The following blog entry was written by Sarah Solomon, an intern here at READ.

When most people hear the word sonnet, they automatically think of William Shakespeare, and for good reason. However, the sonnet was around way before Shakespeare was born, and continued to be modernized after his death.

What makes sonnets different from other types of poetry is their distinct structure. Sonnets have a set number of lines and an organized rhyme scheme. However, there are different types of sonnets, such as the English sonnet, the Italian sonnet, and other variations.

Shakespeare usually wrote English sonnets, which have 14 lines and a rhyme scheme of:
[ABAB CDCD EFEF GG]
Each letter corresponds to the last word of each line. So the first and third lines will rhyme, the second and fourth lines will rhyme, etc.

But you have probably already seen many Shakespeare sonnets. Here are some other ones you might not have seen. Sir Thomas Wyatt was born in 1503, and wrote sonnets way before Shakespeare. Here is one, entitled "Farewell love and all thy laws forever"

Farewell, love, and all thy laws forever,
Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more.
Senec and Plato call me from thy lore
To perfect wealth, my wit for to endeavor.
In blind error when I did persever,
Thy sharp repulse that pricketh aye so sore
Taught me in trifles that I set no store,
But scape forth, since liberty is lever.
Therefore, farewell, go trouble younger hearts,
And in me claim no more authority;
With idle youth go use thy property,
And thereon spend thy many brittle darts.
For hitherto though I have lost my time,
Me list no longer rotten boughs to climb.

— Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542)

This is an Italian sonnet. Though the rhyme scheme of an Italian sonnet is somewhat flexible, the first eight lines are
[ABBA ABBA]

More modern sonnets are a lot freer with their rhyme schemes, and the poems are not as structured overall as the more classical ones. Edna St. Vincent Millay lived from 1892 to 1950--not so long ago. Here is a sonnet she wrote, entitled "Only until this cigarette is ended"

Only until this cigarette is ended,
A little moment at the end of all,
While on the floor the quiet ashes fall,
And in the firelight to a lance extended,
Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended,
The broken shadow dances on the wall,
I will permit my memory to recall
The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.
And then adieu, -- farewell! -- the dream is done.
Yours is a face of which I can forget
The colour and the features, every one,
The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;
But in your day this moment is the sun
Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

—Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

There are other structural elements to sonnets, such as the literal structure of ideas (like an essay) and the rhythm of the words (enunciation). But that would be a whole other story.

Try writing your own sonnet!
It's harder than it looks!

The following blog entry was written by Sarah Solomon, an intern here at READ. 

Cast a cold eye

On life, on death.

Horseman, pass by!

 

This is the famous epitaph of William Butler Yeats, whose birthday would have been yesterday, June 13.

Poet and dramatist William Butler Yeats was an Anglo-Irishman born in Ireland in 1865. This means that he was in the Protestant ruling class in Ireland, as opposed to the Catholic lower class. In his early years he was very interested in mysticism and occultism, but later on his poetry became more realistic.

 

Most of his life, Yeats was in love with Maud Gonne, an Irish nationalist who did not return Yeats' feelings. Yeats was so desperate to be with her, he ended up proposing to her five times!

 

Yeats won the Nobel Prize in December of 1923. He is known as a symbolist poet, because most of his poetry uses symbols in order to create meaning.

 

He Wishes For the Cloths of Heaven

 - William Butler Yeats

 

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

 

 

-By Audrey Gamble, Grade 9

I stare up at the clouds, puffy and white
Startlingly clear and blue sky peeking through
I see figures - a dragon and a knight

Drifting up, a hot air balloon takes flight
All its colors flying so bold and true
I stare up at the clouds, puffy and white

Flawless peace, it's free of hatred and spite
Images that I mistake and construe
I see figures - a dragon and a knight

The sun is so warm, comforting and bright
Drying away all the damp morning dew
I stare up at the clouds, puffy and white

I'm breathless at such a beautiful sight
Crisp fresh air and a warm summer breeze too
I see figures - a dragon and a knight

Such a great day makes me fearful of night
But I feel content as I say adieu
I stare up at the clouds, puffy and white
I see figures - a dragon and a knight

Click here for Student Writing Showcase 2008.

