The Crayon Box

The sun shines bright
Like a red robin’s feathers.

The grass grows green
Like a wet emerald turtle.

The flowers dance up
Like a pink ballerina.

The bark swirls around
Like a dark silhouette.

The tree buds bloom
Like many speckled stars.

New smells waft
Like a bright paisley pattern.

The equinox arrives
Like a crayon box opening.

Spring.

 

Kayleigh Zubrod is 10 years old and in 4th grade in Kennett Square.  She loves singing, acting, and of course reading and writing.  Words are a favorite thing-like raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens to her.  When she grows up she would like to be a lawyer or a singer/songwriter.

A World Without Color

What would the world be like without the vivid colors of a summer sunset? What would the world be like without the lush green grass that brushes your ankles on a walk in the rolling meadow? What would the world be like without that big, blue blanket above our head full of puffy, white cotton balls dancing in the wind? What would the world be like?

What would the world be like if everyone was the same? If we could not see our golden blonde, brown or jet black hair? What would the world be like if we could not see our bright blue, green and brown eyes? What would the world be like if people weren’t black, brown, yellow or white skinned? What would the world be like?

What would the world be like without a plump red tomato that you sink your teeth into on a warm summer day? What would the world be like without shiny purple eggplants or bright red strawberries with their green stem and seeds? What would the world be like without the yellow, red, green and orange colors of crisp peppers?

What would the world be like?

 

 

Meredith Davies is in fourth grade and is the oldest of three girls. Writing and reading are two of her favorite subjects at school. She also participates in Girl Scouts and loves taking ballet, jazz and tap.

Ode to a Kiwi

Kiwi,
sour
but so
sweet.
Rough on
the outside,
smooth
on the
inside.
Up close
you
resemble
a sparkling
emerald.
Far away,
a
hard,
brown,
rock.

 

Genevieve Bevenour, age 10, is in 4th Grade at the Plymouth Meeting Friends School.

Ode to a Grape

You
smell of
sweet
dreams.
You taste
like
a soft, gentle song.
Up
close
you resemble
a soft
purple
ball.
You dream
of soft
squishy
pillows.
Your
friends call
you
the Purplestar.
You
are
the
grape.

 

 

Lily Aparin-Buck age 9, is in 4th Grade at the Plymouth Meeting Friends School.

My Tree

My tree, my tree, I love my tree.
It feels like it is a part of me.
I look at it when I wait for the bus, even if I’m in a rush.
I watched the leaves dive and fall, until there were no leaves at all
Then the branches, covered in snow.  Now, tiny leaf buds, all in row.
It tells me “I’m sprouting, I’m sprouting, Spring is near!  Soon you will see lots of leaves up here.”
My tree, my tree, I love my tree.
It’s like a friend, sharing all the seasons with me.

 

 

Connor, age 6, is a kindergartener at Overbrook Preschool and Kindergarten in Philadelphia, PA.   He enjoys being outside in nature, reading, rhyming words, and building Legos.

Colors of a Nation

Missing blue
Why blue
Color of the sky, color of defense

Parties
Different parties
Conflicting ideas, same freedoms, equal freedoms

Justice
Equal justice
Real people, understanding people

Blood shed
Red blood
Independence with acceptance

All religion
Free religion
Welcomed here to thrive here

Democracy
Powers splayed
A Nation’s positions on its conditions

When dreaming
Know why
Founded by curiosity and built on truth

 

 

Lark McAllister is in a creative writing class at Country Day of the Sacred Heart in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania. She loves to read books of all genres and also enjoys learning about history and politics.

Bridge

Two easels lay apart,
Abstracted of different mediums.
One from shimmering hope,
Other knowing only heavy demur.

In practice,
The two bonded over mixings
Of colorful palettes,
Revealing hopes and dreams,
Triumphs and downfalls,
Water both half-full and half-empty.

What former conceived,
Latter believed.
They became mural
In endless second,
And in next few decades.

 

 

Matthew is a tenth grader enrolled at Northeast High School. In addition to writing, he enjoys reading, distance running, and sleep in large doses.

The Shoes

The shoes – a light blue size too big,
untouched with paper filled belly.
The shoes sit tied by the bed.
Just in case
he needs to run away.
Because dragon’s fire does not
Burn hotter than
“No”

The knight will come,
but here in the night,
creatures crawl.
The giant,
who gave much more than
shoes,
looks with disapproval stretching
into eternity.
(One step.
Two step.
The dance begins every time
his shoes misstep.)

