ART & LIT

Nature’s Performance

A storm is a performance.
The trees twirl like tornadoes.
The wind swishes.
The water droplets tap their toes.
The thunder bangs it’s drums to the beat.
The lightning illuminates like a spotlight.
Take your seats inside,
Where you stay dried,
Relax with glee,
And watch the masquerade,
Of the wind, the rain, and the tree.

Though the clouds cry water outside,
Push your boredom aside,
And watch as Mother Nature sings,
And the entertainment she brings,
Fills you with enjoyment and fun,
Until she is done.

The oceans’ waves applaud.
The lakes and ponds swell with praise.
You have stood and clapped,
For the raindrops that have tapped,
And the sun shines down its proud rays.

The trees fall over from exhaustion.
The buildings sway from weariness.
The dancers and singers go and rest,
Waiting for their next performance.
By: Alison Strojny

Every Second

Tick tock,
Clip clop,
Stomp stomp,
Drip drop,

Swish swash,
Tip tap,
Ding dong,
Snap snap.

Clap your hands to the second,
To the minute is easier I reckoned,
To the hour of the day,
To a month, like May,
To a century, which is long compared to a year,
And from a millennium to the infinite, which is quite long I hear.

122 years is the longest a human has lived,
And is the current limit to our life.
It includes 44,530 days,
Which is 1,068,720 hours that are rife,
But they are hours that can’t be found again once they go by in a blaze.

Every day we lose 86,400 seconds.
A second might not seem vital,
But every second counts,
Because a couple seconds can turn into a minute,
And minutes into hours,
So, with pride, a second deserves an ounce.

By: Alison Strojny

You Coming?

Art Work By: Lilah Murphy

Babe & Butch

Join Babe & Butch as they travel though Carvers history.

The “Battle” of the Dragons and the Toothpicks.

The dragon’s roar.
The war cry sounds.
Horns are blown,
And the drum pounds.

The earth is hurt.
The skies vocalize.
The mountains rumble.
The rivers jeopardize.

The trees wail.
The wind whips.
The ice hails.
The dirt grips.

The soldiers stomp.
The lanterns are lit.
Through the swamp,
The troops split.

There they stand,
With the scaly pack of beasts.
The soldiers have clammy hands,
As the dragons feast.

CRUNCH!
The troops disappear.
“Barely a snack, that bunch!”
The dragons sneer.

The remaining toothpicks run away,
And they flail their arms.
No one goes home today,
With those useless firearms.

Some say they froze from the weather or drowned.
Thinking like that just fuels the sayers ruth,
But we know better.
We know the truth.
By: Alison Strojny

For Those Without Pets

Have you ever had a pet?

A lovely creature you have met?
If you don’t, do not fret.
You just haven’t met one yet.

You can go buy fish.
A fish that can swish,
Or possibly grant a wish,
But don’t get a fish just to make it squish.

If you don’t prefer a fish, how about a cat?
They eat fish and can catch a rat.
They like to be pat,
Even when they are fat.

If you don’t like cats, how about a dog?
They can be taught to jump, like a frog,
Or follow you in adventures into a bog.
If you want, you can just have the dog be lazy as a log.

If you dislike dogs too, how about a bird?
Parrots will talk in order to be heard,
Or you can listen to a songbird’s word.
You may choose none, if you think of birds absurd.

If you don’t like the animals stated,
If you think their outdated,
You just haven’t found the one that has waited.
Just make sure when you meet one, they aren’t hated.
By: Alison Strojny

BABE & BUTCH

Join Babe & Butch as they travel though Carvers history.

ZOO

Beware the woman, for within her there is a zoo.

A chameleon, so she fits the latest style
A lemming, so she follows single file, yet
A lion, so she is always courageous, and
A toucan, So she can be slightly outrageous
A giraffe, so she can always stand tall
A bear, so that if she must she can maul
A bee, so that she can handle a sting
A monkey, so that she can be her own kind of thing
An ant, so she may be small, but she’s strong
An owl, so she’s wise and learns from when she’s wrong

There’s a zoo in each woman, and the cages are open
And she will never be weak, she will never be broken

And I know it’s not just me because I’ve seen it in others,
In sisters, in grandma’s, in aunts, in mothers

And if you don’t feel it now, I hope one day you do
I hope you have a zoo inside of you too

So someday when we’re grown, and we’re mothers and fathers
May we hope that we all have zoos for daughters
By: Charlotte Gedraitis

The Flower

A flower is seen, a child screams.
It's all brown!
Petals fallen on the ground
with chalk the child was playing,
Yet he sees the flower and feels like saying
“But it was so pretty and full of color?”
“Life does that to you”
The child shudders.

“If that happens then, I'll never buy flowers again.”

30 days and the flowers gone, 30 years and the child's tall.
The child stands, now he's a man
but his face sags and he is dressed in rags.

One day his heart stops,
he falls into a pile of chalk.
A new child screams.

He's all brown! Covered, coated in dirt and grime.

He's fallen on the ground!
Wishing for more time.
With chalk the child was playing,
yet he sees the man and feels like saying
“But he was so pretty and full of color?”
“Life does that to you”
The child shudders.

