Poem

Here I am. Granting you the vision of the wooden chair that we brought from the first living room because we didn’t have enough chairs for the dining room. You see the fake flowers, they will never live real lives, never die. They will never smell like honey, never wilt. They must always watch us, the humans, do the tedious things we do. The sliding door. With the bug screen. Yesterday night we went through that door. Out on the porch, we petted Trevor, who was not our cat. We don’t own the farm, we don’t work on it. We won’t stay at the house. Soon, it will be all alone again. And there will be no footsteps on the staircase. And the painted china will no longer rattle until the next people come. And there is a little footstool with its broken back. With a mahogany top. Polished wood bottom. We do not get splinters on the floorboards. They have been washed, sanded, many times. We see a little cart. Also made of wood, oh pretty wood, and carved in ways that I couldn’t carve. I cannot carve. The ladder in the back moves up and down, the horse has run away, tired of carrying your load of goods. Outside, bright sun, grass to run on, marsh where you can sink, sneakers and all. The horses, they were angry, or they just wanted to scream, neigh, someone, come! And Trevor, ears perked up, hissed at a bird that was too loud, too happy. And yet, Trevor did not move from his place on the porch. He just glared like a madman and settled down, ready to be petted some more. And my mother lounged in a chair, and my father had gone inside with his camera, only to come out again. And the flies were dancing and buzzing, and joining in, and there was some sort of silent party with no music, because the only sounds were the birds and we wanted that. We never wanted it to stop, just wanted to stay, my mother and father with their wine, laughing, me, running, slipping in the wet grass, laughing at the chickens. The chicken that came up the steps with its loud claws, the chicken that greeted me with the call of its throat, the chicken I shied from, the chicken with menacing eyes, and yet Trevor’s yellow eyes were more menacing. And the barn held nothing but chickens and horses, and the occasional cat, of which there were three. Two cats would not greet us, were not friendly. One ran into the bushes, another stayed on the porch, back arched. The calico, and the tuxedo. We don’t have names for those yet. They are not ours, do not want to be ours. We have no ocean in front of our house, yet all of the paintings on the walls are farms, farms with oceans stretching, waking from deep sleeps. Our house, the house that is not really ours, has a dirt road in front of it. No, gravel. We have no forest either. No boat approaching the forest. Why do the paintings lie? Are these real places, or are they just what someone wants to see? One of the chairs has vines engulfing it, yet the vines are just patterns. You cannot feel them. They are not real. There are many doors in the house. And so many closets, with locks that are rusted shut. One closet opened and had a light with a chain so you could turn it on, and a staircase, which led to a ceiling on which you could bump your head. There is nothing to walk towards. And there is a rug in the second living room, which has pretty flower patterns on it, on which you can roll and become the flowers. These flowers aren’t trying hard, don’t have bright pink colors. These flowers are brown, perfect. Emma Hoff, 9 Bronx, NY

Kleptocracy is not Democracy It is a word that’s not heard But should be without a single word of a bird high in the sky who would not die AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL Trevor M. Burns, 10 Tucson, AZ Astrid Young, 12 Brookline, MA

The Old Water Wheel There was a day on the farm that was not like the others. Because the orange cat (we named her Claire) had finally come up to us, and she was ready to flirt with us. She meowed at us, begged us for attention with mischievous eyes, but when we tried to pet her, oh, the sight! She scurried away as if we were hurting her. She told us she thought our hands were dirty, and if we were a self-conscious family we would have looked at our hands, and we would have run inside and washed them and glared at the cat out the window, who would be licking herself like nothing had happened. This was the day that we learned a funny thing, that Trevor was a girl and that Claire and the black-and-white cat (Patricia, Pat for short) were boys, through and through. And yet, as we learned their real names, we forgot them all the same, and the only cat’s name we could remember was Trevor’s. Trevor’s name was Fern, and my parents called her that, but I was so used to Trevor that I continued to mix up the cats, girl for boy, boy for girl. And then we met another miracle! A miracle that only nature herself could have given us. Another cat, who did not belong to the people on the farm but came and ate all the food anyway. And this cat’s name was a name that I remembered: Lint. Like the stuff that sticks to clothes. This cat stuck to the farm, with its grassy hills and beautiful skies, and the high grass that my dad led my mom and me into, despite my warnings of tick territory (it did turn out to be tick territory), and so we squelched through mud, only to find that the forest did not have a trail, as my dad had hoped, so we squelched back to the house, and we took showers and glared at my dad. And onwards our adventures stretched throughout the week we stayed, so many I cannot tell you about all of them, and they were too perfect and beautiful to be written down in words anyway, and it will exhaust me to tell the tale out loud, so I am content the way things are. I know nobody likes cliffhangers. But hold onto the cliff and climb up onto it and you will see the farm, and everything we did there. Emma Hoff, 9 Bronx, NY Lucas Hinds, 13 Lenoir City, TN