That's not much fanfare! Well, I could tell you about all the great student writers we have showcased this year. I could discuss the wonderful authors who have leant their voices and commentary (like M.T. Anderson, Karen Cushman, and Cynthia Leitich Smith). I could describe the way neat-o video version of 1,000 Words. I could tell you all about the Letter To Self article and writing prompt. I could write up a super-duper self-promotion that shows in detail how each one of these things makes for a really cool place to chill out, read some excellent student writing, get inspired, and moves you to write whatever your heart desires! I could... and I kind of just did... but I think I'll just pipe down and let you check it out for yourself.

AND if you do get inspired and DO write something. Send it to us at word@weeklyreader.com. We're always looking for the best student writers to publish right here on WORD!

Cheers mates! Enjoy!

If you haven't figured out this week's theme by now... um... it's birthday poems inspired by Billy Collins. Come on, you knew that!

Turning Ten
by Becky, Grade 6

The whole idea of it makes me feel
Like I can do anything,
Everything.
I can fly with the birds,
I can ride a dragon.
I'm going to turn ten.
Some feel the need
To let go of past games,
Imaginary friends,
All the things considered
Childish.
They think
That turning ten
Means crossing a threshold
From which
You may never return.
But I believe
At 11, 15 or even 30
At heart,
We are still kids.
So opinions are very different,
Unique,
Yet they have one likeness,
Turning ten,
Is
No
Small
Thing.

For the record, I'm 30. And I like to think I'm still a kid at heart. Here's a couple of monkeys celebrating birthday poem week to prove it. Look! They're wearing people clothes! Hahahahaha! Oh monkey.

This seems to be a popular concept here at WORD! Keep your birthday poems coming! Here's one from a student who managed to incorporate a monkey into her writing! Yay Birthday Monkey poems!

Turning Twelve
-by Emma, 11

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like Christmas came early this year.
Like a monkey in a
forest of banana trees.
Like a young child playing in a cool stream
on a hot summer's day.
Turning twelve.
Oh, how I wish it would come sooner!
"You may babysit when you are twelve", my parents say.
I have been eleven for years-an eternity-
or so it seems.
Turning twelve.
The thought of it makes me want to do a a little
dance in place,
or squeal like I do at Christmas, when I open my first present.
Turning twelve.
This is the beginning of
being treated like a teenager,
not a child,
of staying home alone,
of babysitting,
of walking home from school,
of being responsible,
of growing up.
Turning twelve.
How long it takes, but I know it will come.
Someday...
Turning twelve.

Here are a few more student written birthday poems inspired by Billy Collins' On Turning Ten and READ magazine!

Older
by Iman Siddiqui

The whole idea of it makes me feel
Like a rotten old banana peel
Everyday and every night
Holding on to my child-ish right
Sometimes I want to be alone
With everything silent to the bone
No matter how I feel inside
There is a hole open wide
Everything is changed
And I'm the one to blame
Sometimes the change is good
Just like it always should
Everything is crazy
Now it has become hazy
I can't take it anymore
All that knocking on my door
I'm sick and tired of all these traps
Closing on my weakened back
Older and older, day by day
No more time to go out and play
As I've matured, bigger and stronger
It will stay for longer and longer
Even if I cannot go out and play
Hopefully I'll enjoy my 13^th birthday

----------
Turning 13
by Christine Leong - Grade 6

The whole idea of it makes me feel
Like the shriveled old grape on 42nd street
The idea of 13 creeping up on me
Is slow but consistent
Week by week, day by day
Hour by hour, minute by, minute
second by second
It's like the lioness
About to pouce on her prey
It is like an ocean
Full of "Happy 13th Birthdays"
Swarming around me
Trying to drown me
You might wonder why?
Why are you afraid?
But, I'd simply answer
They expect so much more
They expect you to be great
They pile work on your head
'Till you can't balance any longer
Then they pile more work
And you drop like a bomb
You see, turning 13 isn't all that bad
But it's the door to independence
The door to freedom, high school
College, your job, adulthood
Being me of course,
I would never want to
Think of all this
So right now I'll just
Sit back and relax and
Concentrate on, not being 13,
But being 12.

