Category: 2018-19 Submissions

Christmas is the happiest time of the year
It is full of fun and good cheer
You never are sad
You should be very glad
That you made it throughout the year

Christmas is the cherry on the cake
We all want to meet santa
But that’s not always a choice
Hopefully you’re on the nice list
Or you won’t be getting your new dog

All your family comes to your home
To celebrate the good year
And maybe this year you will want a comb
And if you want to make your dad happy
you could buy him some… Dr. Pepper

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Gorzycki Middle School

7

Sometimes the sun
is too bright
And too far
To follow.

Sometimes a rose
Is too small
And too pitiful
To pick.

And sometimes I see better
By the light of the moon
And dance easier
On the green, green grass.

When I look up I’d like
To see stars and a sky
So dark it could
Swallow me whole.

And when I lay still
I hear crickets
Wondering aloud
If they’ll ever get home.

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Fulmore Middle School

8

Light fog above the dawning horizon
Like steam slowly rising from my coffee
Stationary on the table
As I look out at the slowly rising sun.

Later, I’ll wander small alleys and crowded markets
As the sun shines above me glistening
The streets and the water
Like a melting pot of old and new.

My eyes will light the scene
Of freshly baked pastry in windows,
Museum masterpieces right there
While people live their daily lives here.

It feels like home to sit and drink coffee
And imagine the place I’ve never lived
But have always loved.

With art, language, and nature
With beauty, strangers, and myself.

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Fulmore Middle School

8

3:49pm
Almost time
For me to meet
My parents.

The more I see
The signs the more
Nervous I get, butterflies
In my stomach
Like I really need a restroom.

A man introduces us
And I look around the house
So many beautiful colors
Blue, yellow, green
Everything was new
Everything I wanted.

The best part: windows
To see the bright blue sky
And the green lemon tree
Outside, the best view.

It smelled like paint,
But in a good way
All this time
They lived in Texas
And I lived in Mexico,
Separated for so long.

The next day
I tried pancakes
For the first time,
So weird and chewy,
But also soft and sticky
With syrup on top.

Everyone wanted to meet me
And my brother
And it was loud
But I knew it was
The right place for me.

---

Fulmore Middle School

8

I hear a “thump” as I bump
The ball beautifully over the net.
I hear “mine” as the other team
Runs for the ball. I watch, waiting.
I hear her foot kick the floor
Slow motion to the ground.
Loud “oohs” come from the crowd
And cheers when she gets up.
The ball rolls over “titter tatter”
And it’s my turn to serve,
Hands shaking I hear my heart
Beating as I bounce the ball
“Wham” as it nicks the net
But goes over.
Back and forth until I hear
A whistle blow and the slap
Of high-fives as the phrase
rings in my ear:
Good game
Good game
Good game.

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Fulmore Middle School

8

Change
Happens slowly
One drop, then two
Eventually hundreds, thousands
All coming down from the sky.

One hits a rock
Bounces off
Onto the ground
Wanders a little farther
And stops
Another follows
Then another
In a year, there will be
A small groove
Running through the ground
Filling with more water
When it rains.

A century passes
River taking shape
As every drop of water
Bends the land around it.

It takes time
For the river
To grow strong
Water rushes
Flows
Glides
Down the riverbend.

---

Fulmore Middle School

8

On the hot cement sidewalks
Where the pitter patter of their paws
And the clinking of their nails
Creates a constant rhythm
Announcing “wer’re coming!”

The sun follows us, beats down
Oppressive and still
As if it were watching us
High up from space
And as we walk, time feels
Stretched like a rubber band.

Until our house comes into view
In the distance
And so does the end of our walk.

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Fulmore

8

It’s something like being interested                                                                                      in dollhouse miniatures … Or, you know, putting a ship in a bottle.                            – Lucia Perillo, on modern poetry

 Dollhouses are gilded                                                                                             gingerbread with windows the size                                                                                   of fingernails and furnished                                                                                           with polished plastic picnic tables. They                                                                 canonize flawless families                                                                                                     in flimsy fabric ensembles, delicately                                                             assembling copies                                                                                                           without originals. The building will                                                                                 be abandoned in the bedroom corner.

 A boat in a bottle is a cloud                                                                                                       in an hourglass: water kept in                                                                                                a closed circle, tumbled into seaglass.                                                                                It was made in the century                                                                                                      of whale hunts, now clouded by dust and                                                                          tidal with condensation. My grandfather                                                                          kept it in his study the way a shark holds its egg purse or                                         how a sailor clutches a locket.

 There are so many lives                                                                                                             we are not living.                                                                                                                         There are so many lives                                                                                                              we are no longer living.                                                                                                      There are so many ways                                                                                                             to build with precision.

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James Bowie High School

12