mountains grow unnoticed

Mountains Grow Unnoticed

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Blue & Gray2010

Mountains Grow

Unnoticed

Blue & Gray 2010

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Blue Gray&


2010

Georgetown Preparatory School10900 Rockville Pike

North Bethesda, MD 20852

Cover Art: Mountains by Michael Garate

Untitled by JP Stiles


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Editor’s Note

Welcome to the 2010 issue of everyone’s favorite GP publication –– the Blue and Gray, natch. Let’s get to it. You are probably aware, but the theme this year is “Mountains Grow Unnoticed,” from the Emily Dickinson poem to the right. You may be asking yourself, “Self, how is that a mountain can grow unnoticed?” And the answer is a relatively simple one: when the people around it aren’t paying attention.

Mountains, as Dickinson intended, can represent many things in life – things we don’t pay any mind to but are no less significant for it. Here, in this issue of the Blue and Gray, it is our hope that some of the mountains around us are re-vealed. It is through the work of our friends and classmates that we are able to see the world around us differently; through the art of this community, we can further understand and appreciate its makeup. Hopefully this issue draws your attention, and you walk away from it with a new perspective yourself and your surroundings.

I decided to keep this note on the shorter side – the idea behind this issue is not complicated. Truthfully, I think the cover art alone speaks to the potential of a mountain. And what can happen when it’s noticed.

Enjoy ––Andrew

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The Mountains -- grow unnoticed --

Their Purple figures rise

Without attempt -- Exhaustion --

Assistance -- or Applause --

In Their Eternal Faces

The Sun -- with just delight

Looks long -- and last -- and golden --

For fellowship -- at night --

757

Emily Dickinson


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Table of Contents

Title Author/Artist6 Through Your Intercession Joey Allaire9 Expletive Michael Roberson10 Dont-get-lost-in-thought John Pratt13 to softer hands Peter Park14 2:35 A.M. Peter Delaney 18 Writing a Poem Graham Reid20 glass Joey Allaire22 Affectations Andrew Pantaleo24 -Insert Title Here- Zach Jessen27 A Painting Danny Ledwith28 Pledge Joe Giammitorio30 A Saint in the Domincan Republic Dickson Hsu33 Before I Talked DeezyMac35 Atlas Andrew Kolczynski36 Who Are You Willie Conaghan38 S.ick A.nd T.ired JP Stiles40 My Weakness David Bell43 Salt in the Wound Ryan Donnelly44 The Adventurer Eric Fessel46 At Your Own Risk Greg Bourdon48 The Invisible Man Jenkins Monzey51 Sleep John Minich52 Untitled Austin Bell53 Every Man of God Ryan Schneider55 At What Price, Beauty Peter Delaney56 Thinking About You Peter Fanone58 Haiku Mr. William’s Blues Lit Class61 Interiors Andrew Pantaleo62 Our Bottle Tommy Ritchey63 Content with Silence Matt Smith

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Table of Contents

65 A Moment of Tension Bobby Gribbin66 Circle of Life Cullen Brown67 Nothing Jonathan Ekstrom 69 Junior Year Ryan Gardiner70 Poem for Julie DeJuan Anderson71 Deception Tim Dorn73 Tight Lines Scott Mergner74 A Father’s Wake Up Call Quinn O’Connell76 Wesley’s Pantomb Matt Stys79 Untitled Andrew Kolzynski80 Staff and Acknowledgements


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Through Your Intercessionby Joey Allaire

“Blessed Seelos, through your intercession please cure Aunt Marianne’s cancer,” we prayed in unison over pot roast and mashed potatoes. For months we chanted this desperate refrain over dinner, on the way to school, at the side of our beds before sleep. But even as I recited those words of devotion out loud, I silently cursed God for creating the human so breakable. Five months ago I came home late in the evening from a show at school. I was still smiling from a lively conversation after the performance. I found my mother, my father, and my sister with bowed heads and fingers racing up rosary beads. They sat on the cushiony chairs of the living room in a tight circle. “Joey, Aunt Marianne has cancer,” my dad informed me. My mother would have told me, but I could see she couldn’t speak a word. The skin beneath her eyes was puffy, and tears still escaped over her eyelids. She had been crying for a very long time. They hadn’t told my cousins yet. “Those girls are going to need you to be strong for them. It’s a really tough road ahead,” my dad explained to me and my sister. It pained me to think about them watching a movie together, pushing through homework, or laughing over a spilt glass of milk unaware of something that would change their lives. I didn’t have a rosary, but I joined my family in prayer. When I went to sleep that night, I didn’t cry. The next day I was working at the kitchen table when Jeannette pushed through the front door with her backpack on her shoulders. Her eyes were wet,

