-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.

-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!