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The
Phoenix
The Phoenix Fall 2010 / Issue 1 / Volume III
The Phoenix is the Isidore Newman Middle School literary magazine. This is the third year that it is
being published, and the idea came from the Upper School literary magazine, Pioneer. Since quite a
few members of the middle school were entering pieces in the Upper School magazine, we decided that
the Middle School should have its own. Students from sixth, seventh, and eighth grade chose to be in
The Phoenix club. Then, announcements were made, bake sales were hosted, and pieces were submit-
ted. The pieces inside The Phoenix are a mix of poetry, photographs, drawings, paintings, and short
stories. The Phoenix is a great way for Middle School students to share their talents with others.
Enjoy!
The Phoenix Committee
Hannah Bernick Alexa Friedman Jamie Hawkins Miranda Heath Haley Johnson Sarah Lane Peyton LeCorgne Julia Pindaro Alisen Reed Raven Rice Julia Son Julia Wellons Sarauniya Zulu
Faculty Sponsors
Ms. Alexis Watts Ms. Jamie Keene & Dr. Jacob Leland
Front Cover Graphic Art
Christy Mo
Back Cover Graphic Art
Jamie Hawkins
Table of Contents The Eyes of a Love, Lost Miranda Heath
Doc1 Jamie Hawkins
Untitled Anonymous
Haiku Dr. Michael Guill
Untitled Annie Laura Cherbonnier
What If? Graham Drennan
Design Bird Rory Cummings-Dise
Locker 788 Mr. Roger Hibbert
Beast of the Stars Toby Luongo
Untitled Sarah Lane
This is New Orleans Eric Margolin
Underwater Bubbles Christy Mo
Design Rory Cummings-Dise
Little House Ms. Alexis Watts
Writing Graham Drennan
David Ross Kyla Bernberg
No Words (Falling Whistles) Miranda Heath
Fort Lauderdale Annie Laura Cherbonnier
Fair Ms. Alexis Watts
Spring Might Be Here Sophie Evans A Childhood Snatched Miranda Heath
Design Tree Rory Cummings-Dise
Wind Christy Mo
Gray Miranda Heath
Untitled Mariam Qader
Kanuga Trees Alisen Reed
By Dawn Anonymous
Haiku Graham Drennan
Wedding Photograph Dr. Ronald Cram Winter Graham Drennan
1625 Kyla Bernberg
Shoes Jamie Hawkins
A Poem for Katelynn Miranda Heath
Eye Miranda Heath Untitled Miranda Heath
Where Are We? Jamie Hawkins Untitled Ms. Alexis Watts
Farm Graham Drennan
Baseball Anonymous
So Much Worse Miranda Heath
Robot Dragon Ben Cohen
3 3 4 4 5 5 5 6 6 6 7 7 7 8 8 8 9 9 10 10 11
11 12 12 12 13 13 13 14 14 14 15 15 15 16 16 17 17 18 18 18
The Eyes of a Love, Lost
Amelia‟s brown, shining hair flew behind her shoulders as the wind whirled,
whipping her with its force. Her red trench coat hugged close to her body,
providing her the warmth she so eagerly craved. A clicking sound vibrated
against the walls of the subway station, heels clacking against the floor.
Amelia sat on the cold, metal bench next to man, whom one couldn‟t help
pity. He was quite obviously wealthy, but rather sickly as well. The tube
that provided him with oxygen snaked around his neck, dipping down to
connect with the tank he had situated next to himself. Amelia was sure that
if the man beside her stood and began to walk she would burst into tears;
the sight being such a depressing one that this man would probably haunt
her to her death and perhaps beyond. The man simply looked up, unaware
of the pain he was causing the young woman next to him. But his motions
caused his eyes to be visible to Amelia, and her heart sunk at a shocking
realization. The senile man‟s eyes were a shocking blue and she distinctly
remembered them glowing ecstasy when she had professed her love while
looking into them; and he for she, as well. Amelia could remember arguing
with those eyes, accusing them of wrongdoings. Crimes committed out of
love, which eventually led to the severing of all ties they had once held.
Amelia opened her mouth to greet the old professor, but was cut short by
the very man himself. “Don‟t look so surprised, dear. I‟m fine. Working my
old job is all.” His voice was soft, but not raspy as she had expected. She
gasped as he disconnected the tube from the tank; an action that should
have caused a rather painful death. “Amelia. It was nice seeing you.” He
stood with the effort of a man much younger than he appeared. The man
lowered his face to hers and Amelia was given the opportunity to see that
the wrinkle present on his face were a product of his expertise at his trade:
mere makeup. He pressed his old, withered lips against her own and Amelia
was unsurprised to find his lips not tasting a day older than her own. She
smiled at the familiar feeling. A pop resounded in her ears as the man pulled
away, turning his back to love for the job. Again. Amelia felt a silent tear
make its course down her cheek, the most vulnerable kind. “Jacob,” Amelia
whispered.
