A student anthology of verbal and visual artMosaicoylan Catholic High School4000 St. Francis Dr. Rockford, IL 61103

www.boylan.orgB

oylan Catholic High School4000 St. Francis Dr. Rockford, IL 61105

www.boylan.orgB

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oylan Catholic High School4000 St. Francis Dr. Rockford, IL 61103

www.boylan.orgB

o s a i ca student anthology of verbal and visual art

o

f verbal i a

nd visual

art

This piece represents

not only the work of this student artist, but also the future of the Boylan art

program. It was created in the Graphic Design class,a new addition to the Art curriculum in 2014-2015. As such it makes history by being the first

digital art work to be featured in Mosaic.

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aic 2First PlaceFine Arts Poetry Competition Morning Sestina

The mother lay on the ground, rid of her love, naked. Remembering her just bornchild. Her prayers were unanswered; her young woman, her babyWas lost. New life forced upon her. The morning was different.

My mother’s worried eyes looked out the window this morning,with hope that today would bring good times anew.Monitors, tubes, needles cover me, keeping me from what is natural, nakedflesh, but a cluttered mind. Poking and prodding, an unfamiliar womaninquires, “How’s my babytoday?” Tears flow down my mother’s face as she cries, “She was just born.”

Blank walls, white furniture, the room utterly naked.My mother will not leave the quiet, cold, room that never felt like mine, a loyal womanthat has waited by my side since I was born.Waiting was really all we had done. Every morningwe prayed, hoping for information that was different, new like the medical instruments.Teddy bears and duckies decorate the walls for baby.

My father shows, “I’m finally here, Baby”, but my mother’s mind was preoccupied since not only I, but her problems were born.I try to get better for her, I see her as more than a woman;She is a guardian, who knewShe’ll spend time in the chapel on Sunday morning,either for thanksgiving or intercession, totally naked.

She sang to me, her voice soft, melodic, and gentle, a bornNurturer. The unfamiliar face came again. “Good morning,sweet”, followed by a poke. She assured mother that these tests were typical for a baby.There was no curtain to hide who I was, what was happening, or my tiny, nakedbody. The unfamiliar face came again, but this time, the woman gave my mother information that would take away her only child, that was all too new.

I have little strength, for I am new.Goal for Today: Bring home our baby!But that’s been our goal every morning.Here I remain vulnerable and naked.My charts read: Bornat 11:07 pm, heart failure. I stare at the unknown woman.

She wept at the thought of my never growing into a woman,and was empty: pale, bare, icy, naked.What she wanted was to start anewwith me, her beloved babyincluded. Although she had to believe that soon I would be re-born,tomorrow and the rest would only bring mourning.

Sarah Rosen, 2015

Honorable Mention Fine Arts Poetry Competition The...

The annoying lawn mower, buzzing away in the backyardThe half-eaten pieces of pizza left in the fridge, that I had planned to eatThe TV that was left on in the room next to me, volume much too loudThe snoring, I’m positive the neighbors could hearThe countless episodes of the stooges, each episode stupider than the nextThe family dinners that involved corn, he chewed like a horseThe ridiculous stories, none of which made senseThe tone deaf singing in church, I’m sure he thought he sounded goodThe fights over the radio station, now seeming so pointlessThe hawaiian shirt worn to every event, now my favorite shirt he ever woreThe movie nights, he spent more time choosing the movie than watching itThe front row seat at every dance competition, always filledThe wallet carried, each slot filled with a picture of me instead of a cardThe horseback rides we used to go on, all plans were droppedThe car rides, filled with laughs about the things we couldn’t tell momThe laugh that embarrassed me, I’d now give anything to hearThe bear hug, never had I felt safer in anyones armsThe days I wish I had more of, now to spend with himThe man I love more than anything, my Dad

Melissa Van Horn, 2016

Elaina Weickert, 2017

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WinnerGenevieve Taxon Creative Writing ScholarshipOde to a Lobster

I found you the day my mom told me who you were,And I sat in the squeaky cart by your tank to watch youEven though she told me it was morbid.(I didn’t know what that meant).You were my favorite because I sawThe dusty lavender bands around your clawsWith the peeling Logli’s logo stretched Just so I could read it.(I told you I loved you)(I thought I heard you say it back.)

You were the only one without panic in your eyesBecause you knew you were the most beautiful,And so did the lady with the shadowy jeans and clicky shoesWho smelled like fake smiles. She ordered the man to roll up his sleeve And seize youAnd he did.

Your copper tail waved goodbye And a tiny, wet kiss landed on my cheek.You floated away like a lost red balloon,But I could hear you Screaming my name For a very long time.

The woman paid and turned and smiled And swung the plastic bag with confidence.My fingers wrapped through the lattice cart like vines.(The plastic left sharp marks on my hand)I looked her in the eyes and saw they looked like yours. I learned what morbid meant that day. Her nails clicked on the handle behind me,And before we jerked away, She winked, triumphant, And whisperedIn my young ringing ear,“There are plenty of fish in the sea”.

Emma Fredrickson, 2015

FinalistFine Arts Poetry Competition Candlelight

Shattered shadows-Golden light Flaring to life On the white candle she clutches As she clutched her son’s trembling handWhen the bombs went off above them.

Quivering flame- Crushing nightAssaulting her eyesAs she pushes the shelter door open,Seeking safety for her sleeping son,With her last match blackened in her pocket.

Splintered windowpane-Amber spiderwebTwinkling in the candlelightLike the spiderwebs shining in the sunThat she would find when exploring the parkLike she explores the devastation now, no longer a child.

Oil spill- Reflected rainbowsAt her feet Like the rainbow that appeared On her wedding dayAs she stood with him, everything right in the world.

Charcoal smoke-Golden mistSwirling around her hands Like the lanternlight every nightAs she taught her son to writeOn paper like the scraps that flutter at her feet.