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but drying. My mom, pulling the door quietly shut, entered behind her. My young-est cousin moved slowly through the foyer with heavy slides of her shoes. In the kitchen, she slung off her backpack. It struck the wooden floor with a thud. It was obvious she had heard the news. I wouldn’t learn until later that her mother had called in person; Jeannette, sitting on the steps of her school, had listened to the voice of her mother deliver the verdict of cancer. Squatted beside her backpack, Jeannette struggled to untangle the spirals of two intertwined notebooks. Finally, with a frustrated cry, she shoved them back between the zippers and collapsed into tears. Her shoulders shook. Her hands smothered her face. Her ankles gave way, her knees hit the floor. I was the first to help her to her feet. In my embrace she tried to say some-thing. Conquered by her attempt to communicate, she buried herself into my chest. Her hand pulled my shirt around my shoulder until it nearly tore. I didn’t cry. I had to be strong for her, I remembered. I didn’t cry but my eyes got wet. That night, with Jeannette and her distressed family just down the street, I talked to my friend. “Don’t tell anybody about Aunt Marianne yet,” my mother had asked. But I needed someone to talk to. “After the show tonight we found out…” I typed into my phone. I waited in silence. Buzz. “One new message from Jimmy,” the screen read. As I read his reassuring response, I genuinely collapsed, as Jeannette had done in my arms, into tears. I thought about Jeannette, but there were four more. I could imagine Jeannette and Joanna asleep together on the family room sofa. I could imagine Juliet and Janine huddled in their Notre Dame dorm room. I could imagine Eugene racing home to hold his mother’s hand. As I sat in my bedroom, I realized that not just the human body is break-able, but the soul is too. Seeing my mom crippled, fingers fumbling about her rosary, holding Jeannette’s convulsing body in my arms, and feeling my own wet cheeks and burning ears - I felt broken.


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Michael Garate

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I was thinking aboutall those things and i

said to myself: expletive

… this and that/ before icame to a certain silence

which, without words, said: expletivethat-insert four letter word here-from before, but

More importantly some other things

… that i knew but ididn’t want/ to need/ to say

Expletiveby Michael Roberson


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I need this ride I need this Kick-

-off my clothes I’m feeling Sick-

-And tired of this scene, of this Place-

-me in a different Space-

-ed out for awhile in the stair-

-s me down while I don’t have a care-

-in the world, but it’s all on my head-

-in to the fire in the skillets stead-

-y the hand that the knife now cuts-

-me off and talks of mutts-

-but I prefer to call them rowdy-

-er than the average one should be-

-kinder to the dog and me-

-aning of that which has no sea-

-ne it in the house of

Don’t-get-lost-in-thought by John Pratt

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card--ed at the party, in a fight that I now

start--ed I pay my own

expense--ive is the one with

sense--s so surreal, and so

divine--ly purposed and all through

sign--s on the ceiling and on the

wall--owing into a phone I pick up the

call----me back… I’m thinking


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Michael Garate

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On account of hands, I never knew an uglier pair than yours, those wretched hands that roughened up my soft cheeks.

Rugged with ages of history past and thousands of cigarrettes smoked, you

smelled like the bumpier side of our family.

And you used them like your magic wand, waving them across our warm dinner treats. I dared not eat those that passed your hands.

But now, your hands long cold, mine are starting to stain and dirty with breaks and tears here and there.

They too are rough on my cheeks.

Now I peek onto your intentions, your desperate longing to believe softer things would christen

your cold, blue palms back to youth.

I’ve just begun to smoke, and I can already smell your fingers of nastier scents. I can see you, too,

started thinking that nothing would be permanent.

But they are, and you are now too. And you’re not half as unbearable as you used to be. Now somewhere between our hands, I can trace a familiarity of the memories past.

to softer handsby Peter Park


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They say a picture is worth a thousand words. I would like to put this to the test. The value of a picture has many facets. If you happen to be good, your picture might sell for any sum of money. Like most of us, I have no photography skills. This photograph was taken without instruction, without planning, without any reason to give it worth. And so I would never pay for it. If the picture has no monetary value, perhaps it could have sentimental value. For reasons that I do not know, people, whether photographer, subject, or owner, can become attached to a picture. This picture was taken at a new and exciting time of my life, but the specific event which is captures within its border has no meaning or significance. Therefore, I would not be right to say this picture has no sentimental worth to me, but it is not particularly special either. What, then, gives this picture its value? A picture, by nature, is narrow-minded, shallow, and untrustworthy. A picture shows one split second of one rectangular paradigm of a world in constant motion and change. From birth, we are forced into a visual focus on the world around us, but is there more to life than what we sense? I do not think so, but it is not my place to say. I have five senses, like the rest of almost every human I have ever met. Why, then, can only a camera capture the moment? A picture tells the beholder what I saw, but nothing else. If there is more to life, to value, than sight, then a picture should be worth nothing unless accompanied by a thousand words in which the flaws of photography are polished out, and the viewer can finally under-stand that one moment in my life. Surely, this would be ridiculous.For example, looking at this picture, there is nothing to see except land, water, and one person. The photo may or may not tell a story. Without a caption or similar ac-

