Fall 2014

Rambunctious

Fall 2014

A Letter from the Staff

Dear students and staff of Jamesville-Dewitt High School,

The Rambunctious staff is proud to present the Fall 2014 issue of the JDHS magazine for origi-
nal student art and literature: Rambunctious. We have included what we feel is some of the best
writing and artwork from our school community. It is always a pleasure and privilege to be able
to read writing and view the hundreds of submissions we receive, and it is very difficult to make
final decisions from such an excellent crop of student work. We hope that all of the students that
contributed their work to Rambunctious will continue to do so for the duration of their high
school careers. For those seniors we are featuring in our pages for the final times, we wish you all
the best in your future endeavours.

A special thanks goes to our staff members for organizing submissions and going through the
difficult selection process. We would also like to thank the JDHS English Department for sup-
porting student writing throughout the year and the JDHS Visual Art Department which has
provided us tremendous help and support, without which this publication would not be half as
good as it is, and for that we are immensely grateful. A huge thank you as well to the high school
administration and clerical staff, the Jamesville-Dewitt School Board, our superintendent Dr.
Alice Kendrick, and our very supportive JDHS PTG for their ongoing encouragement. A final
thank you goes out to our contributors and readers. Without you, Rambunctious would not be
possible.

We hope you enjoy this Fall 2014 edition of Rambunctious, the Jamesville-Dewitt High School
magazine for art and literature.

Sincerely,
The Rambunctious Staff

Manpreet Kaur Giovanni Antonucci Club Advisor: Matthew Phillips
Katy Graham Julia Dettor
Patrece Martin Aiofe McCaul
Ryan Page Akbar Qahar
Elizabeth Wright Linda Jefferson
Aliyah McCrindle Melissa Gao
~Lauren Bertram, 17 Abbie Guisbond

Table Of Contents Art
Writing Cover~ Blue City. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Tate Horan
1. Attraction Is A Pathological Liar . . . . . . . . . . . . Jack Radford Inside Cover~ Jellyfish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lauren Bertram
3. You’re the Shellfish One . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stephanie Dushay 2. Swimming Swans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Emma Gibson
5. Glow Stick Trees . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Colin Howe 4. Vegas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hal Schulman
7. Statue . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Julia Skeval 6. Timed Essay . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rebecca Wengert
9. Angels and Dreams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Zev Anbar 8. Sean . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tate Horan
11. Returning to Dust. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maggie Dunsford 10. Graffiti . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tate Horan
13. Comatose Visions in the Endless Oblivion . . . . . . . . Colin Howe 12. Autumn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Eric Antosh
15. Crawl . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jack Radford 14. Dog . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jake Greenway
17. You . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michale Schueler 16. Converse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sadye Bobbette
19. The Hairdresser . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Zev Anbar 18. Beauty . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Lizzy O’Brien
21. Green Honey Tea . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Colin Howe 20. The Woods . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Julia Dettor
24. Why Aren’t You Here With Me . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stephanie Dushay 22. Mountain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Christos Kousmanidis
25. Phoenix . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Colin Howe 23. Cars Eyes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Elizabeth Wright
27. Narcissists . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Akbar Qahar 26. Mother Nature’s Fury . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Elizabeth Wright
29. Dunescape . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Colin Howe 28. Jaden . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hayley Ripich
31. Gray . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michale Schueler 30. Dust . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Katie Tzivanis
33. New Beginnings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Michelle Pan 32. Unhappy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Julia Slisz
35. Cathedral . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Colin Howe 34. Abandoned Converse . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Urmi Roy
37. Why Worry . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Tate Horan 36. Flower . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Katie Tzivanis
39. The Opiate of Dreams . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Colin Howe 38. Beret Cat . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rebecca Wengert
41. You are Ripping Me Apart . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jack Radford 40. Lion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Katie Tzivanis
43. Rebuttal to a River . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Colin Howe 42. Daisies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anna Smith
45. Finding a Treasure in the Dark . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ben Vahey 44. A Dress . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kerry Simizon
47. Hooker . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Akbar Qahar 46. Butterfly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah El-Hindi
49. I Cannot See the Stars Above . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Stephanie Dushay 48. Alexandra . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Katie Tzivanis
51. Squares . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Maggie Dunsford 50. Tiger . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Katie Tzivanis
53. Bottle On A Shelf . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Colin Howe 52. Chair . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Emily Shapiro
55. America . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Zev Anbar 54. Red Hood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Elizabeth Glisson
57. Still Red Rambunctious After All These Years . . . . . . . Sue Ferrara; Class of ‘72 56. Hand. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah El-Hindi

