Category Archives: Poetry

One Wrong Thing

One Wrong Thing

By Alexa Dunsche, age 13, New York.

Don’t be quiet at school
otherwise people won’t like you;

be kind
but don’t be too kind otherwise it’ll come off as desperate;

you have to keep up with your work
but don’t go too far ahead otherwise you are a “goody two shoes”;

you have to be yourself
but you also have to be what other people want you to be in order to fit in;

“Aren’t you the quiet kid in school?”

you have to be nice to everyone 
even if they don’t treat you right;

“I have to be quiet because if I stand up for myself,
I will get shut down”;

you have to be loud and proud
otherwise no one will hear you;

“You are doing everything wrong!”

you have to smile for the picture
even if where you are smiling is purgatory;

you have to keep your cards close to your chest
but not too close otherwise people will think you are hiding something;

you can’t dress in black otherwise people will think you are emo
but you can’t dress too colorful either, otherwise people will look at you
like a little kid;

you have to follow the trends
but you can’t be too invested in them because it’s not cool the next day;

“I’m trying!”

you have to stay and not cry
because if you do, they will get pleasure;

you have to be perfect.
you just have to be.

if you make one little mistake,
you’re a failure;

one bad mark
can damage your grade forever;

one misstep
can send you to the hospital with a cast on your leg;

one wrong move
and you lose the game;

one new friend
and you lose the whole friend group;

one public embarrassment
and no one can be seen with you;

one wrong thing
not the whole story

By Alexa Dunsche, age 13, grade 7, New York. Alexa adds: “This poem came from the pressure I feel to be perfect, and how one wrong move can feel like it ruins everything. In the moment, I felt like each mistake I made erased everything else. Writing this poem helped me realize it doesn’t have to be that way. One wrong thing can feel huge, but it doesn’t define who you are.”

In A Winter Wonderland

In A Winter Wonderland

The winter is here, and there is snow.
I hope for a white Christmas this year.
It’s freezing; the temperature is low.
I want to go outside, but “No, no, no!”
I forgot my jacket, “Oh dear!”
The winter’s here, and there’s snow.
Through the windows I see Christmas trees that glow.
Now is the time of good wishes and cheer.
It’s freezing; the temperature is low.
The winter’s here, and there’s snow.
Sitting inside with hot chocolate, watching a holiday show.
For me, winter is nothing to fear.

By Neila Ebadian, age 11, Washington.

Four Poems by Mayank Yadav

Mother

Mother is the one who cares for me
She keeps me safe, like a big tree.
Her smile is soft, her heart is kind
She always has me on her mind.

SHE teaches me what is good and what’s bad
She is always with me when I’m sad.
God says he can’t be everywhere
So he gave me a mom who always cares and shares
Who helps me grow, layer by layer.

She is important because she loves me everyday
She teaches me what’s right in a simple way.
Sure, She scolds me a little
But she’s always with me when I’m ill.

You are useless if your mom becomes sad because of you
Mom is like a diamond, always cherish and know her value.

By Mayank Yadav, age 12, Jharkhand, India.

Student life

Student life is not easy at all,
Sometimes we rise, sometimes we fall.
We smile outside and try to be strong,
But inside we feel something is wrong.

We study hard day and night,
Still grades decide if we are “right.”
We get tired but don’t give up,
We keep trying and keep growing up.

Some days we feel happy and bright,
Some days we cry alone at night.
YET every day teaches us something new—
How to be brave, and how to push through.

Student life has pain and fear,
But also hope that keeps our heads above water.
One day all our hard work will matter,
And the world will see how far we can soar.

By Mayank Yadav, age 12, Jharkand, India.

A Middle-Class Family

We don’t have gold or cars so wide,
But we have love and joy inside.
Papa works hard from morning till night,
Mummy’s care makes everything right

School bag old, but dreams so high,
Wishing stars in a small sky.
We save, we share, we sometimes wait,
Still smile together, call it fate.

No big house or fancy ride,
But strong hearts walk side by side.
Festivals simple, but full of cheer,
Happiness grows when all are near.

We may not be rich in money or fame,
But middle-class love is never lame!

By Mayank Yadav, age 12, Jharkand, India.

Under the Water

Under the water, deep and wide,
Fish and turtles swim and glide.
Crabs walk slowly on the sand,
Jellyfish move like a magic band.
Octopus hides behind a rock,
Starfish sleeps near a sea-shell clock.
Dolphins jump and play all day,
In the ocean, far away.

Waves above and calm below,
Under the sea, the magic flows.
Seahorses float, so small and sweet,
Tiny shells lie near their feet.
Bright blue fish go zip and zoom,
Dancing gently in ocean’s room.
Come with me, let’s take a ride,
To the sea world, deep inside!

