Tag: Sam Ward ’21
Christmas Songs to Help You Weather the Cold
by The Cowl Editor
Christmas
by Sam Ward ’21
Take what joy these tidings give
and gift them back to all who live!
Fear and hunger can be adjured next summer;
the joy we share must last all winter.
For frostbitten souls: “The season is here!”
All the scrooges: “Christmas is near!”
Grab mittens and scarves lest you bold.
Only the strangest of us can withstand this cold
With the warmest of holiday spirit.
The combustion inside warms those who hear it.
It bellows from the stomach, diaphragm, and heart
But harmonious vocals are the best part.
Tell all the frostbitten souls: “The season is here!”
And sing to the scrooges: “Christmas is near!”
Christmas carols cannot warm the weather,
but it could make these chills feel a bit better.
Kaleidoscope Vision
by The Cowl Editor
Poetry
by Sam Ward ’21
How do we propel ourselves into the unknown?
Without fear.
Without doubt.
How, without shaking in our skin at the thought of what could go wrong,
or plucking heartstrings to play hopeful songs?
How do we plunge into strange waters,
when the thoughts are white noise?
How do we pursue ambition’s depths,
when muddled minds teeter like defective toys?
Clear vision deters focus
like we need sunshine clarity
to obtain knowledge complexities: it’s
not true.
We both know that.
Empty screens collect lines racing faster than the click of a pen,
or the tap tap tap of the keyboard
and just like that:
Fear is famished.
Doubt exonerated.
Strike all the right notes and we’ll dive right in
Without fear.
Without doubt.
If we wrote to please a bunch of poets,
we’d pause the present and paint a prettier picture like,
picture this:
someday we’ll be off for no other than reason
and we’ll prove the producing purpose,
But introspection is influenced in the eye of the beholder so we behold the truth
while alpha waves synchronize kaleidoscope focus,
Without fear,
Without doubt…
The Dark Arts
by The Cowl Editor
Halloween
by Sam Ward ’21
The wood burned as the fire cracked and the occultist conjured unsettling images. Clowns and killers brandishing knives. “Dahbay!” The syllables erupting from the bottom of his throat; he threw sand on the fire. “Mugrodan!” His hand fell flat on the ancient tome. “Kasarah!” The fire exploded outward, sending him and the heavy book flying to the ground.
The occultist was nothing without his enchantress. How could he wreak havoc on humanity without her power? He only knew the one necromancy spell and judging from his blistered face and the decomposing body at the altar, he had done it wrong.
He stood up in the catacomb, the dying fire lighting only enough for him to see a fraction of the ornate design on the limestone sarcophagus. The limp body was far from the psychotic clown he had hoped to transform it into.
That’s when the walls began to shake and the fire burned a toxic purple.
“Who dares disturb me!” The voice oozed from the altar into the soul of the young necromancer. The ancient script on the catacomb walls lit up and the sarcophagus began to convulse and the feminine voice shrieked violently.
The occultist turned to go for the exit, running instead into a wall. A left turn yielded a similar result as the shrieking continued. Panicked, he fell to his knees and began searching through the sand for a match, a lighter, or a dropdoor: an exit or something that would illuminate such. He could feel the oxygen subside as if the room was shrinking.
The disquieted voice offered no reassurance to the dying man.
“The altar is closed for necromancy on Sundays,” she spit before the walls collapsed inward, finalizing his burial in the ancient catacombs.
Where the Rain Goes
by The Cowl Editor
Poetry
by Sam Ward ’21
It is tell me where the rain goes
Not tell me what to think
Stagnated growth // forget that oath.
Simple thoughts translate so well.
But dress them up and you protect yourself
from being understood (that’s no good).
When you value privacy,
You find ways to feed the ego
Without risking perception of integrity (or lack thereof).