“If that happens then, will I grow old and be just like him?”

the ambulance arrives and takes him away.
Everyone horribly blissfully unaware that he had laid
on a frail and broken flower.
By: Kerry England

Ignorant Intelligence

Intelligence is a virtue
   They tell me.
   But why does a virtue
   Hurt so much.
   Questions are my enemy.
   They make people stare.
   Heads turn like the hands of a clock.
   They don’t see me.
   They see a wall.

   Answers appear on the surface,
   Scrawled out quickly,
   With the excitement of a child opening a christmas gift.
   They do not look at this emotion.
   They do not look at the person.
   They do not look beyond the plaster.
   I am an object to them.
   They do not like the wall.
   It reminds them of what they do not know.

   Envy is a sin
   They tell me.
   I don’t respond.
   If envy is a sin for the committer,
   Why does it seem like the target,
   Is the one suffering the consequences.
   “They are jealous”
   I repeat that to myself.
   It does not work.

   Every time I answer,
   Stares slice through my pride.
   It’s an ongoing emotional slaughter.
   My papers are used as an answer key.
   Mouths groan,
   Eyes roll,
   Angrier Stares.
   I am shivering,
   As if being submerged into a pool of frigid water,
   Then standing in a New England blizzard.
   Inside my stomach it feels like there is a pot,
   Filling with thick green acid.
   Eating me from the inside out.

   Sometimes I wish
   I was a better window than a wall.
   A white board.
   Even a chalkboard would be better.
   I could erase the pain in dusts of color.
   That would silently fall to the ground away from me.
   Obliterate the answers,
   That plague my brain.
   Kill the knowledge,
   That is presented on my surface.

   If I gave up the answers and put on a facade of not knowing,
   Maybe they would stop the glares,
   And look past the wall that locks my emotions away from them.
   I think about taking a heavy silver dagger,
   And slashing through the wallpaper keeping me a prisoner in it’s cell.
   Chop the knowledge and plaster into unrecognizable pieces.

   I stop.

   I can’t bear to make a dent.
   In the masterpiece is spent years cultivating.
   I can’t destroy my own creation.
   Though locking myself in the wall is torturesome,
   It acts as a shield against their true attacks.
   Intelligence is a virtue
   They tell me.
   I tell myself
   Intelligence and Ignorance have one thing in common.
   They both start with I.

