The Cross Section – ONLINE BONUS

my heart is an ever-expanding forest

singing songs of the wind

jumping like a deer

across cold water streams

at the first bloom of spring flowers 

 

still…my heart is full of concrete jungles 

city lights over the highway 

a sea of red

accompanied by a music fest 

of honks and screeching tires 

the city never sleeps

when iron giants look on

great and unblinking

 

my heart is a world

is a work in progress

but most importantly 

my heart is my home

my family’s garden

 

i am everything yet nothing 

at the same time

a poem written by ancestors before me 

i am history


Evan Wang is a freshman at  Upper Merion Area High School. After picking up the pen two years ago, he’s never let it down. He currently resides in King of Prussia, PA with his parents who support his poetry despite not understanding a single word. Evan loves reading, listening to music, journaling, and diving into some watercolor and colored pencils from time to time. His biggest inspirations are Amanda Gorman, Savannah Brown and his life.

Mannequin – ONLINE BONUS

Out of all the faces in the room

all the sparkling sets of eyes

one dull lifeless unblinking pair

stare internally into me.

 

I felt a chill up my spine 

as it stares

unmotivated to move.

 

It was as if I was Medusa 

Yet, somehow I was the victim.

The eyes judge me as if

They had witnessed every past mistake

In my life.

 

Confused, violated, agitated, I break into a cold sweat.

What once was a dream event for me

Had swiftly turned into a nightmare.

 

I head for the door and flee.


-LoRon Pearson, age 16

Blood in the Ink – ONLINE BONUS

from human suffering 

comes the greatest art

so maybe my heart beats 

with irregularity 

because i want it to

why else were timeless artists 

always under the blues

 

conducting an orchestra 

of broken bone symphony 

sounding harm’s melody

finding art/pleasure 

(I can’t tell the difference)

in the aftermaths 

of a chaotic rumbling loss

 

enough to be addicting

to become the focal point

in each and every hurdle

the silver lining 

of coffins 

 

until i jump just for the fall 

feel the wind slip through my fingers 

land in an unnatural way 

until i drive onto the highway 

with no destination in mind 

facing oncoming traffic with dead headlights 

until i set fire to everything

just for a poem to be born

like some glory Phoenix 

 

one day art will come back

and i will accompany it

lay ruin to everything 

while numb to my bruised heart 

only feeling its labored beats

after i wake

tarnished in a field 

falling ashes

 

my mouth screams plucked teeth

out into the world

a job of my own doing 

i broke every rule 

harmed every soul

so where is my art/relief 

(I can’t tell the difference)

now?


Evan Wang is a freshman at the Upper Merion Area High School. After picking up the pen two years ago, he’s never let it down. He currently resides in King of Prussia, PA with his parents who support his poetry despite not understanding a single word. Evan loves reading, listening to music, journaling, and diving into some watercolor and colored pencils from time to time. His biggest inspirations are Amanda Gorman, Savannah Brown, and his life. 

Down That River – ONLINE BONUS

I am Emmet Till. 

In the casket, my mother shows my face – swollen, deformed, beaten.

Under my suit, my skin is pierced by barbs of wire.
I still had a little life in me when they strapped me to that tire – hurled me into that river.

Only my hat survived – brim up.

 

I am Tamir Rice. I know better but today I play “gangster” with a toy gun.

It starts to snow. I watch crystals float down in the city.
A police car speeds, brakes screech, two shots fire.

I fall, fade, think how I never saw the sea …and that’s when Emmet comes to me.

 

Though we died decades apart, now we walk together.

We walk all the way down to Emmet’s Mississippi river

thick with the scent of summer honeysuckle.

He finds his hat, brushes off dirt, sets it on his head

just so.

 

We are drawn to the sound of trickling water and push our way through the reeds.

On the bank we kneel side by side.

In the water’s mirror, we see ourselves whole again

all stitched back together.

We splash the dried blood off and rest.