Shining warmth- Sudden windSnuffing the flame,Swallowing her in darknessAs she grasps for more matches,Only to find that she’s run out.

Icy moonlight-Dreary nightSurrounding herAs she rushes to the window,Greeted by the gray rubble of destruction and death,When a sudden pinprick of light appears.And another.And more, Until the streets are filledWith the firefly displayOf the candles of hundreds of survivors And a ray of sunlight appears.

Megan Peterson, 2016

Celia McNamara, 2015

Emma Fredrickson, 2015

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Jennifer Peterswatercolor and colored pencil

FinalistFine Arts Poetry Competition Midnight Exhortations

Do not shout your love for me from the rooftops;When I sing the world does not stopI am not the rain falling gently o’er the treetopsNor am I the harvest moon shining softly on your crops.

You are no farmer and I am no muse.I fear that this pedestal you abuseWill leave me lost and confusedWith only dull pain from being used.

Do not see my criticism as unkind.I am like the endless sky which you cannot bind.I am utterly infinite and changing on a dime.I don’t know where this path I am on will wind.

Search me like constellations in the night sky.These patterns of hurt and regret from lie after lieAs fail and fail again and yet I try To be rid of this pain, to finally say goodbye.

Sweet star voyager, be brave and unshaken,Map my little lights and you will not be forsaken.Remember the boundless galaxies I live inAre expanding without thought of being taken.

Brave sojourner, I cannot lose myself in you. I cannot be like Teasdale’s flame at noon,And I will never your harvest moon.But I do love you, this at least, I know is true.

Colleen Brown, 2015

Remember Me, PlutoI reach for the moon,and when I get close enough I grab it and stuff it in a jarI carry it around with pride, not caring, but still well aware of its heavinessI’ve earned that unsteady stride, and the darkness that surrounds meMy gravity is gone, but on the bright side, wherever that may be, I know that I haveaccomplished great things

I meet misery with a smile and a wink from eyes that used to glisten and shineAnd i think for a secondthat maybe Pluto would have sufficedBut I know that even the moon won’t be enough to satisfy me or them…So I will place the jar on the shelf in the closet alongside Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter,Saturn and NeptuneAnd I will set down my shield and swordI will hang up Orion’s belt,And I will venture out again soon, in search of the sun.

Lamari Thompson, 2017I Drive

Speed limitations.Even when I driveI am confined by something.I do not wish to obey.I seek adventure.Windows down. Wind whistles. Need for speed kicks in.

What has society become?This degrading music flowsin one ear out the next.They talk drugs girls moneyThere is more to life than money.How much for a smile?Five dollars. Plus tax. I frown.

My friends aren’t my friends.Fake like grandma’s teeth.They lie. They laugh.Knife thrown. My bloody back.The red spills out on the world but no one helps clean it up.

But somewhere there are treeswith green arms open wide. They yearn to be my friendsand have free smiles to give. So I drive.

Abby Wedoff, 2015

Ivanna Chavez, 2015

Megan Coady, 2016 Alexvander Hills, 2016

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FinalistFine Arts Poetry Competition Crystal Moon

Be amused…“if you ever get the chance to live a little, carry on with caution”So they tell me…But I think.They don’t know that though…they don’t know that I think.So they tell me…But i remain quiet…because they don’t listen anyways.“You have to start thinking for yourself”So they tell me…

And this time I listen…I think cautiously about the words that i’ll say next…and then I speak up…“But i do think” I say, speaking up like they told me.“SILENCE”So they tell me…They never listen…they trick me with comfort.Pretty world…deluded by pretty people.Crystal moon to disguise the pollution…Dreams.I reach for it.Then I watch it fall and break…crushing perfectionPetty people…THEY COULD HAVE TOLD ME!

cue the laughter….

Lamari Thompson, 2017

Finalist, Fine Arts Poetry Competition I Am...

I am outgoing and funnyI wonder what the cure for cancer isI hear my nonna laughing by my side againI see my nonna getting betterI want my nonna to keep fighting cancerI am outgoing and funnyI pretend I’m okayI feel empty insideI touch my nonna’s handI worry cancer might winI cry when I feel hopelessI am outgoing and funnyI understand I can’t do anything to helpI say she will make it throughI dream that my nonna will come back home soonI try to stay strongI hope everything goes wellI am outgoing and funny

Stephanie Cimino, 2018

Joey Pritz, 2015

Ben Calkins, 2017

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FinalistFine Arts Poetry Competition Up in Flames

The conflagration, the raging relentless firesparked by emotion’s keroseneburns all good intentions,blazes all coherence,scorches all chances of triumph.Even the tiniest flicker can reduce a candle’s wickto nothing, never to grow back.The wax weeps in mourning.The wick smolders in envy of the self,unaware, though, that the soul so oftenincinerates itself to pitiful embers,too blinded by the flashesto see the healing water resting within it,surrounded by stifling heat andsteadily evaporating from lack of use.This water of willpowercan be cast with(the choice is yours)a bucket,a pitcher,a fireman’s hose,only with no words.Who could hear over the inferno, anyway?

Of course, the red-hot reality remainsthat nobody had to lightthe kerosenein the first place.

Tess Vrbin, 2015

FinalistFine Arts Poetry Competition Winter

I can no longer see summer’s sweet trees of green,Trees and leaves of autumn’s colors are all that are seenNo longer can I feel summer’s warm, gentle breeze,Only a chilly prelude to a deep winter freeze.I say a silent prayer when to the cold I cannot conform,For just a moment where the weather can be warm.But nothing lasts forever, even winter’s icy grasp,I can only wait for summer’s intense heat to against my door rasp.

