POETS’ CORNER NATIONAL POETRY MONTH!

Heat Death

There’s a woman, sitting by a cliff She stares to the sky covered in orange and yellow as things crumble apart at her feet- a breaking and shattering of all the world’s songs.

It’s the last moment.

The final breath and song of the universe.

Nothing else would come in the aftermath of this.

Nothing we can predict.

Scientists talk about what will happen after we’re long gone. They tell us about how the world will one day disappear into the sun.

But the immortal woman stares on.

It’s the end of the world, but there’s no one to blame.

A universe in shambles, a crumbling landscape.

There’s nothing to be done.

The immortal woman stares on.

A final goodbye.

BY GABRIELA MONTEIRO CORTADA, LANDENBERG, PA

free verse: poetry that follows natural speech patterns, without rhyme or regular meter

Silver Pendant Boy

Pick me up when I get home

Grasp me the way I clutch

My knees on the train

Twirl me the way I Spin in your pockets.

Take care of my body

As I age like brass coin

Rinse me as you learn

How to love the patina on my face

Rub it off in concentrated circles

Feel the oil and grime on your fingertips

Wipe it slowly on your thighs

Watch as the dirt becomes a residue

That sprouts small versions of us

Popping from the surface like memories

As I return, a glassy coin

Satisfied and shiny

With the erosion of your fingers divets on my skin.

BY KENDALL SNIPPER, SAN FRANCISCO, CA

warheads i bought a bag of warheads at my local cvs on the way home from rehearsal i haven’t had one in eight years and they taste different than they did when i was ten but somehow they still taste like home that small oklahoma town trisha yearwood and terri clark rhinestone crosses red dirt that stained my boots grubby hands long division, tree forts sunday school chapel loose teeth and crashed bikes and though it’s not the same as it was all those years ago my childhood still remains just like those little sour candies that i used to love.

BY AVERY-GRACE PAYNE, HOUSTON, TX

Art and Science

I have heard an artist say, When questioned on their perfect lines

Or shining dew on driest paper, “There is a science to it.”

And yet a scientist, when asked Of experiments, hypotheses, theory craft, and foreign symbols said “There is an art to it.”

BY SPAZ WOODWORTH, PAPILLION, NE

Tulips

I watched as my childhood slipped me by leaving behind the smell of grass and the feeling of mud beneath my fingernails.

I caught glimpses of my own smile, faintly hearing the laugh that came between parted lips. We met at four.

Picking flowers and playing teacher.

The boys hand out flowers, we’re studying to become teachers. It leaves me weeping, hunched over, and out of breath.

Snot and tears paint my face now just as they did at age six. What a gut-wrenching experience to feel everything. To know but never understand.

Suddenly, everything came full circle and I thought it would end here

It did not.

The miles stretch on before me, even if it did all end here. We will part, and if there is a chance you read this, know You cannot fear what is out of your control.

It is true, One never knows when it is coming.

Fear what? Asked the child.

The sun is warm and the first tulip has bloomed

BY ELLEN LOPES, PEPPERELL, MA

Falde

The sun is climbing higher, out of reach, Fading to a pale and jealous flax. Foxes flee into dens, fish settle under ponds. Who wants to bear witness to winter’s herald?

The clock ticks steadily with the season’s turning. Quickly! Time to gather the last flowers of fall.

Columbine roots and fennel flattery, Earth’s cruel taunts of a longforgotten summer. Rough stems chafe against a grownup hand, And Ophelia climbs a tree. The last apple hits the earth. Swollen, its belly bursting with ripened flesh, The bruised side breaks, the sweet rot stains soil, The mute swan lays still. Turn it over. See there. Worms slither through its stomach

— A carrion cuisine for the creeping undergrowth. It’s slaughtering time: An ax swings; a pig squeals; A nation falls to its knees, And Ophelia climbs a tree. The creek babbles, wind chatters. A barren branch sways and cracks. Buzzards don’t worry battlement wraiths.

Snakes sleep soundly under snow. Seasons change; this too shall pass.

What difference is one mad girl? One vengeful boy? One dying Dane?

Yet still –Ophelia climbs a tree.

BY GENEVIEVE BREEN, NEWARK, DE

A Mother’s Unseen Pain

One mother lays bound with hope While watching her sleeping baby’s face.

She ponders the world around the globe

Looking what the future will hold in place.

While another mother looks for pacification

Prays she can teach what is no longer spoke.