2:35 AMby Peter Delaney

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companying passage, no one will ever know what that is. The picture is taken from my point of sight, but it cannot tell any part of the story by itself. There is no way to tell, purely by one’s eyes, that the location is Istanbul, Turkey. However, this one fact may inform the viewer, depending on their knowledge, that I am standing on the bank of a channel that separates two continents in a location rich with history and importance. Does this give my picture worth? I don’t think so. To be honest, I do not even know if I am standing on the European or Asian side, but if someone were to ask, of course I would make up my mind and stick with it. In the rectangular view of a foreign world captured by my camera, there is nothing particularly deserving of photography. If I did not describe it to you, would you know the mixed smell of salt water and burning fuel, the conflicting ideologies of nature and urbanization? You might know of something similar, and I might have the idea of what I smelled that day in my head, but there is no way for me to return to the smells of that moment or to share them with you, other than my poor at-tempts at an explanation. Why, then, do I not carry a camera for smell, in order to freeze that smell so that I might return to it whenever the need arose. Maybe there was a slight hint of foreign cuisine wafting through the breezy afternoon air, but I will never know. The technology to capture the sounds of my moment along with its image has been developed, but I chose not to use it, for I know how it degrades the visual appeal that we all crave. In addition, the sounds would betray the false sense of se-renity: voices, engines, horns. I am sure that other background noise was present, but we must drain such things out to protect any glimmering hope of sanity. What I felt that day is decreasingly significant. The breeze on my back, while nice, contrib-utes nothing to a story I sought to tell when I clicked the round button at the top of my mother’s small camera which I had borrowed. The tastes hold even less impor-tance to me, and so, while serving its purpose at the proper time, I chose to ignore this particularly. Still, there is that which does not fall into one of my five senses. If every-thing around us is siphoned into these broad categories, should there not be a sixth sense by the name of knowledge? For I know that the fifteen knot current exists even though I cannot determine the speed of the traveling water by eye nor feel its steady, powerful, flowing push. And I know that I am standing in a place where many people struggle daily to survive, even though I might not see them, hear them, or feel them. As much as we would often like to disregard that which makes us uncomfortable, in hopes of living the sheltered life that we were all forced to


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leave at one time or another, we can never make it go away. And with any type of knowledge, there comes a lack of knowledge, a desire to know, a will to learn. For example, I will always desire to know whether the solitary fisherman in the frame does so out of recreation on a pleasant Friday afternoon on a hot a breezy summer day, or whether that fish nibbling at his bait makes all the difference. And so, I ask, “Is a picture worth a thousand words?” No. Instead it de-serves these words to open its senses to what has been there all along, just out of sight. My picture has no value, even to myself, but now it has been left with a story and an explanation.

P.S. Count ‘em

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Peter Delaney


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I stare at the hole in my wall, Unable to hold back the thought That the poetic side of my brain

And the wall have something in common.

Unable to hold back thoughts About how poetry is a challenge;

The wall and I have something in common. The right verses are hard to come by.

“How is poetry a challenge?”

Many would undoubtedly ask. But the right verses are hard to come by,

Much less to write a poem about.

Many und`oubtedly ask How I can compute integrals But not write a poem about

Anything in my mind.

But I realize: I need not compute integrals, So I can stow away mathematical thoughts,

Write about anything in my mind, And forget about the hole in my wall.

Writing a Poemby Graham Reid

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Ryan Bugden


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after months of careful planning,blueprints, first and second drafts

god created on the earthones he thought would last.

but god made his one and only errorwhen he made them out of Glass.

glassby Joey Allaire

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Daniel Smerin


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Death stick of arsenic Crayon in my handDraw me a picture

Do as I command––

Like a real egotist––(An issue of the vain)

Cover up certain things“while to me they’re all the same”

The picture is the frontOf melancholy cool

Nothing but a lieTo cover up a fool

Affectationsby Andrew Pantaleo

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Daniel Smerin


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I tend to find myself unique.I am not isolatedLonelyOr depressed.I think differently-Feel differently-I act differentlySome might say.But in the end I findEverything is just a puzzleA puzzle in my mind.

While some may ponderStress themselves

Look for answers from withinI do not waste my time.

I believe I know these all – This is not hubris

Spitenor attitude

- I just do not try nor seekYet still I tend to find

That I am unique.

-Insert Title Here-by Zach Jessen

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We may not see each other’s eyesYet I implore you, try to understandI do not criticizeI do not comment, Mock you,On your personCharacterOr whims, On your phyisique.

I think that these are trifle things, for aren’t we allUnique?


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Peter Park

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Foolishly, I drew my brush to paint you. Turpentine dispensed and palette at the ready, I, da Vinci, made my first stroke. I was going for my Mona Lisa. My magnum opus, or a tour de force So great no man could ever touch. But soon these dreams would start to change. As I wet the surface of your canvas, The lead white paint began to quickly run, Revealing your true colors I Had so failed to see before. I stood alone In shock, admiring a masterpiece, A piece I’d never call my own. I couldn’t help but feel ashamed. And as the brightness of your patient heart Crept along the sides of my intentions, Your emphatic sensitivity left Me speechless while my brush hung in mid-air, dancing. The burning eloquence with which you walk Dropped the jaw of my pretentiousness, as The fervor of your caring nurture scorched The fields I once called home, and all I did was stare. I only pray you take me back. An artist, blind, but now I see That everything I’m not, you are And you are everything to me.