By Mayank Yadav, age 12, Jharkand, India. He lives in the Province of Jharkhand, in an extended family—with his father (Ranjan), mother (Kumari Sangita), older sister (Shreya Ranjan), grandfather (Kedarnath), and grandmother (Bina Devi).

One Earth

One Earth

We have a wonderful Earth
And we should try to preserve it
So more babies can be birthed
And introduced to our Earth
Our wonderful, wonderful, wonderful Earth
We have a beautiful Earth
With large, green grasslands and rainforests
And elegant blue oceans
With those always present sea-green waves
And filled with living beings to support
Our sweet, sweet Earth
There is much knowledge
Science, astronomy, mathematics
And they are just a small part of the knowledge
On our smart, smart Earth

Who knows what we can achieve?
All we know is we can go above and beyond
Who knows what more there is for us to discover?
Who knows how far we can go?
Let us keep on learning and understanding
And discovering new ways
To protect and preserve nature on
Our sweet, wonderful, beautiful Earth
Our dear, kind, gentle Earth
Our amazing, sustaining, ever-providing Earth
Our smart, dazzling, awesome Earth
Our Earth!

By Elodie K. Cotton, grade 7, Connecticut. Elodie is also our student intern.

Who Am I?

Who Am I?

I may not have eyes to hide
or hair to care
or ears to face my fears
or a nose to smell a rose
or a mouth to shout
or arms to work a farm
or legs to walk
or hands to till the land
or feet to make my shoes tweet

Who am I?

I am a personality!

—Tara Sadeghi, age 8, California.

Elegy for the Fragile Universe

Elegy for the Fragile Universe

By William Pan, grade 7, Washington.

How will the world end?
Will it end with alien settlers
from another galaxy?

Or will it be our own
war-torn fault, the world’s
sparkling Hawaiian sunsets

and buzzing Chinese streets
melting and emptying
any number of ways? Now

that Earth has warmed
like sand condensing
into a fragile universe

of glass, we are sturdy
yet fragile. We scowl before
we embrace. We pray

between arguments while saving
the world. Will we have to
flee this green haven? Will we

have to ribbon our faith
into the carbonated air? Or
shall we fit another

planet more to our liking?
Is any of this needed
to save us? Will this stop us

from existing, or can we stop
ourselves? Whether the world dies
or not, we must

cherish what we have—
whether the world succumbs
to bots or we continue

to laugh at movies
and jokes with each day

—William Pan, grade 7, Washington. He writes: “I wrote (this poem) because I realized that we need to unite to stop climate change from ruining our world… I have written many poems and short memoirs that explore culture and family. I am drawn to poetry because I can play with language and build imaginative worlds that enable me to explore things I can’t explore in the real world.” William has recently joined us as one of our student interns.”

Stuffed

Stuffed

By Claire Chen, age 11, New Jersey.

Stuffed, stuffed, the house is stuffed
With stuffed toys that need to be thrown out
A waste of space
I am told to get rid of them!

But when I look around
Memories abound
First, the dozens of stuffed Pokemon
Evoke memories of family trips to Japan
I cradle an Eevee, a treasured prize won
With bated breath at a claw machine in Tokyo
I squeeze Lapras, the comforting pillow I hugged
On the 18-hour flight to visit family
I can almost still hear my brother’s high-pitched shrieks
During our made-up game of Pokemon Dodgeball
Can I let them go?

Next, the stuffed shaved ice from Singapore
Its name—Ice Kachang* —reminds me
Of Singlish and its foreign yet endearing sounds
English, Mandarin, Hokkien**, and Malay smashed
Into one bizarre hodgepodge
Intelligible only to insiders
Like Singlish, I am a mash
Of American and Asian
Do others understand me?

Then, a stuffed chocolate bar
A souvenir from Hershey
During my grandmother’s first and last visit
Before the chemotherapy failed
The only stuffed toy she ever bought for me
Mum says Grandma never bought her stuffed toys
But that time, she got one for me
Isn’t it a souvenir of her?

Stuffed, stuffed, my mind is stuffed
Stuffed with memories I want to keep in
Precious treasures
That only I hold in my heart

Notes:
*Kachang is the Malay word for nuts
**Hokkien is a Southern Chinese dialect

By Claire Chen, age 11, New Jersey. She adds: “My parents were born in Singapore but I was born in America. My family visits Singapore or Japan nearly every year because we have family in those countries. I speak and write both English and Mandarin, but it takes a lot of time and effort to learn Mandarin in America and I find it very difficult. My mother wanted me to learn Mandarin so I could understand her culture better. However, when we visit Singapore, they do not often speak Mandarin. They speak a version of English that they call “Singlish.” It is a mixture of several local languages, mainly Mandarin, Hokkien (a Southern Chinese dialect), Malay, and English. Singlish can be quite confusing for me—something I mention in my poem.”
“I was inspired to write this poem, titled Stuffed, because I have a lot of stuffed toys and my mum often talks about getting rid of them to reduce clutter in the house. But these items all have histories and meaning to me.”