As she lays restless in fear and indignation

As this little brown face will grow up in a society of anti-woke.

As children play void of color, holding hands as if they’re brothers unbeknownst of their valor innocent to the future peril of others.

While one mother says have a good day

She kisses her child’s cheek Knowing that nothing will go astray.

She sends them off with no worries, quite meek.

While another mother says good day

She cautions on what was taught To never question and obey So you can see another day. We live in a country of diversity And speak of equalities

Yet blind to the other’s adversity

While others are the casualties

BY INDIA FOSTER, WINTER PARK, FL

The Moors

For your sake, I must go into a desolate dawn

At the midnight’s wake, on an owl’s back carried on and on In the mansion’s hell-maze, a tragic tale begun With a jester’s sleighbell stage and a poet’s lungs And a still body’s cold, a shaking grave left open, The last desperate hope of a damned devotion, Dress of diamonds, voice of honey, is it enough Wail of sirens, hands still muddy, silver handcuffs

The truth shifts and silence hits, a pact of blue blood, Taught against my ribs, please believe it was an act of love, my love A temptress takes the bait, nature takes its course

So twist the hands of fate, so strangle the ropes of war

An angel rises from the ashes, raven hair barely singed, Every olive branch has a catch, each loss has a win

In nights she flies above, clutching my neck with frozen hands, A figment, a light, of undying love?, of lust?, of clever plans?

The steel levels at my skull, lips twist into a smile, The moon settles in a lull, but they still rigged the trial, Ripped gowns melt into shadows, too parchment soft to leave scars, But the crowds won’t shove us to the gallows, no one will seize our arms Garden’s iron walls, secrets taking root in buried hearts, Until the castle falls, my one, I will stroll hand in hand with you in the dark A pinprick red handkerchief unspoken, shovels caked in dirt, A dotted navy ocean, a nail-scratched black hearse.

Wash the ruby away in the sapphire pond, let it float with carnelian koi

The million dollar rug is gone with the stable boy, Walk away from love, walk without a care, lying roses curl and bloom Hands in gloves, feet torn and bare, no solace in lips so blue Ivy pulls me to the ground, tangled in vines

If you walk away I won’t hear a sound, tears dare not be cried I lay, a heart-of-stone carved statue on the earth’s pillow, Untouched by the new moon, under a lavender weeping willow, Cold to the touch, I am paper-blank to the horrors, At the edge of the bluff, I become mist in the foggy moors.

BY ANNA GOODMAN, NEW PALTZ, NY

A Chill

I stride out onto those hardwood floors

A kingsnake mimicking courage. The peppermint chill of epinephrine

Reels me back to center stage.

I gaze out upon expectant faces

An intimidating crowd of four, Yet wish it were but a thousand strong— The frightening less is more.

I sink to a bow while cold metal cuts

Four imprints into my arm, Then rise and breathe in my pas de deux—

A fine-tuned scene of charm.

I nod to cue the delighted bells

ARTWORK BY DISHITAA JAIN, SAMMAMISH, WA

As a fairy alights upon the string. A millennium’s collection of notes and tales Lies in wait for my time to sing.

I dance in Oberon’s magic ring

For the enchantment of a page, But as music engulfs my reverie, My fingers fall into a cage.

I blink in horror as the chill returns And the piano forges ahead.

The weight of the curtain falls over my heart, And the violin betrays my dread.

BY LYRA CHEN, WEST LAFAYETTE, IN

Ballad of the Wind River Backpacking Range

Heading into the wilderness we do depart Leaving behind our van

What do we hope we may find

Far from any man?

Perhaps we hike in search of inner peace

Or perhaps we simply hope to see a bear

Let us hope we can fulfill our hopes

It would be quite a letdown if all we saw were a hare

This question weighs heavier than our packs

Burdened not by food and gear, but by fear

If we fail to satiate our desires

What more can we do than simply shed a tear?

