Sunrise I scratch my eyes and rub my head. I then see the sun rise before me. It shines over me, and I know that the new day has just begun. I then see the sun grow higher and higher every time I look at my page and back at the sun again. It climbs above the distant house and its light destroys any darkness in its wake. Black cows meander through green fields outside my window. I then pour my cereal, but as I eat, I hear my alarm go off. That tells me to pack my bag and get in the car. Goodbye sunrise.
Sunset I sit and watch my day end. As I breathe slowly, I notice the dim light fall beyond the horizon. It seems like the sun is decanting so slowly, but really as I look back onto my paper and back up at the sun again, it is almost gone. The day was long and yet, I feel like it flew by me. Everyday, my young life begins its slow death, and I feel older. I see the orange light of the sun burn on my porch, and I see the dark shadows beginning to show their faces. Then the song of crickets echoes through the night, and I imagine my pupils grow larger as I adjust to the drastic change of light. The skies grow dark and so does my mind as I yawn, and my eyes begin to collapse on me. Then all the sudden, I feel the loving hands of my mother grab my shoulder and tell me it is time for dinner. I close my journal and retreat into the warm smells of a fresh dinner.
Moonlight I see the moon shine its light upon the shadows that begin to seep beneath the ground from which they once came. I then see that tonight is a full moon, and the moment I say that, the words Werewolf and Vampire pop into my head which is strange because I already know they are not real. I imagine him deep in the woods waiting for his prey, drool drips from his black lips. His pink tongue darts out between his sharp teeth. Fried chicken interrupts my thoughts. I check the moon again and see it high in the sky watching over the forests of the night.
Jacob Adams
The Boston Bombings
Inspired by Tiger, Tiger
The day is done.
Snowflake, snowflake, drifting down
Say goodbye to the sun.
By yourself you can’t be found
Lives were started today. Lives were ended today. Every day is hard.
Only when you’re in the sky Can you be caught by hand or eye?
Every day is new. Now, the new day is over.
Are you alone when you fly?
People are leaving their jobs.
With ones like you in the sky?
Some are starting their shifts. Parents are cooking dinner for their children.
Are you aware that you inspire The ones that land too close to fire?
Children are slowly growing up. People knelt down to pray today. People stood up to laugh today. The dark is half-way here. The darkness may be safer for some; It may mean danger for others. Some were asked to forget. Some were begged to forgive. Half were given up on. Half were given another chance. Just like we all get another tomorrow. Unless our life gives up on us. Life gave up on 8 year old boy today. He wanted to see people run like there was no tomorrow. And for him and many others there wasn’t a tomorrow. That’s the problem, I think; Humans here on earth do not know if they will fulfill their tomorrow.
By Stella Bradford
Sunset The bright sphere sits atop the row of trees making me squint my eyes. Shadows of trees cast all around me making a second darker forest. The sun lights the grass, pavement, houses and creeks until they glitter with reflection. The slight breeze battles with the powerful heat dropping the temperature, but it is losing the oncoming war of summer. The trees sway back and forth making the shadows do the same. The heat and light burn me. The creek bounces the light off with ease shining it as a weapon and is unaffected by the heat. The sun has sunk lower now cutting the heat in half as the breeze fights to obtain victory. The birds click and chime making a sort of song out of it. A blue jay flashes by; its blue wings go up and down as it sings its song. A silver car drives past introducing a moving shadow that follows the car as if it’s trapped. A Hawk circles, a dark smudge in the blue sky, seeking its prey and making yet another shadow on the ground. Out of nowhere, a strong wind arrives, throwing my notebook out of reach. Its white pages fan out. I pick it up, brush it off and straighten the pages out as the sun sinks lower creating a disk like brightness that only covers half the sky as the darkness spreads. A bird flies by looking to find its nest before night falls. Suddenly, my bear like dog charges. His mouth flies open showing his ferocious teeth. He sees the bird as some kind threat. I hold him back trying in vain to get him to calm down. He stops struggling, and I am able to pull him into the house. After ten minutes, the sun finally drops below the trees letting the darkness take over. The temperature drops, the heat is gone and so is the sun.