ATTRACTION IS A PATHOLOGICAL LIAR ~Emma Gibson, ‘17
2.
I hate the way that cold metal feels upon soft skin,
but I still let myself bleed all over the operating table,
I still watched trickles of scarlet stain my legs
and pools of red satin envelop my fingertips –
the clink of scalpels on the aluminum reminded me of songs you used to play over and over
until the whole world had heard your mind’s orchestrated enigma
through the windows of your dinged-up car.
I still have blood underneath my fingernails,
so deep that even the finest soap hasn’t been able to penetrate its hiding spot,
only redden the surface of my skin to an unpleasant ruby color – like your lips,
always cracked in a crooked smile that tore your dimples into quarters ;
nothing mattered when you smiled, the world faded away into swirls of blackness
and the blur of the cars hurrying down the street were of no significance.
my eyes had been glued shut by the delusive phantom of passion,
a blindness that couldn’t be altered by contact lenses or bifocals,
leaving me to be apprehensively led by a pair of bony hands and pristine wrists – yours –
and where did they lead me?
you snapped your fingers and like a curse I followed your faint silhouette through the darkness,
slicing my feet open on glass and pressing them deeper and deeper into my flesh with every step,
but I never stopped – I treaded onward through thorny weeds and staggeringly hot concrete,
following the angelic façade of your voice.
you didn’t lead me home, or to your car, or to the many places I knew as familiar and safe, no –
you lead me down the darkest alleyways, made me swim through the most dangerous seas,
made me cross the tightrope between sanity and disorientation –
you tricked me, you had always intended to make me hurt, to bleed, to suffer
and as my quivering hands shook in your grasp you turned me toward the abyss of disparity
and with a disembodied mutter – you pushed me,
and I fell deep and fast through the horrific confusion of imminent failure,
of depression, of vacant hearts, of endless roads, of EVERYTHING I have dreaded
and trusted you to keep me away from –
my eyes creak open one time again, crusted shut with the pain of lust –
and there was blood underneath my fingernails.
there was blood underneath my fingernails.
-Jack Radford, ‘16

1.

You’re the Shellfish One ~Hal Schulman, ‘17

I’m not your oyster.
You’ve shoved so much grit
past my lips, down my throat
In the hopes that one piece will lodge
and I’ll create a pearl for you
By worrying that dirt into a pile
into a mountain
into an Everest
And watching the sparkling snow settle
in mounds over the buried bodies
of those who tried and failed to climb my ranges of sorrow.
But my suffering is not your tool
and my tiny pearls are tightly guarded behind cold, locked jaws.
-Stephanie Dushay, ‘16

3.

Beret Cat

Glow Stick Trees

There’s a place I know, a lonely lost crick
Where the trees glow, leaves shimmer in time
Seconds waste into hours, running par with the Rhyme
And the stars become flowers, to color my mind
The voice’s on the wind now, for when I go blind
Words will whisper in tune, as loud as divine

I’m lapping them up, as I fall to my knees
Feeling their manic, majestic disease
-Colin Howe, ‘16

5. ~Rebecca Wengert, ‘15
6.

Statue. ~Tate Horan, ‘17 8.

Pain is falling off a bike or losing a loved one
I didn’t know it could have two eyes and a heartbeat.
One day I will dig up the memories and mistakes but
until then, I am stuck believing you will come back and
that we are still golden.
Time is an allusion and it had always escaped us
but now those days and months are coming back and
our hearts are made to only beat so fast.
I am running, shaking, trying to control this mess
you’ve made but the storm is inevitable and
the screams amongst the silence is piercing;
but you don’t hear them, you don’t feel the voices.
You were the one who broke us yet I am left to rebuild
the kind of life I never wanted.
We used to watch the stars and sometimes they’d shine
a little brighter and I’d feel a little lighter
but now my blood is cement and one day I will turn to
statue and with one blow I will fall and smash to pieces
and you will be left with no instructions on how to put
the broken back together.
-Julia Skeval, ‘16

7.

