I look at the clock The red hand ticks, shifting its weight onto the next number Shifting its promise and memories on and on A clock tells time I believe it tells time from its perspective Every clock is different Every clock has a different view of things These numbers are what give us our limits They tell us when to stop and when to go on But this is different for clocks They don’t have limits They are endless This red hand visits every number, ticking until it finds eternity Ticking until it visits the right number But there is no right or wrong Don’t get tired of other numbers Don’t forget about what you said and what you promised Don’t leave behind the things you love just because of another number BE YOURSELF WHEN THE HAND COMES BY Sofia Dardzinski, 9 Potomac, MD
Poem
A Window in the Evening
StoneSoupMagazine · Poetry by Julia Marcus, 13 I press my face against the glass, blowing circles of air onto its cool surface. I step back, looking at the filmy, blurred image that faintly appears on the other side of the window. I draw my name in the vapor. My finger squeaks on the glass as I drag it through what used to be my breath. I wipe it all away. The window is slippery. Through the night, I cast a shadow on my front lawn, illuminated by the room’s light. I see every sharp detail of my body, blurred by my breath. Julia Marcus, 13 Culver City, CA
Playing Snatch-It
StoneSoupMagazine · Poetry by Julia Marcus, 13 Let’s see. Is there any place for an R? Can it be inserted into FLAP or GUM or BENCH? But no—I watch as CHART is made, and I half-heartedly sigh. I watch HIS turn to FISH and then to SHIFT. That could be a sentence. But they’re just random words, somehow conjugated from tiny letter tiles spread out on the table. It’s amazing how many words can be made—WATERY, CUBICLE, QUIZ, WISPY. Right here, when it’s just a game, none of it seems to mean anything. Julia Marcus, 13 Culver City, CA
Everything I Love
The ride up the mountain The thousands of trees The pine and bark Smell Makes me feel Like I am Relaxed and calm The rain pattering Against the window The shower steam against my Warm hot skin Its smells like A clean start Leaves falling With the snow Is a wonderful sight Sliding down the soft And slick slopes Going up the bright Red gondola Liv Baker, 11 Seattle, WA
Our Blanket
Everyone has their own opinion. But it is not okay To say to me that I am wrong. That I am bad. That I have no place here. Because I just said that I am Muslim. We are not terrorists. Not the Awful people the media depicts us as. Every group has people who don’t follow the rules. The Islam I know teaches me: Don’t harm a hair on their head. No matter who they are. No matter what they say. But it is not okay to tell me that I have to say sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Saying sorry for all those rule breakers that gave you a false image. Tear that image away. Underneath you will see something beautiful. You won’t have to think twice about it. Muslim. The word I grew up with. I have a huge, loving community Backing me up, so I help them. We weave together like a thousand colored-wool strings. Warm and comforting. We make a blanket that is love. Is comforting, is cozy, is us. I feel strong. I feel accepted. Drumbeats. Singing along melodiously. Even little Amel, her hair gone wild long ago, and baby Nia, Big innocent eyes, Warbling along too. Even those teenagers, yes, those over there, who have forgotten their community, Their tradition, Hum along quietly. The memories of their childhood Coming back. The fading pictures regain true color. Muzlum Portrays it differently. Like sharp rocks slicing deep into our skin. But you say it like This. Muslim, Soft, this word, not rough like sandpaper. Muslim. That ‘S’ Like a thousand silken pillows Awaiting you as soon as you finish a Warm, fragrant bath. Not deep “muuu,” Subtle “mu.” Pull out that Z; it hurts. Take a look at me And you’ll say, “You’re white.” Part-way, but also Algerian. North African and proud of it. We become more and more strained under tension, But one question remains: Why? Why hurt someone else’s community? Why tear someone else’s blanket? But we don’t let that affect us. We go on singing And sharing And loving And caring. We are just like you. Now you know. So don’t hurt my stride, Don’t take away my happy vibe. Just know, Your blanket is there too, Or maybe you’ll create one. Leila Lakhal, 12 Seattle, WA
SEARCHING FOR BOW AND ARROWS
Because I wanted to feel like an Amazon I asked my father to build me a bow with arrows. We went to the nearby woods that overlook Forest Beach in the village of South Chatham. My father, sister, and I followed A wavy uphill path to the clearing Where we found young oak trees With pointy, strong branches. We sawed off three branches That looked like they would suffice. We carved them and sanded them, And we bent them till they could sing. By the time we had finished tying the string, The evening chill had descended. We shot our arrows into the darkening sky Where the stars scampered like red foxes. Tatiana Rebecca Shrayer, 13 Brookline, Massachusetts
THE WILD CIRCUS
The unspeakable juggler on a unicycle tamed the lion. The cunning lion tamer flipped and turned on the trapeze bar. The lively trapeze artist rode on the unicycle and juggled. The creepy clown lifted strongman’s weights. The sweaty strongman tried to scare kids with his silly costume. The vicious tiger who jumped through the fire hoop sat in the cage with the hungry lion. The next day the circus was not looking so good. Not at all. The tiger and lion were now rats. The trapeze and strong man became slobbery pigs and all they wanted to do was eat. The tightrope walker and juggler on the unicycle transformed to white sheets. With a pop and a rumble, the creepy clown and lion tamer became pesky flies buzzing around. An awful day for the circus indeed. Somehow the next day everything was back to normal. Somehow. Analise Braddock, 9 Katonah, New York
THE GRADUATES
I was ten. I stayed on the Upper West Side, An old hotel with dusty paintings in gilded frames. My father kept telling me not to lose anything And not to be on my smartphone all the time. I was on the third floor, not too far from the ground, A view of a bird’s nest and dark alleyways Cluttered with trash cans and filled With loud music for the graduates. As the day unfolded, aging parents woke up And came down to take their coffee At the French bistro Nice Matin, Where croissants were warm and omelets runny. As I watched these parents at breakfast, I thought they looked both anxious and glad And I wondered if they too felt like graduates Starting a new adventure. Soon these graduates will dissolve Into a big new world, a hidden one Beneath the water’s edge— That I have yet to see, have yet to love. Tatiana Rebecca Shrayer, 13 Brookline, Massachusetts
MOPING ALONG MUDDY RIVER
On a cold winter morning I have a class At the Museum of Fine Arts. The frosty wind awakens me. I turn to the river and there, Like a still life created overnight: Muddy ice, shaped like dirty brushes, A mallard crossing to the other side, A plastic bottle floating in the water hole. As I run up the granite steps I know what to paint today. Tatiana Rebecca Shrayer, 13 Brookline, Massachusetts
A DOUBLE-HEADED MAN
Very clever but makes no sense, He says he’s always on the fence, Both a friend and an enemy at war Though standing in the corridor, Quiet and peaceful with hints of love, Both minds have something from above. Tatiana Rebecca Shrayer, 13 Brookline, Massachusetts
THE FOG’S MYSTERIOUS CLEARING
The morning dew crept in As the blackbirds began to sing. The sky was covered with fog As the coyote chased the small dog. Soon the mystery was gone And the morning sunrise began. And I wondered, greeting the day: Who cleared the fog away? Tatiana Rebecca Shrayer, 13 Brookline, Massachusetts
THE CAST IRON STAIRCASE
In the market town of Yelets in the south of Russia, stands an old high school for women that survived wars and destruction. Everything in the building has been restored, except the cast iron staircase with curving steps and black, polished railings. Everything has been lost. Only this cast iron staircase remembers the light steps of the young women who ran down, clutching their new diplomas, dreaming about freedom. Tatiana Rebecca Shrayer, 13 Brookline, Massachusetts