William Bryant
Sunset We reach the top of the empire state. The sun is creeping down on to the buildings. The sun looks as if it is being skewered by the pointy skyscrapers, more like skystabbers. The romantic idea of watching a sunset is also being skewered by the New Yorkers and their New York life. Most everyone is working away, yelling at a colleague, employee, or even at his boss. They type away on the computer, fold the store clothes they yearn for so badly, but cannot afford. A clean-up crew sweeps the dirty streets, and power washes it. The spray hits a model who yells some choice words at the poor man whose only income is cleaning the dull streets. Though sometimes, he feels vengeful, so he sprays the models and business men and pretends to be nearsighted by pointing at his eyes and saying, “Sorry, glasses.” The people usually storm away, mumbling, while he grins and chuckles. Another man plays a saxophone, his instrument case littered with coins and bills. A few blocks away in an alley, a man is shot. A policeman rushes onto the scene, he has heard the gunshot. He glances up and sees a middle age dark-haired man about 5 feet tall dressed in black and tan turn the corner with a gun at his side. He presses the button on his black walkie-talkie and mutters the details to dispatch. He marks off the crime scene with caution tape. The annoying reporters who follow the police everywhere are waved off. A girl sitting in a taxi watches the news in the back, and across the bottom reads: A BROOKLYN MAN SHOT, KILLED…. MANHATTAN APARTMENT BROKEN INTO…. 500 YEAR OLD VASE GONE….BRONX SUSPECT ON THE LOOSE. The girl waves it off and goes back to texting her friend. Back on the scene, the K9 policemen arrive to trace the murderer. The first policeman wonders if the victim had any family. He starts to shed a tear, thinking about his own family back home. He sneaks his hand up to wipe the tear away; he thinks about 9/11. He shouldn’t have survived. I didn’t deserve it, he thinks for the millionth time. More reporters arrive, most of them turn away, one says to his assistant, “Come on, Tom, we need something more interesting. This happens every day. We need something juicy to compete with the big guys”. The policeman frowns and turns away. He notices a child whimpering, clutching his blanket, clad in pajamas and bare feet. He cries quietly at the edge of the alley. The policeman approaches him, summing up his age. The boy is maybe 4 or 5 at the most. The man kneels down and asks the child where his parents are. A trembling hand points to the victim, lifeless, on the ground. He comforts the child, pats him on the back and calls dispatch. Meanwhile, the K9 crew follows the suspect’s trail. The dogs’ noses are glued to the ground. They turn corners, dart through dark alleys, and run down near the East River of Brooklyn. The trail leads to a subway, and the policemen sigh. They let the dogs smell around the damp tunnel, and then find the security booth. They tell them the details and ask for the surveillance tape, and if they saw a man in black and tan rush into the station. The staff inside the booth hands over the footage and report seeing lots of people in black and tan. A conspiracy? No. Everyone in New York City wears black and tan. The policemen watch the footage and point to a man heading towards the Bronx. The policemen sigh, and start off. “All in a day’s work,” one says to another, “get used to it, rookie.” Alden Gray Carter
The Sea Tiny creatures swirl in the inky darkness below. Their faces are obscured in the dark landscape. Light doesn’t reach down this deep. The ground drops off into a black abyss. Huge monsters swirl their tails beckoning for the smaller creatures to swim down into their lair. Small invertebrate jellies float aimlessly around. They are not able to see where they are going so the water chooses where they go. A large fin appears above the surface, grey and shimmering. Underneath the undulating glass surface a school of rays swim. We are standing on a concrete pier that juts out into the sea. Waves splash up against the wall. A strong rope holds a dirty boat. On the deck lay the creatures. They have been pulled up by human hands. They lie there, bloody and dry, staring into the distance, unblinking. Their faces are no longer obscured by shadows. Sickened by this murder scene I turn back to the bar. Christmas lights hang off the open porch. Palm trees stand tall and bent all around. Most of the people have vacated the bar, but a few still linger. A man sits at a small table staring into the