A bluish cabin near a quiet peaceful lake. Nothing, nothing at all could beat a place like this. Colorful sailboats glide along the silent water. A loon and its babies dive down to get a fish, Leaving a ripple in their place. Birds calling, a tree swaying, Laughter of my family fills the air. My feet run across the soft mossy and green grass, While playing with my dog. In this place, it makes me happy, Takes me away from all the dangers of the world. It protects me. I jump into the crystal-clear water. It refreshes me on a hot summer day. This place is better than an arcade or a water park. The hammock swings near the water, While hot dogs and hamburgers are grilling. It’s old I know, but it’s the best. It’s Camp! Kayla Walsh, 13 Falmouth, Maine
Poem
The Way Life Should Be
Secluding ourselves by a fire, Cherishing a novel. Burning rubber under us, As wind whips our face. Embracing in a hug, When one has not seen The other for years. Smiling, laughing, splashing, As icy water slithers up our bodies. Savoring arctic-cold lemonade, On a blistering summer day. A refined voice departing your throat, As a thunderous boom of applause Emits from the audience. Doing whatever appeals to you, Without any consequences. This is the way life should be, This is the fictional world That we pray becomes reality. But an alarm rings madly, And my wondrous dream comes to an end. Nicky Cannon, 12 Dallas, Texas
The Last Last Day
It was the last day. Names and Have a great summers Had been scribbled into yearbooks. Presents had been lovingly handed to teachers. For six years, we’d had last days. We’d sung cute little songs, And signed the yearbooks, The amount of friends growing each year. We’d always seen them—the oldest kids— Going to the ceremony. We’d always heard the music from the hallway. But we never thought that we’d actually be those fifth-graders. And we never imagined how strange it was when you’re sitting on a rug in a classroom for the last time. And you’ve had your last recess. Ever. And there you are, staring into your friends’ eyes, Not knowing whether to scream out with joy Or wail and explode with tears. Because the bell, that we have heard ring thousands of times, Is screaming its shrill, heartbreaking call, The sorrowful “Brrring!” that had told us time to go so many times, Was sounding for the last time, Like it was hollering, “I miss you,” forlornly, But it was too late— We had already gone away. And we’d never hear its call as students of that school again. Courtney Cooperman, 12 Short Hills, New Jersey
Wishing Star
My favorite part Of staying the night Was after The “fun” stuff It was bundling up And going outside Staring into the deep black sky Finding the perfect star And making a wish After hearing The fatal news I went outside Stars magnified with tears And wishing For time Just one more year After a second I took it back In your eyes Was hidden agony And I couldn’t prolong it My tears Soaked the sky As I pondered the end When I heard the news I wasn’t as shocked As I should’ve been Instead I imagined you hearing My plea And trying to hold on Just a little more time For your favorite I imagined you Peace etched on your face As you sense the change And take your final breath In the never-ending sky There is one more Wishing star Hayden Brame, 13 Chehalis, Washington
Roller Skating
The wheels Crunch over the pea gravel As sweat Crowds my tomato-red face. My legs are constantly moving Pumping with pure Adrenaline. A puddle Crammed with mud Stretches over the cement sidewalk. Consumed with laughter And joy I am too delirious To see the hazard. My body Is shot into the air And my arms Flail Like a baby pigeon Flying for the first time. My legs are Spattered With grime. My aerial adventure Concludes With a tragic Crash. Water Spurts out From under my Bruised body. Drops pitter-patter as they Connect with land. I sit there Soaked Absorbed with how I look What pity watchers must feel. But I am chortling Elated Even if briefly And even if disastrously ended. I had Done it. I had roller skated. Nicky Cannon, 12 Dallas, Texas
Tree House
I climb up the light brown ladder I smell fresh air A soft wind touches my face Gently brushing new green leaves I rest my back on a thick old tree and watch an ant crawl carrying a small piece of green A bird chirps I look up I watch it fly away softly on the wind I take a deep breath and settle to my book. Caroline Lunt, 12 Shrewsbury, Massachusetts
Horses