-Anonymous

TIM & TOM

  In the bog-brimmed fields of Carver, one quaint summer ago, there was a turkey named Tim who roamed in a constant search for a companion. He would flock to the town square, parading his good nature by dancing on the steps of the library or squawking at the fire station.
   “Do you want to be friends?” he would ask passing by Carverians, but his only response was from the shriek of a bawling five-year-old.
   Dismayed, Tim would retreat to the desolate forest and curl up in his snug heap of leaves. From his nest, he could study the library’s playground in all of its glory. Look how much fun that looks, he would internalize, as children scurried from slide to slide. Toddlers perched on swings giggled as their parents propelled them into the air. Dogs curled up at their master’s feet basked in the radiant sun as their owner noshed on an ice cream cone. Everywhere he looked, there were pairs, whether that be couples embracing in their cars or boots canvassing a firefighter’s feet.
   “I wish I had a friend,” he would whisper to himself before retiring to an hours-long slumber. The rest of the summer transpired like such; with Tim fruitlessly hunting for a friend only to conclude the day by returning to his forest. Tim was immensely tired, and longed for a friend. Some days, he would scrutinize the colossal truck that barreled down the paved road and wished he had leaped ahead of the bumper.
   Then, one day in autumn, when Tim was lounging in his leafy crib, another turkey, named Tom, began to meander around the town. He also frolicked on the steps of the library and hollered at the fire station. “Somebody play with me,” he exclaimed on the steps of the police station, his voice saturated with sadness.
   Tim gawked at Tom, dumbfounded. There was another turkey, identical to Tim, who also longed for a friend! Bursting with joy, Tim bounded towards Tom, startling the pedestrians as he whizzed passed them.
   “Do you want to be my friend,” Tim asked Tom as he accompanied him on the steps. Tim gazed at Tom for a second before crying, “Of course I want to be your friend!”
   A smile unfurling across their beaks, the two of them waddled towards the playground, delighted to have obtained a companion. For the succeeding weeks, the two turkeys were inseparable, spending each waking minute in each other’s company.
On sun-drenched days, they would glide down the playground’s corkscrew slide, chuckling as Tom remained stuck in the slide’s narrow entrance. Rain-plagued mornings would prompt the turkey’s to situate themselves in the library’s silent environment, snickering at the humorous events arising in “The Wizard of Oz”. Countless afternoons would ensue, and the pair would “protest” in the Town Hall’s flower-ornamented garden or guiding the fire chief towards a harrowing flame.
On one particularly pleasant day, the twosome had journeyed to Georgio’s pizzeria. The pair had gorged on a bounteous helping of spaghetti and meatballs, and accidentally touched lips when they refused to relinquish the same rope of pasta. Despite the hilarity of the “spaghetti incident” there was one element of that day that would forever be ingrained in Tim's memory. You see, a mere minutes after Tom and Tim splurged on mounds of blonde pasta and rose-tinted tomato sauce, Tim realized that he loved Tom.
   Tim adored the way Tom's plumage framed his blue-pigmented face. He relished in beholding Tom's chestnut eyes and worshiped the way he ambled down the highway. Just glimpsing at Tom's chest of ash-shaded feathers induced Tim into the plight of euphoria. With Tom, Tim did not wish to hop in front of a car, because for the first time in his life, Tim was finally living.
So, as Tim and Tom shuffled out of the restaurant, Tim spun towards Tom to regard him properly. After a moment’s pause, Tim uttered, “Hey Tom, do you want to get married?”
Tom gobbled with delight and began to fly in spite of himself. Tim even cherished the way Tom hovered slightly over the ground, never soaring to the heights of the treetops. “Of course I’ll marry you!” Tom proclaimed as he descended towards the rocky parking lot.
   Grinning wildly, Tim simply nudged Tom’s wing into the cusp of his own, bathing in the elation ballooning in his chest. Eagerly, Tim blurted, “Let’s get married in the woods!” Tom answering with a nod, the newly engaged couple croaked at pedestrians to alert them of this wondrous occasion. Wing and wing, the couple strode down the center of route 58 with the sounds of blaring car horns inaudible over their gushing hearts.
   Then, unbeknownst to Tim, a towering truck (the same one he ogled from his chamber of plush leaves) began to hurtle down the highway, the rickety pavement rattling the silver-glinting van. Its large bumper loomed over the couple, the sultry radiation issuing from the engine tickled Tom’s feathers. It was as if the vehicle was traveling in slow motion, with the screech of halting tire ringing in the air and the truck swiveling to spare the personable, youthful poultry. As the rubber tires inched towards Tom’s skull, Tim gyrated to unearth the origin of the eerie warmth. To Tom’s horror, his gaze met the hulking grills of transport, the very one he would fantasize over during the summer.
   “Don’t hurt me,” he screamed, squeezing his eyelids and shielding his face with his wing. Then, as if the truck discerned his request, it stopped. Gradually, Tim opened his eyes, but the scene his gaze fell upon sent tears streaming down his beak.
   Under the truck’s monstrous, ebony tires, laid Tom’s lifeless body. Blood caked Tom’s ravishing rainbow plumage, staining Tom’s once-unblemished feathers with blotches of scarlet. Flesh-colored intestines oozed from Tom’s plump stomach, and his glossy, mahogany eyes appeared distant as it glinted in the descending sun. His wings laid limply at his side, with bones protruding violently from the crook of his arm. Witnessing Tom’s death, watching his animation deteriorate in a mere second, sent Tim’s heart plummeting.
   How could this have happened, Tim thought as he glimpsed at Tom limp carcass one last time. Tom; the turkey Tim was destined to be with for eternity, was dead.
   Unable to bear the anguish plaguing his heart, Tim sprinted towards the woods, leaving the wreckage behind him. He raced passed Georgio’s and peeled towards the trees, craving his plush heap of leaves. “I’m never going to leave the forest again,” Tim gobbled to the world, tears embroidering his eyelids. Sitting on the bed of leaves, Tim heaved a great sob, longing for Tom. He laid there for days, immobile, refusing to hunt for his usual serving of berries and insects. Everyday Tim echoed, “I’m never going to leave the forest,” and each day he retained his promise. Tim remained in the forest, never to be seen again with a feast of memories to sustain him for the rest of his days.

By: Morgan Reed-Davis

Cranberry Steak Sauce

Some things just go together.
When thinking of Carver you might visualize the endless miles of cranberry bogs lining our long winding roads. When thinking about steak you might crave a mouth watering steak sauce to go along with it.
Shelby Spinola our Co-Cranberry recipe winner, combined the best of both worlds and came up with an A+ Cranberry steak sauce. Now that the holidays are here, this is a sure way to impress friends and family visiting Carver with an exciting twist on a traditional steak sauce. Make sure to check out our other co-Cranberry recipe winner next month!

Cranberry Steak Sauce Recipe

1/3 cup minced onions
1 clove sliced garlic
1/3 cup granulated sugar
1 tablespoon molasses
1/3 cup red wine vinegar
1/3 cup Worcestershire sauce
1/3 cup low sodium soy sauce
2/3 cup diet coke
2/3 cup fresh whole cranberries
½ cup dried cranberries

Pour all of the ingredients, except the dried cranberries, in a medium size sauce pan.

Place the pan over high heat until it comes to a boil, once the mixture has begun to boil reduce the heat and simmer for approximately 10 minutes.

After the ten minutes add the dried cranberries and continue to cook for an
additional 5 minutes.

Pour the mixture into a blender and blend until smooth. At this point the mixture should be thick enough to coat the back of a spoon.

The sauce is now ready to be used, store any remaining sauce in an airtight
container in the refrigerator.