Angels & Dreams ~Tate Horan, ‘17
10.
She stared at the paper, her mind blank. The colors just didn’t fit together, they didn’t work. Regardless
she dipped her brush into the paint, first the blue then the green mixing them together. Slowly, ever so slowly she
applied the paint to the canvas watching as stars took shape and their light bled through. Everywhere she turned
new images were forming, blossoming from nothing. Jade flowers, grass so green it was almost blue, everything
was there swirling around her. Dozens of paintings, all on professional canvas, all signed with her name Car-
amece Tepier. Caramece turned back to her canvas, but it was no longer blank, instead it was filled with colors,
all the colors her imagination could come up with.
They were all woven together, smoothly flowing from black, to red, to green, to white, to flesh tone. She
was staring at an angel. She had never done such a realistic painting before; it was as if the angel breathed. It
stood on the canvas the only bright point in front of a muted backdrop. As she watched, the painting changed,
the angel appeared to be coming closer, its glowing white wings taking up all the space.
Then it was there.
Not just a painting on canvas, but a living breathing angel, the same angel that she had somehow paint-
ed on her canvas. It smiled kindly and held out its hand. Caramece took it and watched in awe as all the already
magical colors became brighter, more real. She watched as the brush strokes in flowers morphed into veins, as
the dark blue sky became smoother, richer in color and more open. It almost seemed to her that Heaven was
opening up its gates and letting her see inside. It was everything she ever dreamed of.
“Cara! Caramece , wake up!” Maria Tepier stepped carefully around the discarded canvases towards her
daughter, who had fallen asleep at her easel. “Cara up, up!”
But Caramece did not wake, nor did she move. Maria did not bother to check her daughter’s breathing.
Knowing what had happened , she gently bent down and removed the palette from her daughter’s limp hand.
Looking at the impression of wings that the brush had left in the paint, Maria bent down and kissed Caramece’s
bald head before leaving the room.
-Zev Anbar, ‘16

9.

Returning To Dust ~Eric Antosh, ‘17
12.
Ashes to ashes,
Dust to dust
My lungs are slowly blackening
With my accumulating cigarette butts
They tell me it’s stupid
“Do you want to die?”
I just blow smoke in their face and say
“It may be suicide, but it makes me feel alive.”
They’ll wrinkle the nose at my smell
Walk away in disgust
And I’ll just burn up my body
Until I return to dust
-Maggie Dunsford, ‘16

11.

Comatose Visions in the Endless Oblivion ~Jake Greenway, ‘17
14.
Mountains are prettiest in the mist, when locks of the sky
Float in on the wind like a long kiss goodbye
Obscuring the trees, as fog on a lens
And breaking my vision with glass shattering zen
I gaze over the edge, and see the divine
Hours and miles of unbroken white lines
Shadows shift with the gusts, run with the time
I swear I see faces brought forth from my mind:
I see people and places beyond the knife of description
Things in which mortals have no conjuring diction
-Colin Howe, ‘16

13.

Crawl

I woke this morning with my hair but I did
as awry as the magnolia tree
outside your window I used to cry a lot, but I cry a lot more now,
and I missed the sweet smell of flowers that and I hide under the bed during thunderstorms
drifted tantalizingly in through the screen and as the whip cracks from above
tickled my nose like the softness of your lips shaking the house I can’t even call my own
and now I shiver when the wind
oh god how I miss your lips, sweeps across my neck,
you were the best kiss I ever had, but not because I love it, but because I fear it
your lips moved like a guitar pick on and when hands other than my own
perfectly tuned strings, touch my skin
and it was never too wet or too dry, I feel my heart pulse 3 times faster
and your tongue traced a map around the backs of my until it realizes they are not yours.
teeth the smell of flowers makes me want to vomit &
and left me with the sour taste of lust in my throat I haven’t kissed in a long time,
my lips are dry, milky, cracked,
I miss the way your hands would they are waiting for you
glide slowly, carefully to find to bring them back to life,
dimples in my back I didn’t know existed crawling on singed and charred feet,
and I’d shiver when you kissed my neck, crawling back to you
but not because it bothered me, everything will always crawl back to you.
but because it reminded me I was human once again
-Jack Radford, ‘16
I used to fake my fear of thunderstorms
just so you’d hold me, just so I could
feel your warmth sink into my skin
and settle among my bones
I used to cry a lot when you acted cold because
you were the only warmth I knew, you were like my sun
and I couldn’t live without you

15. ~Sadye Bobbette, ‘17
16.

You ~Lizzie O’Brien, ‘17
18.
You. Yes, I’m looking at you. You, who said you’d never leave me, never again. You, who
swore on your life that I could count on you to stay, unlike the others. But now you’re bleeding
too fast and saying my name and Oh God don’t go yet and yes, yes, I love you too, but it
won’t come to that. It won’t come to that, I promise because we’re going to stay together and
keep fighting and Good Lord, please stop screaming. You said never, never again. But they
said always, didn’t they?
-Michale Schueler, ‘18

17.