Miranda Heath
Doc1 Jamie Hawkins
drawing
3
Untitled Annie Laura Cherbonnier
photograph
A haiku inspired by the poem The Consent (1975) by Howard Nemerov
Ginkgo leaves turn gold
and fall to earth overnight.
Winter is coming.
Dr. Mike Guill
Untitled
Wants
To be strong
To stay
Fears
Afraid of death
Afraid of failing his father
Features
Peaceful
Serene blue eyes
Loving
Generous
Himself
Anonymous
4
5
Graham Drennan
Design Bird Rory Cummings-Dise
graphic art
What If?
6
Locker 788
Locker 788
Has a cell phone in it
The cell phone has an alarm
The alarm‟s going off
It‟s not loud but
It‟s
Driving
Me
CRAZY
Mr. Roger Hibbert
Untitled Sarah Lane
photograph
7
Design Rory Cummings-Dise
graphic art
This is New Orleans
The sun is rising on a warm summer day. You‟re lying in your
nice bed inhaling the amazing summer air. You have your A/C
turned on high and your house is still hot. Your alarm just
went off and it‟s playing WWOZ. You stare out your window
looking down on Bourbon Street thinking, “I can‟t believe it‟s
so quiet.” There are no car horns, no people, just you and your
radio. The only moving things are a nice fog and a sweet sax
solo playing in the distance and you think what a life to live in
this great city and to have such a great house. After ten min-
utes of lying you put on your warm robe and walk outside to
the potent smell of seafood shells. You see the sweet bloom of
the magnolia tree. Then you see it, your neighbor is standing
on his roof playing “When the Saints Go Marching In.” You
look down the street and see a Fleur De Lis on every house. In
less than a day this street will be flooded with people, but for
now it‟s time to sleep. This is the best city in the world. This is
New Orleans.
Eric Margolin
Underwater Bubbles
Underwater,
A glimmering sphere of life.
Floating up, up, up,
A jellyfish in the deep,
A pearl waiting to be free,
The jewel of the sea.
Common before your eyes,
But to try and keep one,
Pop!
You will find none.
Christy Mo
8
Little House Ms. Alexis Watts
photograph
Writing
What to write
I cannot think
I tried to write a story
(It turned out really bad)
I will try to write a song
Wait that would take too long
A poem maybe
No one will like it
I still don‟t know what to write
Help me
PLEASE
This is too hard
I give up
So here you go
My excuse
My terrible excuse
A poorly written
Unimportant
Excuse
Because I can‟t write
Graham Drennan
David Ross
His eyes fluttered as they called out names
He clutched his hat beneath his moist palms
Listening patiently, waiting for the man with the puffy bold voice to say it
His own name
So this tall awkward man can follow through
Go through this transformation
This step
The step believing himself can be capable
A Martian becoming a man
A frog becoming a prince
David Ross.
He stood up, walked through the murky room
Taking his time because he knew,
He knew these moments are the last moments before he becomes a frog
As he approached the stand he glanced around the room
Filled with people of different cultures
With beautiful accents speaking different languages
The bald puffy man stuck out his hand
Congratulations
David greatly accepted the handshake
Gripping it firmly
Because this handshake meant the world
It meant pride.
Welcome to our family, you are now a British citizen.
He took the certificate in pride
I am now a Prince.
Kyla Bernberg
9
No Words
(Falling Whistles)
Rough, dry grass scraped against a young boy‟s hands. The calluses of an older man had already formed on the young
boy‟s fingers. His eyes are round and full of a faith he knows will fail him. “What if I lose?” The voice of innocence. Even
though the boy, the one who speaks and fears the loss, has seen more than you or I will ever see.
His father‟s eyes bore into his, glistening with unshed tears. “You won‟t lose. You can‟t lose.” He could, though. The
father knew he could. And if the boy lost, there would be no words to describe the father‟s loss. For in the event of failure, the
boy would be at peace, at one with everything. But the father -- for him, the world would be aflame with grief.
The father grasped the black metal in between his fingers and his palm, letting go of everything when he let go of the
gun. His eyes met his son‟s and he vowed, “You won‟t lose. You can‟t. I won‟t let you.”
