Category Archives: Family and Community
The 2022 Young Poet Awards
The 2022 Young Poet Awards was organized by Camille S. Campbell in partnership with us. A teen author herself, Camille knows the importance of encouraging young writers through showcasing their work. The contest encouraged youth to write poems and empowered them to express themselves through the visual arts. After seeing the impact of her book, Her Poems: Women Poets Who Changed the World, Camille felt inspired to give back to her local community and throughout the country by hosting the Young Poet Awards contest.
We’re very grateful to all students (and also their teachers and parents) who entered their creative works. Our heartfelt congratulations to the winners of the contest this year: Carina Araujo (4th grade winner) and Nova Macknik-Conde (5th grade winner). The two Young Poets will receive a cash prize, Skipping Stones Magazine subscription and recent issues, signed copies of Camille’s book, and four books donated by Skipping Stones Magazine.
4th Grade Winner: Carina Araujo, Maryland.
My Love for my Mom
Art and poem by Carina Araujo, grade 4, Maryland.
My love for you is bigger than the sky
You and me in this beautiful warm night
Staring at the moonlight
Together, you and me
Looking at the big blue bright sky
There are infinite stars above us
Shining in the sky
Holding hands together we stand
Peace all around
In our land
Carina Araujo, grade 4, Maryland (above).
5th Grade Winner: Nova Macknik-Conde, New York.
Winter In My Bed
Glittering white powder covers my home like a frosted cake
The silent fall of snow lulls me to sleep
Icicles lining the roof
The chance of snowmen when I wake up
Cold harsh weather surrounds my home
But it cannot penetrate the warm soft blankets that cover me
Like a hatchling in her nest
Winter in my bed
A full moon glows lighting up my face
My family sleeping warm
Through the frosty night
Me, listening to the sounds of night and family
Slowly drifting to sleep
In my snuggly, lovely, cuddly bed
My pen lingers over the page,
Cobalt ink waiting in the depths,
I imagine, and I ponder, and I muse.
But still the thief steals my well of words,
Cheats me of my cascading thoughts,
And takes my waterfalls of compositions.
The vague scent of ink on a fresh sheet of paper,
The articulation of inspiration,
The quiet bliss of the flowing verse.
The thief deprives me of the joy of invention,
The dexterity of novels, poems, and short stories,
And the rushing streams of world building.
So idea-less
That the only method of elusion
Is to pen
The meaningless things that enter my mind,
Or write about my writer’s block alone.
By Nova Macknik-Conde, grade 5, New York.
The Sweetest Treat
The Sweetest Treat
By Jacob Lockett, emerging author, Pennsylvania.
Roshni finished making her costume at five o’clock on Halloween night. Happy with her work, she ran downstairs.
“What do you think, Mama?” she asked. “I’m a khargosh.”
Mama turned from the stove, where she was cooking. “Wow!” she said. “You’re such a cute little bunny!”
Roshni giggled. “A cute little bunny that can jump really high!” she said, hopping around the room on spring shoes she had made herself.
Mama handed Roshni a pumpkin-shaped bucket. “Ready to trick-or-treat at school tonight?”
“Yep,” Roshni said. “I love getting candy!”
“Remember, you have time to go trick-or-treating at just one or two houses before going to school,” Mama said. “And I want you back by dinner.”
Roshni nodded excitedly.
Mama hugged her. “Get hopping. Halloween comes only once a year!”
With a spring in her step, Roshni bounced out the door and into the cool night air, her large bunny ears flopping this way and that. Kids ran around the street, dressed in fun costumes.
As Roshni hopped to school, she looked around her neighborhood, deciding which house to go trick-or-treating. A house with a ramp and a brightly lit pumpkin by the door caught her eyes. She remembered Mama telling her that a new family had moved in recently.
Curious to see what her new neighbors were like, she went over to the house and rang the bell.
The door opened.
“Trick or treat!” Roshni shouted.
A boy in a wheelchair appeared, a candy bowl sitting in his lap.