distance. Three men are standing at the bar laughing. We walk down the asphalt road and step over a forgotten picket fence. The white paint is long gone. My friend and I step into the bar. It’s like an alternate universe with its happy people and bright Christmas lights. The rickety fans rattle above out heads. I pick up a stick and write my name in the soft sand that covers the floor. I look up for the first time and look around. Our small dinghy is still tied up at the dock getting beaten by waves. My friend is over at a table ordering a soda. From the old ceiling hang orchids and other strange plants. Their huge leaves drape down over the eaves. In the distance I can see a light bobbing up and down. There are more I notice, red and green lights. My friend walks past me with his soda in hand. We make our way down the dock with our sodas and fishing poles in hand. Occasionally I will glance into the shallow water just to see if there are any sharks. So far on this whole trip we have only seen two sharks. One was a six foot long nurse shark we saw while we were snorkeling. It’s huge brown body moved gracefully over the colorful coral reef. Soon it swam off. The other time we saw a shark was when we were on the beach of an island. The beautiful seaweed swayed in the water just like tall grass sways in the breeze. Small fish swam in and out of these aquatic plants. My friend and I had just discovered the sand jellies which would burrow into the sand. We had made a jelly pit and were watching it expectantly when out of the corner of my eye I saw something move. It looked like a big fish. Actually it was a shark though. We ran off screaming. We climb into the small dinghy. My friend powers up the motor and I turn on the “safety” light. The motor hums to life and sputters. Suddenly it catches and we are off. Water sprays up around us. I picture those dark grey figures swaying under the water. Beckoning me to fall in. I don’t though. We make it back to the boat safely. We climb onto the deck of the 48 foot long sailboat. It slightly rocks in the warm summer breeze. Underneath the water something stirs, but I don’t care anymore. I walk into the cabin of the boat and lay down on the soft leather couch. I slowly fall into a deep sleep.
Ben Chaleki
SPCA I step in the door, the smell of cat litter and cleaner hits me like a slap in the face But I don’t mind it The cats sleep or just lounge around awaiting their new homes I admire each captive Then push through the next set of double doors There live kittens, hundreds of cats, and all small dogs and puppies A cute yip-yap, yip-yap, or meow-purr greets me So I stop, smile and talk to them too But soon, I push on, deeper into the heart of the building I enter the room with the dogs and the very loud obnoxious howl-bark, howl-bark I try to quiet them down Snap-snap, snap-snap I walk down the aisle talking to every individual until I arrive upon the one His big brown eyes stare at me He gets excited and his squeaky half bark sounds as he jumps against his only restraint, the fence I show him the leash Now he can escape from his restraint I can tell by his expression that if he could talk he would be thanking me And I wonder how a dog this sweet and loving can still be here after almost a year And I hope that one day I will become his future master
Taylor Coppa
Three Worlds I step onto the front porch, take a few quick steps and leap off and over a bush. I land on the hard rocky driveway. I clutch the well worn ball under one arm and jog toward the hoop. I stop about twenty feet from it and look at the ball which has the grip worn off. The hoop, which stands much higher than I, invites me in as I race toward it and go up for a layup. I feel the muscles in my legs contract as I shoot off the ground like someone turned off gravity. Then my brain tells the muscles in my arms exactly what to do. I raise them and release the ball giving it a slight push with my finger tips. Then gravity is turned back on, and I fall back to earth. The ball bounces off the backboard and dives into the red circle. The white net expands as the ball slides through then curls up as it leaves. I grab the ball again and dribble back out to where the grass begins. I shoot from about fifteen feet away. The ball bounces off the front of the rim with a “clank.” It hits a rock and bounces away from me and into the woods. I jog over the edge of the woods and take a step in. All of a sudden, I am in a different world. The light shining through the leaves makes them glow. The trees overshadow me, and I feel so