Black Wings

‘Twas the night before they hooted echoes of cackling laughter 

that played a loathing symphony;

knotted joints grasped the veins of empty melodies,

in hopes that someone would notice their song;

cobweb strings mourned,

as the roots anchored dust into its wooden body–

tilted softly along the whispers of dusk–and

entrapped notes being forgotten, gingerly;

pressing black and white muffled the air,

how stagnant they were under her ethereal beauty 

as she breathed warmth in their cadaver,

and hushed them a lullaby;

yet, one would only see the angelic dusts

flying ever so gently under the nacreous clouds of the evening, 

above the obscure fields of daffodils; 

their shadows pirouetted under the moon,

and they ambitiously started plinking,

caressing the void notes,

along the breaths of velvet, dark green Earth;

I heard them. 

The Korean Flower

Her glass drops reflect the eyes 

she once had sown,

as she sinks into the innocence that never 

drifted away 

A soft breeze swirls her silver hair as she 

slowly collapse 

her wrinkled eyes,

brim her lips 

with the last water,

cascades of them 

she last colored, 

kisses of sun bleeds through her body

Petals she collected in her vase,

withered too soon before goodbye–their

picturesque shades soak the 

great emerald beauty, floating 

Roses of Sharon on its gentle shivers,

and how she watch her fingers slip away from those

fading memories and the blooms

Gentle laughter of her children echoed like wind chimes,

each mellow tune harmonizing in her ears

and then she saw–

her daughter’s warm tears trickling down, her 

trembling hands cradling the weathered palms

that once taught her how to hold the world

With her last breath, the mother whispers one final lullaby for her daughter:

when mother leaves to pick oysters in the shadows of the island,

the baby stays behind alone, watching over the house

then, to the lullaby sung by the sea, 

slowly and gently, the baby falls asleep,

hoping that her daughter would marvel at the 

ephemeral Nature and one day realize 

how petals perish 

beautifully.

Last Moments with the World

A mother’s wail drifted through the gust of waves,

beware of him who walks where echo fades.

Clung her tight from the

Devil’s hand–choking,

eating those

fleshes 

gargling Death before it spoke

hushed by the piercing wind

Is that what it feels like–to be

Justified? 

Kingdoms fall

like lullabies luring a child to 

marvel at the synchronous aurora and dirge 

Nature sings so calmly,

one day it will realize 

petals wither with with beauty too cold to touch

quivers of sand and wind 

rocked the ship 

side-to-side 

tilting the decks

until all that it left was the

vulnerability a human endures–how they 

writhed.

xanthic light flickers between the rumble while her

yearning carved on the woods

zipped shut by the deep hush.

Jian Yeo is a student of poetry based in Massachusetts, where the changing seasons and scenic landscapes serve as a constant source of inspiration for her work. She is currently a student, balancing her academic pursuits with her passion for writing. 

The Colorfuls

Grey like an old man’s hair

Ringing alone as the person across waits

The handset shivers on the hook switch,

After a short silence,

It continues to shiver

Pigmented by the grey shadows of the city

The eyes move rapidly

Seen all the time but never recognized

Breaths the clustered solitary,

under the boisterous footsteps

rotting liquid inside trying to catch up the greyness of the cup

Someone’s lips slightly printed on the orifie

Someone who will never return

Not for the cup,

nor its content

Dripping from the sink

Meant to be clear but seeming grey for its grey background

Clashing onto the button surface,

Losing its shape

Constant, continuous drops

Not entirely black, nor white,

Just in between: grey

Completed its duty,

Therefore its tip remains blunt and round

Waits for its presence to be required

As the Distance Grew

As the distance grew

between my toes

and the battlefield

the grip of hypersomnolence

got firmer,

tightly bounding my ankles

Every inhale I took,

from the cigar I returned to,

was filled with diphosgene,

eager to strangle the throat 

And yet every night 

I reached for another sip

The heart was limey and cold

it may seem valuable,

but I found it vulnerable

The heart was spoiled,

spotted with fingerprints of the lives that I owed

and the sin that I suffered

Should I have bolshie?

Bolshie the deaths my own fingers caused?