Roshni recognized him. He was DeAndre Lewis, the new kid at her school. He was in a different grade than Roshni, but she sometimes saw him in the hallway. He always seemed… lonely.
She waved. “Do you remember me from school? I’m Roshni.”
“Sure. I do remember,” DeAndre said, smiling. He rummaged around in the bowl, giving Roshni a Nougat Rocket Bar. “Super costume!”
Roshni blushed. “Thanks! I’m a khargosh—that’s the Hindi word for bunny.”
“That’s really cool,” he said.
“So, are you trick-or-treating?” Roshni asked.
DeAndre shook his head sadly. “My mom’s too sick with a cold to take me out tonight.”
Roshni gasped. She couldn’t imagine not going trick-or-treating. She looked at DeAndre’s sad face, and Mama’s words came back to her: Halloween comes only once a year…
“I can take you trick-or-treating,” she offered.
DeAndre’s eyes shone with hope. “Really? That would be wonderful! I’ll go ask Mom.”
DeAndre returned to the door with Mrs. Lewis. “You must be Roshni,” she said, sniffling. “Your mother told me so much about you at the store last week. DeAndre said you want to take him trick-or-treating with you.”
Roshni explained about their school’s Trick-or-Treat Fair and how there would be lots of treats, games, and contests for DeAndre to enjoy.
“Sounds like a good time!” Mrs. Lewis said. She turned to DeAndre. “Get your costume, honey. You can go have some Halloween fun with Roshni tonight.”
DeAndre’s face lit up just like the jack-o’-lantern that sat outside his door. He turned around and disappeared. He soon came outside wearing a superhero’s mask and a long cape.
“DeAndre, I want you back by seven,” Mrs. Lewis said. “Now, go have fun.”
The kharagosh and the superhero went off into the moonlit night. In no time at all, they arrived outside the school, which was covered with Halloween decorations. After DeAndre wheeled himself up the long entrance ramp, he and Roshni entered the cafeteria to the sound of spooky music and laughter.
They went around to different booths, collecting delicious treats from their teachers.
As Mrs. Garcia handed the kids each a pack of Licorice Lassos, DeAndre asked Roshni, “What are your favorite sweets?”
“I have so many!” she replied. “But I think my favorite would have to be galub jamuns. I make them with Mama for special occasions. They’re kinda like spongy—”
“Donut holes!” DeAndre finished.
“How did you know?” Roshni asked, surprised.
“I had one during Multicultural Day at my old school,” DeAndre explained. “It was one of the best things I’ve ever tasted. I make them with my mom now, too!”
They laughed, high-fiving.
After they were done trick-or-treating, Roshni entered the costume contest. After Roshni and the other contestants had displayed their outfits for the judges, Principal Jackson cleared his throat near the microphone. “And, the first prize goes to Roshni Kaur with her homemade bunny costume! Come on up!”
“Way to go!” DeAndre cheered loudly from the audience as Roshni hopped on stage to receive her blue ribbon.
DeAndre pointed at the haunted house in the corner of the cafeteria. “Let’s go in there.”
Roshni shivered. “I don’t know…”
“Have no fear!” DeAndre shouted, striking a pose. “I’ll protect you!”
“Ok,” Roshni said. “As long as you protect me, I won’t get scared.”
They went into the haunted house. Kids dressed as monsters jumped out from the shadows to try to frighten them. But every time they did, DeAndre would boom, “Back, you villains!” in his superhero voice. Roshni couldn’t stop smiling. Because of DeAndre, she didn’t get scared, not even once.
After they bobbed for apples, they sat at the snack table and drank pumpkin punch and talked about their favorite scary movies. All of Roshni’s favorites were DeAndre’s favorites, too!
Soon, Roshni checked her watch. She felt her heart drop. “It’s almost seven,” she said glumly. “Time for us to go home.”
“Aw,” DeAndre moaned, shaking his head sadly. “Do we have to?”
