{"id":8757,"date":"2020-05-20T14:47:48","date_gmt":"2020-05-20T19:47:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/liftoffnews.com\/?p=8757"},"modified":"2020-05-20T14:48:46","modified_gmt":"2020-05-20T19:48:46","slug":"capstone-chapter-three","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/liftoffnews.com\/?p=8757","title":{"rendered":"Capstone: Chapter Three"},"content":{"rendered":"

The Red Cup<\/strong>
\n by Jackson Smith<\/strong>
\nThe dishes are washed and heated,
\nin a routine the dishwasher knows best.
\nThe red cup, along with the microwavable plates,
\nthe rusty spoons, and the chipped knives,
\nare treated the same. They are all abused by the power,
\nof the rapid water deteriorating their skin.
\nWhat would Grandmother think of this?
\nThe red cup, lasting through war, sickness, and death,
\njust to be attacked by this unconscious machine.
\nBut this machine only knows how to spray, to clean, to attack.
\nIt cannot be blamed for the treatment of the red cup.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

He\u2019s Gone<\/strong>
\n by Jed Straessle<\/strong>
\nI have become,
\nthat which.
\nI feared most,
\n\u2014 indifferent.
\nBoth to laughter,
\nand to sadness.
\nAlthough,
\nI doubt\u2026
\nThat I stand here.
\nAlone.
\nIn the wake of the woeful world,
\nI know…
\nIt is
\nLoneliness
\nthat has spread
\nlike a plague.
\nBut,
\nIt is not fear.
\nwhich drives me mad,
\nor even the sullen silence of suburban streets,
\nthose once bustling with amicable sounds;
\nit\u2019s the feeling,
\nthat one day.
\nin the midst of all this chaos,
\nI will not only forget feeling,
\nbut I will also,
\nforget myself.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

The Unknown Contents of a Box<\/strong>
\n by Jose Vargas<\/strong>
\nNo one will ever truly understand what you are going through,
\nBut that doesn\u2019t mean your best option is to go through your burden alone.
\nThe contents of a box don\u2019t need to be known for someone to help carry.
\nWhat is your life, a burden?
\nAlthough your path\u2019s uncertain,
\nAll of your pain, it\u2019s hurting,
\n\u201cWill there ever be a change?\u201d
\n\u201cWill my heart stay the same?\u201d<\/p>\n

A heart continues beating,
\nEven if joy, it\u2019s leaving,
\nTrapped in an unraveled maze,
\nSetting my mind ablaze.
\nExcessive overthinking,
\nIt murders our existence,
\nWe must show resistance.
\nFor the kids of the fairy tales,
\nWho have not ceased from believing because they,
\nMake no mistake, us believers, yeah, we\u2019re not leaving,
\nI\u2019m a guide for your sheep,
\nYeah, I\u2019ll guide the masses,
\nAnd I\u2019ll tend to the flock.
\nAnd teach them to pray the same way we learned to count,
\nStarting with, one for the true God,
\nTwo for them and their lover,
\nThree for their stability,
\nFour for the seasons time will race,
\nFive for forgiving grace,
\nSix for the evil they\u2019ll face,
\nSeven for the perfectionist they\u2019ll make.
\nIt\u2019s who the imaginative seem to be,
\nStuck in their head, pushing people away who they need.
\nTo release yourself from a burden, set your heart free
\nOr at the very least, let someone help carry.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

Good Morning<\/strong>
\n by Carson McKay<\/strong>
\nI feel happy,
\nWith the sky still darkened. There\u2019s something about this morning\u2014and I’m not disheartened.
\nI feel happy.
\nI feel confident.
\nAs I clutch a cup of coffee
\nAnd it slowly thaws my thoughts\u2014And my weariness,I feel confident.
\nI feel proud.
\nWith my hand on my steering wheel. And all noises drowned out\u2014just me and my thoughts.
\nI feel proud.
\nAnd as I listen to my teenage music, In my teenage car,
\nWith my teenage shoes,
\nAnd my teenage heart\u2014
\nThe world seems…a little less dark. Even with the sun still hiding.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

