Tag Archives: children’s poetry

Balance

“Girl Riding A Horse” by Aadya Agarwal, age 12, New Jersey.

As the wind weaved through my black hair,
Flying in the golden sunshine,
A sudden gush of independence rushed at me.

On top of my slender caramel horse,
I measured north to south, east to west,
All painted with a rural landscape.

I was on top, on top of my mighty world,
I could have done anything!
Yet, riding along with my jovial spirits, I felt something.
A ball of fear knotting up in my stomach.

Freedom and Independence were new, they were fresh.
Alas, they did not come free!
In front of me, loomed a bridge,
A bridge between Protection and Freedom

While protection offers security,
It’s also a locked cage.
While freedom demands responsibility,
You are the person you choose to be.

And then there is a balance between the two.
As on my slender caramel horse,
I ride free, the gentle strap safely protecting me.

—Aadya Agarwal, age 12, New Jersey. She writes: “The inspiration for my poem came from a horseback riding adventure I went on while vacationing in India this past summer. The entire experience filled me with a range of emotions of independence, confidence, fear and anxiety and my attempt to balance it all in that moment. It was truly an experience that I will never forget and something that unraveled an important question about freedom and responsibility for me.”

Betrayal

By Siah Giji, age 13, New York.

Betrayal, a word so bitter and cold
A stab in the back, a heart turned to stone
A trust once given, now broken and old
A bond once strong, now shattered and sold
The sting of betrayal, a wound so deep
A hurt so profound, it cannot sleep
The memories linger, the pain so real
A betrayal so cruel, it cannot heal
The world may move on, the pain may fade
But the memory of betrayal will never be made
A wound so deep, a scar so wide
A betrayal so profound, it cannot hide

By Siah Giji, high school freshman, New York, adds: “I am passionate about writing and determined to improve my skills. Despite English not being my first language, I’ve come a long way, and at just 13 years old, I’ve written a poem that reflects my growth. My first language that was taught to me by my parents is Malayalam and even though I do not know how to write in this language my family and I communicate using this language.

My South Indian cultural background has deeply influenced my perspective and creativity. What’s important to me is embracing diversity, preserving cultural richness, and promoting inclusivity.

In crafting this poem on betrayal, my aim was to capture the raw emotions associated with a broken trust, specifically in the context of a betrayal of my trust by so many of my closest people. The poem delves into the complex layers of emotions and reflections that arise when those you hold closest prove to be unreliable. It’s a personal exploration of the feelings one goes through when faced with the harsh reality of trust shattered by those who were supposed to be the closest.”

Mr. Liberation Theology

The house of sand you built at last.

Tell me, friend, do you think it will withstand a world so vast?

You wrecked sandcastles just to build signs seeking justice.

Children sleep out in the cold.

Oh heavens watching above, is this justice?

The blanket the child holds onto is an oasis.

Its warmth mimics that of a home so far away.

The desert was his home; a long-forgotten friend.

Every wind feeds him the false promise of freedom.

What do they know?

What do they know of the sun’s kiran* when mother would feed us šāy.*

USA!

Is that how they play?

The warplanes outnumber the birds.

Children close your eyes, they are fighting for pay.

You can not hide in this world.

You are solely bare, exposed, naked even!

What man was born with cloth? Point me to him and then I will abandon my home.

And though you can drink your coffee

So black, filling up the glass

That same coffee will stare you back.

Black is the oil you pull from a land so boundless.

Who is brave enough to claim the desert as his own?

You can not rule. You fool!

Many tried and failed to seize this land.

For centuries it stands, unbroken by your nuclear adornments.

For the Desert is a lion, no simple house cat.

He who dares to challenge shall be left broken in the end.

The pools of oil have all dried up;

Your thirst can never be quenched.

* Kiran: ray; šāy: thick creamy top layer on boiled milk

By Suprya Sarkar, age 16, originally from Bangladesh, now lives in Connecticut. She adds:

“What we call casual poetry—verses written on kitchen napkins, often forgotten—reminds us that poems are a natural part of human expression… or at least, they should be. My hope is to capture the antagonistic nature of humanity in the 21st century. How does one capture such corruption on paper? The ethics of industries and modern work culture are major topics of debate. What good is individualism if it leads to the downfall of one’s well-being? Each poem is a cry from humanity. The pieces explore the lives of various people and their environments. Both a billionaire oil company CEO and a burned-out office worker have a connection to their environments. My hope is to preserve the fleeting present. Each poem follows how industrial, political, and economic changes have influenced humanity as a whole. The poems are meant to bring attention to the peculiarities… or struggles of various people.”

Can You Live?

Can You Live?

The summers of New York
You feel the fresh tar
Boiling
Melting
Your feet are scorched

You lived, I lived
The harsh cold winter
What's red and white all over?
Your face stinging from the stabs of ice and snow
Slush at your feet
Cold and wet
The consequences of the cold

You lived, I lived
I survived a disease
Manifesting into our lives
Becoming the new normal
It starts to become hard to breath
Pieces of cloth cover our mouths
Painting over our personalities

I lived
Many didn’t
I lived through walks in Mexico
Walks at 2am in the Bronx
Track meets
“Extra time”
Slide tackles
Shots (soccer balls) to my stomach
Bloody noses
Broken arms

People have lived through war
Shots to the chest
Death
People can live with no eyesight,
no hearing, they love to live
They survive fights
They can move on
They can live
I can live
You can live too

By Emiliano Dietrich-Jimenez, age 13, New York. He writes: “I speak English and Spanish, and have lived here since I was a toddler. I play soccer and guitar. I found out in my English class last year that I really like poetry.”