DeAndre guided his wheelchair down the school’s ramp and onto the sidewalk. He looked up at Roshni. “Thanks for taking me. I had a blast!”
“Sure,” she replied, swinging her bucket of candy as she hopped. “Halloween comes only once a year!”
“Do you… want to trade candy tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yes, we can do it at my house,” Roshni replied. “You can help me make gulab jamuns when we’re done at my home. Mama would love it.”
DeAndre giggled. “Great. But… don’t you only make gulab jamuns for special occasions?”
Roshni blushed. “I do,” she replied. “But you’re the special occasion.”
Now DeAndre was blushing, too!
On that Halloween night, Roshni had collected many sweet treats. But the sweetest one she had received was a new friend, DeAndre.
By Jacob Lockett, emerging author, Pennsylvania.
Letter to the Editor: On Mental Health
Letter to the Editor
Re: The Talk: Bridging the Gap Between Parents and Teens – Skipping Stones
Mental health is a real issue that a lot of people talk about and donate money to. If nothing is done to solve the problem; a minor problem can turn into a big one.
Here is what we can do: Be proactive, and catch teens just before they go into a deep stage of depression. Check in on them every so often. Parents can be more aware of their child’s emotions, and they can have intimate one-on-one sessions with them. Acceptance is the key to the solution.
In my experience, my parents didn’t pay attention to mental health. They cared about success, and behavior (what parents should be caring about, but should not be so concerned with only that). Parents need to empathize with the children, because they have gone through the same things.
Kids need an outlet like a sport such as soccer, basketball, or baseball; a creative hobby like painting, drawing, theater, writing, reading. They need someone to talk to; to express their feelings.
Let’s hope the new generation will grow up understanding the importance of mental health and what it can do to a person, so that they can treat their own kids with acceptance.
—Mahima Pai, age 15, New Jersey.
Truly
“Truly”
By Isabelle Tee, age 15, New Jersey.
“She doesn’t want you to join us,” she said, “you are too loud.”
For most of my elementary school years, I’ve never had an actual friend that I’ve felt comfortable enough to just be myself. Many of the people I’ve talked to were mainly acquaintances so that I didn’t look like a loner. Because when you’re on a field filled with kids who don’t think before they talk, the last thing you want to be is alone.
So I tried to befriend a group of girls that I’ve only distantly known from second grade. Whenever they talked to me, I just nodded. I had no clue what they were actually talking about. During recess, I just follow along and pretend to be the bad guy when we play games. During class, I’m the one giving them answers for worksheets. And during lunch? That’s another story.
My mom packed me fried rice that day, which—in my opinion—was better than the soggy dino nuggets. I sat down at the lunch table with my “friends” and ate my food. One girl starts to sniff the air and looks around. Then she goes, “What’s that smell?” She looks at me. All I could do at that moment was put on a fake smile. How can you be friends with someone who can’t accept who you are?
The following day at recess, I joined the girls at the corner of the field. Only two of the girls were standing there. I asked them what game they were playing, and they awkwardly looked at me back. They told me that the others didn’t want to play with me anymore, apparently, I was too loud for them.
I pleaded with them, promising I wouldn’t scream loudly and lower my voice. They looked at me and told me to wait. One of them ran over to the other girls and whispered something into their ears. When she came back, she allowed me into the group again. I kept my word and didn’t speak much. I didn’t want to go back home crying to my mom again.
I realized then that, from the beginning, they never truly accepted me. They were never true friends.
By Isabelle Tee, age 15, Asian American, New Jersey.
El Musico
EL MUSICO
By Denisse Gonzalez-Amador, age 14, Texas.
My fingers were tired from strumming the guitar
they rested on the small table I sat at
while I ate the freshly made quesadillas
the little money I owned was put into something I loved the most,
being a musician like the ones on billboards
but I was different
I performed at restaurants that gave me breakfast, lunch, and dinner
I cherished the small things
the flowers were thrown onto the small stage where I had poured my feelings into a loving song
the walls had my name painted, to come and watch me do the thing I love most
I have sung and played all the instruments to each song
As the customers eat their food while listening to the songs I handcraft
the luminosity in their eyes push me to continue my job
It doesn’t matter if my apartment is falling apart
whether my clothes have tears and stains in them
I will continue to showcase my one true talent
This is what I am, el músico.
