He holds the cube in his hands The unbreakable puzzle, Or so they say Flexing his fingers He holds it gingerly Like a trusted friend The stopwatch beeps His fingers fly over the cube Attacking the colors Orange, green, blue, and whites Spark through the air In graceful motions, his fingers Working like bees Shift through the layers Suddenly, Out of the blue The cube emerges from his palms Like a miracle, the cube is whole once again The stopwatch beeps And the magic stops Andrew Lee, 13 DeWitt, New York
Poem
Maui
Waves are crashing all around me, The sun is casting its yellow rays upon the island. I hear a yell but it is oh so distant: “Go! Go!” I turn my head to see a wall rapidly approaching. I thrash my arms and kick, But it seems too late for me. I push up onto the board and stand, Keeping my balance. The timing is perfect, I sail onward to the palms in the distance. I am flying. No, I am face down in the sand, Waves lapping at my feet. For a moment I think I am dead, But my board slithers up beside me. I smile and laugh. I did it. I surfed. Eddie Mansius, 13 Charlotte, North Carolina
Riding the Gondola
New York at dusk When shadowy sun Rests on skyscrapers And in the park In the city Dragonflies murmur Birds hum As the little gondola Glides across the silver lake That parts between my fingers The tenor of cheerful chatter From the restaurants The whispered conversations Of the couples On their sunset rowboat trips The swan Splashing Preening its feathers One by one As night comes to the city that never sleeps The man on the gondola Sings in a resounding baritone “Venite all’agile Barchetta mia Santa Lucia Santa Lucia” “Come to my Swift little boat Santa Lucia Santa Lucia.” Anna Elizabeth Blech, 12 New York, New York
Dawn
The gray sky wavers Between day and night. A distant train whistle blows Skimming the solidity of the moment. Quiet again, The atmosphere is unreal. No movement, Other than the occasional rustle Of wind stirring leaves. A brave bird calls out, Unsettled by the silence. No reply. The heavens lighten, Until finally The sun appears, Smiling upon the world. The birds now begin to sing, A chorus of relief, All with the same message: The day has come. Sophia Gehrmann, 13 Urbana, Illinois
White
White is the color of Beautiful Like a dove Soaring over a forgotten mountain lake Snow Blanketing the landscape In a soft white Paradise Essence of pine Like a cello’s music Sweeping the night Alone But that makes it even more Serene Like a white sail Rising up a mast Against a coral blue sea Waving about Taking You there Like a patch Of white roses Among the ashes The start Of new life Dylan Sherman, 10 Seattle, Washington
A New Brother
There he was Such a tiny person I looked at him Sleeping peacefully Suddenly his eyes open Brand new brown eyes Staring at me Blinking and adjusting his eyes to a new experience Light His mind consuming New thoughts New faces New world New everything He is a new person Ryan Sparks, 12 Kansas City, Missouri
The Brown-and-White Tabby
I leave for school, Strolling with my mother. My tiny pink backpack is slung over my shoulder. It is a crisp, autumn day. All the leaves Changing pigments. My mother Constantly reminding me to Walk faster. To keep up with her, I drag my little feet along. Into the dirt they go… And there! As I round the next corner, I hear a faint tinkling. It’s not my imagination. I spin around And lay my eyes on it! Yes! It’s a brown-and-white tabby! Mother scolds, “Mia, keep walking. You get so distracted over little things in life.” As our walk progresses, I still hear the tinkling, sweet little bells ringing from the kitty’s neck. Every few seconds I turn my head around, Checking to see if the tabby is still there, And it is. As I check back one last time, my mother says, “Mia, we’re here at Linden. Hurry up, Or you’ll be late!” “Bye, kitty! See you tomorrow!” Mia Ba-Lu Hildebrandt, 12 Glen Ridge, New Jersey
The Loss of a Leaf
