Poetry-Reflections

What a little angel she is Whisper the Jewish Sunday-school ladies behind gloved hands As I flounce down the hall All dressed up in my blue silk party dress, the one with the frills on the bottom Another gift from Daddy’s friends in Chicago A special dress for a special girl like you My proud parents beam with pride when I stand behind the microphone in the school auditorium: Oh, say can you see . . .? The only first-grader allowed up on stage What good manners she has The waitress at the diner smiles over the counter at me when I ask for a straw These are the three keys—thank you, you’re welcome, and may I please Hands pressed together firmly each Yom Kippur Oh God and Father, creator of Heaven and Earth, I penitently acknowledge my sins . . . I can’t bear to tell a lie, come home crying if I do Mommy, Mommy, I was the one who took the last cookie from the jar! I wish that God made more little girls like you, sighs the mother of Jack Davidson, who got expelled from my school for punching a kid in the stomach Would you care for a cupcake? No, thank you. My mother says it has too much sugar. Want a bag of chips? No, thank you. My mother says they have no nutritional value. I come home proud and happy from school The blinding red A-plus in the corner of my drawing too hard not to notice Have you ever thought of putting your daughter in the gifted class? Time for the school play I stand in the wings in my blue-and-white-checked dress, dark hair twisted into two neat braids All ready to go on, dance my way down the yellow-brick road Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high, there’s a land that I heard of, once in a lullaby . . . How talented she is! Everybody tells me But “Nothing gold can stay,” my mother recites every time someone tells me I’m an angel, Shakes her head and glances sadly out at the setting sun, Puffy white clouds fading away into the dusk. Straight out of Heaven. Bo-Violet Vig, 13Los Angeles, CA Sloka Ganne, 10Overland Park, KS  

Time—did it slip through my fingers, flow Subtly as water? My little big brother, Running across the pastures with his kite, where did that go? Footsteps trailing mine, hands clasped tightly—my mother. I can see the time pass in the creases of my Grandfather’s eyes, his skin lined with the trick of time. If only It wouldn’t go so fast, then we wouldn’t need to say so many goodbyes All too soon. If just once, my world could live forever . . . But if all worlds lasted forever, when Would new ones be born? Babies gaze at the world with big eyes, bright, Seeing things they’ve never seen before. The old watch with Eyes that have seen too much, the pale that follows a dark night. Time forces us to make use of what we have, unfurled, It forces us to say goodbye and hello to the ever-changing world. Tara Prakash, 12Chevy Chase, MD

Fear is a bubble. It can fold up or pop. It can surround you like a swarm or keep you behind an elastic wall. You choose whether to stay in or step out. Nanae Koyama, 11Lexington, MA