At first misty then drizzling now coming down hard like long, thin fingers reaching down to earth gray against the green of the pine trees combining with the fog that has rolled in from the sea. Many people prefer tropical islands or dusty deserts— but I like the wet and the fog and the mist and the gray skies of home because . . . to me, nothing is better than wet and mist and fog and gray fingers of rain against green trees. Natalie Lam, 12 Bothell, Washington
Poem
Grandma
I saw a hot air balloon this morning And immediately thought of you Every time I am on the hill I yell “Hi Grandma!” As loud as I can I look at the ancient hilltop tree How its branch is pointing To all the land you loved I look at the vineyards And I remember How much you treasured them When I climb the hill I still remember Scattering your ashes How they blew on me in the wind And I didn’t brush them off I think of you quilting Even in intensive care When it was hard for you to breathe And when you wanted off life support But stayed alive until we were ready I remember playing cards Listening to classical music and Spending Christmas mornings with you Now I can listen to your voice On the life story tape And sleep under your quilt Whenever I want But that is still nothing Compared to your love for me Mark Roberts, 10 Windsor, California
The Search for Literature
I run my fingers across the shelves Waiting for one to catch my eye Row after row my fingers run Failure takes a step closer But there in the dusty corner Hidden by the screen of forget Lies the love of my life that will only last a couple of hours Bright red with gold lettering A hard skin protecting its insides No telling what it’s like But I have a good feeling Gently I pick my discovery up To me, it’s a block of gold My breath stirs the grime on top I back up slowly and sit on the carpeted floor Ready for an adventure, I lift the hard cover My eyes move from left to right As the personality of the book in my hands is revealed Connor Park, 12 Mukilteo, Washington
3:30 A.M.
At 3:30 A.M. I gradually rise from my ocean of sleep Away from the trenches of unconsciousness Where lantern-fish dreams lurk. Tick, tick, tick The dutiful second hand is making itself dizzy again. Whirr… The fish tank motor sounds throughout the night. It is dark Yet I can see outlines of posters on my wall. My long-haired cat Is curled tightly At the end of the bed. My pillow is squashed Sheets wrap around me All other blankets Tossed unceremoniously To the floor. My throat is sandpaper dry There is a tug at my stomach. Milk. I need milk. Toes land among carpet fuzz Then lift slowly I stumble through the hallway. The kitchen blacker than my bedroom Outside puddles shudder with raindrops The cat has slipped past me She peers out with interest. I flip the switch And harsh light glares Into my pupils. I can’t see the rain any longer The windows are dark squares. I pour milk, and down the glass Leaving it on the counter. I flee the frozen tiles And climb into bed. Sonja Skye Wooley, 12 Berkeley, California
My Deepest Desires
I want to be one with the earth I want to sink my feet into the soft dirt and feel no difference between myself and the world around me. I want to slip into the cool river water and float as if I am made of it. I want to climb the tallest trees and daringly sway in the breeze. I want to look into a wolf’s eyes and feel no fear at all. I want to be one with the earth. Isabel Taylor, 13 Royal, Arkansas
Adopted
We walked home together. We talked about schoolwork, and then you said, “You are adopted. I’m sorry.” Sometimes you commented on the dirt on my clothes as we walked out of school. But this felt different, like we were at a party and all of a sudden the music stopped and everyone stared at me. The words take me back: You’re adopted. I’m sorry? What did you say? These words make me feel like I should hide in a box and never come out. I am utterly quiet while my hands clench into fists. You shattered the moment, the laughing, the talking, everything. And you know it. I am like a rope held together by trust and care. That rope has been severed— A rope made of tiny threads that wear out if you use it too much— by you. And you can say “I’m sorry” because you do not know what it is like To feel the shadow of hurtful words. To feel small Because you cast the shadow. Now think Deep Deep Deep Could you say that now? Would you say that now? All those times you were mean this is just hurtful. Zoe Savishinsky, 12 Seattle, Washington
Summer Winds