The Hairdresser As he was leaving, however, Chris ~Julia Dettor, ‘17
heard, the hairdresser speak again, and it 20.
Chris began to question the wisdom of this trip. wasn’t to him but to one of her co-workers
He paced back and forth across the hotel room behind the desk , a black-haired woman with
for a minute muttering incoherently, before tattoos covering both her arms.
collapsing down onto the feather bed and run- “Do you see that girl I just helped?” the
ning his hands through his now short hair. He hairdresser stage whispered “She’s trans and is
had cut it off earlier that day, when he had been going to change her gender. How messed up is
confident in the choice to change permanently that?” Nodding, the other hairdresser typed a
from a she to a he. He had come to Boston for few keys into the computer before responding.
a consultation and after he had spoken to the “Yeah, that is messed up, people like
doctor, Chris had felt confident that he was that should get help. I mean come on, you’re
making the right choice, now though... not the gender you were born as, puh-lese, ob-
“ Do you want me to buzz your hair or viously just a ploy for attention.
do you just want to cut it short?” The hairdress- Eyes stinging, Chris had run out of the
er had held up both options for Chris and he shop and grabbed the next bus that took him to
had immediately pointed to the razor. the hotel, paying attention to nothing until he
“So why does a girl like you decide to reached his room.
shave her hair off? I mean I totally get the short He really did want to feel comfortable
hair look but your hair is gorgeous.” She was in his own skin, and finally having short hair
just trying to make idle conversation, but the made him feel less dysphoric, but was it really
question still made Chris’s throat close up in worth it to get rid of the dysphoria complete-
nervousness. ly? The ridicule was horrible, he had come to
“Oh, um...I’m-I’m trans, and getting Boston for his consultation because he thought
ready to start hormone therapy and I thought it that people in a big city would be more accept-
just a good time to cut it off.” ing of his identity than the people in his home-
The buzzer stopped whirring and the town. But he was wrong, people here were just
hairdresser paused, her hand poised above his as nasty as the people back home, Boston was
head just about to shave off the first chunk of definitely not his safe haven. Sighing, Chris sat
blond hair. “Oh...well good for you sweetie,” She up and took a map out of his red backpack that
didn’t talk for the rest of the time, only narrow- sat on the edge of the bed. Shaking his head,
ing her eyes when she looked up, leaving Chris he crossed off Boston on the map and drew a
to stare at his face in the mirror and watch as line north. Next stop, Maine, maybe that could
his hair fell to the floor. It was surreal watch- be his safe haven, just maybe if he tried hard
ing each bundle fall to the ground, like a snake enough. It was the only place left. Closing the
shedding its skin. Each strand of hair that fell map, Chris pulled out his phone and hit a num-
was like saying goodbye to the female Christi- ber, four rings rang out before a voice picked up
ana and welcoming the male Chris. When the on the other end.
hairdresser was done 15 or 20 minutes later, “Hello, Christina?”
Chris couldn’t take his eyes away from the “Hey mom, just wanted to tell you...
mirror, or stop running his hands over what looks like I’m coming home.”
was left of those once despised locks. He no- -Zev Anbar, ‘16
ticed now how light he felt, without the pounds
of thick hair trailing down to his waist, it was
liberating. Smiling to himself Chris got up to
leave, momentarily forgetting the hairdresser’s
scrutinizing glare.
19.

Green Honey Tea ~Christos Kousmanidis, ‘17
22.
I lay on my bed today
Its vibrant green fibers greeted my back
With an elastic embrace
Tiny beads of water bounced about
Hopping crickets in the heat of August
My ceiling flutters in the wind
Singing melodies green of melancholy
Dreaming of the dreary days
When it could sip the sunlight
A pitcher of honey laden tea
My windows are filled with faces
They rest in an assortment of emotion
And colors, all different shades,
nodding in unison like a baseball novelty
I can almost taste their sweetness on my tongue
-Colin Howe, ‘16

21.

Why Aren’t You Here With Me

The soft wooliness of my emerald sweater
is a warm embrace, welcome in the cold air
But I slough it off and emerge,
feeling empty.
Fabric is no substitute for your absent arms.
-Stephanie Dushay, ‘16

~Elizabeth Wright, ‘15 24.
23.

Phoenix ~Elizabeth Wright, ‘15
The ashen ground still liberated puffs 26.

