Category Archives: Poetry

Eons of Thought

Eons of Thought
By Manvi Gupta, recent high school graduate, M. P., India

In the cosmos, who determines the designs?
Who creates the stars, and who draws the line?
Am I the actor in a predestined play,
Or am I the narrator who holds the quill, forming the best story ever told in a way?

Can a single drop of rain question the ocean’s mighty
Or does it become one with the sea and lose its identity?
Am I the architect of fate,
Or in this riddle of existence are we all the same?

What is a fallen tree to the deafening silence of the forest with no ear?
Is my existence only validated when heard loud and clear?
If I am hidden in the darkness, does the sun brightly shine?
Is the universe but a reflection, of my consciousness divine?

Does the dart of time travel straight, or can it arch or sway?
If tomorrow mutters a secret, what would today say?
Is the present, past and future nothing but the illusion of my mind,
Or are they the stepping stones to the actuality we bind?

Can we discover the fringe of the universe, the origin of space?
Is there a creator, a composer, in this celestial embrace?
Or is it but a Möbius strip, a limitless twist,
In the loom of existence, does beginning or end exist?

In this universe, am I a free thinker,
Is my mind the sole philosopher,
Or is it but a fragment of a lone troubled lad?
In this shore of existence, we are but a grain of sand.

—Manvi Gupta, just graduated from high school, Madhya Pradesh, India. She adds: “I’m someone who is passionate about building ideas from the ground up and constantly learning, with a deep love for creative writing.”

Friendship

Friendship

A real friend is pleasant sigh
To breathe, that money just can’t buy.
It’s something held by you and I,
Steadfastly, now that love is nigh.

A good friend will cover your back
And cheer you up when joy you lack.
Someone who shows they really care
So much for you by being there.

Friendship is like warm bread with jam,
When I’m accepted as I am.
It is never harsh or pressured.
And kindness always is observed.

And friendship is a two way street.
Our get togethers, short and sweet
And often, as a good friend said,
To me the joy unlimited.

With soft and subtle ecstasy,
Like sharing a good joke with glee.
Embracing with a great bear hug.
Dispelling heartache with a shrug.

Friendship is a hand-knit sweater
Bracing me against the weather.
Friendship is sitting by a fire.
Telling tales that keep getting higher.

And a good friend is forgiving
Of whatever trials life does bring.
Always accepts you as you are,
Together we will travel far.

—Jon Bush, author and artist, Massachusetts.

Embracing the Unknown

Embracing the Unknown

By Maggie D., Washington.

Her smile was as great
Big and beautiful as
A sunrise above the
Grand Canyon
Gripping the
Stars and Stripes
The Pledge of Allegiance
Was softly spoken
Without a hint of hesitation
Her human spirit
Held onto a future
Hope
Of making her free
From the tyranny
She once experienced
With a salute to her
Deepest desires of what
She was about to
Become

—Maggie D., retired educator and African American poet, Washington.

Summer Work

Summer Work

By Maggie D., Washington

Summer time is here
Gardens to tend
Money to spend
For back to school
Clothes
That are not too old
Bought at the thrift store
Some will need mending
Others will profit from
Two washes
My gosh
Summer is passing
As quick as a wink
When I think of the
Days disappearing among
The harvested corn
And winter squash

—maggie d., retired educator and African American poet, Washington. She adds: “Summer Work errupted from memories of my grandmother’s farm in Oklahoma.”

Why Aren’t We?

Why Aren’t We?

By Henry Bakos, H.S. Junior, Washington

There are an uncountable number of things I should be doing.
This very instant.
The should-be’s of
working on late homework,
responding to friends,
thinking of my future…

But am I?
No. And I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one.

How many late math papers,
waiting friends, unplanned futures
do you think are out there? Why?

The mass of problems plague this world,
climate change, racism, homophobia, misogyny,
and the fact that kids are being slaughtered.
By their own classmates.
Why is nobody else climbing this bloody hill
to take down this monument of debt, death and deceit?

These things should be universally abhorrent,
they should be struck down the moment their ugly head
emerges from their loathsome den.