1. Girls under Trees (after August Macke) Faces of the faceless. What does she see now? Blank and yet perfect. Where does she go now? Is there somewhere she can go? Faces of the faceless. The other girl, what does she see? Blank and yet perfect. Does she have a face? Or not? Faces of the faceless. Clutch that bag of grain! It is also full yet clear. Blank and yet perfect. Just run, with your eyes glued to darkness. Faces of the faceless. Blank and yet perfect. 2. Girl with Sheep (after Georg Schrimpf) Rise above the ground, head above the sky giantess, hold your sheep. Yes, lie down on your blanket of moss and hold your miniature sheep and rise above the ground. Look into the baby’s eyes, he is not scared like the others. Giantess, hold your sheep. Your island, floating toward the harbor. Rise above the ground. Last hope. Last chance of joining. Giantess, hold your sheep. Let your river skirts flow. Let your braid sing to the grass. Rise above the ground, giantess, hold your sheep. Emma Hoff, 9 Bronx, NY

In the savanna a tiger prowls, but once tamed it can’t ever regain its power. It will sit behind the man, whose eyes will be glued to his paper, his blank paper with no writing, because his hand does not move. A child will stand there for eternity, not growing, eyeing the man and his tiger, with a puppet, which she wanted to bring to her special spot that is taken forever, her flower crown dangling in sadness, unable to take another step. If the hot sun beats down, the motionless people will not feel it. If its rays blind them, they will be blinded like they already are. The plants should grow or wilt, but they do neither. They have decided on their size, they have decided to be immortal, to not move, to not dangle, to not fall. If there is no wind, the hot-air balloons are not floating. If there is wind, it is not real, in an already unreal clear blue sky. The animals? They just stare, and even that they don’t do. If you touched the lion it would not roar, if you write something it will vanish, if you take a step you’re stuck. Everything is frozen, yet moving. Emma Hoff, 9 Bronx, NY

A sprout is breaking through the ground. Adding beauty to the world around. A bright green plant barely a stem. Its stitching as perfect as a dress’s hem. A closed bud, a young bloom. That will blossom with colors better than any room. A beautiful flower growing in the sun. Now the growing is all done. Sophia Famolari, 9 Columbia, SC

I hear a secret, whispering to me. The secret chooses me. Only me, I am the only one. Over the valley, past the frosty hilltops Who knows this untold? Though tempted to tell, not I. I will keep this secret, Till the end of the world Till the animals go extinct Till the sun is too hot for snow to hit the ground I will keep my unrevealed As far as the Earth is an ocean of trash No green to be seen In my heart it will stay Stay till the world withers away Forever you will stay. Analise Braddock, 10 Katonah, NY

The stars hold only one mind The mind has a thousand eyes The world will die down Before the heart stops beating For love Clocks will wind and eventually stop ticking Before hearts give out The sky only has one world The world has a thousand hearts The stars Analise Braddock, 10 Katonah, NY

I see the world Has a path Through the safety Of my damp Deep ditch Overgrown with The wild Like a snake Coiling around me My body long gone My eyes are intact I see the Sun blazing High I wonder Could I ever reach The sky? I have no body I know My clan and I Settled in a ditch With grass as an itchy floor, ladybugs All over Counting their dots So red so alive I see the world Through my ditch So lively So thrilling Analise Braddock, 10 Katonah, NY

I have held my hands open forever I have let rain fill my hands with liquid Glazing them with a beautiful scene I have let life gift me with my soul I hold pride by holding my hands out I will hold them till all the green in the world is gone And put in my waiting hands Till the rain gives way and the Storms retreat to a forever slumber Till there is only me Standing there With my hands Open waiting Analise Braddock, 10 Katonah, NY

No more than one soul Scattered the Earth Just one No more than one has been found On search for more Just one mind Compared to the nights’ thousand minds Every light a soul and a mind a Bright blooming star I don’t have more than one I don’t have more than one mouth, one mind, one soul Some have many I see They walk along Talking To themselves And asking In the reflection Of the lake “How do I look?” They wait for an answer “Perfect as always” They walk with Their many minds And a thousand eyes Holding a Thousand souls While I walk With one One soul One mind One heart One set of eyes One only Just one. Analise Braddock, 10 Katonah, NY