by The Cowl Editor on October 7, 2021

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By Max Gilman ’25

 

Tell them tales, 

Entwine them with snaring literary truths, 

Yet they slip through, 

They, 

Slip through the spiked thorns amongst them, 

And, 

Carry on, 

And so begins the cycle again, 

Yet the outcome is the same, 

But now, 

They, 

Are experienced in slipping through the thorns, 

What is it man truly yearns? 

Truth? 

No, 

Denial of truth, 

Until, 

Substance is needed, 

What does it mean, 

To run alongside the sun? 

 

Tap, tap, tap, 

Strokes from my hand hit the sides of the metallic desk, 

With a pencil, 

Barely sharpened, 

They listen with thoughts, 

Tap, tap, tap, 

Wandering elsewhere, 

They, the blue people, 

Living blue lives, 

Under blue rays, 

Who never leave the box they exist in, 

Tap, tap, tap, tap, 

I decide to join them, 

In my mind’s blue disillusion, 

Distracted by purposeless truths, 

Those of inconsequential value, 

And there I observe moments of elation, 

Tap, tap, tap, tap, 

 

Blank your mind, 

Make a fool of art, 

For realism’s sake, 

What they say is of no importance, 

They seek truth published by man, 

Constructed in a factory, 

Of partisan labor for the victimized workers, 

Sealed with the blood of the author’s eye, 

And cleansed with the tears of a marginalized citizenship, 

That is the truth they seek, 

And so they live their blue lives now, 

As it has come in accordance, 

Down the line of succession, 

So they take their seat, 

Upon a throne engulfed in blue light, 

Hypnotized by the denial of art, 

 

Tap, tap, tap, 

Oh, 

Quickly I lost control of the pencil, 

As it fell to the ground, 

And embedded itself inside a crack, 

That ran through a spiderweb of cracks, 

And I became entranced, 

Hypnotized by the art, 

 

But what did they see, 

Not art, no, 

Instead they noticed the ground, 

And its need for repair, 

 

Years have passed since, 

The air has grown stale, 

But not a bad stale, 

More like a stale you smell in an old closet, 

With jackets from your older family, 

I stand up from the library steps and walk, 

Strolling down the street I call to you, 

With both hands shuddered away in pockets, 

And ask you to meet me, 

By the entrance to the graveyard, 

 

You thank me for the offer but leave me, 

And so I come to the graveyard alone, 

With a notebook, 

Full of drawings, 

Mostly incomplete,  

But they express how I feel, 

 

I sit by a fallen tree, 

In the moist morning air, 

As the fog rises just above my line of sight, 

As my hand accidentally touches a patch of moss, 

I dust off the palm and open the notebook, 

To see pictures of me running with the sun, 

Sketches I made during class a long time ago, 

 

I look to the sun, 

And wonder how long I must wait, 

Before our cosmic dance together, 

I must wait here as always, 

And reside among the blue people, 

But I too will not prove to be blue, 

No, 

I seek a truth I do not understand, 

For it is not made by man, 

But by truth alone, 

An artistic truth, 

A belief in love, 

 

So accordingly, 

I proceed to flip a new page open, 

And begin to draw, 

What it is I want to see, 

 

Oh, 

But I have forgotten a pen, 

And so I lay down in the graveyard, 

Accompanied by the dead, 

Those who have escaped the blue light, 

And weep, 

For art’s demise, 

And its people, 

Who appreciate it not, 

 

Blue can only go so far, 

And so I pursue life, 

Through a ballad of different colors, 

All wonderful in their own regard. 

 

by The Cowl Editor on September 30, 2021

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by Marelle Hipolito ’22

 

flight delayed, NYC heavy rains

“sit tight,” the pilot said.

I sit tight and look out the window

It’s a cloudy night

I sit tight and look at the people in the seats around me

Business suit, foot tapping anxiously

Khaki shorts, humming a song softly

And just like me, you wore ripped jeans.

one hour of sitting tight under the heavy rain

the pilot says: “never mind…we gotta deplane!

come back to the gate in another hour

hopefully by then it’s just light showers”

We all stand up, and I see your face

In the center of dark straight hair

Eyes dark from sitting tight

We all exit the gate and go our separate ways.

Yet somehow you and I go to the same restaurant, tables 7 & 8 

Ten minutes later, after you order and then I do

We hear over the microphone: “everyone, the weather cleared up! Come back to gate 2!”

You and I look at each other, down our drinks and take our food to go

And we both go sprinting to the gate, to board & go to different homes

Once we are seated, between the business suit and the khaki shorts

We look at each other, laugh and smile, and then we fly.

