The law, the law. Sometimes I hate the law. Paying taxes for things like axes? The law, the law. Sometimes I love the law. Especially when you add “coles” in front. Coleslaw.
Poem
Portraits of Thirteen
I. I used to confuse coffee grounds with the dirt in flower pots, the earthy scent overtaking the musky flowers. A bird nest lies on a shelf in our garage. I do not have the heart to close our garage door at night, to move the nest: the blue eggs unhatched, cushioned in the leaves— unable to escape their home. II. More pressure, my teacher says. I tilt my index finger, clasping the bow skimming the strings of my violin. The amount the bow hair should bounce ingrained in muscle memory. Increase the bow speed. I find the fine line between a gritty sound and the tip of my bow flying off the strings. The rosin puffing gold dust onto my music sheets, onto the black lines, the swirls of the clefs and key signatures, the stickiness finding homes in crevices made by the screws in my music stand. III. I trace the patterns of rock on my shower wall I once believed told my life’s story. I saw my cat, grey stripes curled in a ball, pressed into the tiled wall. Arbitrary like a raffle, fate carves into the rock with the right set of sharp tools. IV. When I was six, I dreamt of a crimson path. Barefoot, I walked on eggs— red, runny yolks. The eggshells poking my feet, the path has no end. Sabrina Guo, 13 Oyster Bay, NY Anya Geist, 13 Worcester, MA
Self-Portrait: Breath of Ghosts
We never used our fireplace until Hurricane Sandy snapped the power lines. Heavy rain and wind whipped around our dark house as the night grew colder. Our flashlights, the steamy breath of ghosts in the dead of winter. My father’s match struck a stack of miniature ebony logs and turned them alight like the bright orange wings of a monarch butterfly, the dark body of the room made thicker. Over the flame, we boiled water and cooled it just long enough to soak our feet— calm ripples and soft circling soothing us as the night wind raged. The house stayed black, but I memorized how many steps the stairway held, the exact height of each step. Sabrina Guo, 13 Oyster Bay, NY Caitlin Goh, 13 Dallas, TX
Why are friends like that?
What is the point of friends? Are they supposed to make you laugh? Cry? Are they there for you? Are they kind? Hard-working? Do they give up? Do people like you just because you’re rich? Will you ever truly know why your friend is being your friend? Lydia Iliff, 10 Sewickley, PA
To Those in a Cage
Ravens were my favorite, with their midnight feathers full of mystery, dreams, and the whisper of age-old spirits. I loved the hummingbirds beating their wings at what seemed to be the speed of sound as they sipped sweet nectar, fast and free. Doves reminded me of all of my wishes, of peace and love, of a happy future that seemed so attainable. Even pigeons fascinated me, the way they thrived in public places, unwilling to back down, even to humans. Reality was a bright-blue sky. I floated on wings made of dreams. As I feel my dirty sneakers greet the pavement, I notice the people around me. Somehow the pigeons on the sidewalk are freer than I’ll ever feel. The people are a cage, and I am a pitiful bird, rocking back and forth, reaching out for the comfort of a bright-blue sky that never comes. Every step means suffocation. I am lost. The cage doesn’t notice. But I don’t notice the other lost souls either. The cold faces that make up the looming bars of my cage and block out all else feel like strangers. Even the ones I am oh-so-familiar with. My mother’s judging gaze, my peers who I know judge me, even my friends. They are all strangers, surrounding me. So I mumble “sorry” and move deeper into my cage. I prefer the meaningless excuse of “sorry” to voicing my own opinion. It is what people want to hear, Expect to hear. Saying it doesn’t mean I’m “too nice for my own good.” In fact, I’m selfish. So selfish I don’t even deserve to be writing a poem about birds in cages. Because I’ve never been caged. But some people have. This is for them. This is for the people who create the cages. This is because I want them to see that they’re hurting people. Don’t you understand how painful it is? With every action, you place another bar of abandonment in a cage big enough to house millions of hurt, lonely souls. I know you don’t mean to hurt people. I believe beings are good at heart. But we make a lot of really bad mistakes. We are terrible and wonderful, and these inconsistencies make up our being. I wish I could shed my skin and human doubts and become a flying, soaring spirit of song, joining the birds that made their true home in the sky. I would fly with wings made of songs that aren’t happy or sad, good or bad, but a hopeful sort of in-between. I would fly like the birds I admired so much, but on wings that remember I was once caged too. So I can fly over everyone who needs a little hope. So I can show them—you’re not alone. I’d fly over everyone Because maybe everyone has a cage of some sort. Naomi Angel Farkas, 12 Los Angeles, CA
I Am Me
