Poem
As I sit here Staring at My plain wall No pictures, desks, or tables near this Plain wall I think It almost seems like I come up with my greatest ideas Staring at This plain wall Over time I have grown quite fond of this wall I have made many stories by looking at this Plain wall My stories are known across the globe And I am a great author, My greatest companion, My plain wall
Poem
It is quiet there in the great oak tree by the brook, in the fields – and why shouldn’t it be? For it is morning – Dawn No sound comes to my ears but there is no such thing as silence. So I listen and I try to make out the not-silence. So I listen, and then I hear – the quiet whisper of the leaves in the great oak tree murmuring to the awakening world: Stand strong and steady, strong and steady – like the oak tree itself. I hear – the gentle tumbling of the brook over beyond that stretch of field the clear waters leaping and gurgling as they chortle: Fill with life, spirit, and love, life, spirit, and love – like the vibrant brook itself. I hear – the soft rustle of the tall, swaying grass in the wind. Breathing: Gentle and peaceful, gentle and peaceful – like the quiet grass itself. I hear – the faint calls of the birds warbling in the trees to the wan morning: Wake up! Wake up! and hear our song – their clear, silver voices rising to the sky in unified harmony. And I hear – the deep, golden sound of bells rolling low and unwavering over the rippling fields: Come, and start, this morning’s work – for there is much to do today! – and I slide from the leafy grasp of the oak but I know I will come back tomorrow – to listen to the rippling life of the world.
Poem
I believe in simple truths, Like 1+1=2. I believe in facts, theorems, and postulates, For they are tools That help us understand The world around us just a little better. I believe in the laws of thermodynamics. Energy cannot be created or destroyed. So the same energy in me right now Has been here since the beginning of time. And will continue existing, Even when I die. And I know that I said “simple truths,” And to some people those I mentioned Are everything but simple. They’re huge, immobile, stone statues, And that makes them simple, For even if everything around me Is in ruins and ashes, They stand strong and unchanged.
Poem
Up the river bank where the flowers bloom
My basket swings around my bare muddy feet I run up the rushing river with my basket swinging around I give my voice to the wind as calmly as it moves I run freely along the brown mud with the sparkling water next to me trying to get to the flower meadow where the river flows I see my footprints way behind me as they try to catch up There is that pretty meadow I start to pick the blooming flowers I rushed to the river and then I quickly put my feet into the crisp water I lie on the fresh spiky grass with a few flowers circling the hot sun shines all around me and I close my eyes The fish start to nibble that makes me tickle I close my eyes as hard but the sun still shines I open my eyes and look around Where is the river and flowers?
Poem
A cousin pointed you out to me when strolling calmly to the abandoned playground. “A weed!” she falsely exclaims while she prods at your emerald leaves. However, my eyes must be deceiving me, for I see the most enchanting creature that is known to man. Your velveteen leaves, with drops of morning dew, are mirages, transforming from a freshly spun creamy golden foam to an arctic forest green as deep as the night itself. Your indigo bud, hidden behind blankets of green, is a freshly washed gown hidden in the back of a dress shop, anticipation flooding through every one of Nature’s stitches, waiting for that someone to see it for what potential it has. A gift from Heaven itself, masked behind the role it has been granted. Instead of plucking it from where it has begun to flourish, instead of pressing your immaculate body against the coarse bindings of my scrapbook, instead of trying to alter your stunning figure, I let you go silently, for it is not my choice whether your kind may stay alive or not. There is nothing I can do, except for to hope that my memory of you will not fade away. Today, I continue to see your long lost brothers and sisters on evening strolls, in sunlit valleys, and inside the inner workings of my heart.
Poem
There is a money tree In my living room With a braided Fishtail trunk And of these five Interwoven strands Only one of them Has visible veins Pumping water For these plumed Green leaves Like dollar bills But for the Chinese New Year We don’t hang coin garlands Or paper cranes For prosperity For Liu Haichan The toad in the moon The God of Wealth No, my mother waters The leaves And my cat likes to Eat them While my father Chases her away For fear of bad luck; Me, I just notice The tree bending over And sometimes I lay A crooked leaf over A straight one In the hope it might Correct itself Because isn’t Luck something That’s made.
Poem
A shimmer of light cast upon a blue mirror. I see my spirit reflected on a ripple. Light upon a river, when wind comes, it is blurred into illusion.
Poem
I wake up to the sound of music, a tiny fluttering sound Flutter in my ears ‘til the sun drops down Perch on my windowsill and wake the waiting sun Take flight, bird, be free Feathers round my mind, ‘til opposites meet.