However, once the simple pattern is reached

Of the consistent padding of feet on trail, Worries seem to melt like wax from a candle

Far from life’s pressing issues, such as what’s on sale

7 miles in is the point of exhaustion

Where further than the shadows of the sun, our breaks stretch beyond Weary and tired we collapse onto the uneven ground

With our only remaining wish to dip into a pond

Yet our worries and fears were left behind

Just behind that moose by the bend

For with only open trail to distress

We’ve found this distress serves only to mend

BY SPAZ WOODWORTH, PAPILLION, NE

Genesis

great prometheus still holds the torch, and restless flames lick his hands in burns. ovely ashes on which eagles gorge, beaks smeared with the bloody fate he earns. he punished the old gods, plagued the earth, cleansed the charred soil and cursed the waters. he tricked the divine, swore false rebirth, beast bringing fire where mankind falters. rivers ran dry when his teeth he bared, the sky blue remnants staining the sea. the ceiling shattered and wide eyes stared, fractals feigned raining down; “we are free.” the titan said “use this light to guide, use this light to see your gleaming tears.” forget the covenant where dawn died, we scorch the afterglow with deaf ears.

BY KARINA GUREVICH, BROOKLYN, NY

So Oft’ I Close My Eyes

So oft’ I close my eyes and you are there, Just like the many times within my dreams.

That you may not be near is hardly fair, This life is much more lonely than it seems.

But with you or without I see it clear, For once my fragile heart may slow its pace.

I think much better now that you are here, And smile each time I see your lovely face. The details never cease to leave my mind, A glance or kind remark and I feel shy. If you could see my thoughts I’m sure you’d find, I think of you just as the clouds do sky. My future once a known feels so unsure. But I should hope to see you evermore.

BY EMILY IVANAUSKAS, FLEMINGTON, NJ

Sonnet of the Sea

Gulls cry, waves lap on shore beautifully.

Sunbeams dance on sparkling clear seas.

Sandpipers search for food dutifully.

Foamy waves stretch out their feathers with ease.

A salt sea breeze blows around lazily.

All of a sudden a storm starts brewing.

Winds are fierce, waves crash on rocks crazily.

Lightning strikes, rain comes down a stewing. The seas are tossed and turned round and around.

Then the sky is clear without a trace.

A calm steals over without a sound. There is not any other wondrous place.

The beauty of the sea in all its pools. God created the sea with all her jewels.

BY ALISA ZVEREV, COCOA, FL

The Corporate Hurricane

The swirling stinking filth that lies

Within the heart of he who grasps

At power by sacrificing lives

Withers and dies in heaving rasps

That iron hand of his is clamped

Around the souls of those who sow

The seeds of his successes stamped

On history, they tend to grow

The legacy of one so foul

Will never become spoiled for the systems he churns in society’s bowels

Control the ones that toil

Hundreds of years that come to pass

Still feed that great pestilential mass

BY MORGAN C, MADISON, WI

sonnet: a poem of 14 lines that follows a specific rhyme scheme and formal meter

My Rendition of the End of the World

How do you think the world will end?

An apocalypse in turn?

Or will robots transcend?

Ready to watch the world burn

I argue that it’s already finished

Because how can you live if your soul is dead?

The vivid colors of life diminished

Your shimmer of passion has fled

Stuck in a state of perpetual agony

Suffocating in the hazy air

Society has made your veins run cold with apathy

A predicament to our welfare

We are left with a garden of wilted flowers unable to bloom

Finding solace only in the moon

BY HAILEY KIM, ARVADA, CO

Poems (Used to) Suck

I used to say, “I hate writing poems.”

I thought they were too depressing to bear

Perhaps they got me down in the doldrums

Because my cruel thoughts were so unfair.

Oh, but now how I see things differently; I can say that poetry is blissful. Cruel thoughts turn to happy memories, And to make more of them, I am wishful.

Now, poems are full of life and meaning. They’re full of wonder and discovery

Instead of fresh tears and awful feelings. Finally, I can enjoy poetry.

So, to my past self, I have a message: Don’t give up yet, the cruel thoughts will lessen.

BY ISABELLA SPINA, WOOD-RIDGE, NJ

To —

The antique land was past; the faery isles sunken. Far beyond the Orient, the green deep’s waves flee, And beyond those is the silent Heaven —

Yet where art thou, or shadows cast by thee?

The self-same wind, one thousand years ago, was here; Facing these skies, as thou didst, I stand spellbound; I love the Moon well, for thine eye oft beheld there; I have been where thou hadst been — no thy steps found. Where? O where? the remotest gap, full of rosy colour, In vain I strive to pass thro’ riding o’er hill and dale. Sleeping in thy turfed grave, knew me thou never, Nor wilt mingle thy sense with my fingers pale.

I feed upon thine ancient tales as aliment mine, And for thine once fragrant entity I pine.