A Paintingby Danny Ledwith


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The Congressional School, in my time there, began each morning at 8:15 with the “Colt Report.” Through the P.A. system in the Dean’s office, a pair of eighth graders would stumble over weather reports and sports scores, eventually reading the “On this day in history…” segment from a thick red book. The ritual ended with a resounding recitation of the “Pledge of Allegiance.” Dr. Galanis, the Dean of Students, would then patrol the hallway, watching each homeroom form a single-file line and silently move to its first class. In Mrs. Lautenbacher’s science lab, my seventh grade homeroom, I listened attentively each morning until standing and delivering the Pledge. Mrs. Lautenbacher would dismiss us with a smile; “Have a nice day, I’ll see you in class” she would say. Mrs. Lautenbacher was the sort of teacher who earned her students’ respect without demanding it. She answered any question, no matter how outra-geous or off-topic, as long as the student who posed it did so out of sincere sci-entific curiosity. When she couldn’t give a definitive ruling on the existence of rainbows in space, she jotted some notes and came into school the next day with a pink Post-it and an answer (rainbows might exist on one of Saturn’s moons). In afternoon study hall she allowed us to talk quietly and come and go as we pleased. Our yellow sign-out sheet, which the school had given her to track us, never had a single signature. To the frustration of my class, the rest of the faculty did not trust us like Mrs. Lautenbacher. In art Ms. Miehl forced us to copy lines from the student handbook every time we broke a rule. If we forgot to wear a belt, teachers sent us

Pledgeby Joe Giammittorio

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to Nurse Rebull’s office for an infamous pair of bright purple suspenders. At the center of this strict disciplinary code was Dr. Galanis, who oversaw and assessed everything from the morning announcements to the recess dodgeball games. Even when she was not watching, teachers acted under her influence, enforcing petty rules and distributing punishment. By seventh grade we loathed our Dean; we had lost the will to obey her but did not dare to defy her. Students rebelled in little ways, wearing brown shoes instead of black or talking on the way to lunch, but they never earned more than a scolding or a phone-call home. Wanting to rebel against her system without reper-cussion, Rishi and I decided one morning to conduct a “tacit social experiment,” as we called it, inspired by Mrs. Lautenbacher’s promotion of scientific inquiry. When the “Colt Report” scratched through the P.A. system into our lab that day, Rishi and I stood attentive as ever. The school’s rooftop weather moni-tor detected winds of 12 miles per hour from the east and a temperature of 68 degrees. The baseball team had lost to Norwood. Exactly two hundred twelve years earlier Eli Whitney had patented the cotton gin. With that knowledge our class could then recite the Pledge, but Rishi and I remained silent. A couple heads turned curiously at us, and my table partner nudged me with his elbow. The next day we refrained again. Without mentioning our plot to anyone else, Rishi and I had recruited a few more classmates, the Pledge noticeably quieter this time. Students savvy to the mischief at hand gave us nods of approval on their way out, not daring to speak of it. On the third day only Mrs. Lautenbacher spoke with the eighth grade voices on the P.A. system. Through the cracked door we could even hear the voices of the first-graders across the hall. Rishi and I, and all the class, smirked at our suc-cess, but when Mrs. Lautenbacher reached “the republic” her voice broke, and all of us, in one instant, braced ourselves. A few girls in front twisted to face me, glar-ing as if I had just stolen their “High School Musical” pencil cases. Tears began to stream down our teacher’s wrinkled cheeks; the Pledge had just ended in all other parts of the school. “It is a sad day when so much faith is lost so quickly,” Mrs. Laut-enbacher sniffled, still facing the tiny, paper-thin flag in the corner. My classmates shuffled quietly out of the lab, but I dragged behind. “I’m sorry,” I professed, now looking at the flag, too. No more words were ever said, and I hurried to join the single-file line.


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As we are all tanned by the angry sun which cast rays of light onto the construction site in the DR,

the muscular, sweaty men and a tiny Asian boy with rough hands,standing on dry and dead-like yellow soil,

work with fierce, mean pick axes and shovels.In the distance, there is an endless green meadowwith armies of cattle patted by the gentle wind.

In the plain, stands a person with the face as peaceful as Buddha’s,and with great, flowing hair,

shining ever so brightly under the beaming sunlight.And we all call him Kevin Buckley.

A Saint in the Dominican Republicby Dickson Hsu

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Jason Liljenquist


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Conor Delany

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Before I talked, you stepped out, never saw you as mine after that.Before I walked, you checked out, never saw you alive after that.

So only bad thoughts remain, and I don’t like these memories.Were you thinkin’ “Is this how I want my son to remember me?”

Probably not, and that’s selfish, ‘cus to me you’re a quitter.Wonder if now, I’d just be better off left with that sitter.

I’m not understandin’ this, you kinda made my heart just split.Then departed quick, left me for booze and cancer sticks.

Like Mother like Son? Nah, I don’t wanna be like you.For 13 years I liked you, but then my past got recycled.

And I found out everthing thing that happened those days.Should I be mad? Or happy and just dance on your grave?

Before I Talkedby DeezyMac


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Peter Park

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Imagine holding the world up on your shoulderslike Atlas.

A never-ending struggle, a weight never lifted.Like Atlas.

History is weighing down your left shoulderLike Atlas.

But chemistry leans on your rightLike Atlas.

Math drops on you, crushing your collar bonesLike Atlas.

At this point you drop to one knee, face redLike Atlas.

English cramps up your hands, a stinging sensationLike Atlas.

Spanish bores on your back, spine snappingLike Atlas.

Your mind is twisted and constrained by LatinLike Atlas.

And your heard is burned with Jesus’ teachingYou drop to two knees, body collapsing, sweat pouring

Like Atlas.

Atlasby Andrew Kolczynski


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You look familiar,the blue eyes the black hair.

Your voice reminds me of a child I knew,but the question is who the hell are you?

You know my name, my stories, my tendencies.You comfortably perch upon my war weathered knees.

