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- The Advocate: Spring Issue
The Advocate: Spring Issue
A collection of AMHS students' creative works and literary pieces
Table of Contents:
Articles:
Short Stories:
August:
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Firefly:
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Poetry:
The Sun’s Fault:
no one would fault
the sun for shining so
that in their eyes was ingrained
a shadow of a glow
when in the beating rays
we may curse their power
but for a photo we do praise
the lovely golden hour
we miss her as she sets
but the promise is made
to return without debts
if we meet again or fade
The Nomadic Prophet:
Written by: Machaela Black
The waking moon rises above
forked tongues of fire lapping the air,
children flock to its orange glare.
In the silent abyssal night, satyrs, halflings, humans and elves,
hooves and heels in hasty flight.
They rest on lopsided logs
as swirls of smoke ascend the skies
and a neon mist of fireflies illuminates the nearby bog.
There’s a rustle in the brush.
A woman in a cloak,
with wisdom behind the words she spoke.
O’ the children know quite well,
a glimmer grows in her eyes
… tonight, she has a story to tell.
“Settle down and listen close,
my students, would you like to know
why the ground bends and the winds blow
and why my presence comes and goes?
“Yonder the bog and o’er the knolls,
tow’ring ‘bove the tallest of trees…
you’ll hear the voice in the still breeze
of ancient Elder Mountain,
sovereign Lord o’er the valley,
and bearer of the fountains.
Who from clay molded our flesh,
animated by breath alone.
oceans erupted from His stone
filling our dry world afresh.
“I’ve seen Him! I’ve heard Him myself!
I’ve even gripped His guiding hand!
By foll’wing the north wind’s command
through the overgrown unknown.
He knows my name, He hears my groan,
He knows the evil that befell my home…
But Elder Mountain is good,
and every day, He’s the same.
So when I’m tested by the flames,
I’ll trust in Him as I should.
“I confide my fam-ly to Him.
They rest in His earthen palms
whilst I go forth and proclaim psalms
‘til His breeze draws me homeward…
‘til then, I bring you prophecy,
and follow the flow of the grass.”
Ekphrastic:
Written by: Tucker McManus
The Lovers, René Magritte, 1928, oil on canvas
The lovers stood embraced; two beings
untethered to all but themselves.
Ignorant–ignorant to all that could be hers.
All that is his.
Peace prolonged by ignorance’s veil, but
what good is peace
if it’s only a shroud for control?
The vastness of the parlous, unknown blue
overshadows her need to escape the vice-grip of his shadows.
How could she leave him
when his authority is all she has known?
How could she leave him
when the familiarity of their biting love
is better than what she could suffer drowning in the blue?
Is it better? Is her love enough?
Light drains from her and funnels to him.
Through a vampire’s kiss,
her soul’s marrow is sucked dry;
nothing left but a skeleton of dry bones to remind her,
despite all she’s done,
her efforts have made her nothing but death’s dearest.
The years she’s devoted to keeping him alive
rendered her a corpse.
A life for a life.
He remains blind–blind to her life unlived.
The places she could have gone, the loves she could have had,
the stories that could have been her own.
His life is all that matters, anyway.
What good is a kept woman if not to be a man’s seraph?
One Day:
One Day
Music will seep through the tinted panes,
Children will not have to suffer for their parents’ pain.
Families will dance through their living room,
A new generation of serenity will bloom.
Not an entity will disturb,
Only the solemn songs of the children will chirp.
The house will be filled with the sweet aroma of vanilla and rose.
The solace of lineage glows.
The birds will spread their wings and soar.
Rainbow scaled fish will be set free at every seashore.
Flowers will be at liberty to grow,
No tiger will have the fear of becoming faux.
The forests will be filled with running deer.
The water bears drink from will be clear.
No habitat will be lost,
Our Earth shall be blessed with its frost.
World leaders will join their hands.
They will listen to their citizen’s demands.
Putting their arms down,
No one will fight over the crown.
Government bureaucrats will hear their calls.
The hidden curtain of corpocracy will fall.
Everybody will become a fellow.