George, with his silver-gray fur cantering across bright green grass whinnying softly his white mane blown out by the wind the sun a horizon of bright colors behind him Reaching out to pet the soft brown and white dotted face of Polka Peering out from behind the stall ready to ride * * * All my life I’ve been watching those jumpers in that field wishing it was me. Finally I was ready. The swishing of Violet’s tail and the clop of her canter encouraged me onward. Leaning forward I felt my heart soar into the bright blue sky as Violet leapt into the air almost as if she were flying. Then dropping gently to the ground and coming slowly to a stop. I had done it. I had jumped. Sophia Lipkin, 9 Brooklyn, New York
Song of the Trotter
Dark clouds gather, looming huge and gray, Rain cold-needles my face, The wind whips me into exhilaration. A rumbling starts down the track. Thunder? No, not thunder. It’s flint-and-steel hooves, striking out a lightning rhythm. Tap tap, Tap tap, Tap tap. Heads high, ears back— The rain stings them, too. Yet I see them charge undaunted, For they know the storm is theirs. The track is a dance floor, With the wind for music. They know the steps. Tap tap, Tap tap, Tap tap. Flecked with sweat and rain, Hot and cold. The voice of the whip drives them on. They stretch out, bodies glistening. My heartbeat joins with theirs, As they speed straight under the wire, Singing the song of the harness horse. Tap tap, Tap tap, Tap tap. Mary Woods, 12 Frankfort, Illinois
L’eau/Water
Pour moi, l’eau c’est la plage Où vit ma grand-mère, Les grands ours bruns Qui rôdent autour de la maison, L’océan qui me chante une berceuse, Le bateau de mon oncle qui part À la pêche. Pour moi, l’eau C’est une vague salée. For me, water is the island Where my grandmother lives, The big brown bears That creep around the house, The ocean that sings me a lullaby, My uncle’s boat that goes out fishing. For me, water Is a salty wave. Ella Csuros, 8 Montreal, Canada
Simpleness
I love it when it’s raining and you’re driving and you pass under a bridge and the rain stops for just a moment. I love it when you walk outside on a wet morning and you can smell damp clay and freshly mown grass under the gray morning light. I love it when it’s nighttime and you’re under a cool blanket of stars and you feel like you should be able to see your breath or taste the air. I love it when you’re at the beach and you let the water stream to your toes and your ankles sink into the sand and the water streams back out again. I love it when you look at someone— just glance at them barely— and you both know that you’re about to burst out in laughter. I love it when it’s snowing outside— just gently, though—and you sit outside in the snow and let the snowflakes fall on you in their quiet, peaceful way. I love it when a spacious room becomes absolutely quiet except for the sound of a clock ticking away the time of silence in the room. I love it when you bite into a perfect apple and you can hear that satisfying crunch that just makes it taste so much better. I love it when a gust of gentle wind streams through the trees so that they rattle and it sounds like water is passing through. I love it when you read the last words of a book and you read them over and then the first words and then the title because you just can’t believe it’s over. I love it when you do that: when you smile like that at me. Do it again; smile like that again at me. Madeline Snigaroff, 11 Del Mar, California
Mixed Bag
I sigh As the warm water pours down my back Washing off the dust and dirt Of the last week It’s been so long since I showered. A movie Playing on television Surrounding me with its music and images It’s nice to be part of society again. Pillows Soft and fluffy Two of them on my bed I’d forgotten what they felt like. A warm quilt Pulled over me What a nice warm place to sleep. A radiator Blowing warmth into the room It’s nice to be away from the drafts of the tent. Showers, television, Pillows, mattresses, Quilts, radiators Sleeping will be easy here. Before I drift off Into the welcoming world of sleep I look up. I see only the white paint Of the ceiling above me, Separating me from the stars High up in the heavens Pinpricks of light slowly rotating Which were my companions for the last week. Genna Carroll, 13 San Jose, California
The World Apart
The trail is rough, But I absorb it all, Every bump, dip and curve, And let it become me. My hands rattle on the bars of my bike, As I take on this course. With speed and energy I never knew. The scenery astounds. A stream tries to keep up, The trees watch from above, The grass plays at my ankles, The birds cheer me on. As I try to blend, Into the scenery. The burn in my thighs, The wind in my face, The rustle of my hair, The fast steady motion, Is the rhythmic beat, Of the world apart. Ash Berger, 12 Concord, North Carolina