 

We awaken at night with the noise of owls hooting.

Like magic Harriet appears, as in those pictures with her old rowboat and a blue scarf on her head.

She reaches out, pulls us in, her boat sways with our weight.

 

Harriet rows fast, her oars splash in a beat.
She lets out an owl hoot every so often as if checking for some unseen force.

We dip our fingers in the water as we glide.
She tells us to keep hanging on but under the moonlight

our heads sag to our chins in uncontrollable sleep.

She’s got the strength to row this river all night.

She’s gonna get us ghosts down this river

till it carries us to sea.

 

“Gonna get you to the sea by dawn,” Harriet says. 

Cuz there ain’t nothing like dawn on the waves when you’re free.”


Heidi Jacobs is in sixth grade and her favorite subjects are math, space, and science. She is on the swim team year-round but also enjoys running and cycling. She rides horses and loves to curl up with a good book and write in journals. She lives at home with her parents and her lizard named Abraxas in Haddonfield, New Jersey. 

An Ode to My Journal

Characters turn into words,

Turn into lines, turn into stanzas.

Letters hum in a phenomenal symphony

Orchestrated by a composer of much experience.

The beauty of it cannot be described or obtained,

Only viewed.

 

Creativity flows through my veins

Like blood as I attract

Pen to paper, a relationship unmatched by others.

As i scribe your presence, you start to fade from my memories,

Now only commemorated on a thin, vulnerable sheet.

With your appeal, you draw me in

and allow me to express my perspective whether I choose to or not.

 

You’re the catalyst of my reflections,

The canvas for my masterpiece.

The home for my thoughts.

The mirror to my reality.

You highlight growth

That simply would’ve been overlooked

By my blind, ignorant, human eyes.

You never judge or criticize me and my abilities,

Only act as a support system.

 

You make me proud of my accomplishments.

You make me proud of my writing.

You make me proud of me.

You make me “Me”.

You are me.


LoRon Pearson, age 16

Three Stages of Lifetimes

The red brick row home 

Here the sun shines through the broken glass windows 

The silent cries of the rising yellow crescent sunsets 

The sounds still foreign to me 

Here is the row home 

Rebuilt 

Reborn

Three stages of lifetimes 

Three roads watching Dorthy walk by without her ruby slippers

Is there a place like home?

Blood of open wounds traveling down the wooden staircase

There’s no place like home 

Flying monkeys eating through the gas stove 

Gasoline smells throughout the house 

Bottles throughout the rooms 

The tinman may need a body 

Gasoline cans won’t hold him much longer 

Living room bare

The shine of the silver moon 

Brings spirits dancing around 

Like a ballroom 

The creaking of the floors has lost its fight 

This old row home won the game

The girl with the gapped tooth smiles 

Waiting on the porch clicking her ruby slippers 

Three times

Humming…

There’s no place like  Philly home

There’s no place like Philly home 

There’s no place like Philly home…


Laniyah Emile attends Franklin Learning Center High School in Philadelphia, PA. She started writing poetry during the pandemic while the world was silent. She wrote loud and passionate words in her notebook during her free time, and those lovely moments paid off.

Titleless Suspense

As I crept in the night,

I heard a creature tiptoeing up the steps.

I heard its heart beating, oblivious and unsuspecting.

Tha-Thump-Tha-Thump…

Ignorant to the dangers that lurk in the dark.

In particular,

ME.

 

Sixteen stairs for them to climb,

And one by one they go.

So amusingly incognizant.

Tha-Thump-Tha-Thump…

And as they get closer to the top,

They just don’t know

It’s About To Go Down…

 

BOO!!!!

 

Its heart races at the speed of light.

Terror engulfs its face.

It cries and screams in terror,

And then I turn on the lights…

 

“What’s up, sis?”


Anthony Wallace is 14 years old with a wide variety of interests. Along with writing, his interests include reading, aerospace engineering, playing basketball (and burying his opponents 100 feet under), cooking, and “being the best me that I can be.”

