Poetry

 

Dear person from Earth,

You are not naturally intrusive, barbaric; you do not unconsciously strive

to extirpate the Universe. It is not in your nature to mindlessly kill. Do not

let greed that is lurking around the corner lure you into not being human.

Be the greatest heliolatrist there ever was; love the earth and pray to the sea.

 

People who live by the dog-eat-dog rule are far more common than they

should be; a paradoxical group of people with rotten hearts and knife-like

tongues. Survival is their primary objective; art does not exist. They are

inchoate, only breathing, eating to exist, not finding pleasure in anything.

 

Cherish morals; eliminate envy. Find out your purpose of existing. Ride a

camel to Egypt. Swim in every ocean, see thirty-one sunsets in twenty days,

buy your mother a flower every day. Gratification and happiness should

 

be the only objective you have. Graduate from an Ivy League school, write a

poem about the universe, do nothing at all and everything at once. And don’t

not listen to anyone (me). You are a blank canvas and you shall paint yourself.

Your fellow Earthling

 

Ana M. Finžgar is a fifteen-year-old from the Mediterranean. This was her first serious attempt at poetry.

 

I feel someone pick me up off the ground.

It’s a little girl.

She crumples me up in her pocket and my journey begins.

Her pink rain boots splash as she runs into the candy store.

“Spend me, spend me,” I chant

All of a sudden she takes me out and lays me on a counter and I am given to the cashier.

I stay in the cash register until his lunch break,

then he looks around and shoves me into the pocket of his baggy jeans.

From there I am given to a woman at McDonald’s.

She presses me into the hands of a man sitting on the street corner, holding a cardboard sign.

Who exchanges me for a small package of mints. Now I belong to the clerk.

The clerk takes me on an airplane

 

Suddenly I am converted into euros

 

And he puts me on a restaurant table, where I am picked up by a young waiter

And spent on a pair of heels as red as a stop sign.

The merchant grabs me and shoves me in his pocket

and brings me to a building called a bank

And I’m thrown into a vault. I spend years and years there

Until finally I’m rescued by a burly man in a black mask

The sound of sirens and the quick patter of feet overwhelm me.

All of a sudden I fly out of the bag and into a murky puddle, splash,

I lie there, awaiting my next journey.

 

 

Ruthie Isaacson is a ninth grader at Gretna High School! When she’s not writing, she’s reading, playing tennis, or competing at show choir! She also represents her school as a student council leader!

 

Hold my hand,

hold it tight.

Do not

let go

 

I am,

as they say,

drifting away

 

Drifting

And/or floating

And/or flying

And/or gliding

 

Away

 

Away from you,

and him,

and her,

and them.

 

From us,

and me,

and together,

and love.

 

So hold onto me,

grasp my hand.

Because without you,

I am drifting away

 

Now don’t get me wrong,

I like to drift.

It’s an eye-opening experience.

 

How?

Well, let me tell you.

 

You,

my friend,

are rooted.

 

I,

on the other hand,

am drifting all around.

 

Stuck in place,

solid in your position,

you can only 120 degrees

 

I can see the whole world.

 

Do you understand now?

Because I no longer do.

 

I miss my beliefs

And/or faiths

And/or convictions

And/or views

 

Mine

 

I want them

to be mine

again

 

So hold my hand,

hold it tight.

Do no

let go

 

Because I am drifting away,

and I want to be

steady once more.

 

Samantha McCabe grew up in Asia and is now living in the U.S. She loves to read, travel, and listen to music.

 

 

If you give Abraham his ipad….

Chances are he’ll watch youtube videos for the rest of the day.

If he watches youtube videos for the rest of the day chances are he’ll ask for the charger for his ipad.

Chances are he won’t get up to get it for himself so he’ll ask for someone to go get it for him.

If nobody wants to get him the charger, he’ll complain about getting up to go get it.

When he gets up to go get the charger from the living room he’ll realize he wants a cup for water.

If he wants a cup of water chances are he’ll look around the kitchen and ask for a snack.

When he asks for a snack he’ll ask for a cookie.

If he asks for a cookie, chances are he’ll ask for a cup of milk.

If there is nobody in the kitchen to serve him a cup of milk, he’ll come to my room and ask me to serve him a cup of milk.

Chances are, knowing Abraham, he would have eaten half the cookie before getting the cup of milk.

If you give Abraham a big cup of milk…

Chances are he’ll ask for another cookie so he can finish off his milk.

He’ll sit at the counter and play on his ipad some more knowing that his ipad is plugged in.

Forgetting that he left his cup of water on the edge of the counter

He’ll probably knock down the cup of water by pulling on the charger.

When he knocks over the cup of water he probably won’t tell anybody about it.

He’ll unplug the charger and take it with him to the living room so that it doesn’t seem like he dropped the cup of water.

If he doesn’t clean up the water..

Chances are either my sister or I will end up stepping in it when we only have our socks on.

Knowing that we will try to figure out who spilled the water, he’ll skip away laughing.

When we tell him to clean it he’ll say “No not doing it.”

Chances are he really won’t clean up the mess

If you give Abraham his ipad he’ll make a mess.

 

 

Jezebelle Rocha is just a normal creative writer who never enjoyed writing anything in English or in other classes. As a senior she began to enjoy her Creative Writing class when she was able to write freely. She was first published in her school’s Literary Journal and also performed at her high school’s open mic night.

 

The crabapple trees, arthritic spinsters in the winter

have reprised their roles as brides

plump and delicate in ivory/ fuchsia/ coral.

 

The wind whispers subtleties

and spring considers summer

the way a child leans over the sidewalk’s warm breath

and ponders anthills:

 

very intensely

and then not at all.

 
Kara Peter is an 11th grade student who is inspired by thunderstorms, mountains and good books. She lives within her imagination.

 

 

it’s been a year or a yesterday, since i gave you up
and stalked our memories, rewinding, over

and over, the tape recorder of my past
till the faded songs, stutter and hiss

(their or our) words drowning in themselves
like a strange, surreal painting

where ancient rooms metamorphose
into real, liquid nightmares, contorting-

and i wish so desperately
to be worthy (lucky) enough

to remember the details,
the smoky ends of half-finished conversations

that never went the way i imagined
but still magical enough, to tuck away

like a secret special present
from someone never meant to be;

the line from a poem, or song
that could uncover the invisible scars

tattooed across my soul and skin
once soaked in the moonshine of forevers

from the padlocked universe(i was exiled from)
spiralling farther and farther away

each time a song/painting/conversation/poem
dies

and the phantom limb of love
stutters, breathless
in limbo.
Archita Mittra is a wordsmith and visual artist with a love for all things vintage and darkly fantastical. A student of English Literature at Jadavpur University, she is also pursuing a Diploma in Multimedia and Animation from St. Xavier’s College, Kolkata. She has won several writing contests and her work has appeared in numerous online and print publications including Quail Bell Magazine, eFiction India, Life In 10 Minutes, Teenage Wasteland Review and Tuck Magazine, among others. She occasionally practises as a tarot card reader.

You can read more of her work on https://thepolyphonicphoenix.wordpress.com/