Don't ask me why we're posting another birthday monkey picture. I don't have the answer. He just looks so happy! Oh... I guess that is answer enough.

In READ's Poetry issue, we asked you to write a few birthday poems using the first line from Billy Collins' poem, On Turning Ten. Here are just a few that we received.

10
-Esther Yan

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like recovering from the flu.
Like playing outside on a summer day,
splashing through water on too-hot weekends,
sitting beside the fire on a chilly-cold night.
It makes me feel all giddy and fickle,
like seeds growing toward the earth's warm sun,
shopping at the mall with 10,000 dollars.
If I could choose between heaven and this, well
well, I would choose this.
I want to know why others don't feel
like me? and what is their reason?
For all I know about turning ten
is balloons, and parties, and cake, and
candles, and friends, and sleepovers, and
Turning ten means DOUBLE-DIGITS!
I love to feel much older,
'cuz grown-ups listen to you more,
little kids think you're cooler,
and people say I am better.
It gets me a year closer to going to middle school.
Oh boy, oh boy! I can't wait!
But then
I go down,
           down,

     down
                down the stairway of life,

and I ask God,
"Well... what are you waiting for? When's my 11th birthday?"

--------------

Thoughts on Turning Ten
- Vivek Shankar, Grade 6

The whole idea of it makes me feel,
A little uncertain and strange,
As my birthday draws closer,
I close my eyes and whisper.
“Who am I? Who am I?
Ten years have passed so quickly,
I don’t understand,
The silent, ceaseless nature of time.
More is expected of me,
Than ever before,
Shocked am I,
As the day passes on.
I look back to remember,
The meandering course of life,
The times of happiness,
And the times of sadness.
Each memory plays a part,
In the twisting life of a human,
I look back and wonder,
What is there to live for?
I am a speck,
In the vast painting of life,
Looking back to remember,
The decade that has passed.
Who knows? I say,
But what I know,
Is to work your way through hardships,
And enjoy the pleasure of life.

--------------

Turning Twelve
-by Joseph Farhat, of the International Baccalaureate Baker Middle School

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm about to explode
in a happy little fireworks display,
for that turning older
is the best thing
you can feel in your lifetime

Twelve might not be as great,
as your other birthdays you remember.
The day you turned one,
the fifth celebration of your life,
the great double digits of ten,
your sweet sixteen,
your fun twenty-one,
and any other birthdays you favor.

But I will not forget,
my twelfth birthday,
for to me it was very important,
because there at the big one two,
I felt I could do anything
If i could put my mind
to the task

Now as life slowly passes,
right before my eyes,
I reflect on my favorite B-day,
my wonderful twelfth.

Now as my poem comes to a close,
I want you to think,
about your wonderful birthdays,
and compare it to
your twelfth.

In the Poetry Issue of READ, we asked you to create another character for Spoon River. 9th grader Katrina Lu has created a character named Bunny D. And here is what she has to say.

Bunny D.
Once in a lifetime chances don't let them pass you by.
Everything is worthwhile as long as you don't take for granted.
Breathe it and take it in as gratitude, even if it is painful.
Take everything with you as you lay cold in the ground.
With the memories of a lifetime you won't feel alone.

-Anana Witterman, Grade 8

Gnarly oak sentries guard the entrance of the park,
Fragile, copper leaves adorned with a lace of dew.
Perpetual branches tug at the heavens ... intertwining.

Calm and composed, a delicate cherry blossom tree breathes softly,
Outstretched, humorous arms playing tug-of-war with the geentle breeze.
Light pink cotton balls tingle slightly ... a strong gust hurtles past.

Propelling itself from a lofty branch is a morning dove,
Its smoky plumage rippling in the fresh morning light.
Coasting on an invisible elevator ... laughing at the sky.