small. Their branches stretch out like arms, and they wave. I see no sign of the ball. I wish the trees would tell me where it is. They could use one of their long arms and point it out. Then all of a sudden, I hear something racing around above me. I look up and see branches moving, then I see it. The grey beast hisses and disappears into a hole in a tree. It was just a squirrel. Five minutes later I see it hiding from me, its brown hide blending in with the fallen leaves. I duck under a branch and step over a fallen tree. I grab my old friend and work my way around the bushes and trees until I get to the edge of the forest. I look back once and then re enter my world of pavement and hoops. Again, I shoot making sure to “follow through” as the ball soars through the air. Then I hear it, my favorite sound, a swish. I shoot over and over hoping for the sound again. The ball slips through the net and falls to the ground like a drop of rain. Then I realize that there actually are drops of rain falling from the sky. They fall in big cold spheres and explode when they hit the ground. The ball starts to get slippery, and it is harder to handle. I try to shoot again, but the ball slips off the side of my hand and falls short of the hoop. A flash of light makes a perfect picture as the ball slides through the net once more. Then the crack of thunder fills the air as I run toward the house. I open the white door and enter another world. All of a sudden, warmth surrounds me, and I smell brownies cooking. I hang my coat up and look out the window watching the rain. It is almost dark now, and I hear the rain hitting the ground at full force. Flashes of lightning illuminate the scene. The scent of brownies pulls me toward the kitchen where I am greeted by my mom saying that I am just in time for dinner. Matt
The Thief in The Night
I once again return to the strange ceremony of watching light, though this time it is departing and bidding adieu to the Earth to welcome the later guests, the moon and stars. But it only travels offstage to go behind the curtain and work once more, for it’s the magic behind the romantic moonlight we all know and love. But does thou remember this whilst holding thy lover’s hand in the moonlight? Do they ponder over the trivial fact to know that the beauty they stare upon is not but a lie, a magic show of sorts? Are they in such blissful ignorance so not as to give credit where credit’s due? How often does one think about a talentless showcase, then enjoy it all the same and not care that nature has played tricks on their mind? The people stare at the naked, white, disk in the sky and associate it with its subtle glow, the glow it has ridden into the night with, stolen from the pounding heart of the sun. But alas, here thou shall stand and see the circular flame say its farewells to the man who stole light from its beating chest, ripping its organs and adorning itself with another’s beauty. The stars are a whole other matter of question. For, curiously enough, they are in every way identical to the sun, brothers and siblings to the sun, just relatives that live afar. Yet, they still are far greater than acquaintances to the moon, even though they know what dastardly deed the gray hunk of matter has done. It makes one curious to consider the fact that the brothers, the stars, may indeed be evil. Is that why they remain unseen until the sun has departed? The sun’s own brother has betrayed it, and the sun itself may very well be deteriorating, having its body wounded. Yet, curiously, it wakes up in the early hours of every morn, with a smile broadened across its face. But be this as it may, for this shall be the way nature entwines itself in its own matters, and nature does not seem too shaken up by this theory. Such shall be the way of life, stolen from another.
Elanra Dulaney
The Cat Before dinner my father disappeared Out to the car And drove away
Oh, Jenna! Mom squeals
Call for me
The door slowly creaks open And whiskers and a nose
Mom and I burst
Poke out
Through the door
Tentatively sniffing the air
And we stand On the Patio
Then like a rocket he’s gone
Waiting for something
Running about
To happen
Terrified
Mom closes all the gates
My heart sinks
Oh, Jenna!
She’s being extra chatty While Dad pulls a small And doing a bad job Cage out from behind
Don’t worry
His back
They say
Of hiding her excitement He will take some time What is it? Soft mewing I ask Comes from the cage
Fast-Forward 1 week
Barely audible
He’s dubbed
My eyes grow wide
“Waffle”
It’s the cat, the cat
Looking back at
I picked out!