And the small boy, dressed as a soldier with a weapon nearing his own size in his arms, smiled. His father‟s calm wash-
ing over him; he was ready. He walked off into the swarm of young children like himself, all of them just as abused as he. “I
love you, Dad,” he whispered. And he laughed. A shot rang in his ears and he died, laughing. The cheerful peal almost drowning
out the father‟s agonized shouts.
Miranda Heath
Fort Lauderdale Annie Laura Cherbonnier
photograph
Author’s Note: There is a non-profit organization called Falling Whistles designed to rehabilitate the child soldiers in Congo, a
country located in central Africa. This story was inspired by their mission.
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Fair Ms. Alexis Watts
photograph
Spring Might Be Here
I wake up in the morning
Smell the fresh humid air
See the flowers popping up
The trees blow without a care
It just could be Spring
Even though it‟s Fall
I wonder if the trees know
Or even care at all
The ducklings and the geese
Follow 1 by 1
Swimming, splashing in the water
Having so much fun
Maybe it is Spring!
The calendars could be wrong
Listening to the birds
Singing their cheerful song
Oh, the snow is starting to fall
The calendars are right
The nights are getting colder
The wind‟s beginning to bite
The people bundled up
The Christmas bells ring
Mother Nature, do me a favor:
Hurry up and make it Spring!
Sophie Evans
11
A Childhood Snatched
James watched as blood pooled around the slice in his index finger. The red fluid shined in the warm glow of sunlight, as his
mother‟s cool hands quickly wrapped the adhesive of the bandage around his throbbing finger. The playground looked so very
appeasing, and all his limbs ached to do was quite simply climb to the highest point. His mother released him from the comfort
of her arms. James was quickly to the green and blue structure without so much as permission from the shocked mother he had
left behind. As his feet hastily climbed the aqua steps, a sound reached his ears. A shrill scream erupted from the place he had
just fled from and he turned to see his mother wrapped in the arms of a burly man. James watched, helpless, as his mother
shrieked and squirmed, desperate to escape the large, unfriendly arms of her captor. She rather suddenly stilled, and the man
dashed toward the road and hurriedly escaped the scene. James rushed down the steps, tripping on the last one and scraping his
knee against the rough concrete as he fell. But there was no mother to comfort young James as he attempted to stop the scarlet
liquid‟s flow, staining his hands and screaming in his pain. She was gone.
Miranda Heath
Design Tree Rory Cummings-Dise
graphic art
12
Gray
A wave of exhaustion
Encompasses your entire body,
Wrapping around it like a
Thin, poor-quality cloak.
You take in the morning after
A fearsome storm,
Marveling at the eerie calmness of
Everything around you.
A dull ache pounds in the
Back of your head,
Never considered severe but
Never leaving you alone.
A single tear cascades down your face
As you quietly mourn the loss of a friend.
A loved one who always
Was someone special in your eyes.
A wave of numbness
Clogs up your throat,
Refusing entry to
Happiness, fond memories, and
Any existing emotion.
Gray is calm,
But a quiet, unheard suffering.
Miranda Heath
Wind
She howls at cracks she troubles to reach,
He terrorizes with his screech.
She goads on rivers, storms, and seas,
He glides and rips through the trees.
Stealing away all their leaves.
She rearranges at her will,
He never bothers to keep still.
She picks and hurtles things around,
When done, you hear her laughter sound.
This prankster king to try and catch,
The best will finally meet their match.
Yet,
In hot summer days,
Without any shade,
A gentle breeze she may be.
He alone reaches the far corners of the world.
He is the right hand man of nature.
Oh the trouble mankind go through for her,
To find her,
To call her,
To use her.
To stop her,
To block her,
To catch her.
What a fickle creature he is,
For she alone is wind.
Christy Mo
Untitled Mariam Qader
drawing
13
By Dawn
The rain is falling
Down it comes
Hear it tapping
Tip, tap, tip
The rain has gone
Tapping no more
Wait „til tomorrow
It‟ll be gone by dawn
Boom, Boom
Storm is here
Boom, Boom
Power‟s gone out
Children crying
Don‟t have no doubt
Storm will gone by dawn
Rumble, rumble
Earth is shaking
Crash, crash
The buildings fall
If you pray
Well it may
Be gone by dawn
House is robbed
All is lost
I say this ain‟t going to be done by dawn
Anonymous
Kanuga Trees Alisen Reed
photograph
Haiku
What is a haiku?
A strange Japanese poem
How do I write them?