An undulation brook courses through the pebbles,
Its mirrored surface echoing the late autumnal hues.
Fragments of a peaceful afternoon ... scattered on the innocent surface.

This is the final runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. It was supposed to have been posted yesterday but we screwed up. Sorry about that. We were so close to having a full 14 days too. So much for perfection.

Check back later today to read one student's new character for the Spoon River Anthology!

- Alicia LeSage, Grade 8

The moonlit sky, the stars
The darken green grass,
The midnight breeze
With you everything is good.

The sunny blue skies, the clouds
The soft green grass,
The midday sweat
With you everything is good.

The dark stormy sky, the rain
The wet green grass
The deadly wind
With you everything is good.

The gloomy skies, the flurries
The white powdery grass
The dreadful chill
With you everything is good.

No matter the skies, no matter the weather,
No matter the color of the grass.
Nothing in the world matters because
With you everything is good!

This is the thirteenth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Kristian Alfonso, Grade 12

Elapsed time of call: 1:16
He tells me that I swing my arms when I run.
I tell him I like my space
and it keeps cars from hitting me.

I ask him if he's tried it before
and he says only in Allendale
because there are sidewalks.

Here we have no sidewalks,
no fire hydrants,
we let things burn here.

Elapsed time of call: 3:33
He asks if it is raining where I am,
I tell him only in my mind. He asks
if I had dinner yet and I say
I don't have service.

Call ended.

This is the twelfth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

- Baobao Zhang, Grade 11

Caught between the pale snow-covered ridge ahead
and the looming tumult of thundering hail, Jack Green
eyed the half-frozen river with a heavy heart.
An unkind Virginian winter, like a mother-bird
bent on hell, had pecked at him since the first of November.
Trapped in his red-brick coffer, Jack had counted then
re-counted the testaments of his fortune: Chinese plates
and Indian tea and Spanish silver bourgeoisies.
But under the shadows of midnight, they haunted his dreams
with polished accusations, pricking his conscience till it bled.

Though Jack Green would never confess the Oirginal Sin,
he firmly believed in Eden and that it existed somewhere
beyond the pine-laced gates of the Cumberland Gap.
Far too old to undertake the pilgrimage, he cleansed
himself with glimpses of spring for personal salvation.
In due season, the wildflowers on the riverbank
would flood his valley with unnamable colors.
And in due season, another shipload of transplantations
would arrive in Williamsburg, eager to choke the
New World--or perhaps to bless it with beauty.

This is the eleventh runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Ray Bliss, Grade 8

I glimpse a cardinal
in the skeleton
of a leafless tree.

I see him
dance--
a red shadow
in the skull
of a leafless tree.

Fog clothes
the tree with a brilliant
swirling tornado.

But still
the cardinal dances--
smoke, formless, as he weaves
a delicate pattern of lace,

as he dances
in the skeleton
of a leafless tree.

This is the tenth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Margaret Hayertz, Grade 12

I make paper into trees, unfold
this napkin until it flies away. I watch the birds
run on air, and I mistake
their mistakes for changes in the weather pattern, that
clinging ring of computerized, Weather Channel clouds. Graphic
is to pixels as beating heart is to atoms,
how a thought seeps into your head
where chemicals eat it up and (hopefully) store it
for a rainy day,
just like (hopefully) rain rains
on a house fire and on a geranium.
Petals need more air than we do--
we can sit inside all day without breathing, pretending
there's a fire upstairs and vampires outside
and that a box will keep us safe.
"Be there, or be square!" says a black-and-white girl
inside the round T.V.
Be there. Be there. Be there.
We pretend in hieroglyphs and handshakes
while the symbol of the self poses atop a trophy.
We laugh in the details--just jolting consonants--
at the things that don't fit snugly over our ears.
Be there. Be there. Be there.
I define myself by my real name and by my heartbeats per minute because
how else would we tell the difference between each other?
I am I and you are you and that means
Be there. Be there. Be
there.

This is the ninth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Alyse Quiat, Grade 10

Wandering town, the streets were still,
     filled with wisps of whispers.

Our eyes,
     cleared of our pre-teen fog,
     could see the old mural, once a Summer panorama,
     now faded paint on a concrete slate.