Of black smoke, wisping, towards an empty heaven
Their essence filled the air like coils of a snake
Slowly wrapping around its prey, gently pulling
Away the light from its eyes
Charred relics of a forest stood upon the rolling hills
They glowed with an exhausted intensity
Like macabre Christmas trees, complete with
Speckles of white as the sky fell softly
Drowning the ground in its loving embrace
It was perfectly silent
For their was nothing left to be disturbed
Lonely licks of flame occasionally cracked
Sending echoes over the nothingness
They went around the world
And came back home
A solitary bird soared above the madness
What had once been cotton balls,
Was now a seething mass of smoldering coal
Bubbling with the despair of souls
Burning with the sorrows of life
The bird was scared and alone
For it was drunk off of the terror below
Its wings pitiful bellows to the fires
For he had watched the world burn
And he didn’t half mind
-Colin Howe, ‘16

25.

Narcissists ~Hayley Ripich, ‘15 28.

We all have big egos
Even the ones that don’t
We all think we’re important
Or that our insignificance matters
Everything is made smaller
Into little fathomable measurements
The reality that everything is out of control
That everything can be taken away
And nothing is consistent
In the entire span of time, except time

It’s what we rely on
It’s what we break down
Into years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes
Seconds, milliseconds, and so forth
To make ourselves believe
That we have an impact
The world or universe
Both of which can be taken away
In an instance and vanish into nothing
We are comforted by the idea of stability
The idea that infinity exists
An idea we should be fearful of
-Akbar Qahar, ‘17

27.

Dunescape ~Katie Tzvianis, ‘17 30.

Waves tumbled onto the shore
Brutal intensity, swiss clockwork
Keeping the time of the beach
Each crest brings new life, only to pull
away leaving longing in its place
A gull circles overhead, watching,
its grey plumage matching sky
a cloud of ash amongst the coals
Thin spindles of flame still
lingering on the horizon
And the sea of beaten grass
trampled by time, holding,
onto every precious grain of sand,
rippling in the soft breath of the ocean
Speaking in a soft whisper of its secrets
-Colin Howe, ‘16

29.

Gray !~Julia Slisz, ‘15

Darkness. Light. Such abstract concepts. But we live by them, breathe by them, mend
our broken hearts with them. But what is light with no dark? And why can’t I, little spark in a
misty blue, conceptualize this paradox? Why can’t I see the dark that interlaces, breeding with
light, creating a cloudy gray of so many shades when that is all life is?
I remember you used to say my eyes scared you. Maybe that’s because they’re gray.
-Michale Schueler, ‘18

31.

New Beginnings ~Urmi Roy, ‘15 34.

Listen! She whispers in our ears
Through our tiresome, worn bodies

And into our hearts of hope.
They row and guide the ship under her.

Her bright torch flashes in our eyes
And brings a smile to our faces
And crinkles our eyes with joy.

I can see her 7-pointed star defy and outshine the heavens
Showering us with a warm hug,
But happiness is not guaranteed
In this new world, new land.
Ding! The ship has landed
And the roads have opened up.
-Michelle Pan,’17

33.

Cathedral ~Katie Tzivanis, ‘17 36.

Nature builds herself into entropy
as I stand in her cathedral.
Arches of stone and vine
meticulously constructed by masses unseen
each notch, each buttress builds upon the other
Winding into the heavens with fervor
to reach some opaque object of desire.
I’ve heard her organs echo.
Pipes bombarded by a constance of froth,
Bouncing on the moss covered lines,
to pull into life the most beautiful of chords.
Resounding off cavernous cliffs
layered with muted colors.
Ochre abruptly yields to chalk grey
building into the pale yellow
of a sun left in the sky too long.
I can taste the sweetness of the air,
dancing on my tongue.
A vibrant samba fitting for the warm leaves
shy in their passage of me
As if lingering for a moment,
building courage to break from their peers,
and to find themselves upon a greater journey
Her cool waters baptize my feet
As my gaze reaches the fullness of her grandeur
And I am humbled
Left to bask in my own insignificance
Petty troubles drown in her brook
As a cloak of mist coaxes me back to peace.
-Colin Howe, ‘16

35.

Beret Cat

Why Worry?

All I do is worry, worry about things that I shouldn’t,
Worrying about things that I can’t do, always saying I couldn’t.

