A splash in the water, breaking the silence Before a second one follows. Carefully I step out, Directing my feet away from Elusive little gray Fish, darting to and fro, and those water bugs, Gliding gently, before Hastily rushing off the moment I stamp my giant black boots. “You Just scared them away!” And I Know we’ll always do that, and when we Leave the park, More fish will come, to celebrate that the Notoriously huge people left, Of course, falling silent as more arrive, Particularly children. Quite a lot of noise comes, and I can Remember that all the Silence is only Temporary, and absolutely everyone enjoys Using the water, listening to the Valuable sound of Water skating over the rocks like a Xylophone’s mallet flowing over it, and I Yearn to stay, to watch water bugs Zip away as I try in vain, laughing, to catch them.
Poem
Spring Flowers
As I look around I can see The whole world looking back at me The rain is coming down On all the petals The colors all around Remind me of when I was small The sun is trying to shine I feel the raindrops on my shoulders When I walk
The World Above
High above The world above us Needs your help There is so much you can do Just take a little peek And you can tell How much you can do to help Just take a little look around At the whole world Looking back at you
In the Woods
In the woods You can see The smile of the trees The leaves are swaying The wind is blowing While we walk There’s a whole world ahead of you Come on You can see more when you walk in the woods
April Thoughts
A window beside my desk. the sun the world bloomed before the flowers flourish beautiful white white April flowers one big ball of lace— like a white hydrangea softly speckled with green. Green shoots! The little brown bird chirped. bush shines so brightly. sunny daffodils bloom, sunny smudged grey-brown pigeon red robin chirping robins! Green Gables say flowers budded yet I wonder if love I would have it broke my heart to tell her nice teal the world has not yet begun —flowers.
Spring Wakes
Spring is waking up I know And yet I’m not quite Sure For Sometimes In the Frosty-cold mornings Winter Sneaks back And plays Until Spring runs across The yard And Winter Disappears.
The Mask
Earnest Eyes I sit and stare At the mask I have to wear. When I go to school, I see a sign that says, “Wear your mask and be cool.” I feel like a caged bird. I get no say, Not in any way. I feel too self-conscious at recess to take it off. Or when I cough. After a year and a half of being stuck in this place, I start to feel ashamed of my face.
art room
i want to sit in the art room where no one thinks to check on me i want to sit in the art room where no one dares to enter without knowing what they are going to say and say quietly i want to sit in the art room so there is no room for anyone else i want to sit in the art room so there is room for myself
My Different Names
When I was small, Around preschool, I was called Anusha. For some reason, One that I still do not understand, My mother and father decided To change my name. In a legal process which took ages, And tons and tons of pages, My name transformed Into something new. Suddenly, I was Shivanshi. I said it to myself, Trying it out on my tongue. Shi-van-shi, Shi-van-shi. It sounded good. Strong and firm. It takes a while for people to get it. They say, Shrivanshi Or Savanshi. Some people call me Shiv, Just because they are too lazy To take the time to say it right. I am called other things as well. Things that I like. By my friends and family, I am called Shivi. To me it sounds fun and playful. Every time it is said, it reminds me of Our closeness. By my best friend of all, I am called Ivi. A short name, So short that it couldn’t possibly represent all of our friendship, But it does.
Wood Oysterlings
Quiet in the wood. Robins hop from branch to branch. Gently, the branch sways— up down—again—up down and stops. The breeze weaving around the trees pushes plants over. Leaves jostle together. My footsteps odding out of the sounds. Above, raucous rooks haw and caw while landing on branches. Ever so suddenly they take off— each a flapping ink blot across winter’s gray sky— coughing out their caws. Below, little ears listen. Growing and spreading with all the sounds they hear. They listen in every moment, to every creature, every step I take, every crow that haws, constantly.
Waxwings
—these men, heading down to the berry bar after a shower and a touch of hair gel on top of their fluffy, feathery heads. Going down with a dollar, hoping to get a fresh juicy berry the size of a bunny’s tail.
Rising
Bright Morning I go for a walk today. The world is alive— birds swooping and singing like phoenixes, red, yellow, orange dahlias, their petals bursting as if they think that they are fireballs. We see a dead bumblebee on the sidewalk. I bury it, my cold hands on its delicate body. Maybe it too will rise from the ashes.
