Green

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Emma Dawson-Webb
Green


 


Green wallpaper curled in moldiness,


Radiates anticipation.


Intense eyes never yielding, 


Send them spiraling into chaos:


Both the beholder 


And the startling emerald paper.


 


A young woman aged by imagination 


Cradled 


In self-pity 


and machinations 


that overestimate her importance.


Green encases her, 


Into madness.


 


The rotting scent of the viridescent corpses sugars the house,


Like creeping fog, stillness rolls in.


 


Violent gore in idyllic wealth,


Green toxins trap, blinding her, 


To the border between life and death.


She does not sense the anguished bodies 


Covered in poisonous holes beside her. 


Marionette bodies 


To cure a loneliness 


She doesn’t know she has.


 


Emma Dawson-Webb is 15 years old and livs in Kittery, Maine, USA. Fun facts about Emma is that she loves all things related to color and she has a passion for writing stories and poetry based on historical events. 


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
What Remains

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Aditya Nair

	 


What Remains


 


During these lonely nights,

	I go for a stroll in the woods.

	The dark helps me think,

	remember our lost childhoods.


	It was here we used to frolic,

	Irrespective of the time.

	Oh, how quickly things change

	Shorter than a lifetime.


	All that’s left,

	Are the remains of a tree

	Which we used to climb,

	Our kindred spirits free.


	The woods are now silent,

	Spare the hooting of the owl

	The chirp of the cricket

	And the fearful wolf’s howl.


	Oh, how I miss those days,

	When we had no fear

	The untamed came and played with us,

	As if we were their dear.


	It’s strange how the forest,

	Feels so much like home

	Not wanting us to leave,

	Letting us free roam.


	The leaves drift gently,

	In tandem with the breeze

	Creating a melody so sweet,

	Giving the mind a tease.


	I wonder why we ever left,

	A place as beautiful as this

	It has enough to please us with,

	Enough to keep us in bliss.


	But such is human nature,

	Running after material things

	Thinking that with money,

	They can live like kings.


	Why can’t we all come back,

	Away from the city lights

	Relive those forgotten moments,

	Enjoy these childhood nights.


 


Aditya Nair is 17 years old and is from Navi Mumbai, Maharashtra, India.  


Fun facts about Aditya: He loves to sing and is crazy about super heroes, 


especially Iron Man. He is also part of a bird watching club in his neighborhood. 


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
Fated

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Agnes Garrett
Soulmates are a tricky thing.

	Whether platonic or romantic

	everyone seems to have one.


A common trope, appealing to old

	and young alike.

	An idea that the stars, maybe the universe,


Created someone for you.

	With souls intertwined, like vines on a lampost,


Your soulmate

	Is fated to belong to you,

	your own perfect match.


But you may never meet.

	Star-crossed lovers may never meet,

	a cruel joke.


A soulmate who was made for you,

	but nothing was said about being together.


Their identity, unbeknownst to you.

	like person meets person and your heart knows.


It could be the boy in the record store with

	cuffed jeans and scuffed sneakers,

	hair reaching his shoulders.


It could be the girl working in the bookstore,

	surrounded by the smell of dust and old paper.


Could have been an old crush,

	one you hoped to be something more.

	It was just wishful thinking.


Maybe you’re one of the few that get lucky.

	Meeting the one, and you two just fit perfectly.


Maybe you’re one of the unlucky ones,

	crushed by the feeling that the one you wanted

	didn’t belong to you.


Wanting to scream, “I defy you stars!”

	Á la Leonardo DiCaprio in Romeo and Juliet, shaking your fist

	to the sky.


You long to have a roadmap,

	of who you are going to be with,

	of the person who comes once in a lifetime.


In your lifetime.


 


Agnes Garrett is 17 years old; she lives in Richmond, Texas.  Some fun facts about her are -- she loves the show, "Parks and Recreation," and she speaks French.