I always stress about school and the work that I have after,
Instead of walking through the halls spreading all of my laughter.
I always worry about my plans, and what I have to do for the day,

Instead of letting things play out, telling myself it will be okay.
I stress about doing homework and getting good grades on my tests,

Instead of relaxing and actually getting some rest.
I even worry about others, when they are having troubles,
But I’m told to mind my own business and stay out of their bubble.
Even with that said, there is something that’s stuck in my head,
And I think about it during those last few moments in bed.

That I’m just a speck in the great big world of people,
In a world of death and disease, but through all of this upheaval,

I still worry about all of my problems that are dumb,
And when it comes to problems that matter in this world, I’m numb.
-Tate Horan, ‘17

37. ~Rebecca Wengert, ‘15
38.

The Opiate of Dreams ~Katie Tzivanis, ‘17
40.
Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling
Its purity corrupted by
intensifying darkness
Inescapable as its spreads
Dying embers scattered above the hills
Dispersing until only the dim stars remain
Every seam, every crack, draped with shadows
Black cobwebs spread by some unseen
Effervescent spider, working with surgical precision.
You feel a subtle aura of finality
At the periphery of your conscious
You fight it, think of anything else
Desperately searching for a comfortable thought
To reach out, as a child swinging in a tree would
Grabbing for the next trunk
Only to find your hands don’t quite reach
And so, as always, it returns
You feel its cold tendrils of nothingness
Cling to your soul, and contort it
Wring it of the joyful ignorance of time
Until eventually you fall into the sweet, numbing
Caress of dreams, the true opiate of the masses
-Colin Howe, ‘16

39.

You are Ripping Me Apart & This is My Pitiful Attempt ~Anna Smith, ‘15
at Expression

last time I was WANDERING through a field of tall grass
I felt you pacing ENDLESSLY in my head,
and brushing the walls WITH your warm skin
but to NO avail, I haven’t felt your touch in months
and I miss it, I want to feel REAL again,
I want my lungs to breathe I want my mind to REASON
I want my ears TO capture the songs of the wind
I want to GO to places I greatly fear
and I want my HOME to feel real and comforting
you hold me in the palms of your hands, MAYBE
I’m comfortable enough there, but I don’t know
I SHOULD probably let go, I’ll dangle
from your fingers for a while, and I should STOP worrying
about the landing, but maybe about FALLING
helplessly into silence, how peaceful that would be FOR me.
PEOPLE used to look at me kindly but now
I’ve grown sickly and I don’t think they know WHO I am anymore
DONT say that everything will be okay, it won’t.
everyone will GIVE advice that I’ll forget in seconds
and A big part of my life will be pretending
that I’m not SHIT, that I’m not an entity of confusion
but enough talk ABOUT me,
I’d like to know about you, you don’t miss ME, I know
but how far IN to a book are you? what have you been listening to?
THE lilacs are blooming again, your favorite flower
the SLIGHTEST change brings beauty, I guess that wasn’t what you thought of me.
-Jack Radford, ‘16

41.

Rebuttal to a River ~Kerry Simizon, ‘16 44.

There once was a river winding
Eddies flowed too deep for most it seemed
For her waters felt cold,
As they grinded to bone,
Her blackness concealed
By a moon’s glow shining off her curves
The little jewels of hope, ever reflected
Clouds came to cover the moon that night
As always they did
And the river was once again alone
And cold
Listening to the rain fall softly
In time to the beat of her tears
Each ghostly ripple
Drifting for miles
In a cacophony of silent sadness
But the rain fell harder that night
As never before it did
Distant drums rang through
The grey hills, bringing with them
Brilliant flashes of green amongst the trees
The drummer marches up to that river
And its aura reaches deep into her soul
Illuminating a glorious gleaming blue
So that river could be cold no more
-Colin Howe, ‘16

43.

Finding a Treasure In The Dark ~Sarah El-Hindi, ‘15
46.
It’s so dark outside.
I can barely see.
But what I find on the Ground,
is nothing I know.
A Smooth Object I find.
Feels clean to me.
When I put it through the air,
it grows heavier.
When I put it down,
it loses weight.
It even can move,
despite the Dark times.
When I touch its bottom,
it feels sharp as nails.
But it doesn’t hurt me.
Its bottom has no force.
When I feel its top,
it feels heavy like a weight.
But when I touch the other parts of it,
it feels the same as the rest of it in the Dark.

-Ben Vahey, ‘15

45.