Ahh those were the days, full of excitement and air raids.

I remember it all so vividly, the war, the Navy, the early years of dentistry,

my wife, my kid,the lessons, the stories, everything I did.

Who is it that touches my hand,who hugs me gently upon his father’s command,

who tells me stories of his friends and foes,his triumphs, disasters and of course his sorrows?

It baffles me that I have no clue,and its not just this one, its his brothers and sisters too.

I sit quietly not to startle anyone, and finally conclude that he must be my grandson.

Who Are Youby Willie Conaghan

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Dylan Berry


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Alright, What sick mind formatted the SAT? Oh wait, I remember, the monopoly of the College Boardand it’s not just one test, there’s MORE!, they graciously provide me with an SAT IIlife would be like way more relaxing if they would,disappear! cause the time spent wasted can only be measured on a calculator.annnd I had a rude awakening the morning of, from my cell phone alarm, “tictoctictoctictoc”

And next was my radio alarm full of commercials, NO music, just talkand last night I did nothing cause I had to wake up on this Sat-urday morning, and scramble for my TI-don’t care calculatorand print the damn registration from College Board.Then sharpen the all-specific wood,of the god of a pencil they call #2

Then I navigated my way through some hopeless school that had WAY toomany classrooms, like how woulda student talkto his teacher one on one?...(whatever, meditating time is over.) I satdown and reviewed the scamrble of codes on the white boardI was like, “SHIT,” when I realized I needed more batteries for my calculator...

Does anyone actually carry extra batteries for their Calculator?

S.ick A.nd T.iredby JP Stiles

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thank GOD someone did...So I’m finishing section twoand I’m already boredand then the socially awkward proctor exclaimed “five more minutes, tictoc! tictoc!and then she backed up her wide load and satdown. I just wanted to throw her out the window, like, I really would.

I just canNOT concentrate. The grains in the woodof my desk are more interesting, and second runner up is the blinking square on my calculator. Like I am physically becoming sick because of the SATOh and another thing too:when we take our little breaks, why does NO ONE talk?This is such an annoying situation; I’m so frustrated and bored...

Oh Great, another distraction: she’s sitting on the left, closest to the white board,this insanely attractive girl with like rolled up sweat pants. Man, What wouldI DO? to get her attention of course I mean I need her number so we can talk,but too bad, NO cell phones, I would totally text her like “in a bit I’ll give you a cal,” “c u lator!”but dammit, she was such a distraction, they need to only let in girls who rank up to 2on a 1 to 5 scale, like honestly this is not cool, I could be doing better on this SAT

Really, the College Board sucks with this whole SAT thing,I would love, like NOT to have this extra stressthey need to REcalculat-or change something…whatever, I’m done with this talk.


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You are my kryptonite, the blowAgainst my weak Achilles heel,

The apple in the center ofMy peaceful garden. You are sin.

You lie and lie and pull me inI fall defenseless on the web,

Ravished by those honeyed wordsWhich fly so freely from your lips.

I can’t escape your fingertipsThey clutch and claw and hold me close

To snapping mandibles preparedTo crush my heart. You are the dark

In oceans deep, the demon sharkWhich lurks around the borders ofMy hope, my pride, my joy. I swim

In desperation and employ

The help of God to pull me through, butI must admit, I’m drawn to you.

The wearied victim to your whimMust fall, surrender, it’s the end.

My Weaknessby David Bell

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Joey Allaire


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Ryan Bugden

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“Jesus kid,” is all I can catch The rest is muddled and muddied

Something about “love,” “proud,” “happy,” As my left ear droops off my head

My face is bloodied and battered My chest mangled and mishapen

A staple was driven through my eye Now I wink at my opponents

I did it, I made it, I won

With the scars and tears to prove it Most grueling four rounds of my life

Each one lasting what seemed like a year

I wake up, refreshed, long deep breaths Ready to relax, no more stress

When my instructor calls me up He’s forcing me to fight at noon

Salt in the Woundby Ryan Donnelly


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“That could have been me on the TV”He says watching Anthony Bourdain,His eyes filled with jealousy, but also

Memories of more glorious days.

Lost in thought he does not notice meOn the other couch not watching TV

But entranced by those glimmering thoughts And I daydream and picture those stories. . .

The howling seals in the bay,The monkeys that stole his key,

The lazy camel that blocked the wayOn the dirt road to the Red Sea.

The Adventurer! Yes! Those were the days!So Dad, why must you be stuck hereWith four private educations to payInstead of a journey through Algiers!

And then I remembered another storyThe day in Thailand that he met his wife

And vowed to make a familyAnd they blessed me with life

He passed his life of glory and valorTo the cheesy old guy on TV

Because I’m apart of The Adventurer.The journey was passed down to me.

