Can You Live? The summers of New York You feel the fresh tar Boiling Melting Your feet are scorched You lived, I lived The harsh cold winter What's red and white all over? Your face stinging from the stabs of ice and snow Slush at your feet Cold and wet The consequences of the cold You lived, I lived I survived a disease Manifesting into our lives Becoming the new normal It starts to become hard to breath Pieces of cloth cover our mouths Painting over our personalities I lived Many didn’t I lived through walks in Mexico Walks at 2am in the Bronx Track meets “Extra time” Slide tackles Shots (soccer balls) to my stomach Bloody noses Broken arms People have lived through war Shots to the chest Death People can live with no eyesight, no hearing, they love to live They survive fights They can move on They can live I can live You can live too
Category Archives: Poetry
Battle Under the Setting Sun
Battle Under the Setting Sun
My cousin and I stand across from each other,
eyes locked, anticipating.
Light, glistens off
the shiny metal of our armies.
The darkness begins to take over,
But the battle carries on.
A foot soldier attempts
a solo assault.
Only to be met with the full force
of my army’s elite.
Trades, traps, tricks, and exchanges
signal the end of the dance approaching.
My opponent attempts a final charge,
as the final light fades from the sky.
But as he assaults my left flank,
he makes his final mistake.
He has fallen right into my trap.
My eyes narrow with greed, as I prepare to finish the duel.
And excitement fills me as I bring an end to our contest.
Checkmate.
—Beau Heese, grade 8, Missouri.
Cinderella, a Poem
Cinderella
Once upon a time a girl in rags,
Walked to the market carrying bags.
Cinderella worked by her evil stepmother,
And her greedy, priding stepsisters.
One time all the ladies were invited,
To the royal ball so they were excited.
Cinderella’s family was elated,
So they dressed in shimmering gowns blue and red.
They left for the ball on a nice horse ride,
Cinderella remained at home and cried,
“Oh Lord, why can’t I go to the ball?
Like the other ladies and all?”
Suddenly a flash of light came and when it disappeared,
A woman in a royal gown appeared.
With a wand in her hand she told,
“I am your fairy godmother who’s very old,
Now, you can go to the ball, my dear
But you must have something better to wear!”
With a swish of her wand and a note of her song,
Cinderella’s rags turned into a gown before long!
Finished with glass slippers and a tiara on her head,
Her fairy godmother now said,
“Now fetch me a pumpkin, my dear!
And watch closely here!”
Six mice turned into horses and the pumpkin into a carriage,
A rat into the driver, all set for the prince’s marriage!
Cinderella got into the carriage with a new light,
Her fairy godmother said, “You must return when the clock strikes midnight.”
At the ball, on Cinderella Prince Charming’s eyes fell,
Such beauty with words he couldn’t tell,
They danced all night long,
To the royal orchestra’s sweet song!
Suddenly, the clock struck midnight, the start of a new day,
Cinderella turned and ran away!
The gown turned back to the rags she wore,
All worn and torn just like before.
One of her glass slippers she left behind
For Prince Charming, which he did find.
And he exclaimed, “Soldiers, find the owner of this slipper!
And I shall of course marry her.”
The soldiers searched the whole town
For the lady whom they were going to crown.
And when they reached Cinderella’s home,
Where the glass slipper was seen.
It didn’t fit either stepsisters’ feet,
But for Cinderella’s feet it fitted very neat.
Escorted to the royal palace later,
Cinderella and the prince lived happily ever after!
By Tanvi Arunkumar, Grade 4, Tamilnadu, India. She adds:
“At home, I speak Tamil and English. My family and school are the things that are really important to me. And my all time favourite hobby is swimming (Outdoors) and writingpoems. My long-term vision is to become an astronaut and discover more interesting
solar systems.”Reflection
Reflection
“RUN” she said to her child, before her voice drowned out.