Joseph Feggestad, 2017

Clare Tobin, 2015

Samantha Doyle, 2017

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aic 12FinalistFine Arts Poetry Competition Hanging by One More Thread

I once asked my father why I couldn’t wear a tieI was told that ties were for menThat I was meant to wear dresses and very uncomfortable shoesThat I was only a little girl and little girls were not meant to walk around with nooses around their necksBut this little girl is not blindI spy with my not so little eyes a world ruled by men who walk around with woven ropes tied around their wind pipesI see wind pipes that imprison vocal cords that have lost the ability to speakMy huge eyes watch all the silent men who are constricted by a piece of fabric for Ties are The Encompassing Threat,The oh-so-high standards of businessmen, lawyers, gentlemenTies are the shouters who suddenly forget how to speak when confronted with high heels and short skirtsTo think, that ties are the only strings still holding this broken world upTo think, that without ties, the world might see itself for what it really isI spy an unhappy world governed by a strand of thread wrapped round and round and roundI see the slaves of silence and conformityI see marionette puppets with cut stringsBut they are still thereHangingLimbI once asked my father why I couldn’t wear a tieNow, I can’t remember why I even wanted to.

Annie Lynch, 2016Finalist Fine Arts Poetry Competition What If?

What if the world were to end tomorrow?What if heaven doesn’t exist?What if we never find true love?What if…?

A teacher once told me that she didn’t answer “what if?” questions,As a six year old this was a complex idea to grasp.There were so many questions to ask and so little time to answer them.It took me until now to realize why people disclaim “what if?” questions.

A six-year-old child is naïve but everyday onward they will learn more.We learn things that let us grow and we learn things that we wish we didn’t hear. The reason “what if?” questions are disclaimed is that humans are scared of the future,Anything could happen at any moment and we have little impact.

All we truly have is hope,Yet hope is an evil thing.We wish and rely on hope while it has the chance to fail us.In the mean time while relying endlessly on hope, “What if?” is the only guess we have on what is to come in our future

Instead of focusing on the gruesome negative ends to what we know ask,What if I were to wake up every morning thankful for what is to come?What if we are happy with what we have?What if we focused on the over all outcome and not fret over minor detail?What if…?

Lily Johnston, 2018

Alysia Alfano, 2015

Emily Miller, 2018

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Waves

I often think abouthow the salt water stopswhere it does on the sanded shoreslowly moving up a leveleach time it breaks.

I often think aboutyou lying down somewherewrapped in the ever-present rays of our sunthe water sneaking right upto your careful toes.

There’s somethingabout the way that the wavesrush up to the people of the universethat makes me wonder aboutif my name ever finds a way into your mind.

Taylor Pyzynski, 2015

Me

A dot of dustIn infinite seas of stars.A transient pauseIn eternity.OneIn seven billion.All I am is matter.But I matter.

Not born as an Egyptian queenOr a Civil War sergeant.I didn’t grow upTelling tales of ugly ducklings.I do not have blue eyesAnd manageable hairOr a third eye and a humped back.I am just me.Whatever that may be.

I once was asked to find the meaning of myname.Grace of God, the book said.Dismissing it, I searched for another(After all, words can never be in theirdefinition).By the grace of GodI have come to know the truth—Who I am matters.

All the big things become small,My interests, my passions, my flaws.Those can be shared by anyone.The truth isI may not be specialTo anything or anyone.But anyone can never be me.I am special simply becauseMy life is my own.In this bodyIn this timeIn this place.

A commaIn a run-on sentenceA wordin a written workOne breathIt atmospheres of air.All I am is matter.But I matter.

Grace Schaefer, 2016

Amy Englund, 2017

Taylor Pyzynski, 2015

Bailey Sullivan, 2015

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Leah Ports 2015

FinalistRockford Woman’s Club Creative Writing ContestMaps

There was no better map than theOne hanging on my taupe wallsAnd I’d lie on the floorTo view the turquoise pins labelingAll those places I’ve never beenIt was inconceivable, unthinkable;Unbelievable; incredibleThe amount of spaceIndicated by the thin black lines on the mapDividing and discerningTerritories and countriesWith its salmon, mint, fusciaSpaces mixingWith chartreuse and periwinkleRed rock canyonsLavender fieldsBlue grassAndWhite mountainsI dance in the delight on my thoughtsTo imagine myself as someone elseAcross the worldWhile someone elseIs being nudged from sleep(As I lay my head to rest)Underneath their lilac wallsWhich holdsNo better mapOf all the places they’ve never beenAnd you’ll never go

Leah Ports, 2015

FinalistFine Arts Poetry Competition we are forever

this is our kingdombeams of 6 o’clock sunmusic shooting through my boneslife rushing like the blood pulsing in my earssweaty limbs crashingeyes burning in euphoria the ground dances with usthe sky twirling in an epic waltzsound plumes, thick and sweetwe are foreverand we are only for nowswirling and changing and leavingforgetting windy joyful hearts

Siena Oliveri, 2017

May 24, 1917

Was the day I scented the sweet fragrance of lilies and roses,a calming reassurance that spring was here to stay

and that my husband would be too.The sun shone shimmering yellow beams,despite the unwavering, unwarranted rain

we had for ceaseless years.The gentle breeze,

only ruffling the frills of our sundresses,would hopefully linger on.

And yet,every day I would hide

his steel helmet and Russet bootsunderneath all the clutter in the hollow 1880s armoire.

Clarita Sullivan, 2016

Leah Ports, 2015 Jacinda Austin, 2015

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Her prayer

she is dwelling so silently,remembering the death of her blasphemous love.she continuously says that love could never existin a world that so cruelly took away her ungodly love. they were certainly in love,a love in which God seemed to mean less than each other.so angels would punish them for what they saw as sin,and released God’s jealousy unto them.the man loved two women,the woman denied life to a child,and the two who could find comfort in only each other,had now become so destructive to be around the other. now the sounds of the rain would tap on their windows,God weeping because of the sadness of His children.she began to weep with her God,asking Him why such a love had ruined her life.God had replied with the sounds of a storm,and she’d listen so quietly to what He said.yet, the most clear words God had saidwere through the sounds of cars screeching on the dangerous roads,“please, do not abandon me.”