BY KUNYUAN ZHANG, ZHENGZHOU, CHINA

Edible Tears

The chaotic whimper of remorse shouts you to sleep

A tree tilts his head and opens his eyes while he bleeds

Ice cream appeared from a cluster of dusty fire

The tree sat down beside you with your ice cream to keep

You’ve spent all your hair, dying to cease the fire on top the cone

But if you don’t listen to the old man’s words, you will suffer in front of your eyes

You would enter a bar in three years

Or an airplane, a bus or a paper airplane

But you still hate NYC when you visit Lilian

So “I’m sorry for making you come all the way for nothing”

But L’s gone now without a doubt after everything

You were in tears but instead of wiping them away, you ate them

You began to be fond of New York like she favored

But your tree is eating your ice cream now --- mint chocolate flavored

BY YIJIA LIN, CULVER, IN

Now a Paper Once a Tree

People never seem to notice the real me

Well, they do but only when they are in need

Then they use and change me, I used to be a tree

I cry while they cut away at my branches I begin to bleed

I’ve now taken a new form, I am now paper

Even in my new form I go unnoticed until I’m useful

I’m boring until they print on me calling me a ‘newspaper’

I was just a tree forced to be paper, does that not seem at all abuseful?

People hand kids these crayons to give me some color

At least it’s better than when they scrape me with ink all over I also get the ‘pleasure’ of being the paper given to a graduating scholar

Why me? Why a tree? Did I do something wrong? Why not the four leaf clover?

People have never seemed to really noticed me much

For I was a tree now a paper that people hold in their clutch

BY AZALEA JOGLER, OLYPHANT, PA

The Murmuration

Starlings that soar in Chaotic frays of a brush, Paint the sky with coal.

BY SYDNEY DAVIS, CARBONDALE, IL

Crush

Secretive glances, Feels as if the stars aligned, Gazes locked, he smiles

BY ANONYMOUS

The Unseen Door

Dust laying lightly

On the door that never closed Waiting while it splits

BY SAOIRSE BOLGER, HOLLY SPRINGS, NC

My Surrender

i raised a white flag, sunbleached and tapered in the windy and warm air.

BY PEPPER ROSE, SPARTANBURG, SC

haiku: a Japanese poetic form with 3 lines — the first with 5 syllables, the second with 7 syllables, and the last with 5 syllables

Cathedral watch the light beams waltz thrown upon the floor like glass stained with choir hymns

BY ALLY KRYZALKA, CHARLOTTE, NC

Desperate

It was like being the leaves on a fallen branch, slowly withering.

BY TAILI GAO, LEXINGTON, MA

Just Like Me

haikus are my loves they crave rhythm and balance yes, five seven five BY CASS

NEWSOM, MADERA, CA

Flashback

Your familiar smell Sends me back to days long past Back when you were mine.

BY KAI TRAMMELL, HIGHWOOD, MT

Sorry, Mother Earth

Smog clouds and full crowds

We are Sorry Mother Earth

We are not good kids

BY TY GETZ, HARTLAND, WI

Journeys

In the warmth of spring, butterflies stretch their new wings flying far from home.

BY SAMANTHA IGOT, HACKENSACK, NJ

Plank Position

every bone aching the weight of the world balanced on my trembling spine

BY CASS NEWSOM, MADERA, CA

Swirling Sounds

Running through music

How sound impacts perception

Auditory bliss.

BY ISABELLA AMDUR, HOUSTON, TX

Droplets of Ruby

droplets of ruby upon a bed of tulips — one fallen dagger

BY WILLIAM CHEN, WINFIELD, WV

A Sad Story

Write a sad story, You can use only three words: He never belonged.

BY JAMES WILSON, MINNEAPOLIS, MN

Jealousy

those perfect faces where is mine, i ask the gods but comes no answer

BY KINSLEY TRUITT, ÇATALKÖY, KYRENIA, CYPRUS

My Structure

If I am a house You, friend, are my supporting, Solid foundation

BY MIA PALMER, ARLINGTON, TN

Bookmarking Walden

Candy-apple leaf, plucked from the heavens to be pressed inside a book

BY EMILY SCHERL, SHOREHAM, NY

To Be Human

beginning and end wrapped in the fragile fabric of flesh and unknown

BY GABBY WEST, PORTLAND, OR

6th Period

Braiding in the back, Your red hair being fish-tailed, As we ignore math.

BY ANONYMOUS

Credits