Luca Tzimas
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Ode to Villain Cold

O Villain cold, Autumn warned of thou, 
On winds back she rode, faster than any mare, 
To then wither away, for thee to endow, 

For three siblings, declare thy an enemy, 
To one child of death to foil, 
O forever suffocate the pride of humanity, 

But what is thou if not man's greatest friend, 
An ally disguised as a colorless storm, 
There in the beginning, and the cause of the end, 

O Villain cold, it's about what thee brings, 
The empty, the lifeless, but yet they all sing, 

And why do they sing, the crops are all gone, 
The child of Demeter sent to thou father, 
Yet they sing, and sing well till the break of the dawn, 

They carol for thee, o lord of white snow,  
And promptly due: for here is a secret that humanity holds, 
But the siblings three shall never know, 

Thou may be the end to human life, and all 
Progress it makes, but Villain cold, 
Thou art humanity's birther, contrast to the fall, 

Fall is a midwife, Spring an old friend, 
And Summer is a mistress, whose heat  
Gives pride, but abandons in the end, 

Mistress Summer, for her heat I admire, 
But tis a shell of warmth with a lover, as we sit by the fire, 

O, the fire, the way it grows wild,  
But the sparks of it in darkness old, much 
Preferred by the lord of cold, a most favorite grandchild, 

Yes indeed, fire is humanity's child, 
Born back when Villain Cold falls to darkness, 
The men birthed fire upon logs, and kindling piled, 

Fire shapes humanity, a necessary tool 
To give light in darkness's day, and to  
Battle Father Cold's unwavering cool, 

That warmth from the fire renders Helios old, 
It is ours to own, to shape, and 
In a past Promethean gratitude, we thank Villain Cold, 

O, the cold deemed villain, how much we do owe, 
A debt that can only be covered, like a blanket of snow. 

Luca Tzimas is a sophomore at UAlbany. Being an English major with a law background, Luca has little experience with poetry or fiction writing. Nonetheless, he considers poetry a hobby and works at it in his free time. Luca’s inspiration for this piece comes from “Ode to the West Wind” by Percy Bysshe Shelley.

Yetunde Babalola
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God Save The Children

A new poem 
for the mind at rest 

O God save the children 
did I lose my rhythm 
did i drop my pen 
these blood stained shoes 
with not a chance to look up 
not a chance to move up 

why they stare at me that way 
like I’m rambling nonsense 

I’m just trying to recreate structure in my mind 
recovering from a month of retrograde 
so just give me time 
its raining 
And I don’t have an umbrella 
So I’ll just let the rain pour down 
let it wash me down 
with the crowd 
next to all the washed out creatives 
took an insanity plead 
now their soul trickles and bleeds 
For white boxes 
white papers 
white pens 
and white staplers 

wait till they staple me down 
with the crowd 

shapeshifting with dirt 
arms stretching 
to sun rays 
just trying to add some light 
to the darkness 
and I’m darkest when I’m not writing 
when i take a vacation from my feelings 
And my being’s to the ceiling 
but my mind is on ground zero
Blank 

yeah she a zero with blank thoughts 
is what I would stay if I gave up 
But I’m wide awake 
trying to decode the meaning of my life 
Like 

why they make me this way? 

An incomplete puzzle piece 
An equation with no solution 
A scatter brained ray of sunshine 
Devine 
But Confused 
Trap Doors disguised 
as the key to the fame and limelight 
I pray I don’t trip 

But I pray I catch me 
When I fall 

That I complete the puzzle piece 
And I will keep rising 
Till my worries cease 
The War I see is within me 
And I refuse to let the enemy win 
God Save The Children 
Save them from their worries 
Save them from world 
From themselves

Yetunde Babalola is a senior at the University of Albany with a Political Science Major and English + Theatre Minor. Yetunde is currently the treasurer of Phenomenal Voices and president of Black Theater productions. Yetunde has received an honorable mention for a Shields Mcllwaine Award and has been a part of two Arch Publications prior. They get inspired to write about topics that others are wary to touch on.

James Schaffer
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A Peach

Softly indenting your nose, 
a gentle pollinic fuzz 
with the pink scent of simmering sunsets 
and dim comfortable homes. 

Filled floral bowls. 
Fingertips swirl airily in a palm, 
rolling the diluted Tiger-red gradient of a 
shy, stomach-pitted fruit.

Hellfall

Infinitely tired - as I am - plummeting into the sin-tainted gorge. 
His dream faces, taunting through a swell of damaged ballads 
from the pianist’s skeletal-white fingers. 
Damned in the walls of that red room - his reversed laughs swirl, palming the back of my head. Held to the fire, the flames, by it’s sick soundlapped layers. 
As one must be. Pushed face first. 

Not even three-pronged forks are enough to rake me over these coals. 
Not for the time I deserve. 
Twisting, arching, knotting, gasping to show my fangs. 
Begging… 
Begging to sell the fallen dust from my cracked soul for permanent bliss. 

In life I chiseled a piece for you - 
and now... it shatters all itself. 
Paths of its unsifted pebbles lead to my bemoaning heart. 
In the red room. Blank - and falling to his song and laughter.

Madison Mau
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The CopyCat

Why do cats dote on birds?
Do they yearn to fly or
Are they jealous of their agility?
Are they fascinated with flight
And every jump from a ledge
An imaginative flight to new lands,
Dreaming of soaring over trees and
eating small sweet seeds,
Singing golden love songs
And flashing fresh designer cloaks;
A fabulous masquerade ball
Where the birds spin and whirl
In delicate mating dances.

Is there a secret joy
In watching feathers fly,
More intriguing than the scamper
Of a woodland friend?
Or are they too similar to you,
Their four little legs
And soft bushy tails?

 Are you fascinated in the glamour
That comes with a bright motley of colors
Sky blues and sunset yellows?
For it is only when
A winged friend stops by
That your eyes sparkle;
A green lake of crystal waves
The autumn sky adorned with twinkling stars.

Your voice raises in pitch
You chirp in a staccato cry
When you watch the birds
Fly close by.
If you wish your voice
Was as melodious as them,
Worry not
You sing an opera
And I, your willing crowd,
As you breathe out
Long deep bellows
And high pitched falsettos.

You strut across your stage
Your white high heels silent
And you turn every head
With your air of confidence.
And gain an admirer
Of every eye turned your way.

Ruyen Phan
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Monestery Haibun

They say it’s in upstate New York, but it never feels that way going there. Exiting my dad’s metallic, navy blue, 2001
Nissan Quest, why does he keep buying the same car? and feeling the gravel crunch underneath my sandals, I know that I’m not in New York anymore. Creeping past the lions and elephants that defend this temple hidden in leaves. Turn left, go up, and up, and up, and higher still, as close to heaven as possible, so that mā ma and yé ye can hear me better. At the top of the hill where they reside, the two metal rectangles amongst hundreds of others on the polished stone walls, how could they fit in such a small space? I pray, a still burning incense stick clasped between my two hands, the cinnamon, sandalwood scent of the incense caresses my nose, the spirits of my grandparents look down at me from the sky, staring bullets through my skull, what should I say? What should I say? What should I say? How do I speak to the cold metal that is supposed to be them? My lips try to form words, my vocal cords vibrate still, dead air, all I manage is a meek, “hello”. 

The sky a dull grey, 
The birds and bugs are silent 
Dead steel on cold walls