By Denisse Gonzalez-Amador, Texas.
Denisse adds: “I am a 14-year-old student at Meyerland Performing and Visual Arts. I’m a part of the creative writing magnet program. My cultural background is Hispanic culture, where we celebrate Quincenera (a celebration associated with turning 15 year old), Dia de los Muertos (a festival that celebrates our ancestors and loved ones that we have lost), and the Three Kings Day (The three wise men who came to see baby Jesus). I speak English and a small portion of Spanish. What is important to me is my life and family. My dreams and visions for the future are: becoming a businesswoman, a popular artist, and a poet. What inspired me to create my submission is the thought of my work being read and being published. I want people to see the work I create.”
The Internment of Japanese Americans During WWII
The Internment of Japanese Americans During WWII
By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author, New York.
The United States is a nation of immigrants. Japanese immigrants started to arrive on the Hawaiian Islands in the 1860s to work in the sugarcane fields. Later, many moved to the West Coast of the U.S. mainland to work as farmers and fishermen. By 1911, over 400,000 Japanese men and women had immigrated to the U.S.
At the beginning of the 20th century, the Japanese were portrayed as the enemy of the American worker, just as Chinese immigrants were decades before. The Japanese farmers were the envy of white farmers who did not use as many labor-intensive methods and were less productive.
On December 7, 1941, the Japanese planes attacked Pearl Harbor. Navy ships were destroyed and many American servicemen died. On the West Coast, the government immediately began rounding up Japanese newspaper editors, community leaders and labor organizers. Their families were not told the reason or where the men were taken.
The entire Japanese American population within 100 miles of the West Coast and Hawaii was considered dangerous, possibly spying for Japan. An 8 p.m. curfew and a five-mile travel limit were imposed on all persons of Japanese origin. On February 19, 1942, President Franklin Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, sending the Japanese and Japanese Americans to ten hastily built internment camps in Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Idaho, Texas, Utah, and Wyoming.
The Japanese were shocked beyond belief. Two-thirds of the 120,000 internees were American citizens, born in the U.S. They were forced to sell or abandon most of their possessions, houses, cars, boats and land. Their possessions, including precious farmland, were sold at a bargain to white farmers. They had only a few days to pack and could bring only what they could carry.
The camps were located where the weather was very hot in the summer and cold in the winter. The barracks were shoddily built, covered with tarpaper on the outside. Only canvas cots, a light bulb and a potbelly stove for winter warmth were supplied. Each family had to build its own plain furniture such as a table, chairs and shelves. There was no insulation. Dust and wind blew in through the cracks of wood that had not aged properly and shrank. Four families in small rooms shared one barrack. Within each room, blankets and sheets could be hung to provide some privacy.
There was no way to escape these prisons. Barbed wires surrounded the camps. Armed guards surveyed from watchtowers. Life was regimented.There were lines for meals, the shower, the toilets and the laundry in communal buildings.
In the beginning years, the food was American, such as hot dogs, stew, potatoes, liver and cow tongue, which the Japanese were not used to. Later, they grew their vegetables and even made tofu, soy sauce and noodles. Rice was added to the menu. The government spent only thirty cents a day per person on food.
The internees were put to work with very low wages, from $8 to $19 a month. The camps needed cooks, office and field workers, food servers and construction workers. But many were bored. To relieve boredom, the internees organized outdoor sports for adults and youngsters. Baseball was a favorite pastime for spectators as well. Primitive baseball fields were leveled, rocks and stones removed. There were a variety of other activities, including movies, talent shows and holiday celebrations.

