I smell butter cookies, hot chocolate and the stickiness of sleep As we gallop up the stairs to the family room My brother jumping up and down beside me Like a monkey in his tree-green plaid pajamas The tree is glowing like a pyramid of radium And the presents, mysterious cubes and ovals wrapped in slippery wax wrapping paper The color of fluffy foamy whipped cream I hope to get a new skateboard or a surfboard Or any kind of board that moves I imagine tearing through the boxes to discover the treasure within We stare at our thumbs as we wait as impatiently as dogs about to be fed For my parents to wake up so we can open presents But we only hear our dad snoring As loud as the howl of the wind on a crisp, cold winter night But then we turn around and see our rumply tousled parents in the pine-scented hallway “You can open your presents now,” they say With smiles as wide as two slivers of the moon “Finally!” my brother and I shout as we rush towards the pile of mysterious presents In the boxes I find root-beer-scented surf wax A black leash to hold me to my surfboard and my surfboard to me And foamy grip tape to help me from slipping off the board And as I hear my mom’s gracefull laughter As she watches my brother bounce around the living room With a ribbon tied around his legs and arms as if he were a present I feel cozy in a blanket of happiness and love Colin Johnson, 11 Laguna Beach, California
Poem
Hidden in Things
They are hidden in a place like a key lost in the dark A plane’s vapor line disappears from the sky An insect flies away from view like a worm crawls beneath the earth A flower you cannot see has withered back in its own pod The lines drawn by our skates vanish from view as the Zamboni drives across the ice Small, cold, tiny snowflakes fall gently from the sky disappearing into a thin layer of snow The water in the stream that was just in front of you has flowed away from where you just saw it A wave begins to form then crashes down to join the others Raindrops fall from the clouds from high above Suddenly they have disappeared into a puddle making a small last splash Lotus Shen, 11 Newark, Delaware
Wolf Moon
The oak trees all around us Hide the light of the moon, Only emitting a faint Spectral glow. Rustlings and stirring, Usual at nighttime like this Are gone. The air is silent tonight, The tingle of magic in the air, And it seems all of the forest Is holding its breath, Marveling at the beauty of The moon. The clearing in front of me Is full of blinding light, With the moon directly overhead, The fullest it can be. The rocks are painted white and silver, With the ground frosty, As though the early morning mist Is painted upon them. The whole universe sparkles, Like stardust has fallen to the earth, In the middle of our small world. All around I hear the Huffing and panting of wolf breath. I step, into the clearing, My front paw illuminated From the otherworldly moonlight. Raising my now silvery tail, I lead my pack Out into the clearing, To howl at the moon. Brooke Hemingway, 13 Chicago, Illinois
Islands in the Clouds
Have you ever climbed a butte in the fog with the sun’s rays slanting visibly through the trees? Have you reached the top, leaving fog and tree behind and seen a sea of white clouds stretching away in all directions? The treetops of other high places poke up through the mist and you dream of a ship that could sail in this sea and bring you to another of the islands in the clouds Sandra Detweiler, 13 Eugene, Oregon
Irises
Every day I am reborn as something new. I am a prim cherry blossom, a sleek flying fish, a youthful scholar I am everything all at once; a savory dash of powdery cinnamon, a sprig of scorched chard. I am the pulse of the air I inhale, I am one of seven billion Homo sapiens. But no matter what or who I am, I will always gaze at our world of infinity from behind the same gleaming obsidian pupils, the same shining chestnut irises. Caroline Smyth, 12 Raleigh, North Carolina
Home Plate
Ah, Baseball! My favorite sport. I feel the excitement and adrenalin running through me As we begin the game. I’m in my favorite position, The catcher’s spot, With the batter right beside me. I sign the pitch to the pitcher And the pitcher winds up. I see the ball sailing toward me And I hear the thud of the ball in my mitt. But wait, what’s this? A man stealing second? I must throw him out! I pop up as quick as I can, To zap the ball to the second baseman. The throw, The slide, The tag. And the umpire calls it… OUT! Hooray! As I squat down for the next pitch, I smile and think, “This is where I belong, Right behind Home Plate.” Ross Mangels, 11 Skopje, Macedonia
