The Whiteout
Dreary Days
Were what I lived for.
The hiss of school buses was
Replaced by the high pitched scrape
Of snow plows,
As I watched from the window
Counting snowflakes
In my Barney pajamas
And my grandmother made
Her famous chicken soup
Just for me.
These memories
Come to me in the worst of times—
Sticking to my windshield with the snow
As I pass the same plows I once watched,
Now scraping along with them
As I try to slow myself down.
I look out of the window
Counting the stones.
I see my grandmother
And begin to brush her off.
I get the chills,
Not from the cold
But from her being the only one
Who ever kept me warm.
I stay for a while,
Not thinking of my numbing toes
Or my burning hands
But of every winter I had taken for granted.
Dreary days no longer come
With fuzzy pajamas and cartoons—
Just the bitter taste
Of chicken soup.
Testaments
For a religious sinner
I sure prayed a lot
When we were together.
I guess you turn to
Gods you don’t believe in
When you run out of faith
In the things you know.
I was taught in grade school
How to avoid addictions
To drugs and alcohol,
But they never taught me
How to withstand the ones
That come with a pulse.
In Bible class
I heard a story
About how the devil
Is just a fallen angel.
I still think it’s funny
That you wear a cross
Around your neck.
Poem as a Dryer
Grumbling,
Rumbling,
And grumbling again.
You think satisfying my hunger
Is stuffing me with your dirty gym socks.
My inside burns
And my stomach turns
Like a Merry Go ‘Round on its side—
Except without the laughter of children.
I do not occupy this joy,
Just their frilly dresses
And half stuffed teddy bears.
Sometimes I yell
And fall off of my tracks,
But don’t we all?
I hear the woman on the phone
She speaks of endings and papers.
I think her heart is as heavy
As the clothes she puts in me.
She’s fallen from her tracks too.
I am no individual,
Just an appendage to my neighbor.
He could not go on without me.
He grumbles too.
Our lives are a never ending cycle,
Yet each day is something new.
I want to know what he sees,
What he feels.
But each time I go to ask I am too late
For it all comes out in the wash.
Nature
A violet sky stretches across the earth
Calling for evening to come and play.
The air sits thick and stagnant
Severed by howling sirens too far to place.
A once calm wind rushes towards the noise
Taking the stars and stripes with it.
My nose tingles
Telling me I should go inside
Before the earth begins to weep
With the rest of us.
The stream rushes the same as yesterday
Not attempting to hide from the sky
That now lurks with the color of a storm.
It stays cautious
Holding two boys visiting with their mother,
Missing the man who would once wipe her tears
Before he left
But never came back to mend her heart.
The most beautiful of things,
Whether it be a sunset
Or a beautifully broken mother
Are sometimes just colorfully painted urns
Overflowing with bitter ashes
That somehow make us who we are.
My name is Victoria Adolino. I am 19 years old and am currently an English major at Suny Orange. Writing has been a major outlet for me for as long as I can remember and that is why it is something I chose to incorporate greatly into the rest of my life. I hope to touch people with my words as others have touched me with theirs.
