The law, the law. Sometimes I hate the law. Paying taxes for things like axes? The law, the law. Sometimes I love the law. Especially when you add “coles” in front. Coleslaw.
Poetry-Reflections
Portraits of Thirteen
I. I used to confuse coffee grounds with the dirt in flower pots, the earthy scent overtaking the musky flowers. A bird nest lies on a shelf in our garage. I do not have the heart to close our garage door at night, to move the nest: the blue eggs unhatched, cushioned in the leaves— unable to escape their home. II. More pressure, my teacher says. I tilt my index finger, clasping the bow skimming the strings of my violin. The amount the bow hair should bounce ingrained in muscle memory. Increase the bow speed. I find the fine line between a gritty sound and the tip of my bow flying off the strings. The rosin puffing gold dust onto my music sheets, onto the black lines, the swirls of the clefs and key signatures, the stickiness finding homes in crevices made by the screws in my music stand. III. I trace the patterns of rock on my shower wall I once believed told my life’s story. I saw my cat, grey stripes curled in a ball, pressed into the tiled wall. Arbitrary like a raffle, fate carves into the rock with the right set of sharp tools. IV. When I was six, I dreamt of a crimson path. Barefoot, I walked on eggs— red, runny yolks. The eggshells poking my feet, the path has no end. Sabrina Guo, 13Oyster Bay, NY Anya Geist, 13Worcester, MA
To Those in a Cage
Ravens were my favorite, with their midnight feathers full of mystery, dreams, and the whisper of age-old spirits. I loved the hummingbirds beating their wings at what seemed to be the speed of sound as they sipped sweet nectar, fast and free. Doves reminded me of all of my wishes, of peace and love, of a happy future that seemed so attainable. Even pigeons fascinated me, the way they thrived in public places, unwilling to back down, even to humans. Reality was a bright-blue sky. I floated on wings made of dreams. As I feel my dirty sneakers greet the pavement, I notice the people around me. Somehow the pigeons on the sidewalk are freer than I’ll ever feel. The people are a cage, and I am a pitiful bird, rocking back and forth, reaching out for the comfort of a bright-blue sky that never comes. Every step means suffocation. I am lost. The cage doesn’t notice. But I don’t notice the other lost souls either. The cold faces that make up the looming bars of my cage and block out all else feel like strangers. Even the ones I am oh-so-familiar with. My mother’s judging gaze, my peers who I know judge me, even my friends. They are all strangers, surrounding me. So I mumble “sorry” and move deeper into my cage. I prefer the meaningless excuse of “sorry” to voicing my own opinion. It is what people want to hear, Expect to hear. Saying it doesn’t mean I’m “too nice for my own good.” In fact, I’m selfish. So selfish I don’t even deserve to be writing a poem about birds in cages. Because I’ve never been caged. But some people have. This is for them. This is for the people who create the cages. This is because I want them to see that they’re hurting people. Don’t you understand how painful it is? With every action, you place another bar of abandonment in a cage big enough to house millions of hurt, lonely souls. I know you don’t mean to hurt people. I believe beings are good at heart. But we make a lot of really bad mistakes. We are terrible and wonderful, and these inconsistencies make up our being. I wish I could shed my skin and human doubts and become a flying, soaring spirit of song, joining the birds that made their true home in the sky. I would fly with wings made of songs that aren’t happy or sad, good or bad, but a hopeful sort of in-between. I would fly like the birds I admired so much, but on wings that remember I was once caged too. So I can fly over everyone who needs a little hope. So I can show them—you’re not alone. I’d fly over everyone Because maybe everyone has a cage of some sort. Naomi Angel Farkas, 12Los Angeles, CA