Grandma Okita’s Embroidery Class, Minidoka Concentration Camp. Photo: Courtesy of Japanese American Museum of Oregon, Portland, Oregon. Permission from JAMO required for further reproduction.
The internees were stoic about the experience, often repeating “Shikata ga nai” meaning you can’t change it. They tried to make their lives as pleasant as possible. They ordered fabric from catalogs to make curtains and tablecloths. Paper flowers decorated the rooms. They created tiny gardens in front of the barracks and even small ponds to make their bleak surroundings acceptable. They created handicrafts from dead trees, wood and material found around the camps. Painters, both professional and amateur, recorded the daily activities of the camp in their artwork. Art lifted the spirits of the internees. Their acts of beautifying their surroundings were something the government and the prison guards could not take away from them.
Some 17,000 children under the age of ten were among the internees and more were born in the camps. Schools were organized for the children from kindergarten to high school. Used textbooks were sent from nearby schools. Most of the teachers were Japanese, although there were some white teachers who had better living quarters.
In some households, family closeness was a casualty. Children witnessed their parents’ loss of control in their lives. The parents lamented that the children would rather eat with their friends at the mess halls. Teenagers became more rebellious as many of their peers did in the outside world. But in their abnormal lives, the strain was more severe.
Still, the internees were patriotic. They made camouflage nets, bandages for the war, donated money for the Red Cross, and collected metal for recycling.

Nisei Veterans of the 442nd RCT, Minidoka Concentration Camp. Photo: Courtesy of Japanese American Museum of Oregon, Portland, Oregon. Permission from JAMO required for further reproduction.
Beginning in February 1943, citizens of Japanese descent were permitted to enlist in the Army and Navy. Many young men joined the 442nd Regimental Combat Team (RCT) that was comprised of all Japanese American soldiers and fought valiantly in Europe. This regiment was the most decorated unit in the army. They operated in some of the most dangerous battles, and therefore, had the highest casualty rates (9,000 dead or wounded). They put their life in danger for the country even though their parents and relatives were in the internment camps. When the soldiers were wounded, when they were released after treatment, they would be sent right back to the internment camps.
Towards the end of war, the government began releasing large numbers of the internees. The internment camps were empty by the end of 1945, and the last one closed in March 1946. Most Japanese Americans did not return to their hometowns because there was nothing to return to. Those that did return had a difficult time finding work and accommodations. A small number chose to go back to Japan. Each released person was given just $25 and a bus ticket to start their new life.
At the end of the war, no American Japanese were found to be spying for Japan. Later research proved that some American officials were guilty of falsifying reports that were used as the basis for the government’s internment decision.
In 1988, President Ronald Reagan signed a legislation apologizing for the internment on behalf of the U.S. government. In 1990, the first letters of apology signed by President George Bush were mailed. Surviving interned Americans and their heirs received $20,000 compensation for each individual. For many, the apology and the check came too late—they had lived a very difficult life, and many of them had already died.
After the 9-11 attack by Muslim terrorists, fear mongering and Islamophobia depicted Muslim as dangerous to Americans just as the Japanese were demonized after the Pearl Harbor attack. The anti-Muslim sentiments being expressed in the country led the Japanese American community to publicly state that the horrible injustice done to them in WWII must not be repeated. It continues to raise its voice whenever an ethnic group is unjustifiably targeted.
By Fanny Wong, Chinese American author, New York.
Editor’s Note: May is celebrated as the Asian American and Pacific Islander Heritage Month in the country.

Never Give Up is an award-winning documentary that teaches about the discrimination faced by the Japanese American community and the issues described in the above article. You can get details from the website: www.minoruyasuifilm.org
Kaleidoscope of Freedom

“After learning about the war in Ukraine, I was immediately worried about my grandfather and his wife, who live in Ukraine. At first, I felt that there was little I could do to help the Ukrainian people. But then I realized how art can be an important tool to show support for Ukraine during their fight to protect their land and homes from invaders. In my digital artwork ‘Kaleidoscope of Freedom,’ the center is the Ukrainian flag surrounded by the flags of countries that stand with Ukraine. It expresses the message that the people of Ukraine are not alone in the fight for their land and freedom.”