Who am I? It depends if you are asking me. My peers know only a rendition of me. An aloof me. Do I even have friends? It depends if you are asking me. My peers know only a rendition of me. An aloof me, whose only friends are baubles and pens. What do I know? It depends if you are asking me. My peers know only a rendition of me. An aloof me whose only friends are baubles and pens, and who doesn’t know how to properly use her head. But what if you were to ask me? Who am I? I know not a rendition of me. I know a kind girl, with many friends, who knows to survive with only a pen. Lilly-June Gordon, 12 New York, NY
Nature
Sometimes nature calls to you And you long to be outside Basking in the full light of the moon Or maybe the babbling brook Nearby your house Holds an importance That it has never possessed before And even if you don’t mean to You suddenly find yourself Outside turning cartwheels on the grass Watching the world spin in dizzying circles Penelope Purchase, 11 Berkeley, CA
In My Liquid Tourmaline
In this shimmering liquid tourmaline A teal and gold-breasted kingfisher whistles in the green pines As the lake’s cool breath whispers in my ear She speaks of laughing trout gliding in her belly Humans pouring acid in her veins And her tree friends she has lost I am wrapped in the scent of salt and sweetness As the freezing rush of cold water billows about my hand And the smooth trout wriggle across the lake Lauren Giglia, 11 Irvine, CA
The Crow
The crow flies across the sky away from all troubles, the wind whipping through her wings. She basks in the sun as if it were a precious gift. She doesn’t have a voice like a scream piercing through the air. Her voice is firm. Never complacent. Yet docile. Like a vulture, she only takes what no one wants. Everyone thinks crows are menacing and go to graveyards, but they are kind like vultures. Whenever she comes down to perch, she knows the sky will always claim her once again. Aiah Morris, 12 Burien, WA Ziqing Peng, 11 Nanjing, China
Mountain
Pine needles cover the ground, Life chirps and peeps from cracks in the Earth. These mountains rise high, Scraping space. Lizards and bugs infest the leaning trees, The elder branches of the oak, Fir, And birch Wave their spidery fingers at the sky As if waiting for an answer to a prayer. Paths twirl and unfold like ribbons, Tracing the past generations’ steps to the peak. Clouds encircle the summit as if dancing. Markers are set to tell you that many people Have been here to rise above. Trees make a thin blanket against the buffeting winds That scour everything And withdraw suddenly. An old house at the back of the mountain Gives you a personal secret You keep to yourself. Your ancestors scaled it. You want to follow their invisible ghosts up to the top And see the valley spread out like a patchwork quilt, And a feeling of big/small makes you want To become part of the mountain yourself, To become one with the wind and trees and birds And stories that the locals tell. You want them to surround you And enclose you. The footprints that have faded leave their story, The birds have an article that they will share, The trees have old legends Of kings and queens and knights, The ground has an account Of the gossip passed by the people of the mountain. You want to call this home. Zeke Braman, 9 Acton, MA Enoch Farnham, 12 Edmond, OK
Sounds of the Night
The water ripples, The nightingale sings, The leaves swish in the wind. The night can be so loud. Elizabeth Ableson, 7 Darien, CT
The Angel
What a little angel she is Whisper the Jewish Sunday-school ladies behind gloved hands As I flounce down the hall All dressed up in my blue silk party dress, the one with the frills on the bottom Another gift from Daddy’s friends in Chicago A special dress for a special girl like you My proud parents beam with pride when I stand behind the microphone in the school auditorium: Oh, say can you see . . .? The only first-grader allowed up on stage What good manners she has The waitress at the diner smiles over the counter at me when I ask for a straw These are the three keys—thank you, you’re welcome, and may I please Hands pressed together firmly each Yom Kippur Oh God and Father, creator of Heaven and Earth, I penitently acknowledge my sins . . . I can’t bear to tell a lie, come home crying if I do Mommy, Mommy, I was the one who took the last cookie from the jar! I wish that God made more little girls like you, sighs the mother of Jack Davidson, who got expelled from my school for punching a kid in the stomach Would you care for a cupcake? No, thank you. My mother says it has too much sugar. Want a bag of chips? No, thank you. My mother says they have no nutritional value. I come home proud and happy from school The blinding red A-plus in the corner of my drawing too hard not to notice Have you ever thought of putting your daughter in the gifted class? Time for the school play I stand in the wings in my blue-and-white-checked dress, dark hair twisted into two neat braids All ready to go on, dance my way down the yellow-brick road Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high, there’s a land that I heard of, once in a lullaby . . . How talented she is! Everybody tells me But “Nothing gold can stay,” my mother recites every time someone tells me I’m an angel, Shakes her head and glances sadly out at the setting sun, Puffy white clouds fading away into the dusk. Straight out of Heaven. Bo-Violet Vig, 13 Los Angeles, CA Sloka Ganne, 10 Overland Park, KS