Home Is

Home is–a place

Behind the stained glass doors

The entranceway with stacks of shoes

The rug caked with the dogs’ DNA

The kitchen where food crackles and pops like laughs at the dinner table

Crash! Smash! Dad breaks another personal weightlifting record

Sitting together as the movie opens

Snuggled under blankets by the warmth of the fire

The ominous creak as you walk up the stairs

The scars on my bedroom door from dogs’ scratches 

The bedroom that has kept me safe and harbored me for so many years

 

Home is–community

The smell of taco steam wafting from the corner restaurant 

My school since kindergarten, just blocks away 

Pillow polo with the same gym teacher for the past nine years

The talent show, being a safety patrol

The park where countless pickup basketball games have been played 

My closest friends’ houses like my second and third homes  

The UPenn college campus where my dog and I roam

The water oasis only three blocks away–summer joy swimming with friends  

 

Home is–a feeling

Love, comfort, support, courage, resilience

The love of licks and cuddles that my dogs give unconditionally 

The comfort of laying on my sister’s cloud pillow

The support from my mother when a school assessment nears

The courage my 75-pound dog gives me when she goes outside at night

The resilience my dad inspires when I get injured playing sports

 

Home is–activities

When the ping pong ball drops after the sweep of my racket hits it over the net 

The bounce of the basketball against the cold stone patio, then the swish

The pitter-patter of my feet in the hall as I practice fencing advances and retreats

My fingers slamming against the keyboard – I am alive, I am dead, I am respawned 

The beep of the oven, the cinnamon sugar aroma, snickerdoodles ready to devour


Drew Feldman is an 8th grader at Penn Alexander School. He lives in West Philadelphia with his sister, parents, and two dogs. Drew is a competitive fencer. In addition to writing poetry, he also enjoys filmmaking and editing, as well as coding. In the future, he hopes to become a software engineer or a lawyer. Next year Drew will be attending Friends Central School.

Older and Older

Right when I turned one 

My life had just begun 

Started doing things I had never before done 

 

Started getting older and older 

As my birthdays became colder 

So much has happened, I can’t even lie 

But my heart gets stronger each day that goes by 

 

I’m getting older and older 

And everyday bolder 

I know I can handle 

Everything this world has put on my shoulders


Kayla Oliva is 12 years old. She enjoys softball, taking dance classes, hanging out with family and friends, and putting her thoughts to paper. She won the Young Authors Award and was published multiple times. Her motto is “always be the reason someone smiles today.”

Ceramic Body

now and then

i still find it hard to love 

the mess i was born as

and have become 

there i go again

 

but this clay figure has already been molded

went through the roaring fire of a kiln

my body is made, can’t be changed 

wish i could break it, then replace it 

 

fragile beauty crumbles to the touch

waiting for the set of hands 

that would keep me tough

my ceramic skin is no less than a bluff

call it an exhibition for the hollow one 

 

there’s glaze for the cracks 

gained not from old age 

below my eyes, in the bags 

i keep my sculptor heart there

pressed to change 

any flaw is fatal

the louvre (cap L?)will be my final home

or else i’ll tip myself over the shelf

 

and when i shatter

my skin would flake off

break off like puzzle pieces 

then i start scrambling 

to reach for the paint

reach for the clay

reach for the white cloth that hides the day

 

natural beauty, still a conduit of insecurity

no more tour, exhibition, gallery 

hide me away

till i stop scratching at my new skin

because it pains the artist to see

pieces of me lying on the floor

when i’ve spent so long

piecing me together


Evan Wang is a freshman at the Upper Merion Area High School. After picking up the pen two years ago, he’s never let it down. He currently resides in King of Prussia, PA with his parents who support his poetry despite not understanding a single word. Evan loves reading, listening to music, journaling, and diving into some watercolor and colored pencils from time to time. His biggest inspirations are Amanda Gorman, Savannah Brown, and his life.