The breeze tastes sweet and warm of sun of ripe fruit and of grass It ruffles my hair and plasters my sweat-wet shirt on my skin It blows doors shut and wafts in windows to cool hot pies and fill empty spaces In the gentle lull of the wind trees creak and shiver, fresh cut grass is tossed onto the walk and the clouds are pushed like cotton-ball puffs across a blue-glass sky At night the wind carries fireflies on its wings and sweet chirping songs of crickets and frogs When the breeze stops playing with my hair or creaking the loose gate and begins chafing my skin and redding my nose and cheeks making breath visible You know the summer wind has left But you remember its playful soul Sam Brandis-Dann, 11 New York, New York
A View to Kill
When my dad came home he was not my father, but a king an emperor he had not a gun but a scepter in his hand. It had the power to start or stop my adulthood. He said, “I’m home.” We were in the woods out back. I had spent my whole life looking forward to this, I would spend the rest dreading it. Then suddenly out of the early morning mist came the deer in its entirety. I saw it The deer I leveled the gun Like dense lead in my hands. As soon as I fired the gun I collapsed into an endless space. I remember my last view as if it were a movie frame (cut to black) I saw the deer fall. We both went at the same time. I still recall that fateful day, when I traded a deer’s life for my own pride. Bradley Culley, 11 Portland, Maine
Sounds
My iguana cage is silent. Just two weeks ago it was alive with sounds. I wish we’d just throw it out. The other night I heard a helicopter fly over my head. I hear a lot of helicopters at night when I’m trying to sleep but this one was different. I was at UCLA and it was late at night and it flew over my head and I ran away from it but then it landed on the top of the UCLA emergency room parking lot and I was glad the awful noise just stopped. The answering machine picks up and says I would like to know if you can join Kaleidoscope on Sunday night. I don’t recognize the voice but I know it has something to do with school. I hear my stomach gurgling. It sounds like a washing machine. The siren of a police car wakes my cat up. The sound of a blue jay squawking is stopped by a loud shriek. I wonder if my cat got the bird. A dog is howling like a werewolf next door. The thought of that makes me shiver. I hit my pen against the table like a drumstick. I’m drumming to “Love Me Do.” It’s suddenly so quiet. The French people to the left of us are not home. The Japanese people to the right are asleep. I don’t like it. The only sound I hear is the tap tap tapping of my foot on the floor and the rap rap rapping of my pen on the table . . . Paul McCartney’s voice sings in my head. I can’t believe he can sing so deep and so high at the same time. Marley Powell, 12 Los Angeles, California
September 11, 2001
today is my birthday i am eight years old colored tissue and balloons then in one bright blinding moment life changes forever a thousand dreams float from the sky and scatter jigsaw over New York City Rachel Weary, 8 St. Albert, Alberta, Canada
The Crash
I can’t remember the crash, Only closing my eyes, A falling feeling rushing through me, As if I were sinking under water. But there was none, just rocks. My eyes wouldn’t open. I remember thinking this must be What it’s like being dead. I floated out of the ditch, “Crawling like a cat,” they told me, And couldn’t feel myself. The youngest one said, “I thought you were dead,” And the other, “Will the eye ever grow back?” Teeth chattering, feeling of ice All over my body, And the voice repeating, “Don’t fall asleep, don’t fall asleep,” I wanted to sleep the pain away. I thought breaking bones Would hurt more, But my eye demanded attention. Behind a swollen, deformed eye, I still see swirling leaves, Crossed branches of trees, The flash of a strobe light, And the crash, again and again. My face has become An ugly changing rainbow, But inside I am the same as before. Can you see me in all my colors? Mark Roberts, 10 Windsor, California
Grandfather
Behind your vacant stare, Memories lie hidden, Faltering and fleeting The distant remembered, The present, unrecallable. Never afraid before Shadows of freshly plastered seams On my living room wall, Now haunt you, transporting you Back to the barbed-wire camps. So vividly you recall Your Nazi captors, And your escape Yet, it is my name that Escapes you now. Your smooth fingers glide nimbly Over the piano keys. You are at peace; Lost in reveries, Only to wake up To a confused reality. Although your memory is extinguishing, On your delicate face, A smile has found a permanent home. Your gentle touch, warm eyes Still illuminate my heart. Hands joined, ancient and innocent Float together on waves of love. Alexa Bryn, 11 Hollywood, Florida
