Fog wisping through the Douglas firs Rain dripping from the wind-whipped boughs Crisp and cold fresh autumn air The smell of spruce and dampened earth. An ocean vista filled with fog Like a misty edge of the world Only the ceaseless distant roar Betrays the presence of the waves. Fog increases the distances Close Sitka spruce seem faraway The trees merge into soft pale mist Gray rain pours from an ashen sky. A forest on the ocean cliffs Blown with wild wind and lashing rain The stark truth of towering trees The beauty of an autumn storm. Rosemary Engelfried, 13 Hillsboro, Oregon
Poem
Neverland
There might be no Neverland, No heaven, no after. Only cold Earth. There might be nothing— Yet isn’t that something? So pretend today will last forever. And fly now, soar, Gravity only exists If you believe in it. Fly with sunbeams Tangled in your glowing hair And fly with moonbeams Softening your face And fly on the back of Pegasus. Fly close to the sun, And don’t be burned, Fly to the moon, And leave your handprint Denting it for who knows how long. Bring me with you When you go, Lifting gently from This battered planet. We will skim the galaxies Like tadpoles in a puddle Or young eagles Weightless For the first time. We will fly past Where all the maps and pictures show To un-named universes Where we will orbit Other suns And we will Never Land. Nicole Guenther, 12 Vancouver, Washington
My Trixie
Curled on the dining room table Furry cheek snuggled against the cloth Trixie purrs Tail twitching and ears cocked Waiting for the sound of cat food in the bowl I rub my face in her tummy Breathing in rich cat-smell As she rumbles, happy To be home After a trot around the neighborhood Mrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeew? She asks if I’ll pet her I oblige and stoke her back Telling her I love her That she’ll always be my kitty She stretches, mouth open And legs stiff Always trying to look less fat Tail curling, eyes open Then she settles back down And tucks her head on her paws Lying there on the green tablecloth Looking like a beached whale She sinks deeper in sleep Her whiskers droop And yellow eyes close And I rub my face in her fur again She’s still purring Even in sleep she’s my baby Paws tucked under her massive body Cold button nose a bright black She is my darling My sweetie My Trixie-Bixie. Emma Kilgore Hine, 13 Austin, Texas
The Tide of Happiness
I was pulled up, Only to be sucked back down. The sea lurched and charged! My hand reached to clasp my father’s. Instead I dove With a new strength, Fooling the incoming wave. As I surfaced, Gasping, laughing, My father’s hand met my own, And together we ducked, The sand churning beneath our feet, While happiness knocked me over. Mira Bernstein Kaufman, 11 Woodbridge, Connecticut
To Sleep
Because I climb a ladder to sleep, sometimes I feel it takes too long. On the bottom rung, I see the house, shadowed and cozy, dark and peaceful, already in another dream. On the second rung, I see the town, with each little house drowning in blankets, and rarely in silence, usually in snoring, with families sleeping despite it. But not me. On the next rung, I see the country, amazed at so many people driving, walking, running, thinking, climbing ladders to their own sleep. On the next rung, I see the world, and I realize I’m not alone in my tired efforts to fall asleep, but mostly, I see that almost everyone is snuggling with teddy bears, pillows, blankets, spouses—anything soft they can grab. I’m surprised at how fast they climbed their ladders. I reach for the next rung, but I get a mattress instead. I pull myself up, tuck myself in, close my eyes, and feel my bed drift back to the world, back to the country, back to the little town where people sleep, back to the house, and finally to sleep. Juliet B. Quaglia, 10 Piermont, New York
Company
Smoke blackens your face, Bold paintings line the creases in your skin, Twisting and turning in the crooks of your elbows. In the darkness you crouch, An animal with dark cheeks and sunken eyes, Next to the smoldering embers of your fire. I see you skulking half hidden in the shadows, The whites of your eyes made clear to me, In the reflecting shadows. I lie on my back and look up at the stars, Beside me I feel you creep from the woods and do the same, I understand. I feel your spirit tingling my skin, Open-mouthed I see the stars with the wonder of my ancestors, Beside the dust of your ancient bones. Maya Koretzky, 12 Thornton, Pennsylvania
Magical Moments