I’m just a White boy
who checks almost every box for privilege,
who hasn’t seen half of the atrocities that ravage our world.
Compared to many I live in a small, safe haven
that sure has its issues but what doesn’t, right?

I live shielded
in a society that covers up the very thing I’m being shielded from,
letting me ignore the beast
that ravenously takes black men
and imprisons them.
Or the ghoul that makes women watch over their shoulders
every time they leave their house.
Or the fiend whispering in Asian student’s ears,
making them feel worthless
when not living up to the stereotypes that plague them.

Because of who I am,
who I was born to,
who I wish to be,
I have not had to experience these,
only watch from out the window.
And even then, I know things must change.
Why does it seem that
not one person
seems to be sucked into this endless vortex,
this gyre of problems,
that seems to conquer anything foolish enough to approach it?

But wait.
Maybe that’s the problem.
Maybe nobody is willing to sail into this whirlpool
for fear they will be sucked down
and have left no more impact than a small wake that quickly fades
too fast for anyone to even realize it was ever there.
But surely it can’t swallow us all.

Surely if we just tried hard enough,
if we were smart enough,
and if we read the wind,
we should be able to find a path through it,
and get to the beautiful warm shallows
where we find nothing but a cool breeze
and the water is so still that
there is not even a pull of the tides.

—Henry Bakos, High School Junior, Washington. 

Perspective

perspective

by Surabhi Verma, grade 11, California

 

female leader
            impossible

peaceful change
            impossible

violence eliminated
            impossible

full equality
            impossible

impossible, impossible.

its repetition,
bewilders me.

its presence,
bothers me.

its truth,
baffles me.

Impossible,
                  i    m    p o s s i b l e
                                                      i am Possible

—Surabhi Verma, grade 11, California. She writes:

“I enjoy writing poetry and non-fiction and use writing as a form of expression and reflection. I have won several awards… and am a STEM blog writer for STEMpathize. When I’m not writing, I love playing the flute and spending time with my family and friends.

“I come from an Indian background and speak both English and Hindi. Though living in America, I find myself deeply connected to my Indian roots and culture, celebrating every Indian festival, going to the temple, and enjoying a variety of Indian dishes. My favorite part of an Indian event is that it gives an excuse to wear a lehenga!

“I am passionate about the flute, writing, and mental health. In the future, I hope to make an impact in the field of biomedical research while also being able to pursue my passions through providing affordable flute lessons, continuing to write, and taking part in advocating for mental health by creating more support programs.

”My poems are influenced by my experiences and cover a variety of topics, ranging from identity struggles and personal feelings to altering perspectives and the relationship between music and peace against violence.”

Ohana

Ohana

By Likhita Makam, age 15, Telangana, India

We fight and apologies we forget.
We get lost and we get upset.
We fall apart into a million pieces,
But being together smooths out all the creases.

Because in the end we’re a family
although we don’t get along dandily
Far from picture perfect Pinterest poses
We make it to the diner just before it closes
We spend weekends at home in quarrels
Perfect family? For that we’d have zero laurels
But we stick together, no matter what
for each other we’d take a jab in the gut, somewhat
What matters the most is we never part
We’re always close, we never depart

Because we’re a family
And family means nobody gets left behind
No matter our irregularities
No matter our similarities

—Likhita Makam, age 15, Indian American high school student, living in India. She has been published in youth newspapers and literary magazines. She is an avid reader and is up for a poetry discussion at all times.

Black History Month Poem: Resilience

Resilience

To observe the annual Black History Month, we are pleased to present “Resilience,” a poem by Arianna Shaprow Crain, age 12, a seventh grader in Nevada. Arianna was interviewed this morning and was asked to read her poem by KTNV News, on their ‘Good Morning Las Vegas’ show. The poem will also be published in our upcoming Spring 2024 issue (Mar. – Aug. 2024). You can also download the poem here.