Mother is gone.
Father never was.
Just the giant waiting.
Just the tears shedding.

But years posses wings:
Feet grow.
Son trembling, father ignoring
and blue shoes protect
the soles.
Just in case
he needs to run away.

Now no fairytales;
just angry drunks
and forgotten words.
More candles on his cake
than fingers on his hand.
Empty pictures filled with
empty lies.
He sees the blackness swallowing.
And there is no light;
just an old dance.
(One step
Two step
Every time he missteps.)

The shoes have shrunk.
Shoved into bulging suitcases
full of the emptiest material
Don’t look back.
Don’t turn around.
He doesn’t notice the wet
streaming from his father’s eye.
His father, who refused
to say goodbye.
The world rearranging
and he is determined to see all
but
the Truth.

(One step,
Two step.
Farther from home.)

And now sneakers traded for loafers.
T-shirts for ties.
Jeans for slacks.
He cuts the bangs that covered his eyes
for too long.
Now he sees,
now he knows.
But he is too busy making a home.
He might call his father,
who is now normal size.
He has much to say
but distance is silencing
and being wrong never feels
right.

He gives the shoes to his boys
and reads them tales.
Shows them the plot twist-
an irony he is beginning to understand
through walls and vents,
Whispered curses of the giant.

He wishes to shrink to regular size.
but we do not grow down.
The blue shoes now spotted
Coated in memories and regrets.
No one fits them,
but he does not have the heart to throw them out;
His boys may need to run away.
They teach him a dance.
(One day.
two days.
Watching clocks fly)
But, he prays for a minute more.
A year.
A lifetime.

That lifetime comes
and goes

As he sits,
in slippers that have not seen outside
this linoleum container .
He is old enough to daydream again.
His white haired head puzzles
“How funny that he was wrong:
That giants can be knights.”
He remembers his father,
who never hit him,
never ignored him,
never left him.
Never did anything but
play the grown up.
He remembers hate overwhelming.
He hopes to be forgiven.

He hopes to run back.

Back to that house with the worn porch,
back to a room with
blue shoes too big
sitting by the bed,
just in case he decides to stay.

He breathes in air
that never tasted as sweet.
He thinks of his children.
Now, just to sleep.

 

 

Oonagh Kligman is a freshman at Jenkintown High School. She loves reading, but loves to write even more. When she is not locked away some place “bookish,” she is hanging out with her friends, playing tennis, or eating.

Dragon

They are afraid.

Afraid of my eyes,
afraid of my talons.

They think I snap,
I paralyze, I ravage.

They think I kill.

They are afraid.

Afraid of my invincibility,
afraid of my strength.

They think I am a villain.

They are afraid.

Afraid of my scales,
afraid of my fire.

They think I am vengeful,
And cruel,
And corrupt.

They think I am heartless.

But I do not kill.
I am not vengeful.
I am not cruel.
I am not corrupt.

I have a heart.

Inside my great armored chest
It beats.
Thundering loud and clear
It beats.

Inside of me,
Behind my fangs,
And my claws,
And beneath
The fire in my belly.

Behind this
Fearsome body.
Is somebody who
Just wants to love
Somebody
Who wants to be loved.

Don’t be afraid.

 

 

Maria Maisy Meyer is in 7th grade and is 13 years old.

The Right to Be Heard

Discrimination and prejudice are running wild,

as rampant and untamed as a little child

Like a ferocious beat it will not be stopped

unless a decision is made by someone on top

Top, top, top like the president–

to whom evil and bad should probably be evident

I hope that this is relevant:

Gay, straight, autistic, lesbian too,

all getting hurt till they’re black & blue.

Not just fists and punches, bullies stealing lunches.

Words.

Splendid characters that illuminate a page

are being used for hate, to take out rage.

It’s hard to believe–

no, even to conceive–

The things people say and do.

But let me tell you this from me to you:

That it’s real.

It’s there.

Oh yes and it’s true.

Something needs to be done.

This disease must be cured.

I’ll do this by speaking up.

I have a right to be heard.

 

 

Jared Taylor, 6th-grader at C. W. Henry School, great-nephew of prize-winning poet Dorothea Grossman and grandson of Pulitzer-prize winning poet Henry S. Taylor, has been writing poetry and songs for as long as he can remember. He is also an avid artist, guitar-player, and reader. He lives with his sister, parents, and two huge fluffy cats in East Mount Airy.