I climb to another branch in this Sequoia giant many times older than me. It has stood through day and night, through rain and wind and lightning, yet stands alone strong and tall. I see a view so stunning from my high perch way up here, the valley and the mountains, with mist pouring over the ridges shining silver with sunlight in the early morning sky. My family owns a tree farm and this tree is one of ours. We may fell many others and send them to the mill, but we’ll never cut this tree for it’s ancient and special. I watch an osprey soaring over our emerald forest, over a shaded streamlet and then, catching a thermal, the big osprey drifts away leaving me just a feather. I catch the feather floating and set it in my hair. I smile and write some more in my book of poetry that I keep here in this tree to hold magical moments. Jean Hope Sack, 12 Eureka, California
Frog Song
I step out into the clouded dusk the dark light pushes up against my skin the steady contribution of frog song pours into the air, making the measuring cup of the night overflow. the rock is cold beneath me, reminds me to shiver. the last light swiftly falls underneath the trees and I capture it in angular lines on this paper. the air grows darker and huddles nearer. stirs, exhales in one gust of breath, anticipates the night. the last strip of gold is disappearing and here, on the outskirts of the sanctuary of the porch light, my shadow is huge on the ground. slapped across my page, the dark mimic of my pencil waves. now the sun remains only as a half-inch-wide ribbon of dull orange beyond the trees and the frogs announce the sun will set tomorrow, too. but I am hunched here on the edge of the world, and the sun just fell off. Nicole Guenther, 13 Vancouver, Washington
I Am a Golden Trout
The sound of silence shatters When a buzzing fly splashes into a cool freshwater lake The water, like liquid tourmalines, ripples to kiss the sun-bleached shore I wait for a delicious, squishy fly to plop into striking range Anxious yet excited Each time is as thrilling as the first I strike like a ravenous eagle WHAM! I clamp the sweet, juicy fly between my jaws like a wrench GULP! What a luscious fly! I descend into the liquid silk water To snooze in my blanket of warm earthy mud Colin Johnson, 11 Laguna Beach, California
Grandpa’s Memories
One day my grandpa gathered me in his arms and said, “Come, sweety, let me tell you something.” And he got a faraway look in his eyes as he told me of life with Hitler in power. He told me of being rounded up and separated from his family when he was still young; to the left, or to the right; to death, or to life. He told of working hard, every day, getting only a crust of bread and a bowl of watery soup, and of lying awake, every night, in fear. He told of the nightmares, the killing, the round-ups, the death. He told of the lice, the typhus, the sickness, the fear. He told of the hatred for a nation, and of praying for only the best. He told of watching his friends and family die, their ashes rising from the chimneys, and not being able to do anything about it. He told of hiking in the winter snow, and the summer heat, shoved by rifle butts to an unknown destination. He told of the Nazis’ defeat, and the Russians’ triumph. He told of the joy of being free, and the sorrow of the knowledge of being the only one to survive. He told of going on, despite the painful memories. And when he finished, he was in tears. And all I could do was hug him. Mushka Bogomilsky, 10 Millburn, New Jersey
My Landlord on an August Morning
My landlord wakes to a dawn where everything is silent, and even the trees still linger in the unconsciousness of night. Dewy grass dampens his shoes as he strolls out over to his most used patch of land: the garden. The smells are soft and fresh and the rain’s clear drops from the night before are a blanket strung with pearls, that drape over the green leaves of lettuce as he walks over to tend them. A cricket sounds in the strawberries, awakening the rustle of wings, but the bird passes over, gliding on an invisible thread through the air. My landlord’s hands, rough, yet tender in his work, soften the moist earth at the roots of the unwanted, allowing him to pull them up, and let his green, leafy children live on. Alyssum Quaglia, 12 Piermont, New York
Peeling Apples
Carefully, warily, Sitting with my mom at the kitchen table. She peels quickly: in a few swift moments One twisted apple peel sits on the cutting board. I try to copy her, but no— The knife slips and Cuts off a small chip of the red peel. Trying again, I get lost in the smell of the ripening fruit (Sweet, almost sickly sweet), Filling the room with a scent like my grandma’s house. And I start to remember the first time The first time I had her apple pie— I wrinkled my nose and said, “Too sweet!” (Now it’s my favorite dessert.) The first time I buttoned up my coat To keep out the cold on an October day, The first time I read a book To my mother in broken, unsteady words, The first time I tied my shoe After hours of torture and trial— And as I think of this, I barely notice the one, perfect apple peel Sitting on the cutting board in front of me. Katie Ferman, 12 Three Lakes, Wisconsin
