Winter Poems 2017

We march out—so early I can’t even see—

till Meg has a headache and John has to pee,

and Ruby is swearing she’ll die of despair

if another small nature bug lands in her hair.

 

“Now, camping’s a great way to spend time together,”

says Dad as we groan about grime and the weather.

“Just humor your father,” our mom chimes along,

but none of us join in her hiking trip song.

 

Come noon, I discover the map’s upside-down,

and Ruby and Meg both wear permanent frowns.

The lunches have melted, a PBJ puddle,

and even Dad’s beat when we do our group huddle.

 

On campground, we’re weary and beading with sweat

at the peak of what Dad says we’ll “never forget.”

He can’t pitch the tent, so we lie on the dirt

and the earth is so bumpy, our spinal cords hurt.

 

But the six of us match with our sore limbs and yawns

as Mom sings and I squeeze between Ruby and John.

We marvel together as stars come to peep,

and I’m grateful to Dad as I drift off to sleep.

 

 

Vivian Tsai currently studies computer science and applied math at Johns Hopkins University. She spends her free time doodling, writing letters, and playing tennis with friends.

The day after things changed

It rained buckets

Bubbles floating across mirrored puddles

 

I woke in grey violet

And left my dreams in a hurry

A flurry of heartbeats

Racking the dreary room

 

I took a drag through the rain

To count my words

 

To spread

Water from the

Crease of my cheek

The bridge of my nose

 

A silent story of sorrow

 

I warmed a can of

Salty metal soup

Til it hissed at the corners and

Overflowed the bowl

Cloudy liquid growing cold

As it clung to my throat

 

I could not stand

Inside my skin

I could not stand my head

 

Through years

Of shifting loss

The same prayer flags still

Drip from my doorframe

 

Still tangle on the synapses

That lie between wake and dream

 

May I never settle

May I always have a song to sing

 

 

 

Maya Rabinowitz is a sixteen-year-old lover of music and avid reader of anything poetic. She lives in Philadelphia, PA, in a quiet neighborhood with her two moms and her dog Ollie. She spends much of her free time writing, and her work has also been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards.

 

After I die,

I will wander the world

the way I’ve always wanted to,

see the cherry blossoms in DC

and the broken ground of the Berlin Wall

and the barren earth of the DMZ

where the voices but not the souls of the others gone

linger.

 

And eventually

I will tire of the earthly things

that tower but do not speak.

Somehow I’ll find my way back home,

where I’m sure my grandmother will be waiting

sunlight warming the joints that no longer ache

watering her aloe plants

and a bowl of my favorite fried rice on the table.

 

 

Melody (Mel) is a high school junior from New Jersey. She has been writing poetry for about two years and has won a number of awards, including bronze in the NJCTE competition and a gold key in Scholastic Art and Writing. When not procrastinating and worrying about her upcoming exam, Mel reads, sings, and volunteers in and with her school (PS: her favorite ice cream flavor is Ben and Jerry’s  “The Tonight Dough with Jimmy Fallon).

How pathetic is it

I think over black coffee taken alone

That I belong to perhaps the only sub-culture

Of the Homo Sapiens species

That begins to cry when I catch a glimpse of my sun-tanned chest in the car mirror

Because my collarbones no longer protrude like some injured wing of a broken songbird

But are now hidden, more soft, the angularity more subtle under a layer of cushy flesh

Why is it that I find magnificence in the sharp lines of the combination of collagen and calcium

Which very protrusion I find sickening on the stray mutts that wander the street

How repulsive is it

That I find strength in what nature intends as a symbol of human weakness

 

 

Emily Wolst is an undergraduate English student at Lakehead University in Orillia, Ontario. She enjoys writing poetry and short creative fiction pieces. Her work has appeared in several local newspapers. She works part-time in a public library and spends her spare time reading both fiction and non-fiction and drinking hot coffee.

 

 

 

Humming at the riverside, city across the waves hanging low

Lights stabbing across the thrashing water to slip shadows under our feet

Where they, teacher-eyed, observe our dancing and stalk us

 

We cause sand to leap out the way, feet stomping manic

To the intense chorus of acutely heated wind down wine bottles

 

Smoke couldn’t keep up with us all night and so wanders home

Some bearing a distinct scent that sends trees tutting

Ash diving to the sand where it rests, unfolding into nothing

 

Bodies sprawl on rocks and sand and blankets, floating

Burning so vital, those webs of pounding flesh and sounding veins

Throbbing, afraid of skin that might scorch them, but adventurous

 

Those ungifted with a human crutch wobble on,

Sticking to the corners in defensive huddles, cackling

Arms building platonic shields to avoid repeated scars

 

Moon attacks with full frontal nudity, no clouds-modesty is dull

As stars hang back at the dancefloor’s edge, drinks sipped tenderly

 

Humming at the riverside, we beat a clunky tune into the ugly hours

We are a nuisance, attacking the sea as it tosses and turns, trying to sleep

But summer brims over and we are sipping from the cup

Which floods so sticky onto our vibrant skin

 

 

Peter Beattie also goes by Moth, a product of their gender identity crisis. Crises, usually self-caused, are a recurring theme in their life and work, of which this is the first published example.