          You fell back to the grass,
          tangling your bright brass hair,
          and warily tilted your gaze to the sky haze.
       I followed next to you like usual,
       sitting and carefully
       leaning back on my hands.

               The clouds,
               pale, purgatory curtains,
               covered what would come next,
               what was beyond the anxious silence.
               There, we witnessed them
                    shift,
                         shift,
                              and soon enough,
                       split.

This is the eighth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

- Desanka Beslic, Grade 9

The smoldering embers in his eyes still glow hot;
tattoed paws taught to dance by the sear of metal.
For the last time Misho is led by a sunglow ring and a pounding beat.
He is a street performer enchanting crowds.

Tattooed paws taught to dance by the sear of metal
in a centuries-old tradition,
he is a street performer enchanting crowds,
both he and his owner will feast tonight.

In a centuries-old tradition,
cascading coins gather in the well of a pocket,
both he and his owner will feast tonight.
When Misho sleeps, he again finds the wilderness he had lost.

Cascading coins gather in the well of a pocket,
these last tokens of his misfortune.
When Misho sleeps, he again finds the wilderness he lost
in the mountain sanctuary of black leaves.

These last tokens of his misfortune
will become but a memory of how paws were molded by flame.
In the mountain sanctuary of black leaves,
now Misho only will dance when it thunders.

This is the seventh runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

--Nick Wiedman, Grade 8

'Twas the time of year and the bell had rung
Says Death to the man: Your time has come.

No, No! says the man, You've got me wrong,
I can't die now, I'm much too young!
There is some confusion, sorry for the bother,
But the one you want is my dear brother.

So he left the man and spared his head,
He went along and took his brother instead.

'Twas the second year, and the bell had rung,
Says Death to the man: Your time has come.

Oh, no! says the man, I'm still too young,
but surely my auntie's time has come.

So he left the man and spared his head,
he went along and took his auntie instead.

'Twas the third year and the bell had rung,
Says Death to the man: Your time has come.

You can't take me now, that would be bad
but surely it's time for my dear old dad!

So he left the man, and spared his head,
he went along, and took his dear old dad instead.

And that year Death was annoyed,
He was tired of being tricked, lied to, and toyed!

'Twas the fourth year, and the bell had rung
Says Death to the man: Your time has come!

No, no! says the man. But it was too late,
He could not escape his coming fate.

Enough! Says Death with a bellow,
To poor, frightened and dreadful fellow.

Growing short are my fuses,
I'm tired of your excuses!

And with that, Death raised his scythe,
Struck it down and took his life.

It was a sad sight, and the rain began to pour,
And the man who cheated death was sadly no more.

This is the sixth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

--Larissa Gula, Grade 12

I once picked up a violin
With a flimsy, cracking bow,
And I softly coaxed a tune, until
I recognized the whistle being thrown out.

It sounded like my old machine companions
With creaking pistons, and gears,
And proud smokestacks marking the trail taken
Until the message was lost in the clouds.

It sounded like the night
When I rode along to the next station
Watching fields of barley
And snail-ridden marshes
Flash by.

And the midnight train, with no destination,
Carried me on, on, on
And away from the demands
And requirements.
My only companion was peace.

And we bumped along, the motions
Soothing cracked fingers, and beyond them
Into a weary nack, nudging,
Opening constricted capillaries--

Until the whistle suddenly screamed
And pierced the quartet circle
And my eyes snapped open
With the dream echoing,

Echoing...

      Echoing...

Leaving me
Nowhere appreciated.

This is the fifth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

--Rory C. Dibley, Grade 11

It's the way your eyes twinkle
The way your teeth gleam
The way your cheeks dimple
When you smile at me

Or it might be how you kiss me
Is what makes me feel so right
Or it might be how you hug me
Holding me close and tight

But I know it's the way you love me
Is what makes my worries seem gone
It's when I see your smiling face
Makes my heart sing a song

This is the fourth runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

--Shawn Wu, Grade 7

Through the lofty oaks and into a nest,
a small sliver of glistening light explodes.
Popping up instantaneously, an alert head looks around.
The silent forest stays still,
refusing to awaken.
Suddenly the blue jay's scream cuts through the forest--
she waits.
The uniquely audible echo reverberates back,
back to the lonely jay.
Once--Twice
As soon as it comes back again,
another cry is heard,
it is that of a different blue jay.
A robin joins in.
Next, a curious moole surfaces,
its head covered in dirt.
The day has begun.

