by Elizabeth McGinn on May 6, 2021


copy of the Cowl newspaper
photo by Maggie Branham ’18

by Sarah Heavren ’21

From Lil Wit to Tiff and Earl,
From weekly meetings and issues,
It is hard to say farewell
Without needing a few tissues.

The Cowl has been a great space
To share thoughts and feelings,
To craft poems and satire,
Alongside great human beings.

Across my five semesters
Of writing for Portfolio
Making people think and laugh
Has been my main goal and my hope.

The Cowl gave me a voice
When I was quiet, even coy.
Writing for Portfolio
Has been one of my greatest joys.



by Elizabeth McGinn on April 15, 2021


broken glass
Photo courtesy of pexels.com and graphic design by Sarah McLaughlin ’23

by Sarah Heavren ’21

They haunt the present,
The ghosts of the past
A reminder of
Things not meant to last.

Sometimes they are good
Sometimes they are bad
Preserve the happy
And preserve the sad.

The past has shaped us
For better or worse
It has determined
Much of our life’s course.

We can create them
On purpose or not
We might not know why
They matter a lot.

But I do not know
Where I would now be
If it were not for
All my memories. 



by Elizabeth McGinn on March 18, 2021


ultimate frisbee
Photo courtesy of commonswikipedia.org

by Sarah Heavren ’21

After a whole year
Of loss, change, and pain,
There’s something we need
To help us sustain.

Days spent in waiting
For the perfect day
To bust out some discs,
Get some friends, and play. 

A little rusty
From being apart,
Together again
We practice our art. 

To some it might be
A sport or a game,
But in us it sparks
An ultimate flame. 

We walk different paths
But they always cross
When one of us asks,
“Do you want to toss?”


The Sculptor

by Elizabeth McGinn on February 25, 2021


woman sculpting clay
Photo courtesy of pexels.com

by Sarah Heavren ’21

I am a block of marble.
There is potential hidden inside.
But from the whole outside world,
My purpose and value seem to hide.

I exist for my Sculptor
Who crafts me with unmatched care and skill.
He has a unique vision
Of a purpose that I can fulfill.

Sometimes He carves out large parts,
Ones which I once believed I needed.
He reveals something better
That has been hidden deep beneath it.

I have learned from my Sculptor
That I myself can’t know my true form.
I must trust my Sculptor’s work
And His graced hands to make me transform.



by Elizabeth McGinn on February 4, 2021


birds coming out of a book
photo courtesy of pexels.com

by Sarah Heavren ’21

What is it to write poetry?
It is more than merely meeting a meter
Or pairing words to form a rhyme.
I believe it reaches for something much deeper.

It pulls and tickles emotions.
It awakens them from a heavy slumber,
Suppressed by the weight of this world.
Poetry reminds us to pause and wonder.

It asks the challenging questions
Through imagery, metaphors, and examples.
Sometimes it’s passively active,
Sometimes quite concise, and sometimes it likes to ramble.

Some people don’t have the patience
To delve into the magical world of words.
They want things quick and straightforward,
So their innermost reactions go unheard.

To feel is really quite human.
It is inseparable from our being.
Poetry always calls us back
And puts words to what we are truly feeling.


The Team

by The Cowl Editor on November 12, 2020


sports stadium
Photo courtesy of pexels.com

by Sarah Heavren ’21

Here’s to the team
That jokes and laughs
That will go long
For the deep pass.

Here’s to the team
Unique in type
“Fat Bottomed Girls”
And Braveheart hype.

Here’s to the team
That takes the field
Hammers only
With extra zeal.

Here’s to the team
That will not quit
No matter what
We’re ultimate.



Urban Legends

by The Cowl Editor on October 29, 2020


A Real Deal

By Ellie Forster ’24

“It’ll save you a fortune,” the man with different colored eyes said as he snapped his gum. She looked skeptically at the small green capsule in her palm.

“Why haven’t I heard of it before?” she asked.

“I’m glad you asked darlin’! The big oil companies don’t want you to know about these bad boys on account of how they’re gonna steal all of their business. Who would wanna pay for gas when this little pill’ll make it with nothin’ but water?”

She gave a forced smile, handed him the fifty cents, pocketed the pill, and left quickly.

When she ate dinner with her husband that night she told him about the man and his magic pill. Her husband was enthused.

“We gotta try it! You shoulda found out if we coulda invested.”

“I dunno,” she said pushing her food around her plate. “I just wanted to shut him up, it’s definitely a scam.”

“Well, let’s find out,” he said, holding out his palm.