Frida Romero, 2018

Max Cichock, 2016

Delaney Appino, 2017

Emily Scordato, 2016

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FinalistFine Arts Poetry Competition Today I Am

I amHolding the door openMaking eye contact“Good, and you?”

I amRolling shoulders back and downChin tilted slightly “Ready.”

I amNever attempting to quietDrum beat laughter I pound out“Shhh!”

I am Scooting lower into my seatMinding my own business now“Sorry.”

I amBusy putting things into placeCleaning up what’s left behind“Nope, I got it.”

I amTired and just about used upLagging a little and unimpressed “Let’s go.”

I am Wanting to slip through the cracks in the pavement But bound to keep moving forward “Almost there!”

I amHolding on to all that is leftAnswering, like always:“Good, and you?”

Julie Uram, 2016

Table

The beginning of a stressful morningand the beginning of a relaxing night.

It is the mediator between a broken-hearted coupleand a referee in a shouting matchbetween a teenage daughter and her parents.

It is a step stoolfor changing a lightbulbin the dimming chandelier.

A place for the cat to loungeor a foot rest for the lazy teenage boy.

It is the altar that holds family meals.

It is a shelter for those homeless,miscellaneous objects.A crumpled up napkin.A few batteries.

A makeshift office,a forever accommodating work space.

It is a short runway for the runaway spool of bright red threador a dismissed pencil.

A pedestal for the three-year-old’s objet d’art.

A resting place for weary bones.

A scarred hero withstanding carelessly tossedsharp knives.

It is a pause between important life decisions.

A provoker for creativity.

It is the center of a party,

Center of a household.

Irene O’Hara, 2015

Julie Uram, 2016

Bridget Pearse, 2015

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aic 22FinalistRockford Women’s Club Creative Writing ContestSharks and Abalones

It was almost comfortable, but not quite. For this reason, the young man did not run from the feeling that had taken hold of his heart. Instead, he allowed it to wash over him like the ocean waves that lapped the shore near his home in Port Lincoln, Australia. But, he could not completely shake off the uneasiness of a man who knows for certain that his life is approaching its end. If only he had listened to his father, he thought. But he had not, and now he was going to die, five miles off the southern coast of Australia, surrounded by sharks. The young man remembered his father’s words and cursed his own stupidity. “It’s too dangerous to go diving there at this time of year,” his father had said. “You know what happens when the tuna schools arrive in September.” “Yes, I know. But if I’m careful, the sharks will have no reason to bother me. I will fill my bag and leave before they even realize I am there.” “And what will you do when something unexpected happens?” “Nothing will happen,” the young man responded confidently. “I’m the best diver in town.” And the young man was right. He and his father ran the most successful abalone diving boat in Port Lincoln. The father was a grizzled veteran of the trade and had inherited the business from his father. He knew all of the best dive locations and the times of the year at which they would be the most profitable. The young man was gifted with a natural talent for diving. He traversed entire reef beds with a single oxygen tank, and the abalone he picked was always of the highest quality, prized by Port Lincoln’s local artisans for use in jewelry. Together the two made more money in abalone diving than the next two best teams combined. Until this year. This year, the young man and his father struggled to bring in half of the amount of abalone that they had brought in the previous year. It seemed that no matter how many spots they tried, they came up short, and when they did find abalone, the quality was poor and unfit for any use. For this reason, the young man had suggested to his father that they try a location they had not used for two years. It was an old shipwreck just off the coast, which the corals had colonized and transformed into a small reef. The reef was abundant in all types of marine life, especially abalone. However, it was only safe for diving very early in the season because the arrival of the tuna schools in September brought with it sharks. “Accidents can happen even to the best,” his father warned. “And sometimes God sends us accidents to remind us to be humble.” “I am humble and confident at the proper times. Right now I am confident.” “Good. Your confidence is what makes you such a successful diver. But we still will not be diving at the shipwreck.”

From that point onward, the discussion was reduced to a petty argument. The young man left the house and did not go diving with his father that day. Early the next morning, he launched his father’s boat and headed for the shipwreck. He had seen the sharks as soon as he arrived at the shipwreck. The entire reef was teeming with them. Above the reef, bull sharks swam, circling the masts of the long-forgotten shipwreck. In amongst the various outcroppings of coral were black-tipped reef sharks, patrolling the reef that they had now claimed as their own. The young man also noticed the abalone. It covered every inch of the reef bed, and he quickly descended towards the reef. As he swam, the reef sharks bumped and prodded him with their snouts, appraising his potential value as a meal. The bull sharks watched him from afar, making note of his presence in their domain. The young man hastily filled his dive bag with abalone and prepared to return to the boat. The abalone he collected would help to offset the bad luck he and his father had experienced. Just as I expected, he thought. These sharks posed no threat to me whatsoever. Then, while he was swimming over a wall of coral, his wet suit snagged on the coral. It tore and blood began to trickle out into the water. Immediately the atmosphere of the reef changed. The sharks became aware of a new scent in the water and slowly began to turn towards the young man. The bull sharks drifted down towards the reef from the masts of the ship. The young man began to panic but then calmed himself. I only have to make it back to the ship, he thought. Then I will be safe. He kept swimming, and as the blood continued to seep into the water through the tear in his wet suit, the sharks became increasingly agitated. They began to nudge him more forcefully, and suddenly the young man felt a searing pain erupted in his lower left leg. The blood flowed from the wound in his leg into the water. The sharks entered into a frenzy, and the young man realized with absolute certainty that he was going to die. He was right, the young man thought. He was right, and I will never have the opportunity to tell him so because I am going to die here. If he were here, I know he would be able to save me. He would dive into the water and drive off the sharks. But because of my pride he is not here, and I must face this alone. Another shark bit into his right arm. The water had become a cloud of red around the young man as the sharks surrounded him, and he began to flicker in and out of consciousness. This is the end, he thought. If I cannot escape it, I will at least say that I was not afraid to face it. He ceased his struggling and allowed his body to fall down onto the deck of the shipwreck. The last thing the young man saw was a man reaching down to pull his mutilated body from the sea floor.