Tsunami<\/strong>
\n by Cason McKay<\/strong>
\nRipple, ripple, ripple,
\nThe Northern River down trickles,
\nThrough the valleys and the towns,
\nA simple calming sound,
\nThat simple, ripple, ripple.
\nIts rushing power cripples, the strongest force a boy can feel,
\nThe rush of a cool water\u2019s cleanse, A nimble rush that heals,
\nThat simple, nimble, Ripple.
\nRipple, ripple, ripple,
\nThe cool mist filters,
\nA fickle fool around each bend,
\nIt swirls a pool and off again,
\nThat fickle, Ripple, Ripple.
\nIt\u2019s a mind of its own,
\nDown the river goes,
\nUnpredictable and unknown,
\nAs it flows and flows and flows,
\nThat fickle, unpredictable, Ripple.
\nRipple, ripple, ripple, Into the ocean it will trickle,
\nWith waters of recent rivers, sympathetically now uncrippled,
\nThat sympathetic, Ripple, Ripple.
\nIt\u2019s clean, it is simple,
\nFrom the time that it has filtered,
\nNo more rush it used to give me, just a ripple lost at sea,
\nThat simple, simple ripple.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

The Fine 79\u200b<\/strong>
\n by Carson McKay<\/strong>
\nI walked my lonesome self to the edge of the dock.
\nA rail free, wood walkway, stretching about fifteen feet inward the pond.
\nThe sky was dark, the trees were shadowed, but the water was a deep, murky black, darker
\nthan coal and the ash in the fireplace back at the house.
\nI hugged my dog as we sat. My legs hung over the edge, above the water, in the cold
\nrapping wind. She ran along inside and I was left there alone. The only light over our 79 acres
\ncame from that white, glowing semi-circle above the fields. It had a foggy vail around its edges,<\/p>\n

extending farther than you\u2019d expect. I do not know what it was, but something deep within me
\ncompelled me to stand up. I walked over to the table back on land and set my bowie on top of it.
\nI looked down the bank, into the darkness. My lonesome self started down the bank.
\nI felt defenseless without my blade but that was alright. Vulnerable and peaceably, I
\nwalked out of the protection of the house\u2019s light behind me. It was lost in the trees. I raised my
\nbuff over my face against the dry, splitting gusts. I was nervous trodding into the darkness and I
\nheard weird noises. After about 45 yards of travel, I turned back around to go back home;
\nassuming I need not go further with my own safety in mind. After about ten steps towards the
\ndock, something in my brain whispered, \u201cWhy?\u201d This time, compelled by nothing more than my
\nown willingness, curiosity, and nerve, I turned back to the darkness and walked all the way to
\nthe first corner of the pond.
\nI entered a clearing and felt safe off of the muddy, unstable path. I stood on a hard
\npatch of dirt with wilderness diagonally at my left and right. I figured that that ought to be enough
\nexploration for one night. I had been gone nearly twenty minutes. As expected, I turned around
\nonce more. After a few paces I stopped in my tracks when I heard a noise behind me. Instead of
\ncontinuing my journey back to the house, I turned back around into the darkness, where the
\nnoise came from. I forgot about the noise that hence caused my detour and continued into the
\ndarkness. A bass hit top water sending a jolt of adrenaline through my body. My nerves, already
\nhot, became a blaze inside my bones.
\nI was about halfway down the north side of the pond now. Geese honked and clucked
\ntheir songs of roost in the fields behind me. I shivered in my camouflage coat and my legs were
\ntired. My boots had become heavy with mud. My discomforts ceased my mind as I gazed over
\nthe north end of the pond. I continued my journey to the opposite side. I decided to turn around
\nat the next corner. I saw the house through the trees from where I stood. I saw my dad looking
\nout the window, or so I presumed. I trudged back to the dock. After many minutes of walking
\nwhile staring at my feet, I arrived at my previous starting position. I approached the table on
\nwhich my bowie still laid. I unsheathed it and looked at it. I put it back and stuffed it into my
\ncoat\u2019s pocket. I went back to the edge of the dock as if saying farewell to a new friend. I wanted
\nto stay but 4:45 a.m. would soon come. I looked at the landscape and took it in once more. The
\nmoon\u2019s reflection off the water like a small, snow covered mountain range, stretched from the
\nwest end all the way to my feet. It resembled a red carpet in my mind. I felt like I could walk
\nacross it and get to the other side.
\nUnfortunately, I did not muster the courage to walk on the waters\u2019 carpet that night. I
\nturned around to tread home and walked towards the warmth of the house against my will.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

