Editor's note: I usually don't like these "I Am From" poems. But this one is exceptional. It was mailed to us via "snail-mail" which means that I had to type it out instead of copy/pasting from an email (wah!). So yeah, it must be good.

The imagery in this poem is stunning. The way the words hold each other takes my breath away. Read it out loud to a friend. No, of course you aren't from the same things Tia is. But we can all learn a little about the sound of poetry from her piece. Where are you from? Tell us.

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The Age of Reverie
-Poem by Tia DeShong, Grade 11

I come from gold-tipped blades of grass,
resplendent wading pools and ceilings spun from stars.
I'm from skinned knees and lips stained strawberry,
blithe daisies braided into crowns and dusty, bare feet.
I am a sea thrown into a summer breeze.

I come from dusty volumes mounted high on rickety shelves,
the smell of worn leather and ink.
I'm from bitterness invading my mouth from a steaming mug,
while rain pelts aged windowpanes.
To find me, read between the lines.

I come from pews carved from cedar and prayers encouraged from beads,
melancholy hymns and exalting cries.
I'm from incense speckled air and virtuously painted walls,
nagging thoughts and clawing doubts.
I'm a candle flickering briefly.

I come from lace-up sneaks and self-destroyed jeans,
hair available in Technicolor and loud music.
I'm from blood-stained hands and tattered flags
living in a nation that longs for a new creation.
Am I a sinner or a saint?

I come from roads painted weary with traveling footsteps,
Swimming in the seas and erasing the horizons.
I'm from chasing the sun and dancing with the moon,
speaking in tongues and letting the sovereignty sing me a lullaby ...
I'm from everywhere, yet nowhere at all.

On the last day of every month this year, we will be posting the best student writing that we received in that month. Does that make sense? In other words, on February 28th, we'll be posting the best student writing we received in February. And so on... each winner will receive a prize. Yah! Prizes! Woo hoo! I will post more about this later. But for now...

You are January's Student Writer of the Month!!!

Why hello there,

Get in your entries now! The deadline for READ Magazine's Ann Arlys Bowler Poetry contest is Wednesday, January 31! That's like... tomorrow. Well, actually it's the day after tomorrow, but it might as well be tomorrow because it's just that close!

You can find out more details here.

Here's a poem that will not win this contest:

One Lonely Sneaker
I once met a man named Horatio,
He told me I should rhyme his name with "ratio."
But I didn't want to,
So I didn't.
And that really showed him who was boss.
But then he pointed out to me
That I actually did
In line 2
And it was quite an embarrassing revelation, I must say.

Oh, and did I mention he wore one lonely sneaker?

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Reasons why One Lonely Sneaker will not win the Ann Arlys Bowler poetry contest:

1) It is a poem of very poor quality.
2) I wrote it.

Enter now. Peace out.

- Story by Austin Siegemund-Broka, Grade 9

Gregor lived on an island.

At least, most of the time he did. Usually, he had the whole paradise to himself, a luscious, green patch of land with abundant animals and fruits. But every once in a while, the beautiful surroundings would melt away and Gregor would be left looking at a drab, white door. He would be in a small room of white tile, with only a simple wooden chair, upon which Gregor sat. There was a small bare lightbulb on the ceiling and gray-brown stains around some of the tiles.

But that was very rare. Mostly it was just Gregor on his island. It wasn't a large place, small enough for Gregor to know exactly where he was all the time. There was crystal blue surf, as warm as a Jacuzzi tub, and powdery white sand. The plants were always full and green, but not only green. There were huge flowers and vines, some purple, some orange, some pink. They gave the island a splash of brightness.

Gregor thought about this blessing bestowed on him. This is my favorite place, he thought. My favorite place ever.

As wonderful as his paradise was, though, strange things had begun to happen on Gregor's island. He felt it was no longer his, like there was a presence watching over it. Mostly, there were voices. Sometimes, just out of the baby-blue sky, voices would come. There was often a male voice, and sometimes a female one, too. These invisible speakers weren't loud, but they weren't incomprehensible either.

What they said, however, worried Gregor more. He often caught the entire conversation, and remembered specific lines of dialogue. "He has a form of schizophrenia," the male voice had said once. Gregor didn't know the word, but it sounded bad. There was a long pause before the female chimed in.

"Schizophrenia? I'm afraid I don't understand, doctor."

"I believe it to be a very acute form of the disorder. He imagines he's somewhere else completely."

This had come as a shock to Gregor. A disorder? What did they mean, these people? And where else could I be? I'm on my island. MY island. I can see things. I can hear things. I can touch things.

"It's funny," the man said. "There's absolutely no history of mental illness in his family. I think he's one apple that fell way off the tree," Gregor realized with a cold dread that he was the "he".