A curiously-shaped case, elongated ebony Buckles, that when opened reveal gleaming gold Nestled in velvet, radiant brass glints in twists and turns Narrow pipes widen to a vast bell Pieced together with knobs and screws What will this clanky contraption do? Blowing begins, a sound like an old man coughing Spit settling in the pipes, clogging and choking Frustration, tantrums, dismantling is in sight Walk around, wait a while, at last it calls me back With pursed lips and perseverance An astounding melodious sound echoes, ringing through the room Note after note, the slide swings My hands and mouth laboring in unity At last I feel connected to this once awkward hunk of brass It’s no longer just an instrument, but a portal To my joy of music Elliott McCloskey, 13 Eagle, Idaho
Poem
The Soundtrack of Summer
The breeze sweeps through my hair and pulls aside the curtain of leaves above me allowing sunshine to fall, gracefully onto my face. I close my eyes and listen as the hammock sways me gently. With a bold splash someone dives into the relieving cool of a backyard pool. An insect hums and chirps while lounging on a leaf. A lawn mower putters and roars as it begins to hack away at a mighty forest that’s been allowed to grow far too long. My dog beneath the hammock pants contentedly. Somewhere near a happy laugh celebrates freedom from school for many weeks to come. And then I hear a tinkling like the music at a fairy ball. For ages that very sound has attracted kids like moths to a flame. I jump to my feet and set out at a sprint towards the iconic ice cream truck. With every step my flip-flops snap as my feet pound against the asphalt. Although the peaceful trance is broken I still love no song more than the soundtrack of summer in full swing. Rebecca Kilroy, 11 Basking Ridge, New Jersey
Goodbye
Did I do something wrong? Did I say something I wasn’t supposed to? Why did you leave me like a child crying at school, pleading for their parents to come back? Only they come back, and I know you will not. You weren’t supposed to leave. I never saw you go. You didn’t leave a letter. Can I come with you? We could run away up to the clouds and hide there forever. Are you really gone forever? Can I save you, or is it too late? I heard your voice, you whispered in my ear, but it sounded like a scream. “I’m sorry.” Sometimes I wonder what I would be like if you were still here. Would I be happier? Would I cry less? I miss you. Caroline Thompson, 12 Pound Ridge, New York
Inhaling the Scent of the Wind
The scent of apples whispers through the air Reminding me of our lazy days in the orchard Lying in a bed of violet morning glories Inhaling the scent of the wind Remember the day we held a butterfly funeral in grandma’s backyard? You found it in the dirt beneath the bougainvillea bush With only one fiery wing That fluttered into silence We talked about everything and nothing By flashlight under pink and purple sheets Biscuit asleep between us, tail curled in comfort You stopped coming around When you turned thirteen The two years between us Suddenly yawned into a black abyss You became a teenager More interested in texting than watching hummingbirds fly Boy talk, than watching the water dance in the fountain And now when we meet We are strangers Sydney Pardo, 13 Irvine, California
Bird Circle
Two birds spiral, Then one races after another, And they dart through the air. When their chase is done, One stretches its slender neck and dives, The other pumps its strong wings and rises. In one acrobatic movement, a circle forms. Yet the miracle lasts only for a moment. They circle once more and land, Rustling their wings. The sounds of the world return. Sonia Bhaskaran, 9 Glendale, California
Poem
Speaking of sorrow and happiness. Telling a short story with a new voice. Speaking with a mouth of words. Soft as a baby’s cheek. Poem. Matteo Vita Harris, 9 Astoria, New York
My Temporary Window Art