Graham Drennan
14
Wedding Photograph, City Park, New Orleans 2010 Dr. Ronald Cram
photograph
1625
Bricks stacked up
Green shutters which enclosed the house with love & happiness
My favorite destination.
A beautiful garden,
A rose blooming.
Perfection.
August 29th, 2005
Windows clash
12 feet of water allowed the love and happiness to seep out.
Emptiness
Destruction
Everything. Gone.
The few t-shirts packed -- I will never let go.
Bricks scattered.
Kyla Bernberg
Winter
The leaves are falling down
Every plant turns to brown
Winter knocking at the door
All the birds start to soar
Migrating for the cold wind shall come
All our fingers start to numb
Brrrr!
Sitting around like a bunch of goats
We grab our mittens and winter coats
We trudge outside with so much glee
However there is nothing to do we all agree
We have no ideas not one
There is nothing to do without the hot summer sun
Finally an idea is found
We shall all sit inside until summer comes around
Graham Drennan
15
Shoes
I’ve got a new pair of shoes.
When I step, the autumn leaves crunch beneath my feet.
I’ve got a nice long walk home
I subconsciously walk to the steady beat.
I’ve got “Banana Pancakes” playing into my ears.
The music runs around like circles in my mind.
I’ve got nothing to worry about
Because in this moment, everything is fine
I’ve got a new text, sitting in my inbox
He says he just might die
I’ve got to hurry to his house
For sure, this is a lie
I’ve got to figure out why he would…
He opens up the door
I’ve got to realize there’s no more time
His blood upon the floor
I’ve got to do a lot of things
But I‟m incapable of achieving
I’ve got the impression he’s hurt himself
I hardly am believing
I’ve got so much, some have much less.
But I‟m still careless, I will confess.
I don‟t know what I’ve got until it‟s lost.
I‟d never thought of the worth or the cost.
I’ve got to give.
I’ve got to live.
I’ve got to give it all I’ve got.
Jamie Hawkins
A Poem for Katelynn
Eyes of the grass.
Lips of the sea.
Hands of the sky.
What should it mean to me?
I'm told I should marvel,
At the beauty of life.
But it's with ignorance,
I make my plight.
I'm new to this life,
But the words I write,
Will never grow old;
They shine in my light.
Or lack therof,
Perhaps I should say.
Darkness is more of my way.
I‟m all alone,
My hands are tied.
A sliver of brightness,
Catches my eye.
My words are death.
My lies, they kill.
It shouldn't be my place,
To instill,
The learnings that,
I do not know.
These feelings that,
I fear,
Must go.
Miranda Heath
Eye Miranda Heath
drawing
16
Untitled Miranda Heath
drawing
Where Are We?
Where are we? Set us free
Where worthy days,
are guaranteed
The Wind… has
only
just began
to soar
Smear ripples in the air space.
Bare expressions
Cryptic remarks are all to be heard
As aimless sounds… are forming words
This is disarray,
With widespread verisimilitude
In this mad existence
We‟ll run away, not to be searched for
You‟ll never reach me or the ones you adore
Our collected impressions are past withdrawn
At last, you wonder but we‟re too far gone
Pinch me now again…
And share regard,
Sustained from deep within
The flooded streets are static
With encompassing community
Staring blankly
In this calm existence
You can‟t keep a secret for more than 1 minute
We compose phrases that you transmit
They all believe, because they presume
Do not distress. We will be home soon.
Jamie Hawkins
Untitled Ms. Alexis Watts
photograph
Farm Graham Drennan
drawing
17
Robot Dragon Ben Cohen
graphic art
Baseball
Baseball is a game of life. Sometimes we strikeout and other
times we hit a home run. When a player strikes out they get in
line and try again. If a player makes it home they get the satis-
faction of finishing what they started. The entire time the play-
ers play this game, they have fans and people to support them
and give them encouragement. They might make enemies along
the way to success but many of the players are capable of making
it home where they started, home where there team awaits.
Anonymous
So Much Worse
Mahogany coffin.
White satin inside.
Black suit,
Black tie.
Red eyes.
Clear tears.
The boy I love.
Rope burn „round his throat.
In the closet,
He was too brave.
His body pale.
His nails are purple.
I painted them.
I cry now.
I kiss his lips.
A final farewell.
They taste of death.
I cry forever.
I love him.
They say
“It Gets Better”
But this feels
So much worse.
Miranda Heath
Author’s Note: In light of the recent homosexual youth
suicides, a trend of videos entitled, “It Gets Better,” has
swept the internet. These videos are designed to reach out to
the LGBT youth and any other minorities to give them
hope and support, to tell them that life is the answer.
18