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
Stella

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Meira Colton 


I was a little girl,

		Just in first grade,

		In a small town in Virginia.

		She was my best friend.

		She was the thing that made me happy when I was sad,

		Who would sit in my lap when I threw a tantrum.

		But she had to go sometime.

		She died at 12,

		When the time was right,

		A couple months before our move across the country.

		She was old, but playful; she was the perfect match.


		Stella, 

		We cried in the dark, using boxes of tissues,

		All for you, all 'cause we missed you.

		The tears where rushing down my face, sniffling every ten seconds.

		Every time I see your picture I think about the good days.

		You passed so peacefully.

		We hoped you were just tired,

		But we knew that you were gone.

		Although gone, you are always in my heart.

		At the sight of any Vizsla I go and pet them.

		I will always be Vizsla-crazy, all because of you.

		I love you, and I will always love you.


 





	Meira Colton is 12 years old and is from Seattle, WA, United States


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
The Hateful Part

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Olivia Griffin
There are many problems with this world,

	From A to Z.

	Some people don’t even know how hurtful it can be

	When a man insults a woman

	When a black person is shot.


	Nobody realizes it can affect many people

	We have differences the world cannot stand.

	But I don’t get why we hurt each other. I don’t understand.

	Thank God, most of these things don’t happen in Washington,


Heard about or not.


	“You look fat in that dress!”

	“She’s so ugly cuz she’s black.”

	“If she’s Muslim, she must be a terrorist.”


	Sometimes, I’m ashamed to be an American.

	Sometimes, I wish that I wasn’t called a ghetto,


And the other people around me weren’t.

	I’m sick and tired of it, and I want it to stop.


	But it won’t.


	Because, 

	We

	Americans

	Think

	It’s

	Okay.


	To judge us for our skin color,

	Or our sexual orientation,

	For our communication,

	For our transportation,

	That we are white Becky’s and black Monique’s.


	They tell us to get a life.

	They tell us to go back to our country.

	They tell us that we are unimportant,

	That we are ignorant.


	But………

	We are more than that.


	We are in unison in our unique ways.


 


Olivia Griffin is 12 years old and is from Renton, Washington State, USA


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
A Cherry Tree

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Stanley Zhao
A Cherry Tree


 


Vibrant crystals of white snow,


Waltzing in the wake of the chilly breeze,


Fluttering back and forth, right and left,


Towards the reaching hands of a lone cherry tree


 


The cherry tree, a soldier in a worn, barren land,


A survivor of the most fearsome winds,


The most daunting rains, the most playful children,


But its soul lingers 


At the hands of the worst of winter.


Branches lie naked, trunk sits stiff,


Roots rest hungry, leaves remain absent.


 


But


In a shower of snowflakes,


The cherry tree regains its beauty.


The snow adorns the tip


Of the slender, wooden arms


With twinkling lights 


And sprinkles the gnarled fingers


With icy confetti.


The chilly wind crowned its head


With a glittery veil


And the snow blankets the lonely roots


And embraces them in a cool, friendly kiss.


 


At sunset


Each snowflake reflects the soothing light


Of the sun,


Basking the cherry tree in a golden glow, 


Comforting the cherry tree,


And making it beautiful.



	 



	Stanley Zhao, 16, Portland, Tennessee, USA. Stanley is very passionate about world history and politics.


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
Women as Flowers

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Ashley Hodgson
Unwelcome, amidst loose petals of late spring

	of such white blossoms.

	Each a little lace dress flitting about

	at lofty heights,

	all made up with make-up, brimming to bloom.


A laughable novelty

	to be proudly gifted that corset-like dress.

	Then told to wear it --

	"Be unattainable. A lovely, pure white."


Upon the raw ears of a girl

	a foolish color -- white sullied with apathetic ease.

	Probably prefers her clay-baked overalls

	sheer violet bruises, maroon-rose knees,

	verdigris grass stains

	over lofty standards of little white dresses.