Those days
I scream
Is always a joy
My mother grabs my hand And calms herself down a bit You will see… She answers
I wasn’t quite sure What to think Of this
Mom laughs while Dad tells us
And even now
To keep our voices
My cat “Waffle”
Down
Is my
As he undoes
Companion
The latch
By Jenna Faulconer
So I let myself Be excited with her And an hour later We hear the car door Slam And Dad’s voice
Listen, Look, Think
The air, its cold breeze, its destructive power, its freshness, the air, urges people to want to go inside. Its own way prevails over everything. Air, peaceful or not, cells ride a roller coaster that they never know when it will end. Air, a life-savor, it holds many things, and it has the power to do many things. It makes trees dance, air. Sound, the thing left out, the outlier. It may move fast but it rarely does. Sound, there is only one thing faster, light. Sound, only some is heard, Sound. Sight, sees everything around you, dead and alive. Everything comes from two things, light and your eyes. Sight, sees the many cracks, the many fallen things, the abandon things, old toys, old places. Sight sees destroyed things, destroyed homes. Sight sees happiness, smiles. Sight sees sadness, frowns. Sight sees the trees coming back from the cold winter, the gloomy surroundings as well as the happy ones too. Sight sees the only green on the first tree back from the winter. Sight sees the air pushing things around, Sight. Think, not only humans have feelings. Trees can be lonely, brave, and sad. Think, plants also have feelings. They know when they are abandoned, sorrow. Think, everything is abandoned, everything is left alone. The wind, the trees, and the plants are all left alone. So many dead plants growing in cracks on the abandoned court, deserted, think. The Building the only sound that demands to be heard, the Building, the only motion that moves without the thought to move, The Building makes everything else scared to make a sound or move. The building makes dust that rides the wind. Many things suffer but many get help from The Building. The Tree drops its last dead leaf that got pushed out by the wind. The tiny young plants in the cracks get pushed around by the wind and are unable to resist. Listen, look, think. Listen, look, think.
Christian Dale Forbes
Bare
If they think that. I do not have to explain
I always wear a mask
Myself
Why do I? Because I don’t like the feel
I am not
Of bare soul Showing
Who you think I am
Judging looks,
So, before you judge,
Nasty sneers,
Whisper, tease
Juicy gossip,
I suggest you get to know me
Little lies.
A little better
No harm done when said and seen
Than now.
To and by a wall With thick paint Skyler Guengerich I only show myself In moments of weakness Poetry or when I cry I prefer the poetry
They just think my writing Is “deep”.
That’s okay with me
Tree Swing I sit here, silent like a hunter, pushing my hands though the grass only to find my fingers cold and wet. My hands now numb push through the frozen mud. I get up to find my bottom is wet. I walk to the rope swing with the leaves crunching under my feet. It reminds me of my poem when the poet called the leaves corn flakes. I sit on the small piece of wood I call a swing and look out to see my blue house with a dark green roof. Then I see a female robin in the tall trees flying from branch to branch. She is as brown as the branch she sits on. Her head turns left to right. I take a swing and see my nanny’s old house. The porch that was once brown is now baby blue. I hear two bangs in the distance, they sound like the death cannon in the Hunger Games. I look around to see what made that sound, but there is no one around. I am alone, at least I think I am. I push back to take another swing but then I see a dog in the distance and stop. It is trotting though the green field. Another swing, and I see a brown and yellow building; this would be Marios. Cars race by. Some are almost silent, others quite loud. Then splat, bird poop lands on my notebook. I say, “Ew,” and pick up a stick and brush it off. Then I think about the next day at school when I have to share this and how one of my boy classmates will probable say something about the bird poop on my note book. I can hear all of the jokes now. I take one last swing and think about what I am going to write. Then it hits me, the small farmer’s truck as I call it. It is red with a silver pin stripe down the middle. I see the sun light reflecting off the door and remember all the summers riding in this truck. It was just eight years ago when my journey in this truck began. I think about how I can’t wait to get back in that front seat for another summer. Driving with my dad means summer to me. Then I come back to reality and I'm freezing. Time to go inside I tell myself. By this time, all feeling in my fingers is gone. Walking back home, I see a small branch in the grass and think it is a snake so I run. When I reach the porch, I take one last look and say good bye to my swing and good bye to my truck. I will miss you, but summer will be here soon. I turn and run back into the warm house.