Austin Peterson, 2016

Brittany Micho, 2016

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FinalistRockford Woman’s Club Creative Writing ContestThe Little Things Add Up

(It’s all about the little things)The sweet smell of chlorine when the sun is glaring down.The creased letter he hands me with crossouts and carefully thought out words expressingLove and Care.Crinkling of a Reese’s wrapper -my favorite candy.Thick and steaming tomato soup with my mom’s melted grilled cheese to Unexpectedly make a great pair.Feeling his lovely lips brush up against my once-battered cheek.A puppy jumping into my lap, paws excitedly scratching up my legs but I can’t feel the pain because the paws are Amazingly so little.

An essential embrace seemingly squeezing out all of the air left in my lungs.The wick of a delicate candle slowly Burning out.A smooth savory glass of wine by the crackling fire alone. My favorite book.(I’m still shocked at the ending)Time alone to think.Those sweet and sour lips speaking “I miss you’s.”A smile from a baby that reminds me to live like a child, Always trying to see the positive even when it gets rough.Sun shining through stained glass windows, illuminating the little crucifix. Symbolizing The greatest sacrifice ever made. Yet I barely notice, because the cross is Just so little.

My car almost out of gas. The gauge, eyes glaring and judgmental, staring and distracting me.Not locking eyes with him, Just gazing over each other.The piercing sound one little key can cause if played wrong on the piano.Getting the wrong order of coffee, but the line is too long to Go back into.My often misspelled name. A Little Annoyance I share with many others.The chomp of my neighbor’s gum who doesn’t seem to Acknowledge my existence.Seeing the little spark of sadness in his eyes grow into a Wildfire. Causing my multi-colored and changing eyes (Green, Blue, or Grey. They fittingly choose grey on this day.) To form a little tear that would soon be washed away by a waterfall.A paper cut. Causes me amazement that something So little could cause so much pain.

Hannah Cerutti, 2015

Tiffany Christianson, 2017

Andrea Corkovic, 2015

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Joy

The wind of loveswept very deep into the family.

It surrounded and bounded themto no other

the love was their mother.Not love they created

But God,He gave them it.

His mighty hand swept from the golden blue sky,not a cloud in sight,

and touched their heartsas they grew in His playground

called nature.Yes, the green grass so soft yet

a foundation of strength was there.Trees

with a touchwhen the top stopped spinning

and the beat began beatinglife’s beautiful skin was felt.

The barkas though it looked like God created rivers

and the bark as islands up the tree.The children with flesh

made from the gold of joyhair that embarked on its own journey

made from the linesof truth itself

that grew.And the eyes

the eyes of eternity.Their glare and wonder

was but not of this world.For there were valleys and there were mountains in those eyes.

Yes, God gave that family joy.He gave them His complexity and created from His

beauty.His creation spoke as the voice of love.

For He loved themand them loved He.

His beauty, their gracea gripping dream.

Samuel McGuire, 2015

FinalistFine Arts Poetry Competition Life of the Garden

You are like a flower garden, Beautiful and pure.

Spring was your friend,Encouraging your buds to blossom.While winter was your enemy,Covering up your stems that onceStood proud and tall.

And when the light melted awayThe cold-hearted sheet that onceCovered up your loveliness,You sowed your vibrant seeds again.

And so there are times where youGrow and get brought down in life,But the way you flourish back upAfter being stripped away of your petalsIs beauty in its purest form.

You are THE flower garden,Independent and secure.

Hannah Breault, 2018

Grace Ikenberry, 2016

Isabella Messman, 2016

Emily McKenzie, 2017

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FinalistRockford Woman’s Club Creative Writing ContestHomebound

Voices creep through my halls,ghosts of the past, doubts of the future.I carry heavy boxes and place them in spacesCreating more cluttered corners.I should throw them out. Why can’t I throw them out?Worry whispers through my windows, theydrown out the sound of howling wind.Doubt crawls through my pipes like winter frost and stealsevery ounce of serenity, gone.Beyond my walls I see the world continues on,so why do I feel so frozen in this foundation, so alone.Curious walkers-by peer in my windows and seemy perfectly painted walls,furniture arranged in a pristine way,left untouched.They see a table set for many, awaiting guests who never arrive. Eight empty,ivory stained chairs,but their eyes fail to see the boxes piled downstairs. I try to run,but my feet have been pressed into this ground,so I am left in the pavement on which I stand.For years new companions have come and gone, handing me chances for renovation, I ignored them all.They were as endless to me as the hours in a day,as the faults in my foundation. I try to run,but I cannot escape myself.

Andrea Carlson, 2015

A Wet Picture

ISome are mean to Cloudy DaysThey crush her esteem in theirHot HandsMade hotter by that muteless skyScalding blue scraped with fireWhile I dream in a wash of fogLaid listlessly as I watch theSoft clouds form shapes for me

IISome wield their coats to face Cloudy DaysThey block her falling life withStiff PlasticMade gross by that one track mindRough feet ripping concrete walksWhile I reach out and swipe myHand through the stormy sky to catchA million years of rainfall and raging rivers.