“Resilience” explores the African Diaspora and chronicles the struggles of the vibrant, defiant members of my family. In the midst of our tragedies, my ancestors were able to find peace and navigate the rough terrain that lie ahead. They were slaves in Holly Springs, Mississipi. After the Emancipation Proclamation, they migrated to Chicago for more opportunities. In Chicago, they had to endure racism and segregation, which negatively impacted their employment. My great grandmother became a maid at a hotel and raised 13 children. She had to endure an endless cycle of poverty. Much of our history was lost, because we were stolen from our homeland. Even though our cultural identities were dismantled, my ancestors found comfort in music, stories, and our love for one another. We are resilient, and we are survivors. I know that I am a survivor, because I am here to tell you my story.

We were taken
from our homelands
our prosperity and sense of community
stolen from us
our families torn apart
cultural identities dismantled
forgotten…

forced to work all day
beneath the blistering hot sun
dehydrated and burned out
bruised knees, scraped elbows
wounded from whips
desperately yearning for a way out
but their cries were never heard

They locked us
in an endless loop of poverty
mental illness
disease
and depression

from Holly Springs, Mississippi
and the shackles of slavery
to Chicago
seeking independence
and “liberty”
this was the journey of my ancestors

We were never freed
after the Emancipation Proclamation
never freed
from generational trauma
and pain

rejected
from schools
unable to receive the education
that we deserved

Oppression
Segregation
Stereotypes
and racism
Poverty naturally followed
Haunting us…

A never-ending maze
with no exit
only dead ends.

My relatives suffered
rat bites and tuberculosis as babies
gunshot wounds and addiction as adults
no money for doctors
unstable living conditions
poor ventilation
never knowing
what’s next…

Surviving paycheck to paycheck
Food stamps, welfare
Evictions and discrimination
13 of my aunts and uncles
lived in a tiny apartment
5 slept on a single, soiled mattress
a drumline of tragedies

Many of them
broke the cycle
my grandmother became the first
African American female Assistant District Attorney
in El Paso, Texas
scholarships and hard work paved her way

My mother is a survivor
of PTSD and panic attacks
a single mother who cares for me
with unwavering love

We don’t know
much of our history
or where in Africa
we come from

The knowledge of our history
was stripped away from us
buried deep in our family’s past
it remains a mystery…
One thing that will never
be taken away from us
Is our culture
We have created
a rich culture
Through centuries of oppression
our coping mechanisms
soothed us
comforting melodies
gospel
jazz
blues
and soul

What do we have?
We have our imagination
We redefine and reframe
To make us sane

documents detail our ancestors’ stories
Defiant
And bold
full of vibrant characters
riveting music
and soulful dishes

When I am fearful
I remember to be courageous
I remember I have ancestors
who were beaten and lynched

My ancestors were
Slaves
Survivors
Refugees
Migrants

This is my lineage
This is my history
We are resilient
Resilient survivors

—Arianna Shaprow Crain, age 12, grade 7, Nevada.

Balance

Balance

“Girl Riding A Horse” by Aadya Agarwal, age 12, New Jersey.          

 

As the wind weaved through my black hair,
Flying in the golden sunshine,
A sudden gush of independence rushed at me.

On top of my slender caramel horse,
I measured north to south, east to west,
All painted with a rural landscape.

I was on top, on top of my mighty world,
I could have done anything!
Yet, riding along with my jovial spirits, I felt something.
A ball of fear knotting up in my stomach.

Freedom and Independence were new, they were fresh.
Alas, they did not come free!
In front of me, loomed a bridge,
A bridge between Protection and Freedom

While protection offers security,
It’s also a locked cage.
While freedom demands responsibility,
You are the person you choose to be.

And then there is a balance between the two.
As on my slender caramel horse,
I ride free, the gentle strap safely protecting me.

—Aadya Agarwal, age 12, New Jersey. She writes: “The inspiration for my poem came from a horseback riding adventure I went on while vacationing in India this past summer. The entire experience filled me with a range of emotions of independence, confidence, fear and anxiety and my attempt to balance it all in that moment. It was truly an experience that I will never forget and something that unraveled an important question about freedom and responsibility for me.”