Or could I have bolshie 

Lustrous Glass Pieces

Laughter behind a door that’s not yours

Every joyful pitch knocks on the door,

Calling for you to grab the knob

Knowing the door is locked,

You still have hope—

that will soon be wasted

Applause in a room you’re not in

Rings in your head

as the noise bounces around

Manifesting your thoughts,

The sound gets heavier and heavier,

crushes your limbs and squeeze your lungs

Until your last exhale

A fire you can touch but never see

Burns in you stomach, 

Grilling you from the inside

The embers travel through your blood streams,

Into your capillaries and finally to your heart

Ready to boil you inside out

Wind chimes in a neighbor’s yard

with beautiful, lustrous glass pieces 

Dance through the wind,

Singing with a charming voice,

Attracts the small songbirds

Blinded by the sound,

The naïve birds glide 

into the precisely sharpened glass pieces

Too intoxicated to notice 

that their wings, legs, and eyes are teared apart

Lauren Kim is a high school student with a fervent love for both poetry and visual art. Her work delves into the intricacies of identity, the nuances of nature, and the emotional currents of teenage life. Through her poems and mixed media artwork, Lauren seeks to capture and convey the beauty in moments of introspection and everyday experiences. When she’s not writing or creating art, she enjoys exploring the outdoors, reading contemporary poetry, and experimenting with new artistic techniques. Lauren’s work has been influenced by her diverse cultural background and her deep connection to the natural world. She aspires to continue growing as an artist and a writer, sharing her unique perspective with others.

Blend

A girl on the far left—

a cooling white sweater, 

navy shorts that absorbed the salty texture of the sea

—raises her arm to shield her eyes from the glittering beam.

Ships fly across the waves,

seagulls float in the sky; 

a brushstroke deeper, 

layered in long tones of slate and teal. 

The water moves with quiet muscle,

creases of white gathering near the shore

before breaking into lace at the toes 

of seven figures drawn by tide—

some standing close where the water sighs,

ankles kissed by foam;

others linger just behind,

head slightly rested back, caressed by the soft ocean winds.

A few drift farther down the shore, 

turned slightly, as if to say:

‘come see what the horizon hides.’

Three boys with their feet buried in the chilling sand,

one with a backwards hat, trying to fight the glaring gleam.

Two others play rock, scissors, paper 

—their conversation captured in the pause between waves. 

Sand, pale gold and warm with noon, 

holds footprints like soft echoes.  

The sun presses down,

gives the waves a shimmer that sings. 

Light folds over each figure, placed precisely,

spaced like notes in a slow chord—

black shirts, white sleeves, a shoulder bare to the sun,

each color bleeding into the sea and sky.

Portraits Without First Chapters

The silence after a story that’s missing its end—

that’s how we meet them.

A pair of wrinkled hands, softened with time, already slower.

Their voices linger not in memory but in my imagination. 

A train ticket with no date,

folded in a drawer beside war medals

and recipes written in a language, 

we never learned to speak. 

The note tucked into a borrowed book,

Laying neatly between pages of stories

flat, delicate, and fragile. 

Maybe from someone they loved 

before the word “family” included us—

a couple of letters to me, 

a name I’ll truly never know. 

We hold their endings like heirlooms, 

guessing at beginnings. 

Through photographs where they are younger

than we’ll ever know them to be. 

A Childhood in Five Objects 

Its fur dulled by the decade of sun, 

ears bent from too many hugs, 

eyes stitched with storied only I recall. 

It once leaped from planets I drew in crayons, 

spoke bedtime whispers only I could hear. 

A stuffed rabbit slumps against the wall, now it waits—

from the last time, I tucked it in, quietly guarding retired dreams. 

Where tea parties once were held.

Its patterns are now a faded trail,

stories of imagination yet more vibrant than  

the wallpaper’s flowers ever dared to bloom, 

echoes etched deeper than time could consume. 

It has caught the weight of every goodbye—

To dolls, to friends, to phases passed. 

Now it cradles still, but never forgets the shape of my steps. 

Their spines creased with thumbprints of belief. 

Each page reverberates my mother’s voice,

each character a mask she wore—yet all I remember is her. 

Now they rest like loyal sentinels,

inked in the versions of me they kept,  

a carpet lies bruised with soft indentations.  

Framing skies that changed with my moods,

stormy eams, sunlit breaks, a single star I wished upon.

Four repeating seasons, every item slowly maturing with the age of time. 

At night it played the moon’s lullaby, 

by day, the chatter of birds on the branches. 

Now it reflects back the outside world,

but never quite lets it in. 

Warping my height as I grew each year, 

Flashing glimpses of twirls, tears,

and the first stolen lipstick swipe.

Reflecting words mouthed in silence, a face rehearsed,

it now holds the quiet imprint of every version I’ve been.

Sally Lee is a student at an international school in Seoul, South Korea. Immersed in a multicultural environment, she draws inspiration from the diverse cultures and experiences around her. She is currently working on her writing portfolio.

