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Archimedes
Artwork by Majda Ftouh
Artwork by Riley Dinerman
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
Home is Me
Whether it’s the November chill clutching onto my cheeks, clawing its way down to my thighs as I hear the salty waves crash onto shore – or it’s the warmth of my bedroom, rain pattering on my windows, music transporting me to another world… Home is where I feel safe, where I can be who I am and not feel judged or afraid. Home is wherever I decide it to be, and that’s better than any house, any skeleton of a building that I merely occupy. Home is wherever I am, wherever I blossom, wherever I grow, wherever I learn.
Home is me. I am my home.
Maxwell is a 7th grader in West Philadelphia. In his spare time, he likes to write, make music, and draw. His biggest inspiration when making all kinds of art is what he sees around him and events going on in the world.
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.
The Place To Be
Home. The feeling of home, the smell of home is wonderful. You smell your mom making homemade food. You feel the soft blanket on you while watching a movie. You smell the fresh air through your window and feel the cold air on your face. It smells like the park you played in with your friend or the feeling of playing in the snow. But even though you have fun being outside, you still remember home.
There are a lot of different things that families do at home. Some like to spend time with each other while others go on their own paths. Some like to clean their home every day while some clean whenever people come over. Some decorate their home every holiday while others don’t. It doesn’t matter, it’s still home.
Many memories are made at home like welcoming home a new family member, having parties with friends and family and playing games and watching movies with your family and friends. No matter where you go you bring these memories with you. You may get homesick and when you do, you can go home.
Home. It’s a shelter. It’s family. It’s a memory. It’s love. It’s the place to be.
My name is Tobi Gonzalez. I’m 9 years old. I’m currently in 4th grade at George W. Nebinger Elementary School. I live with my dad, mom and toddler brother in South Philly. My favorite subject at school is math. I also love to do art and to write. I mostly make abstract drawings and paintings and write realistic fiction stories. I’m a person that likes to make others laugh and be happy. I draw pictures and text inspiring quotes to my friends and to my family to make them smile.
The Tale of the Two Lovers
She deserved the world. She deserved me, he told himself. His love for the girl was beyond the heavens and earth, the stars in the galaxy – infinite. He craved her, she was everything he wanted and more; her smile was soothing like the ripples of the ocean, and her eyes resembled sweet honey nectar. They lived In the woods, in peace, the voices of the birds heard as they soared through the sky.
They were alone, with not a single being to be witnessed. The naked trees that guarded the woods could be seen through the dark hole of the window as the gaps of moon light peered in. “I love her, she needs me, and what I did was good for her. She’s happy now, peaceful,¨ thought the boy. He knew that the girl lived an unfortunate life. Everyone would say how good she was, how beautiful she looked, how funny she could be, and yet they´d hurt her and led her astray. He wanted to be the one to love her and put her out of her misery.
He held her hand, his was endowed with warmth while hers was cold as ice, ¨I want to take you somewhere special,“ he whispered to the girl. She was silent and he took that as a yes. As he entered the woods, the night air carried something vile. He carried the silent being he loved most in the world as the cricket’s melody filled the air. Trees greeted them while the stars lit the two love birds through the darkened woods. The boy, madly in love, allowed his lungs to be filled with the moist, crisp air. He took the girl to the river near the stranded walnut wooden cabin. He always wanted to take her there. It was beautiful, bewitching,and angelic just like her. He viewed her striking features once again. He listened as the river crashed against the rocks.
He held the girl close to him and gave her a kiss on her cheek. The moon hovered over the two and watched above as they held hands once again, his were warm while hers was cold. He simply couldn’t let go yet he knew it was for the best, ¨At last you shall be free,¨ he said to the girl as her hushed rotten corpse sank along the river stream. She was truly free….
Nahla Colon is an inspiring writer and poet who wishes to grant her eternal passion of literature with others. She developed her love for writing from a young age by her fondness of reading and using her imagination to escape to a world of her own. She involves herself in hobbies such as traveling, writing, reading, and simply adores Mother Nature and all of her hidden beauty. Nahla, when she’s older, longs to live in a field of flowers with the one she loves most and write away her feelings as the sun kisses her skin and the earth neighbors her.
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.”