Of young women in peak bloom.

	Of buds clenched closed, fearing tongue of frost.

	What to do with the aftermath of spring?


White cast aside to don mature black;

	ditsy lace for womanly lingerie.

	Left to gaze as unwitting sisters are plucked

	from bare boughs of skeleton trees.

	Extravagant funeral of mere, innocent change.


All from crippled ideology that would deny

	all flowers die

	 


 


 


 


Ashley is 18 years old; she lives in Greenville, South Carolina.  Some of her favorite things include casual conversation, aesthetic coffee shops, and of course, the rare full night’s sleep.


 


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
The Catalog

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Deven Blake
The catalog reveals its entries,

	they dance to and fro.

	The librarians are posed as sentries,

	protecting the knowledge that no one may know.


“Is this what you wanted?”

	“Is this what you need

	to stop the data

	and its unlimited speed?”


“Is this who you wanted

	to kill this disease

	and stop the information

	spreading through the machines?”


No, you may not see the glory!

	And you cannot feel the thrill!

	The hum of a million stories

	is drowned out by the scream of the drill.


We whisper through the hallways

	that we'd like to read the books

	but instead we're labeled cretins!

	and thieves, and baseless crooks!

	And, yet, the catalog lays there waiting,

	underestimated and all alone.


We're banned from reading its secrets

	and we weep when the library is closed.



	 


Deven Blake is 15 years old; he lives in Lewiston, Maine. Questions that inspired him to write this poem include, When we shift the location of analog data to digital data, who will control access to it? What will be lost? And finally, would it be best to have a soulless, forbidden catalog, or a limited selection of carefully guarded literature?


 


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
Thorns

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Ester Luna
Everyone says not to touch the thorns.


They’ll prick you, warn the parents, meaning well.


So every time she sees one of those plants,


Emerald green, glistening, and forbidden,


Dew-drops captured in the folds of its silk petals


Held as jealously as an oyster does its pearl,


The little girl shies away,


Scared not of hurting it,


But of being hurt by it.


 


But all the rose wants is to grow, then bloom, then die


As its roots reach deep into Earth’s depths,


As its velvet leaves absorb the sun’s golden rays


As its carefully enclosed bud fans out into sheets of pink 


Not once does the rose strive to break porcelain skin with its thorns.


 


It didn’t mean to cause the little girl’s anguished cry


It didn’t want to be the cause of the mother’s condescending “I told you so .”


 


It just wants to grow nimble and strong, the rose.


Does it know that it is dangerous?


Is it capable of deciphering the looks of suspicious, fearful awe,


Looks it’s thrown by so many pairs of naive, superior eyes?


 


Does it know that the little girl had to wear a small, white bandage on the small, red wound?


Does the rose understand the pain it causes?


All the rose wants, after all, is to grow, then bloom, then die.


 


Ester Luna; 15; Washington, D.C. Ester is fluent in English, Italian and French. She has been studying Chinese for eleven years and Spanish for two.


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
Writer's Block

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Chloe Basch
This sonnet is a masterpiece! So witty,

	it is almost like the tangible thing!

	Something new, 

	might not be true… 

	but I can’t wait to discern what comes next!

	As my orbs fleetingly scan the text,

	my tongue is as tied as a giraffe’s nape.

	Try it again!

	Try it again!

	It will never come to an end!

	I’m still thinking. 

	Nothing’s cooking.

	The chances of ideas are rooky,

	then I think to myself:

	Start over?

	I need prosperity—

	At least a four-leaf clover!

	Then I ponder,

	what if I scrawled,

	what if I wrote my same exact same quote?

	Writer’s block? 

	Crazy talk!

	I’ll just make my fingers walk!

	Dwadle the stave! Type it up!

	Moil until it’s done!

	It is beguiling,

	that I see,

	and Most importantly:

	Made by me.


Chloe Basch is 12 years old and lives in New York


  

  
  

          
    
      


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