The past’s bitterness will mellow.
No one will have to sleep,
With longing hunger to creep.
We will reach our hands out for others,
And love our sisters and mothers.
To protect those we love,
We must think of the eternal dove.
Appreciate the Earth’s marvelous sights,
We will reach greater heights.
The children will dance through the meadows, hand in hand.
Soft chuckles, embracing tightly, no matter the land.
They will share their toys saying, “What's mine is yours.”
Nothing comes in between, not even a war.
They will hold the world in their gentle arms,
Gracing us with the future’s greatest charms.
They will tell the stories that were foretold.
They will show us what our future will behold.
Made of Memories:
Written by: Harper Teague
An homage to Madeline Miller’s book “The Song of Achilles”
I am the book you gave me to read
Pages old and worn
Full of love and warmth
A book of our stories, each chapter a new adventure
This dedication with my name written in it
I am the ring you gave me at Christmas
Representing a promise of hope
The silver band a twisted vine
The stone clear with wisps of emerald green
This hope that still weighs heavy on my hand
I am the song that always reminded you of me
Melody sweet and everlasting
The verses full of hardship and understanding
A song that mirrored us, reflecting the swells and sorrows
This song that now only sings your name
I am a mosaic of memories
Each tile bright and colorful but jagged around the edges
Some pieces smaller or sharper than others
All held together by the love of friends and family
This piece of art from afar, but broken pieces altogether
I am the photographs of us, the ones that I will forever cherish and look back on
I am the letters I’ve been written, each one unique and never to be left unread
I am the jewelry I’ve been gifted, always worn but never tainted or lost
I am the old ticket stubs, heart gum wrappers, and notes passed in class
I am all of these things, altogether, and all at once
The Blank Generation: On Creating a Scene
The blank generation–
answering an ad in the Village Voice:
“Let’s dress up and be stars tomorrow.”
And suddenly,
a movement comes along with no transition.
Beginning, middle, end,
boom-boom-boom.
“Let’s dress up and be stars tomorrow”–
Glitter in their hair or on their faces–
little ghouls with bright red dyed hair and white faces.
They were wild and they were natural.
“We were being scandalous everywhere.”
The Mercer Arts Center brought everyone together–everything
was new and it was so exciting.
You didn’t just go to see the Dolls–
you had to be seen seeing the Dolls.
Only people who knew about it
knew about it.
The Dolls created a huge scene
and it became extremely fashionable to go see them.
Some of the kids who used to come see us
put glitter in their hair
or on their faces–
This is attitude over music,
and it could sell.
What the Dolls did as far as
being and influence on punk,
was that we showed
anybody could do it.
The Mercer Arts Center brought everyone together.
Everything was new.
Someone very young who had a vision–
and for whatever reason–
was absolutely
at the center of this spinning record,
because they embody the thing that they are representing:
the blank generation.
It’s a costume and an assault.
It’s about something completely different–
it’s about gesture, and shock tactic.
You couldn’t write an analysis of it,
you just didn’t know what was going on,
it was happening so fast.
Richard Hell, he walked into CBGB’s
wearing a white T-shirt with a bull’s-eye painted on it,
and the words “Please Kill Me” written on it.
It’s about gesture, and shock tactic.
The possibilities were endless.
Hundreds of little kids, like nightmares–
And they could possibly help me to keep dreaming,
and make me refuse to ever return to what I was terrified of–
Normality.
The blank generation.
It was a really wild scene because they weren’t hippies,
they were a criminal, homosexual, drug-taking, spiritual-seeking,
artistic crowd of men.
“Let’s dress up and be stars tomorrow.”
*Found poem. Source text: McNeil, Legs, and Gillian McCain. Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk. Edited by Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain, Grove Press, 2016.