IIISome forget Cloudy DaysThey are sheltered within thoseRough WallsMade warm by artificial blown loveInsulated insecurities little islandsWhile I hunker down to gazeInto splashable silk reflecting myHumble home all around me

Sarah Johns, 2015

Kirsten Gustafson, 2017

Annabelle Stefanic, 2015

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SisyphusGod drew the sky for that day in the moments betweenMidnight and dawnWhen nothing seems possible, and the man on the mountain knew It. Between the dead-man’s-dust soil and the grey day’s skyHe said:“I am here but I do not know why, andI can leave, but I will have nowhere else to go.”And that’s really what his life was all about,And it will always be what his life is about.

Under the impossible sky,with relentless cries of dead-man’s-dust beneath his feet,he begins to wonder what ever happened to the licks ofhope that set your world on fire,and the sort of storm that was equipped with a calm.

Under this impossible sky,he waits for a moment(or perhaps just a whisper).And this momentous whisper will move mountains.

He listens every day, and every day he is met with the sameechoing silence.But under the impossible sky, he wills the impossible to happen.“This is the victory march,” he says.“the sweet sweet clarion trill of success.This is the day my life will begin again,and again I will be free.This rock will be the stage upon which I announce,with my unwavering voice:I HAVE NOT BEEN BROKEN.And I will not fall down.And I will never be broken again”But

Emily Godin, 2016Alexis Scribner, 2016

Katie Carlson, 2015

Ben Satterlee, 2016

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Mild

I spy with my little eye a little liefloating in the breeze as the wind sighs this little lie holds within a cry a goodbye never told, a friendship soldthis person’s heart too cold to have the courage to be boldand speak from the smile instead of speaking some bileit sailed a mile to be foundoccupying all aisles to make a sound, to boundwith glee, and buzz like a beebut no one will ever knowit cared about the wild child

Aleksander Fiut, 2018

FinalistFine Arts Poetry Competition August 22nd

Just. Like. That.I go from seeing your smiling facetwice a weekto not seeing you at allI go from having millions of memories of youto only being able to recall your laughI go from giving you a big hug on the holidaysto only being able to give you a hand on a casketand praying to God that I can hold it togetheras I’m forced to walk a shell of who you weredown the church aisle andJust. Like. That.My world is taken from meand I’m left with a memory and a photographJust. Like. That.

Emery Alt , 2017

Hannah Harris, 2017Janey Knuth, 2015

Lily Johnston, 2018

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FinalistFine Arts Poetry Competition How I’ll Look When I’m Old

The Queen of England when she’s not the Queen of EnglandA vineyard filled with unwanted grapesa raisinA wise old wizard pondering amongst wilted books of a bookstoreThe man on the Kansas album LeftovertureCheyenne AnthemA beat up mustang broken down in front of an abandoned houseA fifty year old woman lying about her age at the doctor’s officenineteen thirty-twoI Love Lucy blaring at three in the morningFacing my worst enemy while sitting downa menuPretzels in candy filled pillow cases on HalloweenThe Wicked Witch of the West riding her bike“I’ll get you my pretty”Withered fingers from five hours of piano playingCandles burning, the house is patchouliChristmas presents under the tree for thirteen grandchildrenJohn DenverAcrylic nails painted Dulce de LecheRingling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey: The Greatest Show On EarthDusty records piled into boxes in the atticwarpedHolding a brand new pair of sandalswith my bare feet soaking up the dirt

Eileen McQuillan, 2015

Submerging

Crystal water that shimmers glistening streaks of light whereOnly some sky is peeling through the peaks of reflectionsThere is no sound for the waves above are calm hereEchoes seemingly appear throughout my mindI cannot stop thinking about the air outsideMy lungs aren’t capable of expandingAnymore I have deflated myselfDeeper and deeper I am sinkingBelow the ocean I wiltCreeping into the darkBlue depths of theBellowing strictAir and I amOkay withBeingGone

Madeline Walters, 2015

Wendy Flores, 2016

Maddy Walters, 20152015-2016Helen Salamone CuppiniMemorial Art Scholarshipwinner

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WinnerRobert Collins Creative Writing AwardJohnny Hendrix and the Dream

He’d finally made it. The long nights of practicing until his fingers blistered, the dedication of every Christmas and birthday check towards guitar purchases, the years of not having any social life whatsoever, it had all paid off. At last a record label had discovered him and his dreams of becoming a professional musician were coming true. These were the thoughts running through Johnny Hendrix’s head as he walked through the doors of Big Time Records. Once inside, he was immediately greeted by the company’s chief agent, Rupert Banks. “Johnny!” exclaimed Rupert. “I’m so glad you were able to make it here today. I can’t begin to tell you how excited I am to have you as a part of our Big Time Records family! Before we begin the contract negotiations, I thought it would be a good idea to show you around the building here. What would you like to see first?” “Well, I’d love to see what a real recording studio looks like,” Johnny responded. “Excellent! We’ll start with the studio,” said Rupert. Johnny couldn’t wait to see what rare and expensive gear the studio had at its disposal. However, when Johnny opened the door to the recording space, he was surprised to see nothing but a few microphones. “So, does each band that comes in to record bring its own gear?” Johnny asked. Rupert chuckled. “Oh, I forget how little you new artists know about the music industry,” Rupert said. “Real instruments are so incredibly old fashioned. I mean, the thought of someone actually playing an instrument is just ridiculous. We use sampled instruments for recording now. We just program in all of the correct notes on the computers, and voila! The timing and pitch are perfect every time. It’s far cheaper and more efficient than paying some grungy guitar player who hasn’t showered in weeks to play the music. No offense to you, of course.” Johnny wasn’t sure whether to be shocked or offended by Rupert’s comments. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” he replied. “So where to next?” “Next I want to introduce you to our head songwriter,” Rupert said. “He’s one of the biggest keys to our success as a record label.” Rupert and Johnny walked down the hall and into the office of Greg Gruber. “Johnny, this is Greg. Greg, this is Johnny Hendrix, soon to be the newest addition to our Big Time Records team.” Greg was a large man with very thick glasses and greasy hair who looked as if he had spent every single day of his life in his office at Big Time Records. Because of his weight, he was barely able to get out of his chair to shake Johnny’s hand, and Johnny

