By Ritika Rawat, age 9, New Jersey
I wish I could fly away,
And the universe will lead me to the way.
I wish I could soar up in the sky and fly,
oh so very high.
I want to flap my wings up to the sky,
but when I’m down my heart stings.
Up, and up I go, and my journey begins,
Everything is great and we all win.
I come down from my dreams
because not everything is what it seems.
By Ritika Rawat, will enter grade 5 this fall, Indian American, New Jersey.
The Perfect Family
By Zsuzsanna Juhasz, age 15, Maryland.
The father figure stands above,
No one can compare, just because.
Goes to work, and brings home the money,
While the rest stay at home, and wait for daddy.
We eat when he does, we smile when he looks,
We do what he says, or we get into trouble.
His word above ours. That’s how it has always been,
Because a change in tradition goes against everything he says.
The mother of the house doesn’t leave,
She’s not a human, she’s property.
When they wed, the maiden names goes too,
That’s the way it’s been, what should we do?
She cooks, she cleans, she obeys every word,
No speaking out, or she gets hurt.
She’s the uplifting spirit that we all need,
Unless she’s hushed, she just washes and feeds.
The eldest daughter, the pride and joy,
The one to go on and have kids of her own.
She must leave college, to marry a man,
She must do what she’s told, because she’s a woman.
Soon she will learn, what she must do,
It’s her “honor,” it’s her “duty” to be told what to do.
She takes the abuse, she holds it all in,
A sound out of her, would ruin the perfect image.
The youngest son, who learns from the father,
Does anything he says, and learns from his lectures.
He takes careful notes, so he knows what to do,
Like how to sit on the couch and work a grill too.
Looking at girls, poking at skirts,
Blaming their impulses on simply being a flirt.
Growing older, carrying his father’s beliefs,
One day he’ll become who his father turned out to be.
Men go to work, and women just stay at home,
Why change now? That’s the way it’s always been!
“Stop nagging and speaking, and clean the house!”
It’s written in cold blood to be as quiet as a mouse.
Nothing will really change, it’s all an illusion,
To make you grow up to be just like your father.
“What do you mean you don’t like it? That’s how it’s always been!
One day you’ll know when you’re married and have three kids.”
By Zsuzsanna Juhasz, age 15, Maryland. She adds: “My inspiration for this poem was the study of family norms in history, during the 50s and 60s. I’m currently enrolled in AP United States History, and when I wrote the poem, we were learning about how the average middle class family lived, and what life was like for the typical family. I thought it was incredibly interesting topic, especially when learning about Betty Friedan and how she challenged this observation, eventually publishing her own novel, The Feminie Mystique.
“I am Hungarian; I was born in the capitol, Budapest. My parents are from there, and my family and I moved here when I was just one year old.”
By Mohammed Faisal, 19, Bhalukhali Rohingya Refugee Camp, Bangladesh.
I’m Mohammed Faisal, a young Rohingya poet, living in the world’s largest refugee camp. We, Rohingya, fled from our country Myanmar in 2017 due to the forcible displacement of our civilian population. We were brutalized by the Myanmar military, and we were taken to the Bangladesh refugee camp where we still continue to face so many difficult obstacles in order to survive. We have struggled, and have also established a massive tent village. Unfortunately, there is not enough space in our tents, and we continue to have to downsize. Our family members continue to change with all the various circumstances that are also changing. We feel suffocated, and our parents, children, aunts, and relatives all have to stay together and sleep together in a very small tent shelter. There are not any playgrounds for children to play in, and children are not able to receive the formal education that they deserve. We are all flying around like birds in a cage, and we are not comfortable at all.
On Friday, March 22, 2021, a massive fire decimated thousands of our shelters here at the Bhalukhali camp. The fire was incredibly violent and killed hundreds of people including infants. Unfortunately, the people here were not able to escape from the camp, because the government of Bangladesh has created a fence all along the camp’s border, which is why so many people were not able escape the violent fire. There are still so many people who are without shelters and homes. I have also seen people sleeping on the ground wrapped in plastic blankets. This is a short introduction to the people I love, the Rohingya, and is also an introduction to our current state of affairs. I hope the Rohingya stories will live on in your awareness.