It was a picturesque day at a pond, The glassy water gently undulated, Transforming turtles to twigs. The swans slowly carved their way forward, The paddleboats hypnotically Slap slap slapped. But no day is perfect for everyone, Like the coming of fall, For betwixt the lily pads, A swan lay Dead, Its head limp at its side. Two deceivingly collected swans swam up, Their wings arched over their backs. One of the mourners swam up and went from calm and collected, To aggressive and emotional. It began biting the neck of the dead swan, wings pumping, causing a great ruckus. Was it cannibalizing or freeing the other swan from its eternal sleep? That swan will be denied so much, Days like today, Cygnets, And the late summer water relaxing away troubles. Was it dead from natural causes, or man-made ones? Could it have been saved? So many questions, Like the water in the clouds, So much stress and more worry than bugs in a humid summer’s night. All from The loss of a leaf. Peter Satterthwaite, 13 Cranston, Rhode Island
Leaf of Sunshine
The forest is calm, only an occasional chirp of a bird, breaks the silence, the sun is buried in a blanket of clouds, only a few golden rays escape, just enough to penetrate the darkness, cool wind rustles through the trees, gently swaying their nimble branches, so peaceful, one single leaf spirals to the ground, twirling, spinning, now upon the brown fallen leaves, lies one of a brilliant sun-yellow color, with its bright green smudges, splattered haphazardly across its surface, a beautiful sight, compared to the crumpled leaves surrounding it, it seems like a precious gem, it is a bit of sunshine, on a crisp autumn day. Laurel Gibson, 12 Durham, New Hampshire
When I Understood
NEW DELHI, INDIA, 2002 Staring wide-eyed out of the car window I look down at the dusty bodies of children clustered below me. Their hair is streaked with dust and grime Their skin darkened to a crisp by the intensity of the broiling summer sun. Their writhing hands clutch at the shiny silver metal of our car Grabbing hungrily at the colorful juice boxes my parents offer from the windows. I know I should be enjoying the bustling world around me, but somehow I can’t. The road is a blur of color and life; Vendors shout from their stalls Advertising a rainbow of colorful fruits and vegetables Or fine cloth dyed sunset orange, rose pink, indigo. Sweat clings to their dark skin as they haggle and argue with customers passing by Or just catch up on the latest gossip. Chickens strut through the crowd like confident butlers; A cow slowly ambles its way through the people. Despite the crowd the blasting honks of cars’ horns sound as they force their way through, Shiny metal islands in a sea of bodies. But I am taking in none of this; My eyes are riveted to the children. I catch sight of a girl about my age, Seven, Her dark hair pulled back in a messy braid, Clutching the grubby hand of a wriggling two-year-old. Seeing the look of amazement and longing that fills her eyes As her gaze sweeps over our car I offer her one of the juice boxes With trembling fingers. She grabs it Immediately handing it to her little sister. Just watching the little girl inhale the sweet drink Its contents spilling from her mouth and running down her chin like a thousand rivers I think of all the times I’ve stormed out of the room crying after losing a game of checkers, Argued with my brother about who had to go first for piano lessons, Made faces when my parents made me eat vegetables. I can remember those times when my mom got angry, Yelling, “Don’t you understand, there are children dying in the world?” Looking down at the thin, hungry bodies of the children surrounding me At the toddler devouring the juice At the grateful look the girl gave me I realized that, For the first time, I did understand. Malini Gandhi, 13 Auburndale, Massachusetts
Silent Story
On a cold winter morning The lake breathes out steam Like a giant tea kettle. Two ducks in the middle As still as a painting. Why haven’t they gone south? A bird hangs up in the air. Let’s sit on the shore And soak in the quiet. Instead, we zoom by And join in the traffic. Mina Alexandra Oates, 7 Pinson, Alabama
Monolith
Carved, crooked peaks outline themselves against a Yellowing sky, Deep crags littered with fertile eggs Cawing to the firming moon, We flap between their statuesque Shoulders, draped in heavy fog They don’t dance Their shadows do, Trembling freely outside of the rocks’ impenetrable cases, Sharing secrets with the sand, A peppered canvas, Which formed when The smeary stars Cracked and crumbled We gulls fly, The stones too stiff To crane back their necks And see us, Swooping, whooping, Following an invisible course Sliced into the sky Eden Amital, 13 San Francisco, California