noticed that Greg’s skin was tinted yellow from the constant exposure to the fluorescent lights of his office. “Nice to meet you,” Johnny said, being sure to wipe off his hand after it had come in contact with Greg’s. “Greg has written countless hit singles for all of today’s most popular artists,” Rupert boasted. “Do you remember Beyonce’s song, ‘Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)’? That was Greg. He’s also worked with Rhianna, Justin Bieber, and countless other famous artists. The songs he’s written are listened to all over the world!” For some reason, Johnny struggled to imagine Greg writing any music whatsoever, except maybe some smooth jazz, like the kind they play in elevators. “You mean the artists don’t write their own music?” Johnny asked. Once again, Rupert laughed. “Goodness, you really don’t know much about how the music industry works, do you? Of course they don’t. In order for musicians to be successful, they have to be touring constantly to make themselves available to the fans. They don’t have time to write new music, and, truth be told, most of them couldn’t write music if they tried!” Now Johnny was confused. “Ok, so what happens when they have to perform their music live if they haven’t written the songs or recorded them? How do they know what to play?” “The solution to that problem,” Rupert said with a smile, “is our greatest advancement in the music business in the last twenty years. Come with me and I’ll show you our live production room.” As Rupert and Johnny walked down the hall to the live production room, Rupert explained the concept to Johnny. “You see Johnny,” Rupert began, “six years ago, we ran into the very problem that you brought up. Because our artists had little or no part in the creation of the songs, they had no idea how to perform them live. As a result, live performances were horrible, and concert attendance fell to an all time low. Our solution was fairly simple: eliminate the performance aspect of the concert. In our new concerts, there are no musicians actually playing instruments. Instead, we simply play the recorded version of the song in the background. The action on stage now takes the form of choreographed dance routines and dazzling light shows.” Just as Rupert was finishing his explanation, they arrived at the live production room. “Here is a perfect example of what we have done. Take a look!” Johnny looked in through the viewing window and saw the band AC/DC being led through a dance routine by a dance instructor. “We have taken a band like AC/DC that is accustomed to the old method of live performance, and we are retraining them with our new method. We currently have some issues with a few of the band

Austin Peterson, 2016

members, but we expect those to be sorted out soon.” As Rupert said this, Johnny looked in and saw Malcolm Young attempting to smash his guitar on the ground while the dance instructor did her best to hold him back. Johnny was stunned. All his life, he’d dreamt of becoming a professional musician, but now that his dream was about to come true, it looked more like a nightmare. “So, what do you say Johnny?” Rupert asked. “Are you going to become a part of the Big Time Records

family?” Johnny paused before responding. “I’m sorry Mr. Banks, but I’m going to have to decline your offer. Now that I’ve seen what it means to be a professional musician, I’ve realized that this lifestyle isn’t for me. To be honest, I’d rather be a poor street musician than some dancing monkey who can’t even play guitar.” And with that, Johnny Hendrix turned and walked straight out the door of Big Time Records.

Maria Hilby, 2018

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aic 38Amalgamated Mother poem

My mother is a treeWith many broken limbs and missingLeaves from when she was missingIn my life. Three years, no leaves.She strums her guitar with herThin hands and sings along to wordsShe doesn’t know, playingTo only a forest of trees,An audience she loves so much.Her persistent smile motivates meTo carry on in all difficult times. KindnessThat exuberates through her caring smile.I envision a woman struttingWith the clanking of heels, wearing a black pant suit. Even whenShe’s already doing too much,She’s looking for new ways to help people.Her eyes see through all lies,Eyes that, although young, are wise.Her skin reminds me of my atypical ethnicity.Her gentle Spanish accent, fair white Skin—not pale—like light shone off her. Her face skin like pocks in a sidewalkEver since a windshield broke onto her face,A car crash in fog.She worries like no other,But for only the best of reasons, which isLove. It’s like the sun in the morning. You knowIt will rise. It’s like the snow in December.You know it will fall. It’s like a caterpillar transformingInto a butterfly. You know it will happen.You know she will laugh. She has newly growingLimbs and leaves, hope and potential, not growingFrom drugs and alcohol, but from faith and God.A steel trap. I bare my soul to my mother in confidenceAnd like a steel trap, she lets nothing out.She lets nothing go either. Any insult,Any compliment, any praise, she neverLets it go. She keeps it in, not comfortableEnough to release the inner workings Of her mind. She loses her glasses Like she loses her mind. Mother, your hands are mine; small and Cold and pale. But while yours create,Mine destroy. Her body, strong and able, never waveringIn supporting us all. Rough hands caress cheeks and rub backs,Leaving soft scratches.The once broken, dead stump is growingInto a bright, beautiful flower.

Honors Creative Writing Class, fall 2014

PantoumSharp breath in and sharp breath outis how you cry when you are young.Scream until you’re red in the face,not yet the master of your emotions.

Is how you cry when you are youngthe same as when you grow old?Not yet the master of your emotionsbut gained control, only lost in glimpses.

The same as when you grow old,young will eventually catch their breath.But gained control, only lost in glimpsesuntil that glimpse is but a dark hole.

Melanie Timms, 2015

Elaina Weickert, 2017Melanie Timms, 2015

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aic 40FinalistRockford Women’s Club Creative Writing ContestShoes“Well if it isn’t the barefoot girl with shoes on!” I hear him before I can find him,The old man with skin of maps and bones warped by the rainWho hides in the creases of his easy-chair. I smile and proclaim,“That’s me!”Wiggling my bare toesJust like always,Even though none of us, even my mom,Know quite what he means,But ever since he moved in with us,He calls me that every day.