Once we land, before I noticed, I lose you at baggage claim

Oh stranger wearing ripped jeans on the plane

I can’t wait to tell this story, I wish I got your name

 

by The Cowl Editor on September 30, 2021

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by Max Gilman ’25

 

Heat grew over the paint-stroked sky,

He looked up, his gaze meeting light blue heavens,

His leg could be heard dragging from miles away,

Hours passed as he made his way, slowly, through the sea of ruptured stone,

How many of these stones must have been broken down to create the liquid ground,

Having been maltreated, his time was slowly dissipating by the second,

His trail, manifested from the blood spilt out the wound,

Hills stretched as if to mock the trifling size of man,

Hammering thoughts pounded the forefront of his mind,

Heroic steps continued, leisurely, yet antagonizing,

Hard hands strike the desert’s shifting sand, ceding control, he keels over with disdain,

He looks up, his gaze meeting light blue heavens, 

Hark, a sound exerts itself throughout the barren sands cape,

Then, came the seductress, void of life, then came the cease of suffering, then, the final breath,

With red, the man painted, through death, an artist of blood,

A young boy enters the shattering wind’s domain, 

Noticing the painted ground, the red sand.

 

by The Cowl Editor on September 30, 2021

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by Anna Pomeroy ’23

 

I never liked hearing the truth.

It always scared me because

I would fear the worst

As the words slipped out of their mouths

With no point of return.

 

At age four, it was a struggle

For my parents to tell me they were getting

a divorce.

Sitting me down, their voices were hushed

By my shouts—

“No talking!”

I’d state demandingly

Thinking that if I were to not

Hear those words—
Those words that would eventually carry on with me through life—

It wouldn’t have to happen.

 

by The Cowl Editor on September 23, 2021

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by Mariela Flores ’23

Content Warning: this piece contains content that could be triggering regarding eating disorders and body image. 

She called me llenita.  

Those words poked at my round belly,  

her eyes threw daggers into the soft flesh of my cheeks, 

her hands pinched my sides,  

as if she were trying to rip off the excess fat.  

 

At eight-years-old I was forced to notice my body,  

every tamale, pupusa, tortilla, weighed  

me down. 

I began to sink within myself.  

I had no strength at eight-years-old to carry  

the weight of being llenita.  

 

I noticed every curve–– 

the bluntness or the angles that protruded, 

the soft skin not yet tainted  

by the sharpness of my very own words.  

 

I listened as the women around me talked.  

Their voices held a dissonant tune  

notes and cadences crashing into one another. 

It reached my ears, 

the words dieta and gordita, joined the chorus leaving no room for a bridge.  

 

I had been called out and accused. 

They were the judge and juror sending me to a life sentence 

of questioning if I was too llenita, gordita, feita. 

 

They handed me rope that I would tie around my waist  

measuring my worth every single day.  

Llenita was tattooed onto my forehead.  

A reminder that being too full was the worst thing I could be. 

 

If I was llenita, 

no one would ever think I could be bonita.

by The Cowl Editor on September 23, 2021

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by Grace O’Connor ’22

 

Being patient makes her head spin and her nausea take over. 

Being patient makes her feel like she is locked in a small space, 

With the walls closing in on her, darkness preparing to give her a suffocating hug. 

 

Being patient leaves marks on her skin of irritation and fear. 

Being patient leaves her forgetting how to breathe, 

As she attempts to force air into her shallow lungs, her heart pounding for mercy. 

 

Being patient makes her forget how to live. 

Being patient makes her thoughts stab her brain like nails, 

Piercing through soft tissue, paving the way for her lifeline to trickle down. 

 

Being anxious feels more natural to her. 

Being anxious allows her to give in to her own worst enemy, 

Providing herself temporary relief and a quick moment to breathe. 

 

What’s the difference between the two? 

Being patient is how she is told to act and being anxious is instinctive to her. 

What’s worse one may ask? 

 

She doesn’t know, and will she ever? 

She craves a quick fix, giving in to her inner vices, 

As patience looms in the far distance, unreachable from darkness’s tight hug. 

 

She yearns for normalcy, 

Wondering day by day if she’ll ever feel that true bliss.  

Every year she is one step closer in this taxing marathon.  

 

She knocks down barriers that her mind puts in her way. 

Stopping herself from giving in to temporary fixes, 

Learning how to embrace patience despite how excruciating it may be. 

 

Be patient. 

Stop worrying.  

Why do you care so much? 

 

If only her overworked mind was willing to listen all the time, 

This battle would be easy. 

But does growth come easy? Never. 

 

She will never stop fighting. 