Night Music
The cricket drones and an eternity passes. As the night whispers on the ground below, perched forever behind the star-soaked curtain of sky. And the rain drips from the old gutters to my windowsill and onto the ground below. Listen. Wait. You may hear the murmuring conversations behind the windows of home. A wisp of music drifting on wind and mist, caught in the dewy grass. This world, half asleep, falling into the arms of unconscious thought and dreamless slumber is a symphony. Norah Brady, 13 Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts
Tracks
I go to the tracks to think, The ties go on for miles. They let me see the world, They remind me how small I am. The bushes creep into the dirt in the cracks, Even in synthetic structures there is nature. They have sat here long enough to be ruins, And trellises for invasive vines. But they were once signs of progress, Human civilization creeping over unclaimed lands. I go to the tracks to think, There’s a rock a few yards off. It’s big enough to sit on, So I sit and watch. Most remnants of the tracks’ glory days are gone, But I can feel the rush of the wind as the trains hurtle past. Ellanora Lerner, 13 New London, Connecticut
Topanga Canyon
Two white cars pass each other on the highway, One maneuvers easily around a red barn, through a twist in the highway, and towards the seashore’s fogbanks, Pulling up the canyon side, the other passes under the shady brambles of a glen, And its destination, far from sight, twinkles reflected only in its seeker’s eye. Now the first car is only a speck on the horizon; the ocean is far from me but not from it, Going fast, the second car enters the woods’ splintered sunlight, unseen to my eye, gone like the nighttime stars, And as the morning star fades, I recall how soon I will have to get in my car and leave this paradise. Coyotes, far on the other side of the canyon, howl; can they feel the loneliness in the air, too? A finch hops onto an ancient locust tree’s limb, its feathers creating a halo of sunlight and joy, Not a care in the world, the finch lifts off, its sequined shard of light following it wherever it goes, Yammering, higher on the cliff; our neighbors’ chickens awake to the already bright sky. On the cliff, I sit; I can see the Pacific before me, like a mirage, moving away through my car window… Now my dream vanishes: I am still here, still sitting in this wondrous place, but for how long, I cannot say. Edie Patterson, 10 Lawrence, Kansas
My Hammock
Still. Suddenly, a sweet song, a lullaby. Swinging now. A hush a shush a soft touch caressing my sharp elbows, my shivering toes, my rounded cheeks. Swinging now, Swathed in silken material hush, hush, hush Goodnight sun alone but content not lonely several long seconds… Swinging now. Stars smile at me sprinkling light Each star, its own star like snowflakes. Individuals. Swinging now. I sleep dreams tiptoeing across my mind slippered feet sliding silently. I sleep Safe in my hammock. Swinging now Anamaria Grieco, 13 Brookline, Massachusetts
Nature’s Canvas (Bayard Cutting Arboretum)
Peaceful river waves whisper nature all around me. My pen reaches into calm breeze. Sunshine on water makes the blue look like someone broke pieces of gold and threw them in. Every wave pops up, meets soft green leaves. My feet drag against rocks. I am just trying to make my way through nature’s galaxy. A boat in the distance starts moving toward us. Then—a dead stop. When it moves again, it is a seagull flying. The boat passes rows of homes, its motor interrupting the blue water’s turn to speak. Very rude of you, speedboat. A man on the other bench meditates. He should be able to enjoy silence. Yeah, speedboat, he should. I move away from shade and my brother shows me a great egret catching a fish. Two egrets and a swan converse. We watch a slow tortoise rise from the water and kayak toward us and the poor gargantuan tree tortured with graffiti. But the tree offers shade and shade and walking are the prerequisites of parks, as is trying to remember your brain’s best poetic errands. Like I just did. It’s not hard if you jump in the waves and swim in the land of thoughts. Rainer Pasca, 9 Bay Shore, New York
Poetry Bird
Mourning dove High in the swing tree Sings poetry Just like mine Reminding me Of the singing bird Inside me And melting my heart Guthrie Harris, 10 Kalamazoo, Michigan