I check to make sure his laces are tied tightly,Then with a sharp click of the walker and the calculatedPushPullStretchHopeWobbleMiracle of standing upright,We set out.

Carefully he lifts one foot,Calculates, and, sets it down,Just InFrontOfTheOther.With rustling and sighing and creaking and rubber squeaks of walker wheels on dirty carpet We make progress (ever so slowly)

The weight that should be on his bones is no longer there,But has traveled down his skeleton legs to fill The square black sneakers on his feet,His last anchors to this world.Hunched over,Bobbing like a balloon tied down in the wind,I tell him again and again Grandpa be careful Grandpa slow down Grandpa watch your feet!And soHe emperor-penguin-marches across the room,And I flutter quietly around him,His barefoot girl with shoes on, Watching him walk away.

Emma Fredrickson, 2015

Maria Schmidt, 2017

Maddie Hawley, 2016

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Interview

What do you have to say every morning?What clothes do you wear most days?Does breakfast taste good?Why do you go to school?Why do you wake up?Why do you choose to wake up?But you don’t like going to school?Then why wake up?Do you really have to?What would happen if you didn’t go?Then what?What if you weren’t home?What if she couldn’t find you?What if they couldn’t find you?So why do you wake up?Are you living?Don’t we always have a choice?

Nothing.I wear my uniform.Yes.Because I have to.I wake up because I have to go to school.No.My alarm clock.I wake up to stop sleeping.I don’t have a choice.No I don’t.Because I have to go to school.Yes.They would call my mom.She would make me go.She would try to find me.She would call the cops.Then I would be on my own.I wake up to live.Sometimes.Thank you

Alexander McKenzie, 2015

a loss of wordsusually it does not come easy,writing a script to a private performance hidden for your eyes only.

eyes are the enemy.one look and guild overcomes you, engulfing you into a swarm of regret doubt emotion.

words escaping youattached to a kite,flying further and further and further away.

stumbling over your voice,tripping over your tongue,yourwordsruntogether,they don’t mesh at all.

a finale, closing scene, the credits start rolling,and you’re out of time.

Morgan Langley, 2015 Curiosity Is a Curious Thing“what is spring?” the boy wondered aloud to his mother.when the alarm beeps, it’s the crisp smell of the daily brew.when you wake up to birds chirping, it’s your reflection in the rain pool.when the night rumbles on, it’s the smell of the sidewalk in the morning dew.when it’s time to go, it’s the splashes of blooming color on the way to school.

“what is summer?” questioned the boy.when the final school bell rings, it’s the excitement of no more class.when the fireworks go off, it’s the sparkle.when the lawn mower sputters down, it’s the smell of freshly cut grass.when the sun is setting, it’s the smell of hot charcoal.

“what is autumn?” the boy pondered.when the air gets crisp, it’s the explosion of color.when the whistle blows, it’s the kick-off.when time slows down, it’s the days getting smaller.when the wind picks up, it’s the leaves falling off.

“what is winter?” asked the boy.when the colors fade, and the leaves are bare, it’s the bitter cold.when the first snow falls, it’s the serene white landscape.when the blizzard goes, it’s the snowmen they mold.when Christmas comes around, it’s the warmth of a family escape.

“Now I know what the seasons are,” said the little boy to his mother, “but, what are dreams?”

Mary Siobhan Parsons, 2017

Mary Siobhan Parsons, 2017

Bella North, 2015

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A Beautiful Room

I sometimes wish there were something more,A place I could go or a new bedthat I could sleep in.There are times when I turn insideand the new places emerge out of the tunnels.They are light and emptyready for construction, readyfor change.

When I enter the room, I knockfive times on the wooden door.A secret message to reveal friend or foeand I am friend.I belong in this world becauseall the creatures smile.There is no hurt and there is always roomfor change.

I yearn to build and create a home for myself,A place where it is always warmbut has a slight chill to ensure comfort.A dirt road leads to the home and the roadis free and unwritten.There is no sure destination,but then again nothing everstays the same.

Rebecca Russell, 2015

Megan Peterson, 2016

oylan Catholic High School4000 St. Francis Dr. Rockford, IL 61103

www.boylan.orgB

Principal Jerry KerriganMrs. Penny YurkewMrs. Mary GavanMrs. Lynn McConvilleFriends of the Fine Arts Booster ClubMrs. Lil MarxIdeal PrintingMr. John Schmit

Contributing Staff

Art Department

English Department

Acknowledgements

Mrs. Elizabeth WoodyattMrs. Rebecca Pelley

Mrs. Carol DaviesMrs. Breja Fink (Designer)Mr. Tom HerrmannMr. Chris MuellerMrs. Barb OlsenMs. Jessica OlsenMrs. Nicole RonanMrs. Tricia RozanskiMrs. Rebecca TsimonidisMrs. Karyn WilsonMrs. Penny YurkewMary Siobhan Parson, 2017, intern

Cover art: Alyssa Noonen, 2015Best Overall 2015 Senior Show

Title Page art: Carmen Manning, 2016

Lily Johnston, 2018

Mary Ann Weeg Scholarship Winner Madeline Nelson 2015

Throughout her senior year, Maddie Nelson embodied unfailingly generous service to the Art Department. She assisted the department with preparation for three major exhibits as well as the laborious preparation of images for Mosaic. Maddie worked intuitively and perceptively to meet the extensive needs of our program during times of highest departmental productivity and stress. Her service this year was not only the most consistent and remarkable of any graduating senior, but also the most outstanding of any art student in recent memory. We believe that Maddie Nelson’s unfailing good humor and extensive service together with the quality of her service honors the memory of Mary Ann Weeg. Mrs. Lizzie Woodyatt and Mrs. Rebecca Pelley