She placed the little thing reluctantly in his hand and he dropped it in his glass. The pill fizzled and the water turned green. A sort of vapor started to come off of it and the pair slumped forward into their potatoes and chicken.

Their house was robbed that night. Every room stripped bare, their cold bodies on the floor of the dining room. Nothing concrete was caught on the cameras, just a pair of mismatched eyes under a ski-mask, winking before the footage cut out.


The Voice of the Eaton Street Bike Lane from the Great Beyond

By Sarah Heavren ’21

Traces remain
Of my short life.
Streaks of yellow
To the right. 

Few remember
And fewer care
About the bike lane
No longer there. 

Like a sad ghost
I haunt the street
Of things gone by
Not to repeat. 


The Black Angel

By Sarah Kirchner ’21

“Are we really going in?” Claire squeaked. The three of us stared at the cemetery entrance.

“It’s Halloween! We have to!” Ryan declared. Before any of us could object, he walked through the gate. I grabbed Claire’s hand and took a deep breath. There was no turning back. 

As we stepped over the threshold, chills ran down my spine. Ryan wandered ahead while Claire and I lingered at the front. Up ahead, the Black Angel loomed. The wings stretched out, threatening to consume us. Had something moved in its shadow? No. It had to be Ryan.

“Stop messing around, Ryan. You’re going to accidentally hit the angel, and it’s almost midnight.” 

“You actually believe those rumors?”

Claire and I exchanged a look. Of course we did. 

“You also believe that if I kiss her, I’ll die instantly?” I chewed on my lip. I didn’t know what to believe, but I wasn’t going to test my luck. We all knew the stories. Ryan laughed and jumped onto the base of the statue. Claire and I screamed in unison. Ryan continued to laugh and grabbed onto the angel’s waist. Before Claire and I could interject, he pressed his lips to hers. A blood-curdling scream sounded, seemingly from nowhere and everywhere at once. Ryan jumped at the cry. His balance faltered and before I could reach out, he hit the ground with a loud thump. Above him, the Black Angel darkened. There was no question what had just happened. The Black Angel had claimed another victim.

Small and Simple

By Marelle Hipolito ’22

A boy, a small, simple province boy, sold bread for his family. Up and down the highway traffic, the small, simple province boy tapped on car windows and sold bread for his family. Most times the boy received coins in exchange, other times he received remarks of dismissal. One time this boy, the small and simple province boy, received a horse. A small, simple wooden horse, stuck in gallop, bought with old bread. The boy, small and simple, hid the simple horse in his small pocket and galloped from the highway to home. In his excitement, the boy did not see the large and complex car, flying towards him, making the small and simple boy weak and weary. In his last breaths, the boy gripped the horse, wishing that he had a chance to not be so small and simple. There was a whinny and a whine. At this time, people talk about the big and polished wooden boy, who galloped out of the small and simple province. 





by The Cowl Editor on October 15, 2020


Fall leaves and trees in a forest
Photo courtesy of pexels.com

by Sarah Heavren ’21

A rainbow of colors
A gentle breeze
Tickling the branches
Waving at me. 

Little squirrels scampering
Across the grass
The smell of the season
Coming to pass. 

Cloudless, deep blue skies
The freshest air
Crisp as a tart apple
Grown with true care. 

Winter is drawing near
With a bleak hue.
But winter brings changes
That will change too. 

In moments of sheer doubt,
Moments of pain,
Just simply remember
Seasons will change.


The Mask

by The Cowl Editor on October 2, 2020


Two people attempting to share a milkshake while wearing surgical masks
Photo courtesy of pexels.com

by Sarah Heavren ’21

The mask cannot hide my fear.
Nor make emotions disappear.
Its function is critical.
Its protection is physical.    

Its weight can feel like concrete.
It muffles my voice when I speak.
It means so very much more
Than a mandate to go outdoors.

The problem is not the mask.
Wearing it is a simple task.
It is for the greater good,
But it evokes a somber mood. 

Days of loss and days of change
Make the familiar too strange.
The mask makes mouths disappear,
But the mask cannot hide my tears.


The Start

by The Cowl Editor on September 3, 2020


yellow flower
Photo courtesy of pixabay.com

by Sarah Heavren ’21

Some mornings we really dread
Having to roll out of bed.
The day is not as exciting
As the covers are inviting.

When the water is too cold
We feel anything but bold.
It’s easy to sit on the side
When we lack the courage to dive.

Some days the clouds never part
And they leave us in the dark.
When that happens, we can feel lost.
Any bridge is too hard to cross. 

When we lack all sense of hope
And feel too inclined to mope
Please remember and take heart
‘Cause the hardest part is the start.