Poem
My Tenth Summer Part One: What I Learned About Hard Work
I've learned this week, Something I knew already But not well My mother, She sits at her desk. Typing. Writing. Scribbling furiously. I felt sorry for her. I thought she hated it. My father, He used to sit at his computer, Frowning. He’s good at numbers, But he’s tired My mom hates to build trails. He helped her. He learned. He’s still learning Everyone is. Me, I found two things, They are sort of one, Violin and poetry. They go hand in hand It takes a long time to do either I love projects We, Found something Something we loved to do As long as each of us are happy, We all are We work at our joys, Have fun, Daydream. Now I understand It. Makes. Sense
Poem
Sitting on a towel atop the sizzling sand, I’m warm, wet, and a little tired Absentmindedly searching for shells with my damp, sandy, hand I look up to see the wine-dark ocean chomping its foamy mouth Gobbling at the jam of people skittering around the beach clutching their boards And gulping for a breath in the water Pretty sure it is about to take my brother Instead it just gives him a free joy ride I push my pink cheeks in, feeling for a burn Sandpipers rush to pick clams out of the murk, jumping back from the waves Seagulls shout and bicker over a half-full bag of Doritos Mom snaps at us to hide our snacks My little brother defiantly holds up a Pizza Flavor-Blasted Goldfish Hoping to lure a bird to his hand Cheese dust staining his tiny, pruny, fingers My cousins, with salt-soaked hair and rough red sand rashes, Beckon me to Boogie Board with them, And to search for sand crabs with Grandpop (Even though Nana yells at him “not to go out too far!”) When we come back, I sneak a second soda and a bag of Popchips from the snack bag, Hiding them from Mom behind my cousin’s drip castle I watch as her hand dips into the bucket, Then lets the wet drizzly sand dribble through her fingers, Shaping tall towers of mud A moment later my two little brothers bumble over the castle Like little dragons careening into warm, wet, hugs from Mom
Poem
When I first saw the dark of night I knew who I was. I was another shard Of my birthstone. I was the king of curiosity. I was a bitter one with danger. I was a monkey going tree to tree And the “Ouch!” When I fell out of a bush. I tossed and turned to get up And I climbed out of the bush. Then a few years later, I move away too sad to say, “Will we go back and have fun?” “Yes,” says my mom, “Some day… but not for long.”
Poem
We drove over the hill In the dark lamplight night My grandma in front Full speed ahead The warm flowing breeze It showed me the way As the mauve sunrise Shown bright ahead Past the farm Watching the cows eat My grandma and me Drove swiftly away As the sunrise followed us It began to fade As the warm swift breeze turned cold And it scurried away That sweet sunrise left us all The town came clearer The people filing away They didn’t seem to notice My grandma and me They didn’t seem to see that beautiful things fade
Honor Roll
Stone Soup Honor Roll: September 2017
Welcome to the Stone Soup Honor Roll! We receive hundreds of submissions every month by kids from around the world. Unfortunately, we can’t publish all the great work we receive. So we created the Stone Soup Honor Roll. We commend all of these talented writers and artists and encourage them to keep creating. – The Editors Scroll down to see all the names (alphabetical by section), including book reviewers and artists. STORIES Allie Aguila, 12 Gabrielle Anzalone, 11 Ellie Applegate, 13 Timothy Cho, 10 Claire Cleary, 13 Molly Crown, 12 Isabelle Dastgheib, 12 Christina Dumas, 11 Talia Ehrenberg,11 Cash Fowler, 9 Grace French, 12 Dusty Gibbon, 12 Willow Goldsmith, 13 Sophie Gono, 9 Elijah Hall, 12 Logan Hebert, 11 Skyla Hollowell, 11 Savanna Hopson, 12 Matthew Oh Jun Kang, 11 Rose Kazmierczak, 11 Kate Kuan, 10 Louisa Landhuis, 11 Kyung Su Lee, 11 Tatum Leung, 9 Macy Li, 10 Naomi Ling, 11 Arabella McClendon, 13 Sienna Pashal, 10 Sophia Peckner, 12 Campbell Peterson, 12 Levi Powell, 11 Emily Natanova, 11 Lizzie Roman, 13 Sonia Rusin-Franke, 10 Lily Eames Scheckner, 10 Saskia Stites, 10 Lin Lynn Tao, 12 Jula Truesdell, 11 Eleanor Vail, 11 Nicolas Willman, 11 Sarah Zheng, 13 BOOK REVIEWS Natya Chandrasekar, 9 Ethan Clement, 9 Samuel Ding, 8 Scott Mello, 12 Lauren Stewart, 13 Jennifer Su, 12 Adrian Tan, 10 Charles Tang, 11 Jennifer Wu, 12 POEMS Melina Ahmad, 11 Nikemi Aworeni, 7 Esme Barker, 9 Ava Bonner, 10 Gabriel Clark, 8 Sahana Donti, 12 Harry Dweck, 8 Izzy Eginton, 13 Eliana Gorden, 11 Gunner Haas, 11 Mckinley Huffman, 11 Audrey Jiggetts, 11 Kelsey Kelly, 12 Jessica Kent, 10 Esther Kim, 13 Anushka Kumar, 12 Anya Levin, 10 Emily Maremont, 10 Eric Matt, 13 Bailey McKerley, 10 Ian Murphy, 12 Sahana Nellian, 12 Sophie Nerine, 12 Kieran O’Donnell, 10 Veronica Pierce, 12 Tara Prakash, 11 Amelia Roth, 11 Soleil Shannonhouse, 8 Lydia Taylor, 10 Lilah Wallach, 13 Maya Wolfford, 12 Lydia Wolthuis, 12 Olwen Woods, 11 Cecelia Yang, 10 ARTWORK Earl DeLand, 14 Luciano Gibson, 11
