

to a high pitched tenor real fast and

started to belt out

Get up offa that thing,

and shake till you feel better,

repeatedly,

and hitting every note,

perfectly.

 

I sharply turned my head

to see if the real deal had materialized.

But sullen-faced strangers concealed him,

looking forward

at me,

at the front of the bus,

as they sat in their silence.

Turn around.

Witness

a legend.

by The Cowl Editor on March 1, 2018

---

Portfolio

---

by Jay Willett ’20

 

Dust and gunk spewed up from beneath the rails as her train skidded to a stop.

You couldn’t see the orange citrus rays of the morning sun underground.

“Boston, Boston!”

She flung her flowered bag over her shoulder and reached for her carry-on.

The stench of the subway was overwhelming; if it was clean, it wasn’t Providence.

Just two months, just two goddamn months.

How many mornings are in two months? How many mornings like this will we miss?

How many movies had I watched with this scene?

The conductor motioned toward his watch then to me.

The worst part, she looked most beautiful right then.

Among the dirty, dim, repulsing tunnel, she flashed a soft smile.

I hate clichés, until I start living one.

In that moment, when she struggled to tiptoe up to me,

I wanted the whole world to shut up and freeze.

Right there, when she kissed me, and my eyes welled up,

That’s where I wanted to exist.

“Ask her to stay,”

She turned away and rolled her luggage over to the mustard yellow line,

“Ask her to live with you, anything to make her just stay,”

She leaped up to the sliding door,

“Ask her, you idiot.”

The train slipped past, and the stench trailed behind,

For two months I was going to be alone in the tunnel,

Waiting until I get to see my morning sunshine again.

Where was once perfection, was the rats and an empty hall.

Up the stairs, back out into the day, I felt a tangy sensation.

So sweet it was to be without sunlight in bitter cold.

by The Cowl Editor on March 1, 2018

---

Portfolio

---

by Marelle Hipolito ’21

 

One, two, three

Minutes late to the bus stop

I sigh with relief, the bus driver waited because she knows me

 

Four, five, six

Times I fell asleep in class

But it’s okay, I have lunch after this

 

Seven, eight, nine

People ahead of me

At least it’s usually a fast line

 

Ten, eleven, twelve

Weird and loud sounds,

What are they? My friends and I ask ourselves

 

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen

Million thoughts

Through my head as I run, cause I now realize what they mean

 

Sixteen, seventeen, eight—

I feel a pain, a pinch, and I fall

I can’t go any further, can you keep going for me?

by The Cowl Editor on February 15, 2018

---

Portfolio

---

by David Martineau ’18

 

You grow on me like a coat of fur, but offer me no warmth.

And sometimes all I would like to do is shave you off,

But I cannot, for you are my children.

 

Before, when I was whipped by fire and scarred by ice,

When my skin blistered and burned and burst open with molten sores,

The pangs of birth that brought me out from the bowels of the void,

I thought of you, and could endure that pain.

 

For you were going to save me, improve me

Take what little I had and make it new,

Like the acorns that spawn new forests

After fire has devastated them.

 

But instead of building, you burn,

Instead of feeding my beauty, you consume it.

Instead of loving me, you take me for granted.

Instead of giving me Life, you bring me closer to Death.

 

I wish, sometimes, that I could be rid of you,

That I could return to the torments of my youth, and forget you.

But I cannot, for you are my children.

by The Cowl Editor on February 15, 2018

---

Portfolio

---

by Marelle Hipolito ’21

 

Dear boy in this crowded room,

Do I dare sit next to you?

Will you pause your video, and say hi

Or will you refuse me a second of your time?

 

Dear girl in this crowded room,

Do you see me looking right at you?

Will you pause writing that post and look up

Or is my gaze not strong enough?

 

Dear mister in this crowded room,

Do I dare say hi, and nice to meet you?

Will you be impressed by a face-to-face introduction

Or will you be too worn down by your device dungeon?

 

Dear miss in this crowded room,

Do you hear me compliment you?

Will you remove your blasting headphones and say thank you

Or is your music too loud for my voice to break through?

 

Dear people of this crowded world,

Do you hear my screams, do you hear my hurt?

Or is the light of your screens so bright

You didn’t see me give up, and wave goodbye?

by The Cowl Editor on February 15, 2018

---

Portfolio

---

by Erin Lucey ’20

 

Snowflakes fall from the generous sky,

Blanketing the grateful ground

with their grace and charm.

They cover each fear,

they hide every regret,

they mask every drop of pain,

and reveal only the sparkle of the frosted, silvery night.

 

Snowflakes fall from the resentful sky,

covering the sorrowful ground

with their culpable disgrace.

They slaughter each flower,

they massacre every butterfly,

they drown all the laughter,

and reveal only the hateful chill of their presence on the buried world.

 

But soon enough spring returns again.

along with each fear, each regret, and all the pain.

along with every flower, every butterfly, every echo of laughter.

And the snow slowly melts away, fading from the colorful earth

to remind us that:

Nothing beautiful can last forever;

and nothing terrible will stay for long.

by The Cowl Editor on February 8, 2018

---

Portfolio

---

by Jonathan Coppe ’18

 

Is joy more real when it is shared?

I seek a soul to share my joy,

To wrap in zeal for life and bathe in love

Of every precious thing that pulls

My cheeks into a smile.

To see her smile too—and not for me!—

for finding something more to love,

within the hollow earth,

Oh what a gift to give, to spread

My tiny share of joy!

For I know what I seek:

A heart that’s like my heart and so completes

The rhythm of the song that my heart beats.

 

But where might such a one be found?

Each person all their own, so fierce, so fraught,

The heart will not yield up to joy,

We all remain apart.

 

In sorrow like a bank of fog I came to you,

With lids dropped low, in sagging step, with heavy breath.

How strange a single night could open up my hope,

A morning in your bed remold the very earth

And color all its vast expanse

In rosy red and heron blue.

by The Cowl Editor on February 8, 2018

---

Portfolio

---

by Kiley McMahon ’20

 

I have never been in love,

but I know what it looks like,

feels like, and sounds like.

 

It is appealing on the outside,

sweet and content on the inside;

nobody can compare

to the one true love of your life.

 

Your two hearts beat harmoniously and in unison,

as if they could jump out of your synonymous chest

at any given moment.

 

Your palms sweat and your stomach fills with butterflies

when your love enters the room;

nobody can compare

to the one true love of your life.

 

It sounds like, “For you,

I will live eternally,

through good times and through bad,

through happiness, and through illness.”

 

“I love you” is a statement often implicit on the first date,

not thinking twice about whether or not you truly love

your one true companion, that is for life.

by The Cowl Editor on February 8, 2018

---

Portfolio

---

by Jay Willett ’20

 

I won’t lie to you

I’m not the most athletic,

But the exhilaration of a touchdown or breakaway is won through patience.

I’m not the most intellectual,

But learning is my reason for existence, and gradually learning is diligent.

I’m not the wealthiest,

But the money made is hard-earned, saved, and the excess is distributed among others.

I’m not the most popular,

But companions are won through kindness, not competition.

I’m not the biggest player,

But connections and relationships are built through trust and loyalty.

I’m not the strongest,

But regular exercise and good health comes with a value of temperance.

I’m not the greatest,

And as an elder introduced me to another he said,

“This is him, he’s not really good at anything.”

At least he wasn’t lying,

Philippians 4:8.