The Fence by Faisal Justin When the fire caught our shelters some people weren’t able to come out. They burned in the fire, couldn’t see their way out. Many people could not climb the fence; they had to stay in this cage. There is no freedom in this burning cage, suffocated by heat. The fire leaps. O, my government! O, dear Bangladesh! You are the thousands, rescued and displaced. You are the kind-hearted. Take down this fence, this place. Hundreds of lives ruined by this fence--we do not understand. You eliminate words. You eliminate language. No End to My Sadness by Faisal Justin Many years of my life have disappeared from view Life continues, full of sorrow. I remain here, in the same position My eyes, full of tears, at times, even oceans My body becomes thinner, day after day Don't feel well wherever I go This moment only makes me ache The world is not the world, in my imagination The sunny day looks like a cloudy day My face even looks gloomy. I have visited several places Searching for peacefulness The more I wander, the more morose I feel Every second reminds me of one thing-- Which remains my country And which I hold in my warm heart . Life feels as if it is falling, full of aching, full of sadness.
Dare I Say By Cassandra Martens Diaz, Mexican-Canadian, 17, Manitoba, Canada I do not pronounce it with familiarity I do not read it I do not spell it Dare I say I speak it at all Pepper burns my tongue I turn away from the heat I do not take the spice Dare I say I have a taste at all The Jalisco too small Tucked away, unused, unworn Body stiff, and still Dare I say I can dance at all Though in my blood Though in my citizenship It is not to be found in me Dare I say I am Spanish at all Y Me Atrevo a Decir por Cassandra Martens Diaz, 17, Manitoba, Canada No lo pronuncio fácilmente No lo puedo leer No lo puedo deletrear Y me atrevo a decir que lo hablo El ají quema mi lengua Prefiero alejarme del chile No tolero el picante Y me atrevo a decir que lo saboreo Mi traje de charra me queda chico Alzado, sin usarlo ni vestirlo Cuerpo rigido, e inmóvil Y me atrevo a decir que bailo A pesar que está en mí sangre A pesar que está en mí ciudadania No lo he podido encontrar en mí Y me atrevo a decir que soy LatinaCassandra adds: "My family immigrated to Canada from Chihuahua, Mexico when I was very young. Since I was raised in a country that was culturally very different from Mexico, I have always felt detached from my extended family because I lack a lot of the experiences that they’ve had. It is important to me that I continue to work on my Spanish and learn more about my mom's culture.. I am just beginning to submit my work for publication. I was inspired by Jessica Wang’s heartfelt story submission, Xiang Xiang, published by Skipping Stones."
Lessons By Bhagyashree Prabhutendolkar, age 16, Mumbai, INDIA if only I could go back in time and whisper to my younger self, i would ask her to calm down before dipping toes into adulthood, telling her it would sometimes feel like growing up around venom and you would shatter when the demons would spin pretty lies for your pretty self, but you mustn’t drown in their tales, for purity flows through your veins and the venom can’t touch your bare skin, it will turn to ashes dear. you deserve to catch the stars and reach the sky; and you mustn’t love anyone else, than your dear dreams that make you survive you have a reason to live, a passion to die for, never betray them who make you smile in the worst days of calamity and help you rise from nothing, for they are your dreams just breathe. By Bhagyashree Prabhutendolkar, age 16, Mumbai, INDIA. Bhagyashree is a high school journalist, public speaker, poet and a recipient of 'The Hindustan Times Scholarship Award.' When not writing, she likes to paint the whispers of nature on paper to accompany her poems. She aspires to pursue a career in media and creative writing.