There was a moment of silence, before another shot fired
The little boy crouched behind a rock and waited
For he longed to return home, but knew he couldn’t
Amidst the chaos, the bloodshed, the violence and the terrors
He remained calm, as calm as can be
He stared into a puddle filled with muddy red water
And it showed him the world; our world, of uncertainty
Screams of horror echoed through the alleys
The dead lay scattered on the roads
There was aggression, there was unimaginable loss
There was fear, but no signs of remorse
But the shrieks were deafened and the wallows silenced
By his plea for justice, and his cries for help
For the little boy of tender seven (or eight perhaps)
Merely longed to be anywhere else
He might have been you, he might have been me
Leaving everything behind, being forced to flee
To seek asylum in a place unknown to him
To escape his home, become a refugee
But the little boy stood
Stood firm, like a boulder
He had found courage, even when the darkness reflected before him
He held on tight to his reality, for he knew if he didn’t
He’d find himself slip into a world much colder
—Aliya S., age 13, grade 8, Mumbai, India.
Remembering Kwanzza
Remembering Kwanzza
I announced, “Happy Kwanzza!”
Out of a genuine gesture
Of brotherhood
Without doubting whether I should
To a fellow stranger
Who was not in my brown
Skin
He was filled with wonder when
The words spilled out of my mouth
And asked, “Are you talking to me?”
Of course I am, I replied
It IS about unity and building
Relationships
“Oh!” he said with a startled look
Passing along the surprise in his
Eyes to the multi-heritage child
Whose hand he held
“Happy Kwanzza!” she erupted
Breaking the quiet stillness in
The check-out line
Barely old enough to speak or
Understand
—maggie d., African American poet, Washington.
In Search of Cool
Summer is here
They say heat is good for
Tomatoes
And wiggling toes in warm
Sand
But ants are trying to tell us
Something
Diligently building mounds of
Dirt between cracks in
Sidewalks
It is going to be a scorcher
I think
I do not want to be a prisoner of
The Sun I hum
Left to find a place to hide from
The hurting burn
City shade is sparse
Do you hear the asphalt whispering
Beware of the sweltering black
Streets?
By maggie d., African American poet, Washington.
What Peace Is to Me
Celebrate America Creative Writing Contest
Celebrate America Creative Writing Contest
The Celebrate America Creative Writing Contest winners for 2026 have just been announced. The winning entries will be also published in our next Issue (to be available in July). The award winners will be recognized at the Immigration Impact Awards ceremony in San Diego, California being organized by the American Immigration Council (AIC) and American Immigration Lawyers Association (AILA) on June 19th evening. We are pleased to share with you the three winning entries below. (You can also download the file by clicking here):



Celebrate America Creative Writing Contest
The Celebrate America Creative Writing Contest winners for 2025 have just been announced. The winning entries will be also published in our Awards Issue (to be available in late August). The award winners will be recognized at the Immigration Impact Awards ceremony in Denver, Colorado being organized by the American Immigration Council (AIC) and American Immigration Lawyers Association (AILA) on June 20th evening. We are pleased to share with you the three winning entries below. (You can also download the file by clicking here):


The 2024 Winners were announced on June 14th, 2024. They are:
First Place Winner: Stories of Us
I sit
By the windowsill
Gazing outside.
Down, on the street, so many heads,
Each is unique.
Amidst the traffic and frantic honking,
I sense the presence of
Millions of others,
Just like me.
I contemplate
The journeys. Each of us—All of us have a story.
When mothers and fathers
Ventured far across the world,
Their sense of adventure leads
Them in search of a new life.
Then I think
About all the diverse people,
And a myriad of languages,
Some foreign to one, but familiar to another.
When I open my window,
I hear those languages harmonizing,
Merging together to form a chorus.
But not just any choir.
The symphony of every single person’s story,
A song where every note counts.
I think about the stories
That father would tell me.
About my father’s mother and
His migratory voyage.
My father’s trip to America,
With only 300 dollars in his suitcase,
And a brain.
I ponder about each and every one
of the people in my neighborhood
And I wonder
Why Father would be willing
To relinquish everything
To speak in a foreign tongue.
I think about his pride
In having dual nationalities.
About being able to keep his
traditions close to heart,
and embracing a new part of himself.
American.
Then my thoughts drift to school.
All of the different students,
Each of us with our own stories.
The accounts of our ancestors,
And all that they sacrificed.
For us.
For each and every one of us,
To be here.
At this moment.
Right now.
To be present,
Someone had to work hard.
Someone had to shed tears of exhaustion,
Leaving behind familiar joy and wonder,
Leaving behind family and friends,
To create new memories and stories
In one country,
Forming one grand story.
But this story
Isn’t just any story.