Sarah Martyn
The Next Chapter The book
I will only be able
That I call my life
To look back at the previous
Is thick and bound
Chapter with nostalgia,
In leather and gold.
And visit my past
The letters are written
With the friends that I had
In a plain, clear font.
For more than a decade.
Each chapter is filled
I will cry.
With wonderful adventures.
But I will smile too,
I am still only in the first
Because the next chapter
Chapter.
Can only be better than the last,
I am reaching the last pages.
Because whoever heard of
Soon a big bold “2�
A book that got worse
With title a page
As the pages turned?
Only half filled
I will make new friends,
With scribbles.
And find new schools,
I have only lived
Because at some point,
In the one chapter.
One must sigh
Thirteen years
And turn the last page
I have resided in
And meander off into
A small town,
His or her next chapter
With a group of friends, Going to the same school. The next chapter
Claire Mink
SUNSET As day turns to night
As the night comes in to play.
My dogs lie by my side
The bird’s voices get louder…,
The tall trees sway above
“Tweet ….x3”
as I spot three cardinals
Tonight the northern lights will shine
Two males and one female
I will wait
Evenly spread through the trees Shouting, “Birdy, birdy, birdy.” The sun makes the trees glow yellow As it goes down Birds fly everywhere I hear a “ding, ding” through the open window My cat’s collar hitting the bowl like a bell Something’s crashing its way through the woods It must be another deer Overhead goes a plane on its way to somewhere Quickly passing over the big city Buzzing past goes a motorcycle The sun puts a shadow on the houses Water drips onto my leg, From my wet hair. It gets darker and darker As I write more and more. The temperature drops dramatically
-Mckenzie Rychcik
Me, Myself and I I sit on a stool outside It’s a cold, wet, and windy day The leg of my stool sits in a big puddle The wind brushes by me It whispers something in my ear The wind brings a cold breeze as it passes by A cold chill runs down my back The builders have cut down all the trees to construct our new school Now it just looks like a bunch of dirt While I’m writing this poem I feel like I’m really connecting with nature I’m in my own world Free from the words of everyone else It’s as if everyone around me froze When I’m in my own world I can truly be myself But that’s not really a good thing I should be myself around other people Putting on a show for everyone is truly exhausting I’m afraid of what people might say or think When I’m older I hope it will become easier To be myself around other people I can’t keep being afraid of what other people might think Do you ever feel this way? Taylor Shoultz
Observations of a 7th Grade English Student
I watch as the blue of the sky fades to a dark orange. The room darkens down as faint orange glows from the walls, lighting the surrounding area. The evening wind dies down to a faint breeze, blowing through the window. The room calms down so the only sound to be heard is the fish filter and a soothing wind. I sigh, looking around the room. The corners are dark, the closet is dark, and the room is dimming down to dark. I turn on the radio, as it plays a calming song. I listen closely to the birds chirping, flying around the tree planted just outside my room. They sing chirp, and fly away, off to their homes. I smile, as I close my book. I walk around the room, no care in the world. I then run down the hallway to the front porch. I stare at the sunset as the orange glow dies down. The moon lights up and the sky grows dark. The stars illuminate the dark blue of the sky. I run back to my room ad pull out my book and pencil. I rocket down the hallway and slide as I stop. I gaze into the darkness and look down the horizon. There is still a bright orange down the hill, but it isn’t from the sun. I look closely and see that it is the bright shining light from