By Camille Campbell, Age 17, Arizona. Also see Camille’s poem COLORS OF UKRAINE and art published earlier on this website. She adds: “I’ve printed over 5,000 stickers with my art for rallies in Arizona, California and New York. The digital art is based on my silk art (the Ukrainian painting technique) and conveys the message that many countries of the world support Ukraine.” The donations that people make at these rallies support the Ukraine cause.
The Most Precious Gift
By Yarynka Yarosh, age 15, grade 9, Kyiv, Ukraine.
Standing near the window in her room, Christine cried quietly. She had long ago learned to wail silently so that no one would hear. Especially Mom. Or maybe she had just spent all her loud tears. Sometimes, after a series of such noiseless sobs, her pillow was too wet to sleep upon. Now those silent, salty streams were there once more, flowing down her cheeks, sprinkling her favorite violet raglan.
Down there, in the yard, her friends are playing volleyball. Olenka serves the ball to Max, he hurls it over the net at Slavko, but Slavko palms the ball back skillfully. Twins Marusya and Oles` back him up closely. The whole team was there, except Christine!
The last time, they had played together was at the start of November, before the first snow. Then came that long and cold winter when Christine fell ill. Now, all the danger was past her, but she still couldn’t play. So every single day she just stood at her window, hidden behind the curtain and watched the exciting game. Her friends shouted for her every time they went out, but she rejected all invitations. She had no difficulty running. No, there was another reason—she just couldn’t confide in them.
Christine sighed and sat on her bed, burying her head into her hands. Not a single hair under her fingers.
Last year had changed Christine’s life radically, ruining plans, dreams. The hospital room, IV`s, doctors, that awful laser lamp, endless chemos were again flickering before her eyes. Christine had no wish to replay all those dreadful months in her head, so she shook her head like she used to do before all that when she still had her beautiful hair. Oh, she was so proud of it! She had the longest hair in her year! And now she has nothing, but plenty of unpleasant thoughts scurrying in her head, like a scattered jigsaw puzzle. Christine was so full of self-pity that she started to cry again. After all this, she had learned to bear physical pain, but not the absence of her chestnut curls.
Oh, how she wanted to run with the “Volley Sixth” again, but…
Christine didn’t want her friends to see her without hair—anything but that! Her pals still had no idea that she was now bald—her parents bought her a wig so that no one would ever know.

Christine got up and returned to the window. The field was now ringing with laughter—Slavko had just returned the ball in an unusual manner, locking his fingers in a weird knot. Christine poked her head out of her hidey-hole behind a curtain and imagined herself running over the field with her friends. There she is, taking a pass from Slavko, then feeding the ball out to Olenka and running for it just in time to catch a master shoot from Oles`, and then…
Everybody at the field was suddenly staring at her, at her window. Five confused faces. Absent-mindedly Christine scratched her head and suddenly the chills went up her spine… She had forgotten to put her wig on! She usually went about the flat without her fake hair and watched the game from behind the curtain. Today, however, she got so carried away she completely forgot to mind the “danger zone”.
Realizing that her friends saw her baldness the girl yelped and hid her face in her hands. Then she darted away from the window, fell on her bed, and burst into tears. Tomorrow’s her birthday and all the members of “Volley Sixth” were planning to visit—that was the most tragic thing of all!
Her Mom came into the room, alarmed.
“I`m the only bald person in my class! No, in the whole school, in the whole city!” cried Christine loudly, like the moment she was told about her diagnosis. “I don’t want any party on my birthday!”
Mom hugged her tenderly. “But your hair will grow back, for sure, my skylark,” she soothed.
“I can’t speak to them normally, knowing they saw me bald!”
“If they are really and truly your friends, that should mean nothing to them,” she responded.
But does she really have… true friends?
That night Christine had a beautiful dream.