Metacognition<\/strong>
\n by Elias Found<\/strong>
\nHave you ever just thought? Pondered? Wondered? Contemplated? Considered? What do you
\nthink about?
\nBirth? Death? That wacky stuff in between? I\u2019ll go out on a limb and presume you do this kinda
\nstuff every now and again.
\nNow, and go with me on this, ya ever just think bout your thinking?
\nIt\u2019s an interesting type of enigma. The demented scholar\u2019s form of thinking.<\/p>\n

A concept that compels you to consider your own considering.
\nA way of thinking that feeds off of itself.
\nSo what do you call this idea of ideas?
\nMetacognition.
\nAn alluring form of thinking upon thinking.
\nSo, how does one put this counterintuitive thinking into words?
\nWell, consider your voice.
\nYour voice is your own.
\nIt\u2019s tune is set to yours alone.
\nIt\u2019s a distinct sort of song, similar and foreign to the rest.
\nNow consider how it sounds in your own way.
\nIf you\u2019d like, think about its place in your head.
\nSee all angles of its edge.
\nAll edges of its point.
\nEvery point of its angles.
\nAnd throw it all out.
\n\u2018Cos truth be told, it’s different to everyone.
\nA conceptual reality only unto You.
\nAn image unable to be replicated.
\nA song unclear to anyone.
\nSimilarly, you can think of metacognition this way too:
\nAs a colour being described to the blind.
\nOr as a sensation being told to the callous.
\nOr maybe even as a feeling, an emotion, presented to the apathetic.
\nYour voice, more so, Your version of your voice, is unable to be described to anyone.
\nSure, you can devote your life to mapping finite details of your voice,
\nBut eons upon eons will never get you close enough to explaining the complexity of your voice.
\nNo matter how long you take,
\nHow much effort you pour out,
\nHow numerous your years may be,
\nYou can never reach that truest definition of your voice.
\nNow this work isn\u2019t meant to undermine your ability to describe your voice,
\nIt’s purpose is to make you consider, contemplate, wonder, ponder, and-
\nTo think (and I mean really think),
\nAbout thinking.
\nAnd the unending, ever expanding, unrelenting mystery that we call:
\nThinking about Thinking.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

What is this Thing that lingers in the mind?<\/strong>
\n by Aiden Echols-Joyce<\/strong>
\nWhat is this Thing that lingers in the mind?
\nWhat is this Thing that latches in the core?
\nThis Thing corrupts your thoughts, it leaves you blind;<\/p>\n

It plants a seed of woe. In years of yore,
\nWhen times were gay, this Beast did not prevail.
\nThis Beast was not a beast, but was a spark
\nThat pranced and danced with verve\u2014but glee is frail.
\nThe ache of life had quenched this glint to dark.
\nThis thing\u2014this Sore\u2014was born of good and joy,
\nThat spread its wings and soared, but flew too high.
\nWhat once was bright and pure\u2014a little boy,
\nIs now an empty shell, a whispered sigh.
\nBut life can take another path! Resist,
\nThe Beast, bring back that joyful boy, persist!<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