The 2022 Young Poet Awards

The 2022 Young Poet Awards was organized by Camille S. Campbell in partnership with us. A teen author herself, Camille knows the importance of encouraging young writers through showcasing their work. The contest encouraged youth to write poems and empowered them to express themselves through the visual arts. After seeing the impact of her book, Her Poems: Women Poets Who Changed the World, Camille felt inspired to give back to her local community and throughout the country by hosting the Young Poet Awards contest.

We’re very grateful to all students (and also their teachers and parents) who entered their creative works. Our heartfelt congratulations to the winners of the contest this year: Carina Araujo (4th grade winner) and Nova Macknik-Conde (5th grade winner). The two Young Poets will receive a cash prize, Skipping Stones Magazine subscription and recent issues, signed copies of Camille’s book, and four books donated by Skipping Stones Magazine.

4th Grade Winner: Carina Araujo, Maryland.

My Love for my Mom

Art and poem by Carina Araujo, grade 4, Maryland.

My love for you is bigger than the sky

You and me in this beautiful warm night

Staring at the moonlight

Together, you and me

Looking at the big blue bright sky

There are infinite stars above us

Shining in the sky

Holding hands together we stand

Peace all around

In our land

Carina Araujo, grade 4, Maryland (above).

5th Grade Winner: Nova Macknik-Conde, New York.

Winter In My Bed

Glittering white powder covers my home like a frosted cake

The silent fall of snow lulls me to sleep

Icicles lining the roof

The chance of snowmen when I wake up

Cold harsh weather surrounds my home

But it cannot penetrate the warm soft blankets that cover me

Like a hatchling in her nest

Winter in my bed

A full moon glows lighting up my face

My family sleeping warm

Through the frosty night

Me, listening to the sounds of night and family

Slowly drifting to sleep

In my snuggly, lovely, cuddly bed

By Nova Macknik-Conde, grade 5, New York.

Writer’s Block

My pen lingers over the page,

Cobalt ink waiting in the depths,

I imagine, and I ponder, and I muse.

But still the thief steals my well of words,

Cheats me of my cascading thoughts,

And takes my waterfalls of compositions.

The vague scent of ink on a fresh sheet of paper,

The articulation of inspiration,

The quiet bliss of the flowing verse.

The thief deprives me of the joy of invention,

The dexterity of novels, poems, and short stories,

And the rushing streams of world building.

So idea-less

That the only method of elusion

Is to pen

The meaningless things that enter my mind,

Or write about my writer’s block alone.

By Nova Macknik-Conde, grade 5, New York.

Nature Is This and This Is I

I, I, I, I am nature.

Nature is this and this is I,

I, I, I, I am nature,

Nature needs love and care, so do I.

I am this and this is nature,

I need food and water.

Nature is this and this is I,

Nature grows over time, so do I.
I am this and this is nature.

I like to be in the sun.

Nature is this and this is I.

I, I, I, I am nature.

By Arya Khan, age 8, Asian American, Illinois. Arya adds: “…nature and we are alike. Living in the city, nature is hard to find. I wish I could find nature like in my backyard or in a fairy tale. So I hope this (my poem) will help people plant trees and help the Earth a little bit more. I am also doing a project called Save the planet…”

El Musico

EL MUSICO

By Denisse Gonzalez-Amador, age 14, Texas.

My fingers were tired from strumming the guitar

they rested on the small table I sat at

while I ate the freshly made quesadillas

the little money I owned was put into something I loved the most,

being a musician like the ones on billboards

but I was different

I performed at restaurants that gave me breakfast, lunch, and dinner

I cherished the small things

the flowers were thrown onto the small stage where I had poured my feelings into a loving song

the walls had my name painted, to come and watch me do the thing I love most

I have sung and played all the instruments to each song

As the customers eat their food while listening to the songs I handcraft

the luminosity in their eyes push me to continue my job

It doesn’t matter if my apartment is falling apart

whether my clothes have tears and stains in them

I will continue to showcase my one true talent

This is what I am, el músico.

By Denisse Gonzalez-Amador, Texas.
Denisse adds: “I am a 14-year-old student at Meyerland Performing and Visual Arts. I’m a part of the creative writing magnet program. My cultural background is Hispanic culture, where we celebrate Quincenera (a celebration associated with turning 15 year old), Dia de los Muertos (a festival that celebrates our ancestors and loved ones that we have lost), and the Three Kings Day (The three wise men who came to see baby Jesus). I speak English and a small portion of Spanish. What is important to me is my life and family. My dreams and visions for the future are: becoming a businesswoman, a popular artist, and a poet. What inspired me to create my submission is the thought of my work being read and being published. I want people to see the work I create.”

Balance

Betrayal

Mr. Liberation Theology

Consumption

Reflection