3rd Time Charmed Me:
Written by: Harper Teague
They say that “3rd times a charm”
Well in my case that’s true
For it took three times for me to be charmed,
And the last time was by you
For my first love,
Young and naive
Foolish and unmeant to be
Yet, full of hope and forgiving
For my second love,
Which taught me acceptance and trust
Full of new beginnings and fresh eyes
Always, the right person, but never the right timing
And lastly, for my third love
Who was a lesson, that still rings true
Full of pain, perseverance, and passion
Love that taught me kindness and care that never faltered nor fled
These loves, that held me through my tears, even when they were the ones that caused them to fall from my face
These loves, which were exciting and unknown, full of endless possibilities and enthralling adventures
These loves, that helped define the line between forgiveness and acceptance, even when too much had already been given
These loves, who have forever shaped me and my views of life and loss, vast yet still longing to be revealed
These 3 loves,
3 lives,
3 charms,
Yet, the everlasting one, has always been you.
Sonnet IX:
Based off Billie Eilish’s “BIRDS OF A FEATHER”
Alas, if I shall be in grave peril,
Prithee do not attempt to rescue me,
For I would rather say mine glum farewell,
Then to cease or abhor mine love to thee.
Although I has’t said in past otherwise,
Mine love, bethink not what I hath said!
For I wast burden’d with deam and misprise,
And passion I feeleth ha’st not yet fled.
Whilst thou may doubt mine pure love genuine,
I plead thee, believeth my love is true!
I would has’t rather commit a dire sin,
Then admit hours wept thinking of you,
Thus, we are birds of a single feather,
And with love, we shall be bound together.
A Lover’s Hope:
Written by: Alex Luther
Based off Amanda Gorman’s poem ‘The Hill We Climb’
when the troubles of our time become
the personification of the past, a
day will rise bathed in the sun-kissed light that
comes with a familial embrace.
we will stand up on shores and
step upon the waves, and
out our hands will go, for the brush
of the wind will grasp us close.
the ocean above the horizon will
shade the arrival of past memory, for
aflame we would become
and a flame we would stay.
unafraid, now with tender age.
the wrinkles, a testament to our standing.
new youth will have a moment that will
dawn on them, that the sky still
blooms all of the blush of a summer's day.
as even with thee way we find ourselves treated,
we still find the shores of love’s cove.
free to affection, a sweetness to
it, that is to never go away.
for what is life if
there is no love to give and harbor?
is a smile not meant to be shared
always with another, whose
light the answer to this changing land?
if only it were easy though. For
only at the ends of the sky
we’re able to find the meaning of life. And a
brave endeavor it will become just to have
enough strength, time, and courage
to travel these untamed oceans alone, so
see the hope at horizon’s line
it stays and survives, lasting in sweet time.
Will you?
Written by: Harper Teague
Will you hold my hand even when it becomes too heavy for you?
Will you hold me for all of the countless times I’ve embraced you?
Will you hold my face and wipe away the tears as I’ve always done for you?
Will you forgive all of my faults, the big and the miniscule?
Will you remember all of me, the good and the askew?
Will you cherish all of the memories we shared, the old and the new?
Will you show me acceptance and forgiveness, as a friend and not a fool?
Will you grant me love even if it means sacrificing morals and your one single rule?
Will you express your care to me through your ways of being kind or only cruel?
Will you be there for me, for all the times when I just allowed you to feel?
Will you deem me weak, or just the kind of hurt that only time can truly heal?
Will you hold my heart when it’s heavy, or just deem it another whole ordeal?
Will you warm the fire inside of me, even when it begins to burn you too?
Will you see my cracks and breaks and try to repair them again with glue?
Will you take the shards of glass and rebuild me a mirror through the eyes of you?
Will you weigh this burden on your back, or look at me without care, as you point and blame?
Will you allow me to love loudly this time, or only tolerate the kind of which you can tame?
Will you come back to me, on sweet summer nights, as the luna moth is drawn to the warm flame?
Will you bring me back to life, or just stay to haunt my mind and memories as a ghost?
Will you stare into the dark depths of my soul, or simply be consumed by the sunny coast?
Will you always be my maybe, and if not that, just for one last time - be my almost?
Will you use scissors to cut me off, finally severing between us, this long and tangled red thread?
Will you promise not to leave me, so I can feel your love again, and avoid all of this dread?
Will you love me… forever and always, just as we had, and have always said?
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