Hooker ~Katie Tzivanis, ‘17

I remember when I relied on no one. When I would just wander the streets looking for a home 48.
on someone’s shoulder. My main supply of food being 7/11’s and gas stations. Oh, the gas stations. All the
trucks that stopped by looking for fuel, or a little extra. Being in the middle of the desert doesn’t attract
many people. I, however, love it. I love how you can see for miles. How the sunset bleeds, over the dry
grass and distant plateaus. I love the motorcycle gangs that sail thunderously through the ocean of heat. I
watch and join. I like to think of myself as an outsider, observing mankind and all of its maddening behav-
ior. I am an observer. Destined for something greater. I am not my own person, but rather belong to the
world. I belong to history. My happiness is that least important thing when it comes to the entirety of the
universe. My role is to contribute. To be a part of something bigger. Bigger than gas stations, deserts, the
highway, motorcycles, and the sky. I will do what I have to. Love whomever I have to love. Leave and aban-
don whomever I have to leave and abandon. You might not think this is the mind of someone sane, but
rather the mind of someone who is completely and utterly psychotic. Perhaps I am. Or perhaps I’m just a
new generation of human or something completely different. Something that strives for the preservation
of oneself, for everyone else.
-Akbar Qahar, ‘17

47.

I Cannot See the Stars Above ~Katie Tzivanis, ‘17
50.
I cannot see the stars above
But I can feel their gentle glow
sift through my blindfold,
dusting my lids with the sand of dreams
- Stephanie Dushay, ‘16

49.

Square Two ~Emily Shapiro, ‘16
52.
When I fell in love with you
It was like the Big Bang
A celestial cataclysm
And the world was no longer blank
And you were a paint brush
And all it took was a small splotch
To fall and color rippled across the page
Ambiguous like Rorschach's ink blots
And you were a match
A catalyst for the spark
You burned the bubble wrap
That was restricting my heart
You were first life
In a cold and barren land
The bud of a rose
Bursting through the ash
And you were an explosion
The Big Bang which created the cosmos
Before you there was nothing
Until you were all there was
-Maggie Dunsford, ‘16

51.

Bottle On a Shelf ~Lizzie Glisson, ‘15
54.
On the shelf lay a bottle
Where I keep my soul
Its green presence gazes back
Longingly, rigid forms melting
Into fluid spirits, like clocks
Frozen before they could hit the ground
Preserving their ungodly shapes
Until reality shifts them back into line.
And maybe I could climb into that bottle
Just for the day, or rent a room
And stay a lonely, thought filled night
And watch as my vision twists
And contorts, the clock on that wall
Frozen hands stretched like rubber bands
Until reality shifts everything back into line
-Colin Howe, ‘16

53.

America Goddamn it!
We are addicted to technology and weed
America, land of the free and home of the brave Alcohol and caffeine
Where anyone can make it Addicted to some so we can escape
Where all men are created equal and are treated equal Addicted to others we can keep on going.
In the eyes of society and the law. America is a land of sliced wrists
What a pile of shit. Post Traumatic Stress
It’s true that America is the home of the brave, Attempted suicides
But are we really free? And stone walls built around our hearts.
Are we treated equal in the eyes of society and law? But still we are the home of the brave.
Women are paid 77 cents for every dollar a man makes We are the home of survivors.
Black men are unjustly shot because of the color of their Of people who wanted to die but worked through it
skin Those who have been unjustly accused but forgave
Being expressive is being uncomformative Of soldiers who though their time over seas is up
Therefore you must be shunned Continue to serve our country.
How can this be the land of the free We are the country that doesn’t stop
When we are sliding back That doesn’t give in
Repeating history. We are stubborn as the ox that used to plow our farms
It is the 21st century, People We will not stop because someone says no
Yet still a woman can’t walk down the street We will not give in to the names we are called
Without fear of getting raped And we will survive.
A black kid can’t go to a store and buy a soda We are America
Without being frisked on the way out The good and the bad
And marriage The addiction and the strength
Sure now gay marriage is legal in most states We are America
But that does not stop the slurs and derogatory terms Home of the Brave.
From flying every which way -Zev Anbar, ‘16
Through words and the internet.

55. ~Sarah El-Hindi, ‘15
56.