Haeun (Regina) Kim is a student writer from Seoul, South Korea. When not creating visual works, she can be found writing and struggling through amateur ballet.

a study of the mantis shrimp

this body breathes dizzying ultraviolets and looping

polarized light. in, out. easy as breath. they blind me, 

i am blind to them. the mantis shrimp holds

sixteen photoreceptors, inhaling and exhaling colors 

imaginary to me. and what is imaginary but invisible? 

still, the mantis shrimp disappoints, like all prayers do.

it can not, does not distinguish the gasping pigments 

dancing across its exoskeleton. sacrifices sight for

survival. why? when this vision is breathing? when it is

lungs alive with color? this body breathes. in, out. out.

Tteok (떡)

Half-eaten on my desk, gelatinous flesh 

puffed where the tines of the fork slid inside, 

is a rice cake. White and fluffy with three

lone mustard yellow seeds nestled inside. Like three

sore thumbs or three dull iron eyes. They taste

like rice cake.

Pinched like petals, flour

wilts like sorrow. The best flowers 

are sour. The half-

animals that bite into them

leave them half-eaten. They always leave

them. Strewn on the floor like

metaphor turned cannibal. This is our

last defense, this was

our last stand. We taste

like rice cake.

AN OBITUARY FOR MY FATHER

after Victoria Chang

Because you used to dream in chromatic figuration and now you forget your dreams when you wake up. Because the memory of them warms your hands like a cup of liquor you can’t keep down as you stumble through the door. Because your vision fails, as in it fails you, as in it betrays you. Because you wanted to create something. Leave this world something more than your grave. Press your thumb into the soft flesh of the earth and breathe. Where does our breath go? You pray it is not back into our lungs.

Alternatively: because you warm my curious hands when I wander out to the curious stars. Because you roll down the car window to the infinite sky so we can tip our heads back. Because you don’t flinch when I pluck black hair after gray hair after white hair. Because I know I will mourn you like you mourn yourself.

Haeun (Regina) Kim is a student writer from Seoul, South Korea. An alumna of the Adroit Journal Summer Mentorship, the Sewanee Young Writers’ Conference, and the Sunhouse Summer Writing Mentorship, she has been recognized by Bennington College, the Alliance for Young Artists & Writers, River of Words, and more. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in Rust and Moth, Stone Soup, and The Galway Review, among others. An editor at Polyphony Lit, she serves as the founder of MISO-JIEUM. When not writing, she can be found painting in an art studio or struggling through amateur ballet.

Jinwoo Brian Park is a student attending high school in Massachusetts with a passion for visual arts. Brian’s art portfolio encompasses a range of mediums and styles, reflecting his diverse interests and inspirations. Outside of his artistic pursuits, Jinwoo enjoys exploring nature, reading, and spending time with friends and family. He is excited about the possibility of sharing his artwork with a wider audience and looks forward to continuing to grow as an artist.

The Star

Noting further the progress 

hope for the widest possible adherence

Inspired by the great prospects 

opening up before mankind 

giant balls of hot gas that shine 

orbital systems 

They fall out of view.

Their envious light

How bright they shine.

The Boat

A loud horn spread through the air

Rumbling the world

Attracting everyone,

To the boat

The ships leaving right now,

With the people

waving up their hands,

Screaming goodbye to the ones left

There runs a man

In a black suit,

Running and running,

Yet the engine starts as the man sighs

The others peak their face out,

Waving goodbye,

To the fellows that are left behind

Hoping for a day to see them again

The boat swooshes,

Through the sea

Vanishing in sight

In a blink

The sound of the waves,

Starting to vanish,

With the people left behind

Sighing with a walk back 

The boat filled with pleasure

Sound of happiness and delight

The laughter and giggles 

filling up the boat.

The Lights in the Night Sky

The light of the stars

Pouring down the sky,

With the waves on the sky

Just like somebody is swimming

The mountains stay up,

High and steady,

The moon,

The lights,

Shining through the buildings

 Making the dark night shine.

There is nothing,

yet the darkness

Within the sky,

The night continues,

And never seems to end

Within the sky.

The light of the sun

Pouring down towards the sky,

The heat touching me everywhere,

Pouring my sweat out.

Feeling the white cotton candy

Floating up in the sky

With a slight comfy.

Just like a bed.

It stays high up, never falling down,

Filling the surroundings,

Blue and pale

With the beauty.

Different shapes exist,

With the different material

All there,

It stands the louds.

Dongeon is currently in 7th grade and attends an international school in Vietnam. He likes to read both graphic novels and chapter books. He also likes to play games and socialize with his friends.