Way of Hand and Foot By Beau Heese, grade 7, Missouri. The judges call my name, and I walk to the ring. As I stretch, kicking the open air in front of me, I look at my opponents, and I analyze their technique. Some are flexible, strong, or quick, but we all have one constant—we have trained for years. The judges call my name, and I step forward. I nervously step into the square ring, and they call in who I will be sparring. As I see my opponent, my nerves... leave. Why now, right before the match? As I meet the eyes of the person across from me, I see a child, a student, me. We are equals. We bow, always keeping eye contact. And when the judges say go, we begin. But it is not a disorganized fight. It is a dance, a tango, of sorts. As we shift around the red mot, striking, kicking, blocking, I forget about the world outside. The judges, the scorekeepers, the other competitors, all melt away. I enter into a new world, a world born out of our dance, a world in which we are the only two beings, and where our fight is the only truth. A new reality. Suddenly, a buzzer sounds, and I am pulled away as quickly as I arrived. The match is over. But I am not satisfied. And when I return to my seat, all I can think about is my next trip to this strange new world. By Beau Heese, grade 8, Missouri. Beau adds, "While writing this piece, I realized how everyone can see the world so differently, especially in their teenage years. I hope the poem will show them that everyone has their own blessings and problems. Perhaps, it will help others accept different views better."
By Beau Heese, grade 7, Missouri. Ten Square Feet Weeds brush at my side, crack! a twig breaks, croak! a frog bellows. And the birds, musicians from a time long before man, begin to sing. I sit, looking at the color around me. Bright white flowers sit to my right, swaying in the morning breeze, while vines dangle from an oak tree to my left. My eyes wander, staring at the life around me. I cannot look away. I am freezing, tired, and it is still dark out, but I am in awe. The beauty of our world, is absolutely incredible, more colorful than anything we could ever create. And all of this in just ten square feet. By Beau Heese, grade 7, Missouri.
Words of Disbelief Intently he listened Holding onto every word The yard was a thick tangle of Twigs lavender lilies, dandelions And grass He could not believe A month ago buds were just Everywhere And now it was a jungle With clippers, rakes and a Lawnmower We worked until our bones Hurt Soon it looked like the Jardín Botánico in Mexico That night Paco whispered “I hear the crackle of plants Growing again” He was right In the morning everything had Shot up a tiny bit By Maggie d., African American poet, Washington, She adds: “The poem, Words of Disbelief, erupted from observing the stark contrast between winter and spring...”
Amethyst Dream By Haylee Woessner, grade 7, Missouri.
I stare in wonder as the honey bees fly from flower to flower
collecting and spreading pollen.
I scan the field and watch
the bees fly around, as the purple lavender
sways in the wind knocking some bees off course.
But this is OK.
This happens.
This is normal.
Life isn’t perfect after all.
After a long days’s work
the bees retreat home and I begin to drift back to consciousness
but I’ll be back.
One day I’ll visit the swaying lavender
and hear the buzz of the honey bees.
And I’ll feel the cool breeze as I just sit and watch.
One day I will be back
to visit this amethyst dream.By Riley Ball, age 14, grade 8, Missouri. Maybe I don’t look like a model.
Maybe I’m taller than a lot of girls.
Maybe I don’t wear makeup,
but I am still beautiful.
I know I acquire pimples
and blemishes,
but does that not make me myself?
When I smile and laugh,
do I not look healthy and happy?
When my eyes sparkle,
after I laugh,
does my face not show its natural beauty?
Why do looks have to matter, anyway?
Is what’s inside of you not special?
Are looks more important than kindness?
Have we dropped so low that we no longer
care how God looks at us?
Why care what people think of me?
This is my life.
Am I expected to live my life on
Other’s opinions?
God created us in his likeness and image.
If God thinks I’m beautiful inside and out,
then why care about what our society thinks?
Before we humans jump to conclusions
that we are not beautiful,
maybe we should look in the mirror
and examine ourselves.
Because sometimes what we
find is beautiful—
we surely need to
look beneath the surface.Riley adds: “I wrote this poem to help myself get through the struggles every teenage girl goes through. I have always looked at myself in the mirror and never really liked how I looked. This poem was to help other struggling young women and men get over some of the hard times in their lives.”