Gavilan Literary Society

The side of the gym, Ancient yet the outside was brand new, Deceptive as always, As most schools do, My number always got a puddle when it rained, Uneven black top never paid for, But even the new white walls have cracks, Branching out along the surface making me want to trace it with my fingers, Part of me wants to follow it with a pen or a paint brush, Opening others  eyes to my mind, I saw the curve of the splintered cracks and though of an arch way, a door way to some other world, It was made of mahogany but was frozen, Forever open just a crack, Just enough to see the world beyond, But not be part of it, Daydreaming away until a whistle startles it, Ruining colors, Fantastic sights just beyond the door frame, I'm left standing there on an uneven number, The world goes dull and grey.

Just reach for it, You've worked for this, Dressed up for this, filled out enough damned paper work for this, The cool metal slips through your sweaty fingers, A quick swipe on your pant leg saves face, The handle clicks against the ring on your finger, You may have a heart attack before you know,  Your chest aches at that thought, Adjusting the knot in your tie, Lighten the load, Take the handle, its time to go.

my mother my father brought us to this country with the hope that their daughters would make it further every day working harder giving up parts of themselves in the hopes that we would better ourselves in their home now seventeen years later there is a set of bookshelves used by their three daughters pursuing higher education with them serving as our main motivation three successful daughters grateful for the sacrifice of their mother and father -Maria Rios

Being of land and sea by Mariah Pompa A tangle of brown and blonde curls, wild smiles, Always finding her at the pier, breathing in time with the waves, With the way she stares at the sea, I would swear she was one, A free spirit, her eyes always shining, Once she dives in that's it, She'll search the ocean floor for shells, trinkets, and more, Swimming through the waves with envious ease, How does she do it? what's her technique? There's no answer, Not for the likes of she She was born for it, the sea a true mermaid that one, born with human feet.

More colors than a painters palate, The softest pinks, whites, and milky blues, Speeding by is such a crime, I have but a chance to enjoy you, Your blanketing the sky, The mountains almost ruin the picture, Jarring my mind, Tossing me from my day dream, but your almost a constant, looking up there's a chance, some clouds on the horizon, asking the wind for a dance.

 Feeding the beast Its there, The blood dribbles down my chin, Sweet, sweet it is, Not the copper tang, The tearing of flesh Strain of the jaw, Nostrils flaring, Pain of my tongue pressed against my teeth, The struggle ended, Fast it was, My eyes look nowhere, Its dark, A rumbling fills my chest, Garbling out my throat, It’s there, Satisfaction so sweet, Look at that,   No heart left to beat.

Mariah Pompa 4/28/17                                                          Jaw Bone Cry It echoes through the night, Sharp in pitch, Vicious in tone, The inside of a throat, Unleased this ungodly sin, Half triumph, Half agony The beasts of the world recognize it, They will call out into the night, Chills up the spine, They know this call, This animalistic cry, Someone has been put to rest, Their animal, Their inner beast, …Has been released.

All beauty lies in the night, Animosity, passion, fear, Gentle imagination our dreams steer, The truth lies in the day light, Harsh, unforgiving, bright, Second chances start with the rising sun, But the birth of ideas, the moon is hung.

It whittles away at my mind, Don't ask I can't name them all, They fade to the back of my mind, Granting me peace till someone brings it up, It slaps me on the back, making me recoil, I don't want to be crushed by it, The weight of my future, How I feel it's the lack there of, Subtle smiles and empty encouragement, It doesn't help me, the pressures still there, Whittling away at my mind.

Mariah Pompa An explosion of creation, firing synapses, thoughts always come back to this, Sometimes in a burst of color, Others with the spark of a wet match, small inconsistent yet dire for my survival, I have an IV of ink yet it still runs dry, a clogged artery or two won't let these thoughts through, How can I be me, how can I be free, how can I release these thoughts, For some reason I can't and it drags on for days, It all bubbles down to frustration and rage, Cause I can't get a damn word on a page!!, I'm getting desperate now, I long for that part of me, Come what may it's at the heart of me, I beg you, Erato, Euterpe, Calliope!!, Give me a sign!, These words keep spinning and spinning, Cluttering up my mind, I will have no peace till this mind finds a remedy, Falling out of rhyme, Stuttering over every line, Its lost its tempo, But I guess that's fine, I've written this mess and this mess is Mine. ...