“Come on, Christine, serve it! That’s my girl!” shouted Slavko.
“It’s so good to play volleyball with my friends!” Christine was rejoicing, serving the ball on the other half of the field. Suddenly, she saw it hurtling towards her. She wanted to break it, but her knees quaked and felt like cotton…
Somebody touched her shoulder very softly. Christine opened her eyes and instantly squeezed them tightly shut, hiding from the tickling morning light… Mom and Dad were standing near her bed, smiling and holding a present. So she had only dreamt about the game, how sad!
“Ding-dong,” rang the entry phone in a while. Christine quickly slipped her wig on.
And there they were! Olenka, Slavko, Maxim, Oles` and Marusya. They had come empty-handed, and for some reason, were all wearing hats.
“Well, as agreed! On the count of three,” cried Slavko. “One, two, three!”
“Happy birthday!” And they swept off their hats as one.
They all had clean-shaven their heads!
And they hugged the birthday girl, all at once.
That was the best birthday party Christine ever had!
After the birthday treats, “Volley Sixth,” now fully complete, went to the sports ground before Christine`s window. Now Christine had difficulty identifying her friends on the field, she still hadn’t got over their new hairstyles.
Then she remembered her dream. Now she couldn’t recall whether she had her curls there or not. Not that it had any importance now. She was quite happy without her hair now, for she had true friends.
By Yarynka Yarosh, age 15, studies in grade 9, Kyiv, Ukraine.
Yarynka writes, “I like painting, playing piano, reading, speaking with my family about anything, writing poetry, and stories, of course. I’m from Ukraine, and I want peace in the whole world, and for ourselves.
“On the 9th of March, we were forced to leave our home city, beautiful Kyiv (because of the Russian invasion)… Now my family and I are in a safe place, and I’m so thankful to God that we are still alive! But my grandparents are still in Kyiv. Please, pray for them!
“I was really surprised, when I read your email (of acceptance). I’m thankful for your positive response. You made me happy and gave me more confidence and hope 🙂 Ukraine needs your prayers, we feel your emotional support.”
What Would Our Ancestors Think
Art and Poem by Daniel Liu, age 16, New York.

There is constant talk
Of the world ending in three days
Or is it four years, or five decades, but definitely when
the polar bears start swimming to New York
The sea groans and rumbles
As waves upon waves of human trash clog her up
She sniffles amidst the crushing silence
Sea snot collects on her waves
History starts to crumble
Our oldest trees cut down
Nature groans and shakes
In a futile effort to stop the abuse
The planet prepares itself for destruction
The pain is unlike anything she has ever experienced before
Crops shrivel up in the infernos that run rampant across the landscape
Such displays are necessary to attract humanity’s short attention span
Animals feel nature’s anguish
They flee North
Until they cannot go any further
More lives snuffed out by humanity’s greed
The most vulnerable of the population suffer
Heat waves overwhelm the wounded, elderly, and sick
Surely we did not mean to wage warfare on the defenseless
But it is only a matter of time before conditions deteriorate further
Schoolchildren sullenly trudge across the parched land
The sky turns black as clouds suddenly gather
They look up, hopeful for the touch of the fabled snowflake
Warm rain drizzles, then the omnipresent sun returns
In some places floods wash away human remains
Our ancestors disturbed by Nature’s wrath
They weep as they behold the desolate world around them
For the fate of the next generation

Daniel Liu adds: “I am a sixteen year old writer that lives in New York. I am very passionate about the issue of climate change, as it is an enduring issue that grows ever larger with each generation and is deserving of attention from all of society. These poems are a testament to the various consequences of climate change in every aspect of society, from agriculture to insurance. To this extent, I hope that these poems are enough to inspire a sense of alarm for the Earth’s future, but just as importantly, hope that humanity can unify in order to reverse the ecological damage that has been done. It is in times of great crisis that innovation and change are at their peak, and humanity’s resilience is shown through our uplifting moments.”



