Where I’m From

by Megan B., 8th Grade, inspired by George Ella Lyon’s Poem

 

I am from spatulas,

from cooking and blue-fish.

I am from clothes hidden under my bed.

I am from the rose bush

the pink, red, and white ones

whose thorns I will never forget

as they stab me while walking by.

 

I’m from ice cream on a hot day and mini golfing

I’m from Nana and Ginga

I’m from brains of the family

and the loud ones,

from ‘You’re late!’ and ‘We’re not going to make it on time!’

I’m from CCD

with big green books

and chapters between chapters.

 

I’m from Mary Lu and Frances,

Singing and swimming.

From the heart my grandfather lost

To the tooth that fell out.

 

Under the cabinet was a flowered box

spilling out baby pictures,

unknown faces

that I think about in spare time.

I am from those pictures–

Older than I can remember —

All grown up.

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Ice

Photo Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

A Poetic Response to Nature’s Classroom

by Talia M., 7th Grade

 

Tiny stories

Embedded in ice

Memories

Lying in wait

Begging to resurface again

They call to me

Showing

My reflection

Playing tricks

Things dancing

In the ice

Telling me stories

Of seasons past

Maybe

Someday

The ice will tell mine.

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Cough, Blow, Oh No

by Lauren F., 8th Grade

Sure my head is pounding.
So what if my nose sounds like bullhorns as I blow.
And who cares if my sinuses are as swollen as balloons.
I am at school and feeling like that second grader again.
That feeling of embarrassment where everyone looks at you because your nose is red and you talk funny.
But no, I am a big girl now and you must deal with all the physical and mental symptoms of this terrible day.
As I walk over to the tissues again it’s almost as if the box is talking.
Taunting me with words like “here we are again” and “someone’s nose looks disgusting as ever”.
But my nose is not my only stressor here, I have this cough.
A cough that I only thought old smokers had, but it was mine.
Every congested sound that comes out of my mouth sounds like a symphony of sick and I was the composer chained to its instruments.
But when I come home I reach for another tissue or glass of tea hoping it will defeat this nasty sickness.
So I will take another sip and blow another blow.
Waiting and waiting for this burn to go.
But here we are again day 11.
And nothing’s changed.

photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

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Haiku

by Laurel E., 8th Grade

Now I can’t sleep
I stare at the blank ceiling
Remembering dreams

Painting by Adolf Friedrich Erdmann von Menzel

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No Man is a Bagel

A Response to John Donne’s “No Man is an Island”

by Willy D., 8th Grade

No man is a bagel
all made of wheat
bagels have no eyes
bagels can’t tell lies
and have no feet

No bagel you’ll meet
has ever stole a dollar
or a thousand or two
from the bank down the street
like us people do

A bagel is tasty
as long as it’s smothered
with a very thick layer
with some condiment or another
like a creamy white cover

I like all my bagels
with some kind of addition
like chocolate or raisins
lain out with precision
inside of its breading
where my mouth is heading

People aren’t like bagels
you can’t cut inside them
with a small plastic knife
and see what comprises them

You can’t take a life
and put cream cheese inside of it
you can’t take a man apart
and look at his heart
and see what resides in it
like a raisin or poppy seed
no one’s that easy to read.
Or at least I hope so.

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Spring is Coming

-by Jennifer K., 7th Grade

Spring is coming,
it’s almost here.
The air smells fresh,
the sky is clear.

The trees are budding,
the sun is warming.
A occasional rain shower,
here and there.

The snow has melted,
the grass is brown.
The birds are coming back again,
to nest and lay their eggs.

Animals are stirring,
the hibernation soon to cease.
Spring is coming,
and it’s here.

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Spring Connoisseur

-Lance V., 8th Grade

This glorious painting
All around us
The beauty, the detail.

Ah! look at those flowers
Poking up through the melting snow
Each blade of gras standing out
Drawn beautifully by the trees with buds.

The clouds in the sky
Darkening, a sign of rain
The birds fly in all around
Each and every detail around is beautifully painted.

I can’t help but think:
“What will it be like tomorrow?”

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Ode to Pencils

-Matthew S., 6th Grade

They are held in my drawer
ready to write, imagine, and explore!
When I pick one up it is filled with so much glee
waiting, just waiting to explore my imagination and ingenuity.

A pencil like a golden boat writing down everything on its sea.
It’s a traveler and the paper is its course.
It’s like a car
riding upon the road
and it makes skid marks everywhere it goes.

It is speechless yet it says so much.
It is a recorder, a writer, a poet, a Picasso.
One side a constructor…making new things.
The other side like a magician making things disappear.

One side is like a little kid making a mess
while the other is the mom
the one to clean things up and fix the mistakes.

It is like a horse making prints upon the ground
and the only sound it makes is a “snap”
when the graphite breaks
and it must take a nap.

Then I pick up a new pencil
because he has been waiting for his journey to begin.

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The Wheel and the Track

-by Grace T., 8th Grade

Kelstar’s Riddle: “Is time the wheel that turns, or the track it leaves behind?”

Time is the Wheel that turns.
And also the Track which the Wheel leaves behind.
The Wheel is never present;

It does not falter, does not waver, does not cease.
It does not stop in its forward venture
To see what it leaves in its wake.
Unstopping, unstoppable, the Wheel pushes on.
It strives to reach the future.

The Wheel of Time creates life.
Devours life.

Builds mountains.
Tears them down.

The Wheel is the whisper of softest memory
The lullaby of birth
The grinding scream of death.

The Wheel dances in the laughter of a child,
Smiles through the wise eyes of age.

***

The Track is both history
And that which is beyond.
It is the path of the past,
And the foretelling of the future.

The Track began before the Wheel,
And forever stretches on.
It is that which remains unseen
And yet, is seen by all.

The Track is the howl of a lone wolf,
Traveling through the years,
To bridge the present with the raw beginnings of life
In the primitive age when wolves ran free.

Time is the Wheel that turns.
And also the Track that it leaves behind.

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Beach

-by Dan H., 7th Grade

At the beach I feel the soft sand.
I lay down on my towel and fall asleep
the lullabying sound of the frothy waves hugging the shore.
The seagulls calling as I walk
while the water tags my toes.
I know I am relaxed.
I wander into the ocean,
take a deep breath of salty air.
As I leave I know
I will be back soon.

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