The Adventurerby Eric Fessel

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Untitled, photographby Daniel Smerin


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I almost died when I was ten. My dad too. It happened like this. A warm southern wind was gusting across the island as I walked off the golf course to our car. Cumulus clouds were building off the west point where the river met the ocean. The wind was whipping over the water, creating whitecaps from the beach to the dark, ominous horizon. It was late August and Hurricane Rita was coming. “The waves are roaring,” my dad exclaimed as we drove down South Beach Wynd. “You wanna check ’em out?” “Sure,” I obliged, knowing that even if I had said no, he still would have taken me down to the waves. The wind intensified as we crossed the dune ridge and walked down the wooden pier to the sand. I laid my shoes and shirt on the ground as my dad sprint-ed towards the water, his boogie board in hand. He hollered for me to hurry, but his voice was swallowed up by the roar of the sea. I was no closer than thirty feet to the waves, but the spray had already drenched my face. The swells soared to ten feet in places, eight feet higher than I had ever seen on the island. No lifeguards lined the beach; the lone warning was a small plywood sign stuck in the sand: “HIGH RISK OF UNDERTOW, SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK.” While my common sense said no, I followed my dad into the sea. Before I could reach my dad ten feet into the water, a wave smacked me to the ocean floor. Dazed and confused I opened my eyes underwater only: the burn of saltwater and sand. I rushed to the surface and scanned for my dad. I saw him about twenty feet to my right, and just as he began to swim towards me he was

At Your Own Riskby Greg Bourdon

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blindsided by a twelve-footer. My heart stopped. After a few seconds he emerged and laughed as he ushered me onto his boogie board. We spotted the perfect wave, a wide fifteen-footer, as it approached from the distance. My dad steadied me in the chaotic surf as his eyes grew with anticipa-tion. I, on the other hand, became increasingly terrified staring into the growing mountain of aquatic doom. As the wave peaked just a few feet away, my dad let go, and I braced for impact. The water slammed into the back of the board, sending me head first into the trough, my knees slicing against the seashells at the bottom of the water. I shot for the surface, but the undertow pulled me in deeper. I felt my feet against the solid ocean surface, but my head was still completely submerged. Something yanked my hand and I could soon breathe oxygen. “Swim!” my dad shouted as I frantically spun around. The monster wave had sucked us a hundred yards out to sea, and the water was at least eight feet deep. I struggled to stay afloat as my dad, now pale as a ghost, tried to pull me towards shore. He was soon fully underwater holding me above his head. With a great thrust, he sent me flying ten feet through the air. I gathered myself and swam as hard as I could towards shore. I remembered how a boy one-hundred miles away in South Carolina had drowned swimming in a heavy undertow. I remembered a friend of my cousin who had drowned in the Chesapeake Bay back in Maryland. I thought of my dead grand-father and what it would be like to see him again. What would my funeral be like? How would my mom handle my death? How about my brother? My friends? My subconscious strokes continued, and eventually my knees and hands hit the shell-lined shore. I crawled up the beach and collapsed. My dad followed a few seconds later, and the two of us lay on our backs, panting. After several minutes, we mustered the strength to stand up and grab our clothes. We walked to the car in silence. As we pulled away I gazed back at the ocean, contemplating what had just occurred. I glanced over at my dad and looked into his eyes. I saw fear. I saw a fear that I had never seen before.


49

You are the invisible manYou hid from me like I was infested Your reasons I could not understand

But I am the child that you have neglected

I waited for years to see you homeYou never came you were determined to hide

In your small heart you could’ve at least made roomBut you are a coward, a man without pride

You bastard, did you know your wife gave birth to a man?Someone better than you in every way that you can imagine

Why did you leave me and what was your plan?Don’t bother to say because I’ll never see you again

Do you miss me when you are alone?What runs in your head when you are in bed?

Should I miss you when you are all bonesIt would be better if I knew you were dead

So at least I know it was not your faultThat you didn’t leave because you didn’t care

But because nature came and took you at a halt So your son can live no longer with fear

But since you are a coward that didn’t have a planYou took off when you saw me coming out her womb

I’m glad because you are the invisible manAnd for this I will not cry when you are in your tomb

The Invisible Manby Jenkins Monzey

Blue & Gray 2010

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Kyle Heatherington


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Conor Delany

Blue & Gray 2010

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Sleepby John Minich

A Valiant, noble, happiness bringing, brave soul: Known as sleep

“Am I going to be ok in this awful, pitiless world?”Once again, and I tried so hard to avoid the question.Futile attempts have become frequent lately, as the night falls. 12:07

(My skimmer, only works for 13 hours a dayAnd then the late night hours arriveTerminating all filtering functions

By then, the vacancy light flashes a bright redSo that the creatures, once again, find themselves an all too commonPlace to post for the night.)

“Am I happy?”I ask over and over again, until the beasts of the night get their satisfactory answer. The clock shines a daunting 2:44.And I try my hardest to fight this losing battle.I’m trapped, within the cold penitentiary that I, unfortunately, call my mind.

2:57 I’m falling, I’m falling, I’m falling a sleep

7:14The noble warrior came again just as I was falling.But I can never remember to ask him to not wait so long next time.Tonight I’ll get on that.


53

Words represent ballMy paper is like twine

Delivering without stallFin’lly a speech which blows the mind

Ripping, top shelf, knowledge sin rebutLike a stick check that hits below your gut

Untitled by Austin Bell

Blue & Gray 2010

54

I am no atheist.But I am noChurchgoingSunday school attendingObedientCatholic.I makeCrude jokes.All of the Time I doThings thatSelf-righteous peopleConsider to be “sin.”But don’t be a criticI am most certainly Not a heathen at all.When times get hardI fall to my kneesAnd clasp my hands, And I thank a godWhen it blesses meI’mEvery ManOf God.

