mariachis playing joyful songs and niños laughing street vendors, pregoneros, shouting out hopes of selling their goods las mujeres, the women, chatting as they slap tortillas on the patio these are the sounds of my México, the sounds que yo quiero mucho, the sounds I love Natalia M. Thompson, 11 Madison, Wisconsin
Poem
Diego
Living in a world full Of selfishness and wealth, I feel the need to do something, Reach out to others. Two-year-old Diego Calls out to me, His picture spanning the miles From faraway Guatemala. Alone with just his mother And very little else, There must be some way to help, Save my money for his life. It isn’t fair, Growing up with so much, Knowing others suffer in Their lives day after day, And not doing anything to share. I can make a difference, In Diego’s poor community, Become his “big brother,” Help him lead a healthy And successful life. Carrying his picture in my pocket, I can’t wait for the moment When love wraps his body in blankets Or when I can finally hold his tiny hand In mine, knowing that I can be a part Of him forever. Mark Roberts, 12 Windsor, California
Swinging
She’s not the type that jumps off swings But clings to the rusty chains and Drags her feet in the wood chips to stop, Squealing when I tease her by Twisting close on my swing I watch her dismount and Step gingerly away: I pump my legs and lean Backwards way way Way back so far my long hair sweeps The ground and I look Behind me and the world’s upside down Down down, or am I upside down Then swinging up-up-up again and swooping Downwards almost crashing To earth but I don’t, I just swing up-up-up Again and I can see nothing but The sky above me and the chains Go slack and I am weightless for one Lifting second, not sitting in the swing but on Sky then forwards backwards Forwards it’s all the same, just Glorious movement, twirling and Tumbling around and a Round, side side over–watch The poles!–and Circling again and again. dizzy dizzy dizzy then I Realize the only thing preventing me From flying is the chains so I JUMP, leaving the unimportant Swing behind in one soft blurred instant, Jumping off swing and into sky, Just sky and soaring Off into air, only air Around me, lifting me up-up-up And I wonder, is this flying? Nothingness becomes Everything around me air is All I am Touching Then ground is here, under me, And I am running, one foot then The next, helpless to stop, can’t Stop, just running. I Stagger, head still, but World spinning. She tells me I’m Crazy, but I know better, She is the crazy one-not jumping off swings Denying herself that air-feeling The instant when you lift off The swing and just lift, rise- You haven’t fallen yet, you’re Going up-up-up and being Dizzy doesn’t matter You are all Air And sun in your eyes and Life becomes nothing but Simple happiness. Nicole Guenther, 12 Vancouver, Washington
My Dad
Spacious, dark oak desk holding a red pencil in a brightly lit room. Built by his splintered hands and intelligent brain. He is a carpenter. Standing in wet sneakers on Conard Field, smiling, pointing his index finger to where scrambling first-years should be. He is a football coach. In my blue-sheeted bed he lies, book in hand, reading, listening, and falling asleep beside me. He is my dad. Brendan Cunningham, 8 West Hartford, Connecticut
One Snake’s Life
New Spanish moss was my bed The ships’ horns were my alarm clock In the early morning Along the Mississippi River’s edge I was swimming left to right Left to right The mud was brown The sky was gray Going up the willow trees Down the willow trees Hiding in the rocks That mourning dove egg was delicious It was cool and damp When I slithered to the top of the levee (I was in a frightening mood) It happened I didn’t see it coming The wheel Ben Amoss, 10 Jefferson, Louisiana
I Ripped It
I remember Once By mistake I ripped a map It was on my kitchen table And I was looking for you Buildings were split in half . . . And my road Led to yours Wouldn’t that be great If it were real? I’d rip a map And I’d be right next To you, again . . . My friend . . . My long lost friend Andrea Begin, 12 Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada
Morning Walk
The acorn woodpecker’s Thump on the tree And the owl’s hidden hoot Fill my ears as I walk Through forest on a Sun-filled morning Canadian geese calls Sound like laughter As they fly into the Lake with a splash And swim peacefully One after the other Manzanita trees and bushes Are a deep red-brown Covered in lichen and moss. Storing the sun in their veins, Green leaves are lit from inside Towering oak trees Stand in silence, moss Like an old man’s beard Hanging from aged branches. Poison oak climbs the trunks, “Leaves of three, let it be” Everything is part of everything And I am the tree, soil and sun. Breathing in, I inhale The life around me, Breathing out, I reach to meet myself To live in this moment Is to be grateful For what I have and love and am Mark Roberts, 13 Windsor, California Mark wrote this poem when he was 11
You . . . and Your Dad
Traveling the interstate routes With no sense of direction Following no road map Traveling only by the lay of the land Going on only because Of the love of the land You and your dad You, a curly-haired toddler Without even the knowledge To put the right shoes on the right feet Listening to Willie Nelson in a trance You Your dad Feeling the love, but not really understanding it Your bottle in one hand The other, clutching the seat belt Anticipating the next fork in the road You, a rosy-cheeked kid Not knowing anything but Willie Nelson’s voice and The indescribable landscape Not knowing That later on in life you wish you would be able to relive That single moment A thousand times Only the hazy memory Sticking to you like the apple juice leaking from the bottle Stuck to your lively little fingers at one time You and your dad On the interstate routes. Katie Ferman, 11 Three Lakes, Wisconsin
Ode to Marbles
I love the sound of marbles scattered on the worn wooden floor, like children running away in a game of hide-and-seek. I love the sight of white marbles, blue marbles, green marbles, black, new marbles, old marbles, iridescent marbles, with glass-ribboned swirls, dancing round and round. I love the feel of marbles, cool, smooth, rolling freely in my palm, like smooth-sided stars that light up the worn world. Max Mendelsohn,12 Weston, Massachusetts
The Boy and His Grammaw
Laughing and smiling And sitting and hugging A dirty little boy and A graying woman are Sitting near a dingy trailer. Rough steps and an old bike Rusting before their eyes Yet their smiles Can dazzle even This blank scene . . . Timmy McWhirter, 12 York, South Carolina
Night Lives
When the sky was full of diamonds, We went dancing on the cobblestone streets. The world was filled with laughter and music and whispering couples. The spicy food, The sweet chocolate, And the strong aroma of coffee. The lights on the water. We sat under the massive stone archways, lit with light. We turned around and around beneath the statues of the gods of a past world. We ran over bridges, And cast stones at the wavering reflections of ourselves. We slept on a doorstep. In front of us, the city was alive with color and people. Above us, The sky was full of diamonds And the moon. Natalie Fine, 12 Denver, Colorado
Penalty Kick
Overtime. Golden Goal. As I place the ball in a circle, I think about where I should place the shot. top left bottom left top right bottom right I wait for the whistle my team is silent but the crowd is roaring pressure is on nerves rush through me suddenly the crowd silences the whistle blows I sprint toward the ball the crowd stands my shot swift quick hard and low right the keeper dives for the ball I turn my head don’t even watch I know I won the game. Hudson Jetton, 12 Hoover, Alabama
