- 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.

-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.

-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!