Poetry Reviews
Warm air, shining flowers, golden sunlight—summer in Chicago. And what summer would be complete without baseball? At historic Wrigley Field in Chicago, baseball has been a central part of summertime excitement for generations. I must confess that I am an avid baseball fan. I watch baseball, play baseball, listen to baseball, and read about baseball. Recently, while flipping through a book about the Chicago Cubs, I came across a short, comedic poem written by Franklin Pierce Adams in 1910. Adams was a newspaper writer for the New York Times, and also a Giants fan. He wrote the short, woeful tale, “Baseball’s Sad Lexicon,” while at a Giants and Cubs game. It tells the story of three Cubs infielders, Joe Tinker, Johnny Evers, and Frank Chance, who were notorious for turning double plays (getting two runners out in the same play). The poem laments the strong teamwork of the trio, and how they always took the championship from the Giants. The Cubs won the National League Championship four times between 1906 and 1910, so Giants fans had good reason for their frustration. This is expressed well in the final few lines of the poem: Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble, Making a Giant hit into a double— Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble: “Tinker to Evers to Chance.” When I first read the poem, I was very curious as to what “gonfalon” meant. I discovered that it means “pennant” or “banner”. The winner of the Championship would always receive a pennant, which always eluded the Giants. I love poems that accurately reflect the spirit and thoughts of people from long ago. It gives a clear window onto history and helps me understand how people really felt about historic events. When Mr. Adams’s poem first came out in the New York Times, it was wildly popular. Fellow New Yorkers understood and agreed with Adams’ complaints. The poem turned Tinker, Evers, and Chance into double-play legends and is a big part of why they were elected to Baseball’s Hall of Fame in 1946. To a baseball fan, “Baseball’s Sad Lexicon” provides a historic and fascinating view into the talents of these three players. Even someone who is not a baseball fan can appreciate the rich history the poem brings to life. It connects us with the events of the day, makes us feel as if we were there. When reading it, imagine yourself at the ballpark in the early 1900s, cheering on Tinker, Evers and Chance. The warm air, clear blue sky, golden sunshine—summer in Chicago.
Poetry Reviews
Has anyone here ever killed a spider? Actually, I have a better question: has anyone here ever not killed a spider? The battle to keep spiders and other bugs out of the house is a fairly constant one, and most everyone, at some point in time, has found the easiest solution is to simply pick up a shoe and smash all small invaders—which is why I was so intrigued by Nikki Giovanni’s “Allowables,” a poem that describes the author’s shame at killing a harmless spider she finds in her house. The poem is written in free verse, with no rhyme or obvious rhythm, but the author nonetheless draws the reader in with ample repetition and a choppy style that reflects the emotions she describes. In order to better explain her feelings, she uses imagery to describe the spider as harmless, explaining that it was “sort of papery.” I was rather surprised to note that there was no punctuation in the entire poem, but decided that the lack of grammatical breaks mimicked the thought process the author is going through. Giovanni gives “Allowables” a very memorable ending with the simple, straightforward phrase “I don’t think / I’m allowed / To kill something / Because I am / Frightened,” using enjambment to give emphasis to certain parts of the sentence. What really drew me to this poem, however, is less the style of the writing than the way in which I connected to it, both on a personal level and on a larger scale. I can’t deny that there have been times when, given a choice between capturing a spider I just encountered in my bathtub and taking it outside or washing it down the drain, I have chosen to kill it. I always regret it after, but I continue to make the same mistake, refusing to overcome my initial fear response and act reasonably. Giovanni’s poem may seem to be making a big deal out of an inconsequential event—until one considers its implications in light of current events. Much of the racial discrimination and violence in our world is due to people allowing fear to rule them, causing them to strike out at all the people of an ethnicity because they are too afraid to remember that most of these people mean them no harm.