I’m Every Man of Godby Ryan Schneider


55

Months, maybe years, they scurry along the riverbed,

Victims of the current, driftingThrough “life,”

Feeding, drinking, growing, butLiving? No.

Hideous creatures of the streamsWith nothing to contributeUntil the migration, whenTogether they rise in mass,

To the surfaceExoskeletons rupture, wet winds and

Long, slender bodies step outBeauty is an understatement

After drying they take flight together,Gliding low across the surfaceOr dancing above it to attract

Their matesIn the shy they gain freedom, life,

Beauty.But at what price?

For food and drink are thingsUnknown

To these matured adult mayfliesAnd after only a few short

At What Price, Beautyby Peter Delaney

Blue & Gray 2010

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Hours,A blizzard of bodies paints

The surfaceAs they exhaust their supplies

And one by one they dieTo the trout

Who sip the rewards of a hatchAs they drift

Helpless again.Their time has been spent

An eternity of submerged imprisonmentFor an hour of flight

And I can’t help but ask:“At what price, beauty?”


57

I see you there in your pretty clothes Brown eyes oh so close

I can feel the energy Its there flowing

You and me

This is the wayI can see it play,

In my mind over and over,Just to say,

Hey and go away.

Glistening in a new day I see your eyes draw to a sigh

As all the days soon pass me by,In a supernatural,

Sort of high,Blind as the night

If it’s a risk I take,It is worth taking,

Opening a door forsaking,I will think of you.

The sight of love is my greatest fear,

Thinking About Youby Peter Fanone

Blue & Gray 2010

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The fear of loving and losing,Of stopping and choosing,

And messing up.It’s the risk I take in a three course plate,

The smile and the date,What do I say?

If that’s what you need then that’s what I’ll be.

If it seems to people,You choose to be

My love awakened in me,A love to stay,

In perfect harmonyThere is no monotony

A constant flowing melodyOf the love that could and would be

You and me for eternity.


59

You’d have the blues tooIf the sun never came up:

Alaskan winters Nick Letourneau

I play drums all day,But they don't get a say. I

Hope they aren't vengeful. JP Stiles

Watching her waltz out,Saddest day of my short life:

She is the devil.Chris Hayzlett

Haikusby Mr. Williams Blues Lit Class

Living this life aSingle card in a stacked deck,

Living like I'm dead.Mike Pirone

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Rolling with the Stones,I'm looking for some shelter;

Satisfaction found.Tyler Steed

Moving through music,Muddy Waters screams the blues

That flows from my soul.Mahan, Steed, Starks, Truluck

Listen to the blues,Changing whole world upside down;

Dance altogether.Eddie Choi

It's only WednesdaySo close yet so far away

Stuck in this cycleJP Stiles


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Michael Garate

Blue & Gray 2010

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Pocket doors of solid pine Open to reveal the crime:

Among the bottles of white wine,Where the two used to dine,Lay the note of just one line:

To be yours – first to be mine

Nothing there but bitter brine

Interiorsby Andrew Pantaleo


63

You took this sand from Ireland when you were a childAnd kept it in a small glass bottle. This small bottle full of pure white sand

Was sealed with a small brown cork in a small clear bottle that belonged to yourfriend. You carried it with you on your way through rough seas to a new world.

You carried it with you everywhere because it reminded you of your familyAnd where you hailed from.

You left this to me in your will.

We were eating sandy cheese-steaks on the boat while everyone elseWas sea-sick, but like true sailors the rough seas didn’t affect us.

You would come to my races and offer a gentle waveYou took care of me when my parents couldn’t.

We faced rough seas again last summer, but I took care of you the best I could.This is our eternal hourglass.

Our Bottleby Tommy Ritchey

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I know he’ll be there to guide me throught my tough endeavorsFor he was once just like me

I know he will be there foreverTelling me, showing me, how to be.

On long trips up North, we sit in silenceAs I watch what he does for guidanceAlthough very few words are spoken

We never feel awkward, I cherish those rides like a token.

Now he has grown up and moved awayI think about him almost everyday

Although I see him neverI know he will be there forever.

Content With Silenceby Matt Smith


65

Martin Park

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It’s all tied up, one minute to go.The wet pigskin basks on artificial strands

Protruding from the endless abyss of black pebblesMagnifying the sun’s scorching heat.

With the officials’ high-pitched screechUrgency jumps onto the shoulders of Pressure

Whose obesity already seemed too great to bear.The sweaty palms of warriors collide and

Fatigued armies approach the line of battle.The Horsemen’s gear grunts and groansAs they lower into their tense stances.

Alone in the backfield, I await the cadence of my leader.On the balls of my feet, lightly leaning forward,

The utter silence elevates the already heightened sense of emotions.Tumult erupts as the general screams, “HIKE!”

A Moment of Tensionby Bobby Gribbin


67

One monotonous day is followed by An identical day. The same course is followed

Until prediction is no longer necessary:It becomes understood.

The monotonous days become monotonous months,The monotonous months become monotonous years.

Does the cycle really end?

Or are we just thrown into a similar cycleThat loses its freshness as quickly as it was gained.

Some claim to have cornered freedomBut their battered soles trod upon the same beaten route.

And submit to the monotonous dayFollowed by an identical day.