It is the story of us.
The U. S.
The story of the United States of America.
—Angela Du, grade 5, New York.
Second Place: Sugar and Milk
I wake up to the sounds of unfamiliar voices in different languages. I raise the blinds and look out the window. I see people wearing bright clothes and intricate patterns. They stand out against the dull brick apartment building, like fall leaves against a gray sky. My mom comes in and abruptly says, “Don’t bother with them. We were here first.” I sit silently on my bed pondering about what she said.
Weeks pass. Curious, I go over to their apartment building and find a girl watering a tomato plant. I shyly say, “Hi. I’m from the apartment across the street. My name is Sula.” She quietly responds, “My name is Aminah.” She reaches towards the tomato plant and offers a tomato. I smile and put it in my pocket. Aminah waves goodbye and runs inside.
I run back home to give the tomato to my mom. She says, “Thank you,” and takes a bite. “This is the best tomato I’ve ever had. Where did you get this?” I hesitated a bit, then I said, “From Aminah.” “Who is Aminah?” She asks. Anxiously I say, “The new kid from across the street.” Before my Mom can say anything, I run upstairs.
Aminah and I start playing together over the summer. I think Mom is still unsure of Aminah and her family.
Tonight I wake up to loud sounds. I am scared. Mom comes running into my room and we run to the basement. The next morning, my mom says that there is a war going on and the safest place for us is right across the border in our neighboring country. We pack our clothes and hurry into a truck packed full of people. As we settle down, I see Aminah and her family in the corner. After a long and tough ride, we end up in a camp full of tents.
Mom and I are going from place to place in search of food and a job. A week later Mom finds a job at a small bakery owned by a family. The job doesn’t pay a lot, but enough to get food for both of us. Later that month, the family invites us for dinner at their house. It is a small house with two rooms and seven kids. I am eager to have a proper meal. My Mom thanks them for sharing the food they have, especially when we come from a different country. Then the host shares a Parsi legend that she had heard from her elders. She begins,
“In the seventh century, when Parsis emigrated to India, they were brought before local ruler, Rana, who presented them with a vessel “brimful” of milk to signify that the surrounding lands could not possibly accommodate any more people. The Parsi head responded by slipping some sugar into the milk to signify how the strangers would enrich the local community and dissolve into life like sugar dissolves in the milk, sweetening the society but not unsettling it.”
Mom bursts into tears.
—Ananya Siddabathuni, grade 5, Minnesota.
Third Place: I See America
Through crashing waves and rocking ships,
I carry big wishes and high hopes for this new nation.
I see America, welcoming me with arms wide open,
Filling me with faith and showing me appreciation.
Leaving the green, white, and saffron flag waving in the breeze,
The concrete roof that once was over my head.
Still holding onto my traditions and beliefs,
While adapting to a different culture instead.
I am welcomed by classmates,
Welcomed by neighbors and teachers.
I soon feel connected with my community,
Regardless of my different nationality and different facial features.
When I get pushed down from inequity,
I get back up and stand strong.
I see America as a place of opportunity,
A place of liberty, and a place where nobody’s background
is wrong.
I will carry on our vows, generation to generation,
Longing for our customs to carry on, and never fade.
I hope that the new ages to come will learn that our heritage is something to be proud of,
And realize the righteous impact on America that
we immigrants have made.
For I am an immigrant from over the seas,
Proud of my heritage and values, I hold near and dear.
I am holder of two nationalities, first generation to see America,
And I hope to spread the joy of our culture here.
—Caroline Keslinke, grade 5, Illinois.
The 2025 Creative Writing Contest
The American Immigration Lawyers Association holds this annual contest to challenge fifth graders across the country to reflect on and write about one of two themes: “Why I Am Glad America Is a Nation of Immigrants” or “What Does it Mean to be a Welcoming Nation?” Visit: www.celebrateamericawritingcontest.org
The Celebrate America Creative Writing Contest winners for 2023 were announced last week. They will be also published in our Awards Issue. You can download the three winning entries here.
The Celebrate America Creative Writing Contest winners for 2022 have been published in our Awards Issue. You can download the winning entries here.

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.
Nature Is This and This Is I
I am this and this is nature.



The 2024 Winners were announced on June 14th, 2024. They are:



