My Outspoken Mother

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Chloe Basch
My Outspoken Mother


 


She gave me fear.


She gave me hate.


She eyed me with disgust.


She gave me strength.


 


The fire escaped her lungs


And the flood absconded with her brain.


She resides


Withered away,


A novel amongst stories.


She fell off the shelf,


She snapped.


The ink that was once forced onto the paper,


That yearned to paint the world a different color;


Instead her words painted the limited pages.


 


Her spine shatters


Her pages wrinkle.


Her cover fractures,


And her story is forgotten.


Gone.


 


Her story told the truth


And that is why she died.


We cannot know the truth,


For then the world would not be poverty stricken.


The world would not be 


 


broken


 


If there were more stories like her.


 


They did it


They ripped her pages


Burnt her cover.


They silenced what couldn’t be heard.


They killed the spark of fire left


Because that spark caused a conflagration.


 


The fire consumed libraries


Because they told lies.


It spread to schools


And buried the ashes.


Because they told lies.


She didn’t fall.


She didn’t burn.


Her story wasn’t forgotten.


 


Forgotten like mine


Like my father’s


Like my sister’s.


 


Her infamous truth did not overpower the lies that are enforced.


It did not flood every library 


Every school;


But it killed everything that made me fit in.


Everything that made me the same


 


Chloe Basch,11, NY,NY USA



	 


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
The Red and White Campbell's Beef Noodle Soup Can

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Andrew Li
The red and white Campbell’s Beef Noodle Soup can, 


created by heavy, hurting, hands, in a faded factory, 


sits, idly. 


 


It has the same mellow, metallic, touch as others of its kind.


It has the same lackluster label as others of its kind.


 


It has the 


same


soggy


soup


as others of its kind.


 


The price, nineteen cents, is printed boldly on the lid,


and the can is shipped off to a shop in Manhattan,


where a man comes everyday to buy it. 


The man, Andy is his name,


whips out two dimes, grabs the can, 


and tells the storekeeper to keep the change. 


 


He returns to his easel in his studio 


and opens the can 


and takes in the boring bland aroma of the soup


and he consumes it like his mouth is a black hole 


devouring the universe of beef, noodles, and soggy soup. 


 


Yet it doesn’t deter him from buying another,


and another,


until twenty years have gone by. 


 


Andrew Li, 18, Singapore


 


 


 


 



	 


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
Highway Lullaby

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Hunter Towne
 


Silence makes a sound

	don’t you think?

	Sometimes I can’t sleep

	because the silence is so loud.


There is something about the nothing,

	the absolute emptiness of a place

	like walking through a forest on a snowy night.


Silence scares me.


I grew up in town

	close to the highway

	and the constant hum of tires on tar

	has sung me to sleep the past 15 years.


Sometimes we go to a farm

	in New Hampshire.

	It’s beautiful

	and I treasure my time there.

	But I have a hard time sleeping.


It is just

	so

	so

	so

	quiet,

	yet, so

	so

	so

	loud.


Silence has a sound

	don’t you think?


Hunter Towne is 15 years old; she lives in Freeport, Maine.


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
of arc

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Lara Katz
that man

	he was a woman, with

	cropped hair and cobwebbed

	words


that illiterate woman

	she fought a court to

	remain single


she in drag brought men to

	war horse to water they

	drank they drank deep


that girl

	won a war dressed in

	white that peasant

	commanded a dauphin


and he obeyed

	like a dog that virgin

	at nineteen she became ash

	before her own funeral


that life

	that swift.

	 


Lara Katz is 16; she lives in Weston, Connecticut


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
The Wisest

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Daniel Boyko
Upon receiving the reality beyond the most intelligent parts of my brain,

	I discover the truth.

	She’s by far the smartest of them all,

	able to give advice on just about everything

	in a language that isn’t her natural tongue.


The hard-core sciences, the puzzling history,

	and sophisticated opinions on philosophy

	are all answered with brilliance.

	Yet, she’s never been formally taught any of it.


Sure, her mathematical computing skills aren’t on par with Caltech’s finest,

	but she stopped attending school by third grade.

	If only she had the opportunities that the wealthy American receives,

	she would be hailed by all and would be placed on the same pedestal as Einstein himself.


There would be an element named after her,

	a city, a town, an avenue, and an airport would be named the same as well,

	and she would have invented some bewildering creation

	that would forever revolutionize life as we know it.


The future would come fifty years earlier,

	and cancer may be a thing of a past.

	Sure, it could be that wisdom comes with age,

	but if that were the case, a certain someone would be a little brighter.

	Maybe, the whole world has just gotten education wrong.


Daniel Boyko is 14 years old and lives in Short Hills, New Jersey, USA


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
Clouds

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Kiana Mpala
Clouds are big fluffy things they are.

	As big as a house, as big as a car,

	then you think how far do they go?

	Far up into the clouds where nobody knows...


Different shapes and sizes are they,

	moving fast to places far away.

	Clouds are magical and the most magic of all,

	they might give rainy days and sad ones too.


But best of all is they love us, they do!


Kiana Mpala is 10 years old and lives in Chatam, England. 


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
Honey

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Isabella Popa
Brown paint

	flicking off

	god’s paintbrush,

	splattering

	onto your

	freckles.


Raw honey

	thick with emotion

	escapes from

	your eyes

	and drips

	down your face.


Lips gently

	coated in sugar,

	so sweet

	that I would

	gladly eat up

	every word.


You can’t be real.

	Maybe I should

	touch you,

	just to

	be sure.

	 


Isabella Popa is 13 and lives in San Jose, California


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
Heart of Light

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Narlyn Rodriguez
I have the heart of light

	No matter what you say or do

	Will you stop my light from shining


No I’m not dying

	Yes I’m trying

	Don’t tell me I’m not enough

	When you don’t know my stuff


But isn’t it lovely

	Tearing me down

	Make me look like a clown


Well I have news for you

	I’m having fun too

	Seeing you mock me

	Tryna stop me


Where are you now

	You’re the one with the frown


So I got that heart of light

	Like an airplane

	I’ll take flight


I'm too high in the sky

	To listen to your lies


So treat me with respect

	Or don’t

	Let's see who it’ll affect


Oh honey

	You can’t stop me

	I got that heart of light

	And it’s a real sight



	Narlyn Rodriguez is 15 and lives Pomona, California 


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
X-Rays

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Julia Riesman

	Something, even in daylight, always hides



	under three shifting cups face-down, there we



	can’t know, in the dark, what is falsified.



	 



	With blood-red cow carcass, each shelf is lined



	in this grocery aisle mortuary—



	something, even in daylight, always hides.



	 



	A light bulb bursts on a carnival ride,



	same fate as my left eye capillary;



	can’t know, in the dark, what is falsified.



	 



	In the shadow cast by his tune, the pied



	piper hinted at coal mine canary.



	Something, even in daylight, always hides.



	 



	How was she to know, now a draped deer hide,



	that hunting season's not January:



	can’t know, in the dark, what is falsified.



	 



	Apricot pits, within, house cyanide



	in the jars of an apothecary;



	Something, even in daylight, always hides—



	can’t know, in the dark, what is falsified.



	 



	Julia Riesman is 16 and lives in Brookline, Massachussetts. 


  

  
  

          
    
      







        

    
The Old Dog

  

        
  
  

    
Poetry
By: Abby Bartlett
The old dog lying in the sun

	lounges there every day.

	He casts his shadow across the lawn,

	and watches younger puppies play.


He sniffles at the lily flowers

	that line his sleepy path.

	He sits there,

	still as a rock,

	and takes in the world—

	one

	sleepy

	minute

	at

	a

	time.


Until his owner comes to play,

	the old dog lounges in the sun

	ALL DAY.


Abby Bartlett is 11;  she lives in Freeport, Maine


  

  
  

          
    
      


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