The rain steadily falls, against the roof of my bus stop. The air is so cold I can see my sparkling white breath. I can already tell it’s going to be a long dreary day. When it rains, nothing goes my way. The weather makes my spirit drop, like the temperature when summer slips to autumn. The sky is gray and fierce, so the sun has a difficult time shining through, and showing its warm face. A cloud of darkness looms over my head. I am stuck in its shadow. The groaning yellow bus slowly turns the corner. I drag myself toward the curb as it rolls down the hill. Once I am aboard, the tired frustrated faces of the other kids surround me. I find my seat by a window. The glass is as foggy as pea soup. Nothing is visible through its moist surface, though I wish it was, like on a sunny day. I take my delicate finger and slowly draw a smiley face on the window. In my mind I know this blissful image will eventually fade away, but it will be my sunshine for the rest of this rainy day. Nadia Rossy, 12 Bedford Hills, New York
Without You, My Right Shoe
I must have been only six at the time, my sister, Poppy, two I must have wondered why Poppy decided to look at the parked cars in the parking lot rather than walk the Stone Arch Bridge. My mom must have stayed behind with Poppy, leaving only my dad, my aunt, and myself to see it fall. We must have walked for a little while, because it happened around the middle of the bridge. It must have been humid that summer, because my feet must have been a little slippery, a little sweaty. I must have stepped up on the brick wall below the handrail and rested my feet between the rail and the bricks. I must have stared up at Saint Anthony Falls in awe and must have heard an ice cream truck calling me. I must have stepped down from that ledge, felt my shoe slide off, and watched it tumble down, an orange falling into a faucet stream, the river. And I must have stretched my hand out, a “No!” from me, a sad yes lingering in my brain. I must have looked at my feet that night, rough and callused from a day without my right shoe. And someone down in Louisiana must have seen an orange Croc oat by on the Mississippi, a bucket full of mystery, and wondered. Isaac Walsh, 10 Minneapolis, Minnesota
Adjustments
Nothing ever stays the same Family going, Never coming back Tears fall Goodbyes made Why won’t the world stop spinning? Sorrow, joy Blended into one Leaving, For a better place Why can’t we go as well? Tears dry Life moves on Events fade Time blurs Were they ever here at all? A memory A smile A place Smacks me hard Like colliding with a wall. Tears wet my pillow again, Freed by fresh pain. I will never forget completely, Though nothing stays the same. Elisabeth Martin, 13 Dunlap, Illinois
My Dog Bella
When I arrive home from school she’s there waiting, in the window. She wags her tail joyfully. Her long slobbery tongue licks me all over. As I open the door to the backyard Bella bolts out into the yard. I grab a bouncy tennis ball and throw it as far as I can. She races across the yard fetching the tennis ball and bringing it back to me covered in slob. We go inside and I give Bella a nice warm bath. When she’s done she shakes, sending water everywhere like a sprinkler! When it’s time for bed I kiss her head and watch her drift off to sleep. I go downstairs for a glass of milk to quench my thirst. I end up finding Bella curled up into a little brown ball. Always after a long stressful day at school I can look forward to seeing Bella. Vincenzo Ruggiero, 13 Mount Kisco, New York
The Fairy House
Nestled between two gnarled tree roots Is a fairy house with A sunken floor of red clay, A triangular roof of interlocking sticks, And a winding path of pebbles leading to a Bark door. Inside, a sand-colored stone serves as a nightstand, And next to it lies a bed with a Moss mattress and maple leaf bedspread. A blank scrap of paper And a pencil sharpened down to an inch Wait expectantly on the nightstand, Placed there by the child Who constructed the fairy house, With hope of receiving a message from any Diminutive guests. But the paper remained as blank as ever, And the child abandoned her belief of fairies. Though perhaps She overlooked the mussed bedspread, Or disregarded the chip in the bark door, Or failed to notice the rose petal on the floor. Perhaps she overlooked the fact that fairies Cannot write. Lucy Hoak, 13 Falls Church, Virginia
Spring
The grove of royal white birches I’ve always loved Casts intricate shadows On the pavement below. Black on black Like deer running at night. A young fern sprout Catches my eye. Something shines But nothing moves. An old plastic bag Flutters limply in the breeze From the high limb of a pine Like winter’s flag of surrender. The rhythmic snap Of the bag Is drowned out By the soft song Of a faraway Chickadee. Isabelle Zeaske, 10 Minneapolis, Minnesota