 

by The Cowl Editor on September 23, 2021

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by Toni Rendon ’24

 

Why can’t life be more like The Sims

Where no matter what day it is, we can always win

Strangers come over to celebrate your birthday

And people can empathize with you on your worst days

 

Let’s build our home from the ground up

A place where happiness can always find us

Where our depression doesn’t have to win

And if we get stuck with it

We can always go to Create a Sim

and re-roll our traits again

 

Here we have a pause button

So, we don’t keep walking around like we lost something

There’s no fear if our hearts collide

Because here there’s only you and I

The NPCs are insignificant

This is our world, they just live in it

 

The bad parts, use fast forward to skip it

So, the sad parts we don’t really live it

Imagination is king here, so sky’s our limit

We always know how we are

Because our relationships are tracked in a bar

 

If we take the modding too far

And our perfect world crashes like a car

Promise that we’ll “Shift + Click” reset us

We can always work out the extras

 

Maybe this time we’ll get lucky

And the update won’t make the relationship buggy

I’m not trying to be funny

 

I’m just trying to raise my skills

So, I have what I need to pay our bills

Let’s not get into semantics

Instead use the mischief skill

And let’s get into some antics

 

We’ll never be bored now

There’s a whole new 64-bit world

For us to explore now

by The Cowl Editor on September 23, 2021

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by AJ Worsley ’22

 

happier when i’m away, i do my best to keep a distance. 

all i hope for is that while i’m away you forget my existence.

 

if that were to happen, i’d have no reason to return, 

you don’t know what you have until it’s gone, a lesson you’ve yet to learn. 

 

pick and choose between red pill, blue pill, but why pick one?

take it all for yourself, everybody prefers a purple tongue. 

 

these things are never easy, and i don’t belong here, 

this danger creates anxiety, like a highway for a deer. 

 

i want off the rollercoaster, i’m nauseous and numb

these loops and turns have stripped me of sympathy and i’m not having fun.

 

it’s like a dwindling flame, and every time the fire wishes to die

you bring it back to life with some gasoline and a thoughtless lie. 

 

always everyone else’s fault that you’re so alone, 

God gave you a body but you just have to show bone. 

 

i’m either selfish or depressed there is no escape,

in constant battle with myself where thoughts take new shape.

 

both parties can’t win, so who do i choose? 

myself for the first time, or you? a lose-lose. 

 

so tell me, why should i be your savior, 

if there are no rewards for good behavior? 

by The Cowl Editor on September 16, 2021

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by Grace O’Connor ’22

She slowly heals as time pulls her forward.  

She holds tight onto the past like an old stuffed animal, 

As she is afraid of what the future will hold. 

The future is a sky stuffed with millions of stars. 

 

She is mesmerized by the stars that look down at her. 

She tries to connect how her past got her here, 

As she connects the stars in her mind making shapes, 

She tries to make sense of her life, her purpose. 

 

Little does she know she’s a minuscule part of something much bigger. 

Her voice is silenced in a large sea, 

She can decide if she wants to make her voice count or be held back, 

By her thoughts that glue her in place. 

 

She lets the glue tear her skin as she pulls away, 

It is painful and she is vulnerable, 

But she needs to breathe. 

She escapes from the glue’s tight hug, naked. 

 

She’s been trapped in a glass box, 

Put hate marks on her skin, 

Been pinned down, 

Blinded with rose-colored glasses, 

Refused to swallow solid food for months, 

A bubble stuck in time, 

Unable to breathe, 

Only comforted by string lights swimming through the air. 

 

She always had the power to pull herself away, 

From her own abusive thoughts which held her back 

From true bliss her entire life. 

She learns to love herself slowly, but hesitantly.  

 

Her mind craves the comfort of the glue. 

She craves infinite possibilities like the stars that glimmer in the sky. 

She made her decision and it is to live every day to her its fullest, 

Even when times get hard and unbearable. 

 

She does this because she owes it to herself, 

No one can replace her in this world, 

Because she is not replaceable. 

Once she finds her internal confidence she will be unstoppable.  

She is Grace, and she is no longer ashamed.

 

by The Cowl Editor on September 16, 2021

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by Taylor Rogers ’24

Green ribbons greedily grow, 

Spilling out of their small pots 

Like humans, they reach for the stars, 

Traveling higher and higher 

 

Diligently, I water these tiny ribbons,  

Watching keenly as they grow 

They steal from the soil below them,  

Clinging onto miniscule buds of water 

 

As they grow, they begin to invade my space, 

Creeping over my shoulder as I read 

The ribbons become darker,  

Matching the color of the vivid forest outside 

 

With my succulents, I grow, 

Aiming for the glittery sky 

The two of us grow together, 

Continuously hoping that one day, we will fly