the pool. Shadows shine near the light radiating a pine scent. The air is chilled, but refreshing. I inhale, and then exhale. A small light illuminates the bricks, colored with a dark red. A thick yellow chord climbs up the bricks, and onto the stone porch. The stone is cold beneath my feet, colored with a light grey. The yellow cord continues to climb, and eventually climbs up wooden planks of wood, which could inspire any artist. Alas, soon they shall be burned, to make a warm, hot, flame. Even when they are being swallowed into the flaming beast, then could be one of the many paintings in a museum. I walk back inside, and notice that where I am from it is warmer. I am safe in here, concealed away from the night. The door swings open, letting in the breeze. A brown blur races out into the darkness but is pulled back by something. The yellow cord is holding it back. The thing comes back into the light and I notice that it is the one and the only, Scout. He has been let out, out into the darkness. He looks at me with my notebook, and cocks his head. He stares at me, and then bolts off. I sigh again, knowing that he doesn’t know that nighttime is one of the most peaceful times of the day. I close my book, and retire to my bed. I set my stuff down, and lie down. I close my eyes, exhausted. I attempt to get up, and Scout pounces on me. He then proceeds to continue his mischief by stealing my pencil and running off into the living room. This is going to be a long night.
Brenden Stakem
Wondering
I’m in the war looking out at the barren land. I’m watching every move that happens. There is not much going on outside the computer lab window. But if you imagine it like a war zone it makes all the difference. I hear shots ring out a lot farther away in the distance. I don’t feel like getting up and walking around, so I’m going to do my work. Fences are all around me, too tall to jump over. The ground is too hard to dig through. I’m trapped in this bared dry lifeless land we called the “new world.” Now that I think about it, do the construction workers really think that the new school will be built and finished for next year? Well, I don’t think they have enough days left for it to be done next year. I hear more shots about fifteen feet away. I jump down into a hole for cover. I wonder what it would be like to play hide-n-seek in the dirt. I’m all muddy, alone, and dying. What will death be like when I am older? Will it hurt? Will it be a slow death? I close my eyes and picture my family back home with my husband and daughter as I wither away. I think about my life. I’m getting closer and closer to finishing my assignment. I think about how fast we are leaving this school, this state, this country, this world. Life is too short to waste. School is too important to just throw behind me.
Jasmine Walker
The School Day Begins This poem is about how most students don’t like going to school on Mondays, because Mondays are always rough for everybody. I wrote a poem similar to the poem, “The School Day Begins” by Douglas Evans.
It’s Friday morning at 6:45 You’re still in a bad mood; your homework is due Your shower water is chunky; your oatmeal is too lumpy Your mother forgets to say good-bye; because she is baking an apple pie You’re jogging to the bus stop, when someone stops to talk about King Tut It’s 90 degrees outside: It seems that you have gone on a sugar high Your body won’t function because you’re learning conjunctions Your pant’s zipper is stuck; you’re all out of luck Your backpack falls apart; then your see people depart Your soup thermos leaks; your grandma pinches your cheeks The gym doors are rusted; the lockers are busted The principal say hi; the others all throw pie The classroom is very cold; but you are strong and bold You march right in; and take a spin The morning bell rings; its 8:55 come cozy up to the line Another school day has just begun There is nowhere to run.