Boy in the Back

By Michael Steel, age 14, grade 9, B.C., Canada

I was always the boy in the back
Letting time slip through my fingers
Watching the cluster and the chatter
Watching and never doing

A silent ghost, never real and never seen
Floating in the cosmos behind my eyes
Breathing in the synthetic suns
And polyester skies
Starry moons of the finest gleaming plastic
Twenty years in the blink of an eye

I saw the other side of the world
From the back of our classroom
The clay people danced before my eyes
Only I could see them move

Watching the constellations of LEDs
Soar brightly over my head
The things I never saw,
But I always believed

I was the boy in the back
Living a thousand ceramic lives
In a thousand spun-glass galaxies
But I was never here at home

—Michael Steel, age 14, is a high school student and published author currently living in Vancouver, British Columbia. He lives with his parents, brothers and ridiculously fluffy cat, Taco. His hobbies include creating arts, reading, writing, and playing Block Blast.

Our Sun, a Gzahal Poem

Our Sun, A Ghazal Poem

By Samir Sogani, age 12, California.

Everyone bows before a supreme force, our Sun.
Everyone, to live, relies on our Sun.

A beacon of hope to travelers on Earth,
When the moon is cast aside by our Sun.

It gives energy for greens to grow and thrive,
No leaves, no air, without our Sun.

Some myths call it a god, burning bright;
Others say even gods serve our Sun.

We now know it’s not divine, just a flaming ball of gas.
However, many still believe the myths that a god is our Sun.

Compared to some stars, it’s barely a spark.
Compared to others, colossal is our Sun.

Children say, “My parents are like the Sun.”
But even parents owe their life to the Sun.

We take for granted air, fire and breath,
Each one a gift returned by our Sun.

Even scientists cannot grasp its full weight;
Thousands of Earths would fit in our Sun.

One day Samir, all will vanish into the emptiness of space.
But not today. We still burn with our Sun.

By Samir Sogani, age 12, California. Samir adds: “I am Indian American, I speak English and Spanish but I grew up listening to Hindi and Telugu at home. I have been very lucky to travel around the world with my family—from the ancient temples of Cambodia to the ruins of Machu Picchu. Everywhere I go, people are connected by the Sun, and I wrote this poem to reflect on the impact of humans on nature and how we take the Sun and Earth for granted. I am hoping the readers leave with wanting to take better care of our natural resources before it is too late.”

Who I/Am

Who I/Am

By Philip Shin, age 16, California.

(A poem expressing the duality of author’s heritage with authentic questions and observations.)

parts of a whole
parts with a hole
i am: of two places, of two minds, of two halves
of land and sea, of peninsula and coastline, of damp and dry, of lush greenery, trees stretching from moist soil, spindly limbs beckoning endless sky with verdant leafy hands

of bilingual pop, side dishes galore, vibrant colors and squishable characters with rosy cartoon cheeks, harmonic beauty of nature and man, of R. of Korea, and
of cold gray steel, cracked asphalt, emblazoned skyscrapers towering, challenging the heavens
of year-round sunshine, greasy hamburgers, of beaches and business,
of So and Cal

two puzzle pieces, together forever, one tarnished, decaying, colors fading, cobwebs staining, fabric fraying

is abstract art just as pretty, captivating, whole if half the canvas is burnt away?

i step onto the shores of my homeland and think to myself, i should recognize the corner stores, the animated billboards, the raindrops cascading down, the rhythmic syllables that dance smooth waltzes about my ears, my mother tongue of biology, not adoption

i recognize not; i recognize naught

i return to foreign lands, to scorched earth, to the misty supermarkets, the earthquake-proof apartments, the sunlight beaming down, the rapid syllables interspersed with boisterous laughter and fiery expletives
my mother tongue of adoption, not biology

and i think to myself, this is my homeland, but it is not my homeland, but it is my homeland

i have:
a tongue of one world, with sparse buds of another a culture of one world, with oft-forgotten elements of another

i am:
incomplete, part of a whole, part of a red, white, blue whole
part of a red, white, blue, black whole, half faded, melted, evaporated, into sands of time

who am i?

who i am.

By Philip Shin, age 16, Korean American, California. They write: “I have loved writing for my entire life. I write for fun, but also to better understand myself and my place in this vibrant, diverse, and multicultural world… I was spurred to write this poem after a trip to Korea.”