Mar 28
H20.hollym's picture


the little boy sits
in the seat across
from me
on the yellow school bus.
he has a skateboard strewn across
his lap and
five pens shoved into
his pocket.
he reaches for one and
they all tumble
he puts them
back in
but keeps one to
doodle in a massive
worn sketchbook
filled with white paper.
i seem him wear
the same beaten khaki pants
scuffed white shoes
and speckled green sweater
every single day-
through months june
and december.
this boy is a creator-
you can just tell.
he’s giving to the world even
though i suspect that
all it ever seems to
is take from him.
Mar 23
H20.hollym's picture

I march for all of our lives

This is going to be a march for our lives.

A march against the semi-automatic weapons designed
to mass murder human beings.

A march for the students' lives that
were taken by one in their school hallways.

A march to bring change so that this
will never happen again. 

Who's next?
Not my brother, sister or friends. No young life will be taken by a bullet.

We will fight to protect our future, we will march to raise awareness and call for action.

Awareness: the lives of white students in school hallway are not the only ones being taken.

Black lives are taken on the streets daily.

They have been calling for action for years.
They have been calling for the worth of their lives for years.

Now our country has been set into motion, into a tidal wave of a movement initiated by white teens.
Feb 20
H20.hollym's picture

Dreams of Gunshots and Numbers

I woke up this morning;
bits and pieces 
of the vision that played
beneath my eyelids as I slept
fluttered back into my mind.

I saw a church up
in the mountains,
rows and rows of dark wooden pews
lit with candles.

I sat in one with my family
and our family friends.
It was a high school,
and I felt the losses shatter
in my chest as the man
on the podium read their names.

It had not been my siblings,
my friends, my teachers,
or my cousins-
this time.

But it had been 47.
And they were no longer numbers
in Connecticut or Florida.
No, this time they were names,
these were people,
at a Vermont high school just
30 minutes away.

These names were teachers
that had taught the girl
sitting behind me.
They were athletes,
nordic skiers,
that I had raced against just 
last Saturday.
They were friends
Feb 15
H20.hollym's picture

let go

editing deleting restraining
i am tired of caging myself in
behind a glass dam
measuring what to let out
and what to keep in.
the water i hold is too good
for that and i know it
but i dont deem the words that pour
out of me good enough.
i dont deem myself good enough.
and so here i am.
little did you know that
this was an act of bravery
an act of courage.
i am making no edits to
the person inside
and she is inside no longer.
she just is
and it is making her heart beat
thump thump thump.
and i could end this here
but i dont want to
because i like this feeling
and i want to hang on to it forever
but i guess i learned that sometimes
if you dont let go
then you dont really know
what you want to hang on to.

Feb 05
H20.hollym's picture

A Pane of Magic

I was reading your poem
in study hall today
when I happened to find my gaze
lingering upon the window
where the snow was blowing 
all around while the sun shone through the flakes
and I smiled to myself
because it looked a lot
like stardust.
(then I snapped a picture of it,
but it didn't quite capture the sparkle.)

I wanted to thank you
for sliding a pane of magic
over that window.
I carried that stardust light with me
for the whole rest of the day.
Jan 26
poem 1 comment challenge: Ancestor
H20.hollym's picture


(brief disclaimer: Margulius is my last name)


It tumbles and somersaults
and lands with a splat!
on the tongue of the teacher
taking attendance.

As I introduce myself,
It twists into a goofy
smoke bomb poof
of spazzing colors.

And I can see the
bright blue bubbling
question marks pop up
over their heads.

It's Romanian, I say.

But that hardly explains anything.
It doesn't cover how
my last name came to be mine,
a 15-year-old girl in Vermont.
And it doesn't cover
the infinitely deep well beneath the
somersaulting syllables.

Margulius is Romanian.

But that's not the whole story.

Not even a fraction of it, actually.

I only know a part of it myself,
as follows:

Margulius is
a mother hanging
on to her ten-year-old son.
Each other and the old house
Jan 25
H20.hollym's picture

A Star-Crossed Love

A dramatic poem to a naive part of myself that I found today.

I only just discovered you
in English class 
a few short hours ago.

We were studying 
the apparently shallow love
but epic love story 
of Romeo and Juliet
when The Term came along:
star-crossed lovers.

Though now I am forever changed,
I am struck by the beauty 
in the whimsical magic
of which I used to dream.

You see,
the story of a toxic star-crossed love
ruled above all else in the world
of extravagant fantasies 
I conjured in my mind.

I loved the idea of 
star-crossed lovers;
a love so perfect,
it had been written out
in the stars of fate
eons ago.

A love so powerful
that one could do anything,
cross endless galaxies
to reach the other.

A love so bright
that it can be seen shining
through the darkest of dark,
Dec 28
H20.hollym's picture


I swear I hear voices
beneath the ceaseless clamour
(of a car radio with no off-button)

The announcer jabbers about the most recent
abuse of power (a boy crafted from the earth
shattered by invasions of metal)

Then music explodes without a second's pause,
but in the lead vocalist's voice I hear a mother's wail
(her son was taken for the most unjust reason
of all and she does not have the wings necessary
for her cries to be heard beyond the bedroom walls)

Cut to the linoluem tiles of a school hallway
where the same music saunters through
(coming from the pocket of one of the boys
strutting down their runway)

They are shoving another in front of them;
each push of their hands another red hot word
(except homo and pussy don't burn this boy,
everybody knows this, and so they resume
their daily tasks)

But coming from another student's earbuds,