I never thought I would miss my school<\/strong>
\n by Zachary Hinkle<\/strong>
\nI never thought I would miss my school.
\nWaking up early to get there on time.
\nAlways following the get ready rule.
\nShower and shampoo to remove the grime.
\nPacking my backpack with paper and pen.
\nHomework all done. Checked over and over.
\nEnglish book, history book, math book all in.
\nDressed and wearing a tie green as a clover.
\nScrambled eggs, toast, and some crispy bacon.
\nSome milk and juice and some homemade jelly.
\nWhen my mom cooks breakfast, she ain\u2019t fakin\u2019!
\nI\u2019m headed to school with a full belly.
\nHow I long for those CHS days!
\nI bet this missing school is just a phase.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

The sad glare in his eyes is motionless<\/strong>
\n by Alex Mendez<\/strong>
\nThe sad glare in his eyes is motionless,
\nthrough wonders in past lives, some black and grey.
\nA tear descending down in hopelessness,
\nScared and weak, both in darkness and waylay.
\nAddictions and procrastinations form,
\npuzzled in pain, seeking a soul to keep.
\nStanding alone under the stars unwarm,
\nExhausted and in grief ready to sleep.
\nHer image haunts him, striving him ahead.<\/p>\n

He glances at her in love and passion.
\nThe emptiness fell upon his deathbed,
\nCovered in everlasting attraction.
\nThey stand together again, as lovers,
\nDrifting up with no regrets or shudders.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

Our Salvation<\/strong>
\n by Essa Kassissieh<\/strong>
\nKing of the cosmos buffeted with blows.
\nHe was scourged and whipped with a lead-tipped strip;
\nCrowned with thorns and dressed in mock purple clothes;
\nCarrying his cross on the dreadful trip.
\nThe Logos was suspended on the Tree.
\nChrist cried out in agony to Heaven;
\nBreathing His last breath and gave us the key
\nTo eternal life with Him in Heaven.
\nThe Son of God was placed in a tomb clean,
\nSealed with a stone for safety with guards too.
\nMaybe one day the Lord will not be seen,
\nBut He will come again with something new.
\nHis disciples forgot the projection,
\nShow us your glorious Resurrection!<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

Change<\/strong>
\n by Owen Fraley<\/strong>
\nBound here, where green meets the azure decay,
\nOf sunset as dusk envelops the day,
\nI hear those repeated songs that betray
\nThe presence of birds. The same as always.
\nLights pure innocence gives way to black,
\nBut night is too, in a sense, beautiful.
\nThe cool wind\u2019s gentle eloquence holds back
\nThoughts of return. Change is immutable.
\nWhether we like it or not. Are we just trapped
\nIn the lifeless cycle we\u2019re enduring?
\nDo we live in a world or are we strapped
\nTo a pole? True free will is alluring.
\nTry to stop it, but the sun will still set.
\nAll we can do is make the best of it.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

Old Crimson Rose<\/strong>
\n by Owen Fraley<\/strong>
\nAn old crimson rose,
\nPetals flutter from the top,
\nBleeding to the grass.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

Dark as the sad skies on a stormy night<\/strong>
\n by Evan Richard<\/strong>
\nDark as the sad skies on a stormy night,
\nTill the light shine upon the gleaming nest,
\nWhere awakened bright clouds you do first sight;
\nWhen time has come to take you from your rest,
\nNow night becomes day and life doesn\u2019t stop,
\nTo fly is your goal and \u201cIt\u201d you fly for;
\nMove, move, move your mind will persist to shout,
\nSpread your wings, hear the skies eternal lore.
\nBright as the flowing sun pounding the beach,
\nUnder and over clouds magnificent rings,
\nHigh and where nothing else will ever reach.
\nTill no longer you hear jealous birds sing.
\nFly far little one; always remember,
\nMake sure you\u2019re the bird they will remember.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

\u201cSoul-diers\u201d<\/strong>
\n by Bauer Lee<\/strong>
\nLeft, left, left, right!
\nGo grab your gun!
\nLet\u2019s have some fun!
\nWe\u2019ll shoot whatever moves!
\nLook down the sight.
\nNow aim, ignite.
\nMight over right approves!
\nLeft, left, left, right!
\nMarch on you fools;
\nYou useless tools.
\nFear not what lies ahead!<\/p>\n