Tamira Makaila Weaver
Wake up I Breathe… Look at the sky Where birds fly
I Listen… Construction workers build a new school Kind of loud and kind of cool
I Look… The land is being destroyed And I am getting annoyed
I See… Grymes grass gone And construction men bond
I think… I am a mortal Not going through a portal What matters to me? Homework? No, people…
BY: Rick Weaver
Sunrise I’m still rubbing the sleep out of my eyes when the first tendrils of light creep over the densely packed trees. Minute by minute they reach higher and higher until they have covered the sky with a thin layer of illumination. Soon trees, houses, and people are painted onto the sunrise background. Swirls of purple are haphazardly dashed onto the canvas, surrounding a small ball of sun. It’s surprising that such small object can make such a bright light, but I know that the sun is actually much bigger than my perspective makes it to be. From my earthly view, my golf ball sun allows me to see in the morning. But from the Mars’ view, that small golf ball could burn you alive. At this point, my radiant ball is fully off the ground, casting millions of vines to light the world. It’s amazing that eight hours from now, somebody in Dubai will get up in the morning to watch the sun rise – the same sun that I watched on a Tuesday morning. It’s also amazing that five hours from Dubai, somebody will get up to watch the sun – the same sun that they guy in Dubai watched. It’s almost as if it’s a communal sun, something that everybody in the world could get up to watch. And sure, the background of my sun might not match the traditional Hong Kong city life, but the sun that rises at 6:45 each morning is the same sun that starts my day. One thing that differs, though, is how we each perceive it. That’s what makes it my sun, or your sun, or his sun. The rooster on a farm takes it as a signal to wake up every living being within a three hundred yard radius. The college kid takes it as a signal to go back to sleep. The businessman in the city takes it as a signal to run faster. The three most important words of real estate are: location, location, location. But, the three most important words of life are: perception, perception, perception. Sunset A great luminescent ball of fire starts to settle off the horizon. Thick watercolors splay across the sky in vivid shades of pink, orange, and yellow, eccentrically splattered onto the thick canvas paper. Dark trees are shadowed onto the background, branches clearly shown against the light. I can see my neighbors eating a dinner of some sort of meat and vegetables. Animals call to one another. Some screech goodbyes, and others declare good-mornings. The dark horizon reaches out with her tender hands, grasping the sun and pulling it closer. The sun, however, has different ideas. He struggles and wrestles and grapples with the horizon, pulling all of his strength into this round. Despite her fragile hands, she possesses an enormous amount of strength – the result of lying in wait for the whole day. The sun, having provided illumination for farmers to grow their crops, is easily overwhelmed by the horizon. The horizon starts to swallow him whole. And at this moment, I come to a profound conclusion.
At this moment, when the sun is just above the horizon, the sunset looks exactly the same as the sunrise. If I were to take a picture of this enormous, impassioned sun bathing in the glory of purple and yellow clouds, it would seem identical to my snapshot at six thirty in the morning. The sun would remain the same, the silhouette of the trees would remain the same, and the vibrant clouds would remain the same. Perhaps the only thing that would change would be my neighbors’ dinner. Instead of meat and vegetables, they would eat toast and cereal. Despite having inconsequential differences, it seems astounding that this simple, natural occurrence could bring such discerning ideas – that every end is a beginning, and that every beginning is an end. Moonlight Thick layers of darkness envelop the night sky and a cool spring breeze saunters lazily on my lawn. Primitive crickets call to one another, their sounds penetrating the thick stone walls of my house. New green leaves brush up against the body of the tree, and all is quiet – save the incessant chirping of the crickets. Then all of a sudden, the thick cloud cover abates and a thin beam of pure white light cascades gently down to the earth. It shoots straight and true, illuminating a small patch of green grass. An overwhelming feeling crashes down on me, and I know that this moment – this particular time – feels magical and surreal. In books, this would be the time where the author would say something like, “A thin stream of pixie dust wafted into the window of her room and a distinct figure cast a shadow onto her carpet floor.” Or “A sharp glint shone off of a small metal object, and he gasped, bending down to pick up a small golden key.” So I wait for something extraordinary to happen - something bizarre, something unusual, something unprecedented. I wait for Peter Pan to fly into my room, casting a trail of magical dirt behind him. But instead, the crickets continue to chirp, and the breeze continues to blow. I hear a rustle in the woods, and a slight movement catches my attention. This is it! I think. My body is attentive and tilted forward. But instead, a small raccoon runs out of the bush and into the light. It sits there for a minute, contemplating its next direction, and then darts back into the night. I continue to wait for something to happen, but the cloud moves and closes off my mercury beam.
-Caroline Yi