Skipping Stones magazine

Vol. 15, No. 4

Next Page
Last Page
Articles


home
news
writings
partners
contact
awards
subscribe
Press Room

Poetry Pages

The Summer
Night is Long

Hot heat
in the air
Everything is still.
Still and quiet as a baby sleeping.
There is only one sound
"Humm Ha Huua."
Quiet.
You can't breathe,
It is hot. You could feel
the cover over you,
like the sun setting over a mountain.
You can't sleep,
you pull off the sun and
get a glass of summer rain
but the heat is still there,
Pushing around you
with all its might.
You lay back down this time
No cover,
think of a cool winter day
You're sound asleep.
Now all you can hear is
"doo da di!" the sleeping baby in the moon cradle says
"good night!"

-- Marbella Mendoza, 11, Latin American, Woodburn, Oregon.

Geode

The geode is gnarled and unleveled.
Rugged
Coarse.
Murky.
Sluggish.
It has a tedious overspread.
It is as dim as an eye, which cannot see.
Within the geode,
it suffers with emotional
pain.
Uneasy.
Self-absorbed.
The geode is a
rusted vocal cord.
Within the geode is an abundant secret.
It is a plate full of blithesome mixed with rejoice.
Amazes the eye inside,
for the outside is upset.
In the morning the geode is
a rough looking figure.
By night it is a dazzling,
remarkable
crystal.

-- Charles Markman, Mason, Michigan.

Poetry

I paint the words
The spider-webs of life
Glistening
Gorgeous
An inquisitive hand
Reaches out to
Grasp the beauty
And is caught
Ensnared
Upon its tangles.

-- Virginia Tice, 13, Oakland, California.

Art by Jon Bush, Belmont, MA.

Burning Sensation

Submerged in grease
It is lifted
Gliding across the air

Increasing
With a constant change
It reaches for me

Like the sting of a bee
I am bitten
By the criss-crosses

Ouch
I release
Rubbing the burn

Left on my arm
A scar
That burns ferociously

Something cold
I desire
Wishing it was here

For something hot
That I'm near
Makes it worse

Only because of one bite
The bit
Of the fry basket.

-- Jeremiah Lee, Poulsbo, WA, writes, "I'm a high school student who works in fast food, where nothing works, and it is a death trap with hundred-degree heat."

Satan's a Liar

She sung
and snippets of
her soul
attached themselves
to her words
like bare back
horse riders
galloping around
the room
roaming
people's heads
like rickety old
corrals.
The snippets
unmounted
and harnesses
the hearts
of those who
listened
redirecting blood
pulling the bits left
and right by
the reigns
slowly trotting
towards the
truth.

-- Caleb Bellany, 17, Salem, Oregon

 

 

Skipping Stones Magazine
Volume 15, No. 4, Page 28

homeArticlesLast PageNext Page