You can not think.
\nJust sip your drink;
\nFor soon you will be dead!
\nLeft, left, left, right!
\nRush into battle,
\nYou mindless cattle,
\nWho left your souls behind.
\nFirst slaughter awaits,
\nAnd then, open gates;
\nOne fair, but one unkind.
\nLeft, left, left, right,
\nInto the sky.
\nNow, say goodbye.
\nTo everyone in hell.
\nConsumed by flames.
\nAnd who\u2019s to blame?
\nThe souls who chose the cell.
\nOr left, left, left, right,
\nDown in the ground.
\nThere to be bound,
\nFor the rest of all time.
\nSomewhere above,
\nBeautiful doves,
\nAnd perfect sounding chimes.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________<\/p>\n

Live Presently<\/strong>
\n by Bauer Lee<\/strong>
\nHow often we lie,
\nThinking of our pasts,
\nAnd all our mistakes and regrets.
\nWe think about what we would reverse,
\nAnd what we would\u2019ve done differently.
\nSometimes, when we\u2019re lucky,
\nWe think of the good times;
\nAnd, although it\u2019s rare,
\nWe\u2019re so satisfied.
\nAnd how often we sit,
\nLooking to the future,
\nHoping our lives will change.<\/p>\n

We\u2019re impatient for the great times ahead;
\nAnd we grow anxious of the unknown.
\nNothing is certain for what is to come.
\nNo one is fully prepared.
\nWhatever comes next,
\nMake sure it defines you well.
\nBut never do we stand,
\nAnd live our lives in the present.
\nWe are not slaves to our pasts,
\nAnd our futures serve us.
\nThe past is gone and will not return;
\nAnd the future is inevitable.
\nSo worry not about what you can\u2019t control,
\nAnd take charge of what you can.
\nThe present belongs to you, now own it.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________
\nLunch<\/strong>
\n by Joshua Hester<\/strong>
\nNow,
\nIs when,
\nI can heat,
\nUp a frozen pizza,
\nFor lunch because restaurants closed.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________
\nThe ocean rises<\/strong>
\n by Joshua Hester<\/strong>
\nThe ocean rises,
\nAnd the waves crash back down too,
\nClouds form in the sky.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________
\nGolf balls<\/strong>
\n by Joshua Hester<\/strong>
\nI grab the large mesh bag from the bottom shelf. I stop and admire the array of different
\ngolf balls I see before me. They vary in color, label, and even cleanliness, and yet I cannot be
\nmore thrilled to have them.
\nFor these recycled balls have seen some amazing things. All have been fished out of
\nlakes and water traps from golf courses around the world. This one could have belonged to a
\nprofessional golfer. This one could have been used at one of the top courses in the country. And
\nyet here they are. Right before my eyes. Resting in a bag filled with other used golf balls. And I
\ncouldn\u2019t be more thrilled to have them.<\/p>\n

________________________________________________________________________________
\nPast<\/strong>
\n by Joshua Hester<\/strong>
\nThe pain of the past,<\/p>\n

Can still hurt today.
\nLearning from the pain,
\nIs the only way.<\/p>\n

<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The Red Cup by Jackson Smith The dishes are washed and heated, in a routine the dishwasher knows best. The red cup, along with the microwavable plates, the rusty spoons, and the chipped knives, are treated the same. They are all abused by the power, of the rapid water deteriorating their skin. What would Grandmother…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":8758,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","enabled":false}}},"categories":[359],"tags":[],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/liftoffnews.com\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/05\/2020-04-09_142715-e1590003029255.jpeg?fit=2376%2C1130&ssl=1","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p3xfZw-2hf","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/liftoffnews.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8757"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/liftoffnews.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/liftoffnews.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/liftoffnews.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/liftoffnews.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=8757"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"https:\/\/liftoffnews.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8757\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8764,"href":"https:\/\/liftoffnews.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8757\/revisions\/8764"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/liftoffnews.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/8758"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/liftoffnews.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=8757"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/liftoffnews.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=8757"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/liftoffnews.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=8757"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}