Circle of Lifeby Cullen Brown

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Nothingby Jonathan Ekstrom

This has no meaningI do not lie

There may point and wonder and ponder and stareBut no matter what there is nothing there

You may imaguine comments on the divineBut you must remember it is yours and not mineBecause simply put, there is not meaning behind

The words that I happen to write at this time


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Conor Delany

Blue & Gray 2010

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EveryoneWho has already passed through

These doorsSpeaks about the misery

It causes.Its gross faceIs full of hate.

It overpowers youWith its brute strengthAnd makes you suffer

Until you have nothing left.As you resist

It gets strongerAnd meaner

But the flowering blossomsMark the beginning

Of my rebirthAnd the endTo this year.

Junior Yearby Ryan Gardiner


71

Secretly searching for meaning in the starlit pondSeeing mere reflections of the soul

Looking inward, deeply soFinding nothing, but a reflection of one thing

The reflection of thatWhich lies dear to my heart.

As I stare into the depths of the starry night skyHer voice calls me, calls me.

Reflections of the starry sky, seemingly endlessConvex dome of infinite grace

Eternal mirror of the wandering soulFix me with one shining glare

As the glare pieces my mind, my soulI revel in its shining benevolence

Realizing it illuminatesWhat lay within the depths of the starlit pond

Shining effervescentlyEverlastingly

Shining through the darknessMy one eternal light.She calls me, calls me.

Julie, to you I listen and only to you does my heart resound.

Poem for Julieby DeJuan Anderson

Blue & Gray 2010

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The heart does not break-No cracks, no snaps

Just bruisesLove isn’t like a box of chocolatesNor a battlefeild, nor a highway

Love is misunderstood, and feelings never strayThe feelings of satisfaction and trust

For some, parts are a lustFor many physical atraction is a must

It’s not all roses and fairy talesBecasue the seasons change, and stories fail

Some play their love like they are driving with fearThey ride around, no break lights on love’s car rear

For when true love is foundVery rarely does it come back around

Deceptionby Tim Dorn


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Peter Park

Blue & Gray 2010

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Tethered in the inlet is a familySeparated by posts, connected by ropes.

Captains at the helm eager to depart;Waiting for the silhouette of the bridge to materialize out of fog.

The first vessel casts off, clunking the transmission into gearBilge spouting, exhaust ports yawning the morning breath.

Skipper, whose hands walk the wheel, eyes survey the horizon.Slick calm is ideal for the run, but money is not

Made on a glassy surface. The prize is underneath.Where the bluewater butts the green, Skip pulls back to three knots.

Peering through salt-licked lensesWaves come and go, but the water does not.

Outriggers broaden the shoulders of the old gal.Drag pops. Spool screams.

The hook grasps something and the treble holds firm.Treasure from the deep requires patience to reveal itself.

The rod slouches only to prop back up again after each crank.Only shimmers of the tail are looked upon from above.Breaks the surface, eyes the gaff, only to be snatched.

One on deck, chest slams shut, drag set loose, spool screams again.The box is full – Tight Lines.

Tight Linesby Scott Mergner

Dedicated to Billy Maxwell and the crew of the Tuna Fever


75

The brightness explodes and pierces the silent darknessMy heavy brain pounds as the world of slumber escapesReality melts into a dream and disappears to nowhere

Confusion reignsNo transition allowed

The day crashes into me

The new world attacks without benefit of focusMy Groundhog Day haunts with unfortunate familiarity

Shift gears and ignite quicklyMove to grow

Hesitation helps no oneThe day must be won

A Father’s Wake Up Callby Quinn O’Connell

Blue & Gray 2010

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Panayioti Tsipianitis


77

An empty parking lot,perfecting the art

of Blazing your own pathin that sea of Grass.

Perfecting the artbut don’t leave the love

in that sea of Grass.Too much time has passed.

But don’t leave the lovefor four walls and a Fix,

too much time has passed,you lost your grasp.

For four walls and a Fix,life was given up,

you lost your grasp,Bloodshot eyes and all.

Life was given up,Anything you wanted to be.

Bloodshot eyes and all,it must be hard to see.

Anything you wanted to beFalls as victim of your Habit,

Ruthless, Heartless, Motionless,A pale, blue-lipped face.

Falls as victim of your Habit,of Blazing your own path.A pale, blue-lipped face.An empty parking lot.

Wesley’s Pantombby Matt Stys

Blue & Gray 2010

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Untitled, photographby Michael Garate


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Ryan Bugden

Blue & Gray 2010

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it’s like ever since that day I’ve been falling,sliding with the avalanche,

speeding toward desolation and depression,yet giving me the speed to run back up,

to hurdle over the falling rocks,to climb all the way back up,

and now I’m higher than I was before, I can actually see the sun now,not clouded by a worrying fog,

I can finally live now,something I thought I lost a long, long time ago.

Untitled by Andrew Kolyzinski


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Andrew Pantaleo Joey Allaire

Editors-in-Chief

Mike BrownCharlie Loulakis

Peter ParkAssistant Editors

Beth KnappFaculty Moderator

Staff

Very Special Thanks To:

Joe Giammittorio

Peter Delaney

Greg Bourdon

Karen Napolitano

The Georgetown Prep English Department

Blue & Gray 2010

82

mountains grow unnoticed

Documents

acknowledgements mountains

emily dickinson mountains

jp stiles mountains

unnoticedblue gray

andrewblue gray

emily dickinson poem

cover art

silence matt smithblue