This is the third runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

-Hannah Colbert, Grade 12

The sky at dusk is like my father doing Tai Chi in a big room;
early in the morning, he's moving through the porcelain stillness,
after the sun sets, the clouds are waltzing towards night.
Both are all soft moves and graceful circles,
the slow gestures of strength across the empty room,
the slow paths treading on the wind, across the sky.
There is no curtain to go up.
If there are any viewers, it is accident only.
The man, the sky, they perform for no one;
it is their very nature to be purple and common gold,
to be patient, practicing,
the man moves even as the clouds do,
the clouds move even more like the man.
When they finish, no applause.
It is only the end.
The man and the clouds go their separate ways.
My father starts to make breakfast.
The clouds fade over the horizon.

This is the first runner-up in READ magazine's 2008 Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry Contest. Check back every day through May 1 to see 14 fabulous student poems. Did you enter? One of them could be yours!

by Lauren Wrenn
age 12

The white blanket
melts away.
Hear the flowers
moaning.

Waking up
Spring sees
the birds come back.

Warm is here again.

By Jessica Confer

Your smile
is so sweet
you put tons of smiles upon my face
when i see your smile ,my eyes open so wide
i know those smiles of yours will never tell a lie
i know those smiles will always tell the truth
When i see your smile i just go wild

Your smile
just makes me happy
and it will never fade away
it'll never die
your smiles will never get old
i get excited when i see that smile
they put me in a mood

Everytime i see your smile i just lighten up so bright
and i just what to laugh
they just brighten up my day
your smile is just so beautiful
and amazing to me

Your smile
Your smile gets bigger everyday
i hope your smile stays permanently
just like how it is now
i hope your smile never wears away
your smile is so deep
just like mine

- by Tajhinea Coffee, Age 13

Have you ever loved like me?
Have you ever loved?
To the point where it was hard to stop
To the point where you could never say bye
To the point where you couldn't live without them
To the point where you wanted to be with them everyday, second, hour, or minute
If not you haven't loved
Have you ever felt like your world was coming to an end?
To the point where you didn't want to live
To the point where you thought you were crazy
To the point where nothing mattered anymore
To the point where no one understood why you did the things you did
If not your world isn't coming to an end
Tough times are the times you get to realizing
I don't know what, but you learn something.
When the happy times come
You understand why you were feeling that way.

- by Laura Markert, age 15.

She was born many years ago
In the early days of spring
When the blossoms where just blooming,
and the river returning to life.

She has seen many times when the earth changes forms
When the days grow colder and the nights are long
When the hottness of the day makes her grow weary,
But still, she awaits her most favorite of times.

She silently waits. Waits for when the birds in the sky
fly to the south
For when the leaves atop her head change to the hundreds
of different colors.

The leaves are her friends, her companions, her children
They flutter in the breeze as they change their shades
From dull and wrinkeled to bright and smooth
From brown and dark green to firery red and golden yellow.

But soon the wind will come and take her children.
It rips them from their branches and takes them far,
far away.

Yet she is not sad nor is she mad
She is exited and exuberant.
Yes, the turbulent winds have taken her friends
But still, she is happy.

She waves goodbye to her children as the
cold sets in her bark.
And she thinks of how happy she will
be next year when she will have more.

She falls into a deep sleep and dreams
of the year to come
When her children will be born again and she
will live once more.

-by Carrie Lissette Lara, Grade 10

I am from a refrigerator Kenmore
From arroz con verduras and horchata
I am from the clean beige carpet in my living room
and the great smell of my mom's enchiladas
I am from the red roses in my garden
The apple tree from my very own yard
Whose long gone limbs I remember
As if they were my own.