Still Red Rambunctious After All These Years! The Class of ’72 has 12 PhDs and 15 physicians, including dentists and other graduate level health care
professionals. We have scads of lawyers; one rabbi who leads Congregation Anshei Israel, a temple in
A note landed in my email box from Atlanta-based, JD classmate Warren Abrahams. Titled: Information Arizona and an Episcopal priest who is the rector at St. James’ Church in New York City. And we all
on Rambunctious, Warren added this note to the email: Here you go, Sue. Submit a tick article to Ram- happily claim world-renowned classical guitarist Eliot Fisk as a fellow classmate.
bunctious. There are no rules that alums cannot participate. He also sent it two days before the submis- But whether our classmates had degrees or not, they all had special gifts and talents they put to use
sion deadline. making the world a better place. We have teachers and two winemakers. We have nurses and financial
Dear Warren. Like many of my classmates, he knows my life has been ruled by the consequences of two wizards, writers, artists and now many classmates carry the title: grandparent. But most of all, as we
tick bites my daughter received nearly seven years ago, while working as an apprentice bird bander here travel through life, many of us (although certainly not all) are happy that thanks to Facebook and other
in New Jersey. She was thirteen at the time and her medical mystery tour continues as doctors around the Internet treasures, we still have each other. We mourn losses with one another. We celebrate job pro-
world grapple with questions about how to treat pathogens transmitted by ticks. And, this is a good story, motions, weddings, births and now retirements! Many of us can still have a spirited debate like we did
but one I’d rather write for Ram Pages should the editors be interested. Today I’d rather contemplate during our years in the UN Club or in student government.
Rambunctious. Sadly, we have lost thirty classmates over the years, including two from AIDS. One of our classmates
Looking at etymology.com, I discovered the word rambunctious might have actually evolved from the was a physician who was infected while attending to a patient in the ER; the other was an up and com-
1778 word rumbustious. Think of that word as a slurring of two other words, rum and boisterous. The ing fashion designer with an impeccable eye for style. Many classmates succumbed to various forms of
word rambunctious apparently came into fashion in 1859, long before our high school rose on the Hill- cancer. One of our classmates died when his Cirrus SR22 crashed in Oswego County, a very emotional
top! Yes, our high school. Jamesville-Dewitt will always be your high school, my high school and every day for many of us. We keep those classmates with us by remembering them at each reunion.
JD graduate’s high school because that is the kind of culture and community that has long been nurtured Oh, and I can’t forget to mention our teachers. Tom Muench, a one-time social studies teacher turned
within the walls of Red Ram land. guidance counselor still refers to all of us as kids. Tom (yeah, how cool I can call him by his first name
And, while many of you might consider your high school years as a time and place which will be long after all these years!) has become the King of Selfies and one of the most prolific Facebook posters.
forgotten one day, I am here to suggest, maybe not. Allow me to support that claim forty-two years out Vince Monterosso (disclosure statement—he’s my fifth cousin or some such) will email once in a while,
from the graduation of the JD Class of 1972. but would rather see one of us on his doorstep or hear our voice over the phone. Chemistry teachers
Three hundred and fifteen of us raced from the front lawn of the high school to the gym in our caps and Hugo Polichemi and John Stopher are relieved none of us went on to blow up the world, accidentally of
gowns as the sky opened up and rained down on our graduation ceremony. The gym was much smaller course! Art teacher Reginald Adams still invites us to his art openings. Bonnie Nye, Ron Nuzzo and Vic
then and hot for June. Warren, our de facto class archivist because he has held on to all things J-D, posted Russo, our fabulously supportive music teachers also stay in touch with us, and we with them. And the
graduation pictures ahead of our fortieth reunion. Those pictures, thank goodness, were the moment in current JD Superintendent? She used to teach science when we were at the high school.
time. I have to say most of us have aged like fine wine and have better haircuts. And by the way, during Yes, being Red Rambunctious can last a lifetime thanks to the spirit and community built by teachers,
the last twelve months, many of us have celebrated what we euphemistically call our second 30th birth- students, administration and staff working together. Maybe my favorite JD math teacher, Marshall Nye,
day. Saying sixty years old just doesn’t roll off Rambunctious lips easily. unknowingly coined the definition of Red Rambunctious. He often told us: Life is about working hard
And, rambunctious we were in high school (there are still teachers floating around who can tell tales!) and playing hard. And lots of Red Rams, my classmates included, have gone on to do just that.
and rambunctious we remain. See us at www.jdhs72.com
One third of our classmates still live in Central New York. The rest of us are scattered about the country -Sue Ferrara, PhD, ‘72
and the world. We remain in touch with two of our foreign exchange students from our senior year. One
lives in Thailand; the other is a physician outside of Pisa, Italy. We have ex-pat classmates. One lives in 58.
Nepal; two live in Australia, and one lives in Canada. The next highest concentration of ’72 Red Rams live
in California.

57.

Jamesville-Dewitt High School
2014-2015

JD Literary Magazine