Oh, flowers, smelling like nothing else Your colors shining in the sun Sitting on the ground and grass and swishing in the trees Your petals blowing everywhere So very beautiful Red or green or yellow and all the other colors Oh, flowers, I’m happy to be seeing you every day Irene Surprenant, 8 Santa Clara, CA Pearl Lee, 10 Greenwich, CT
Poem
Wave
I am a wave I splash on soft shore I feel the yellow sand Fishes gliding in me All windy days I am so big Sometimes So big Called A tsunami On sunny days I am so small Sometimes not even there Birds chirping above me I am salty The sky above me making me blue Without it, I’d be clear People throwing trash in me I hope it would stop soon Because of the fishes eating it dying I can’t feel so many tiny scaly bodies rubbing against me anymore But then more fish get born I feel them once again I am so happy Irene Surprenant, 8 Santa Clara, CA
I AM Poem
I am a singer and a vet I wonder how people develop personalities I hear flowers singing I see a magic carpet I want my dog to talk I am a singer and a vet I pretend I’m my favorite character in my book I would feel great if I lived in nature I touch a bird’s soft silky feathers I worry I will die too soon I cry when something goes wrong I am a singer and a vet I understand I need to wear clothes I say what you believe is what’s correct I dream I will meet a unicorn I try to make a good first impression I hope it will snow I am a singer and a vet Kathleen Werth, 8 Silver Spring, MD
Alive
Bright moonlight fills the rainy forest. Trees’ leaves glisten with rain. The shadow of a wolf slices the white glow. His paws softly touch the damp mud. He has a place to go. The moon flickers, appears again in a crack between two treetops, {the light shining like fire.} The wolf opens his jaws, throws his head back, howls. The sound echoes through the woods. He ceases his noise. His job is finished. All around him the forest awakens. Owls’ wings beat. Rats scurry, bats squeak, foxes growl. He runs back across the mud, paced by the rhythm of his feet against the ground, and watches the black shapes of animals travel from tree to tree. He has nothing more to do. The night has come alive. Katie Turk, 11 Palo Alto, CA
Autumn Leaves
I stand here, still in the open air, paused in a lawn of crisp, crackly leaves. I feel sorry they had to die. I’d feel bad to crunch. I stand still in a strangely deep sorrow. Eva Bandy, 9 Quarryville, PA
The Teacher
The wind teaches the bare trees how to dance The trees try but they are not agile and thrash like a beached fish I wonder why the wind does not just give up Its next lesson may be more fruitful The green leaves flutter in the wind against the bare tree I wish that the wind would teach me how to dance I wonder if I would ever be the wind’s great pupil Charlie McDermott, 13 Vienna, VA
Violet Break
Up, out of the Spree! (of the city) he said We should get out of town! (in the meadow) Do you know how breakneck it is? to be alone (on a dusty bridge) when you have a violet break? Dancing in the sunshine (bare feet) you see! He was right all along (Maybe I should propose) in a violet break! (and I did!) Georgia Marshall, 9 Marblehead, MA
Night and Day
Night is dark and mysterious. Every soul is asleep. Even the tiny baby birds don’t make a sound for we know the moon is quite big its falling, glowing gaze from up above. The stars are bright. The fairies dance under the twinkling lights. In the moonlight, God casts a spell on the glowing Earth to make the sun peek out from behind the clouds again and again. After the darkness has gone, a big yellow ball of fire emerges from the sky. Everybody is awake except the owls who sleep and don’t make a hoot. Birds fly everywhere and tweet their melodies. Butterflies flutter with excitement and dance along. The sky is painted blue like a canvas. The sidewalks are warm under my feet. It is time to shout and play! As evening approaches, God casts a spell to make the starry night appear again and again. Hannah Parker, 12 Burlington, VT Caitlin Goh, 8 Dallas, TX
Raking the River
Jeff Kovatch Memorial Ohio River Cleanup, Harris Riverside Park, Huntington, WV My father reaches out with the rake and pulls the bottle toward us. I pick it up with my litter-getter and drop it into our big green plastic bag. “I’m raking the river,” he says. We both laugh. I think that would be a good idea for a poem. Charlotte Tigchelaar, 11 Huntington, WV
No one knew
The rain pounded the windows. No one knew what to do… What would happen to everyone? The baby started to cry. He had been born in a happy, sunny place. Jada Kovatch, 11 Huntington, WV
Found
The fire-colored butterflies Flying drunkenly Silently sipping on the budding milkweeds. Snowflakes delicately falling Landing on open mouths of youth. The lake, calm and tranquil Silently discovering the ocean. The smallest trail of smoke Making its way to the sky. Fate isn’t sealed Like an envelope, Instead it guides Like the rails on a cliff To prevent falling Into a never ending Darkness. Or the stars Dotting the sky like freckles To prevent the sailors From stumbling into a whistling whirlpool. Not all maps Must be followed. Maya Wolfford, 13 Cincinnati, OH
To Contradict
The waterfall, thought as brave, Viewed as unwearable, unstoppable, ablaze, Secretly cowers and hopes to end its days But continues to roar and never strays. The brambles, viewed as fierce and tough, Ignorant, guarded, as if they’ve had enough And stay like that until they wither, Pretending to be cool and tastelessly blither. The garden, swaying with the wind Seen as vulnerable, flimsy, weak, and thin But only leans with this harsh blow Because it has learned to go with the flow. The ocean, scrubbing away at the sand, Knows it could do something much more grand But still tries to reach for the land With a watery, frothy, desperate hand. The dirt, seen as filthy and rotted, With jewels and gems its depths are dotted But still it chooses to follow the dark way For it’s afraid to be seen with a happy day. The pebble, smoothed down by the stream, Seen as solitary, so hadn’t tried to join a team And as it tried to let out a scream Beneath the waters, it was held, serene. But the rose, viewed as superficial behind thorns Was expected to laugh with pity and scorn At the ugly weeds as they were promptly picked But instead it didn’t, thoughtful to contradict. And until this very significant moment It had been waiting for the bestowment Of the gift it had long ago earned: The petals it has, since young age, yearned. And this is how the rose gained its beauty, For performing a kind act, a necessity, a duty, And now you look at the rose and think pretty Instead of low, arrogant, and gritty. Maya Wolfford, 13 Cincinnati, OH