I'm from ojos cafes and daddy's little girl
From mis papis Maria and Carlos
I'm from vamos a jugar futbol and let's go to the movies
And from let's go camping.

I'm from portate bien chamaca! And fijate con quien te juntas!
And no friegues conmigo porque vas a ver nina!
I'm from partying all day long with the family.
I'm from Chicago
from tamales and pupusas
from mi bis abuelo Jose que hace y vende quesos y mi abuelita que es
costurera all their lives.
The memories that I've had with my parents
Los traigo en mi Corazon
I'm Mexican and Salvadorian for life.
Y soy la Rosa que florecio Del Bello rosal
When my parents saw me for the first time.

Editor's Apology: The above poem has some Spanish words that are missing accents. Sorry about that. I don't know how to include them using this bloggy software. :(

Awkward silence
Awkward silence
With all the grace of a three-legged dog,
but harder to run from.
     - Andrew Cutler, Grade 11

There once was a man named Sam,
who dreamed he was honey ham.
He went online
to buy some twine,
and now he has lots of spam.
   -  Alik Hansen, Grade 7

by Christina Cho (Na Yun Cho), Grade 7

I climb the oak tree
One so massive and grand

I look up to a higher branch
Where I see a tiny blue robin.

With such big eyes
It looks through mine

I climb higher
And touch the bird.

The robin chirps,
A painful one

When I see carefully,
I see its tangled wings.

Untangling its wings,
I swallow a lump.

The bird is free,
Please try to flee

Instead it looks through my eyes,
Sending me a deeper meaning

I nod my head
It flies away.

- A poem by Jared Newman, Grade 5

"Quirayen! Quirayen!" They call from the trees,
Those wild-eyed hawks, those warrior bees.
And yet still my life is so glum
Here in the mountains with tips colored plum.

Chickadees gossip, and beavers build dams--
While I sit with my pack eating fresh hunted lamb.
I am Quirayen! Hear the Earth cry;
The sound of my name makes men shout "Why?"

Trees quake, when my pack stars to trot,
Hedgehogs curl up, and leaves start to rot.
Mother bears back away when I move up,
I am the king from buffalo to pup!

I am a wolf! Hear my great howl!
Watch my teeth bite, hear my pitiless growl!
My noble derision conquers all predators;
I share all my game-- there's no mine, there's no yours.

A mantle of shade spread fast overhead,
A howl of despair told me it was my time to lead.
I gathered my pack, and gave them a nod,
That strange howl said something, something quite odd.

Voles awoke at the lament from a long hibernation.
It was the wolf, with which I had a confrontation.
His eyes were blood red, and his teeth showed in his foam-covered mouth,
It was a wolf that I had met in my youth.

The grass tinted red with the blood of his foe,
I saw in his eye he showed anything but woe.
The grass on the fields waved in a zephyr.
The grass spoke to me, as if in a letter.

"Quirayen, Quirayen, your realm is in danger,
Be on your best guard and expect something stranger.
Look for the red eyes, and dark silhouette,
Fight him and live on, and never will you fret."

The spirit of Yellowstone spoke its great augury.
I looked on the psychotic wolf, my pack as the jury.
With soul a shield and hostile howl I engaged in vile battle
I stood at bay to his viscous strike, and didn't rattle.

The contention begun with his teeth into muscle;
I struck back with a bolt of Zeus's hustle.
His teeth were stuck there in my jugular.
My pack moved in and struck my foe with blazing thunder.

A blow of such force couldn't be lethal,
My pack finished the fugitive off in a way very regal.
I died three moons later, this my story I recite from my grave,
A story that is never to ever bring shame,

He wanted my position in the wolf clan.
Greed, something that happens to many a man--
He lost that conflict, and I displayed true virtue,
The wolves call me Quirayen, but Qui'martyr too.

"Qui'martyr! Qui'martyr!" They call from the ground,
Those wild-eyed wolves, those warrior hounds.
And with this story I spoke with a moral so bold,
May it always warn animals of the evil I told.