Tag Archives: poem

The Irreversible Apocalypse

By Fathima Nazer Karakkadan, h.s. sophomore from India, living in Kingdom of Saudi Arabia

There’s a certain tragic enchantment in crumbling bridges

A prominent result of our actions.

A beauty in empty swings and abandoned parks,

Of unattended grass and dusty books.

The world listens to no one,

Each day is a reminder of how mortal we are,

Truly insignificant in the course of happenings

The sun combusts red now,

A revengeful fire,

Calling the attention of the ignorant beings of then,

Who did not care.

Taps don’t drip water anymore, there are no tides,

But constant sobbing of the hopeless

And the sons who used to drink to their sins.

Writings of good and evil

On morality and wicked

Have all been torn away

By vicious forces at hand.

Desperate prayers are not a remedy

For the annihilating moon

And the constant danger

Of our benighted neglect.

By Fathima Nazer Karakkadan, a high school sophomore student from India, living in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

Postscript: Fathima adds:

“To me, the biggest mystery in this world is its end. This is in no way a light topic, but everything must come to an end, and that includes our universe. And what better way to analyze it than to imagine it? ‘The Irreversible Apocalypse’ are my predictions on the course of events when the sun will combust, the sky will split and the world ceases to be. Those days are most probably filled with regret and remorse and indignant human beings who have no choice. When the world retaliates for what we’ve done to it, how could we ever stand a chance?”

Longing to Leave

By maggie d. , African American poet, Washington.

Frost and snow puzzles me

Hailing from Sudan

Icicles and sleet

Billowing clouds holding no

Heat

Makes me weep

For sandy dust sweeping

Across tan dunes 

Never ruining my shoes

With muddy slush of melted snow

Oh

Without constant sun

Running for fun

Getting drenched by rain

Has made me aim

For returning to Wad Madani

Leaving behind winter

Without a whimper

I will laugh again with 

Sunglasses on to watch

Camels parade upon dirt roads

But I suppose it will take awhile

For Alab to say

“Goodbye Sigh-beria!”

By Maggie d., Washington.

Life Is Never Fair

By Jacob Henderson, 18, Illinois.

People have always said life is unfair
But I don’t see it that way.
I think, “Where did I go wrong?”
But others say, “Don’t blame yourself.”

Who else can I say did it then?
Life isn’t a person nor is it a thing.
More of a saying, is it not?

Now others say life is perfect.
That’s because they have everything they could ever want—
A two-story house, a never-fighting family,
And so much more.

Now, I don’t have that luxury
I have to keep on pushing,
no matter what happens.

“Life” keeps pushing me down.
No, don’t say that.
Where did you go wrong?
Find it, then fix it or do it better.
Never blame others for your faults.
But once again I am told this is wrong.
And when I ask, “Why?”
They respond with:
“It just is.”

Fly

By Ritika Rawat, age 9, New Jersey

I wish I could fly away,

And the universe will lead me to the way.

I wish I could soar up in the sky and fly,

oh so very high.

I want to flap my wings up to the sky,

but when I’m down my heart stings.

Up, and up I go, and my journey begins,

Everything is great and we all win.

I come down from my dreams

because not everything is what it seems.

By Ritika Rawat, will enter grade 5 this fall, Indian American, New Jersey.

The Perfect Family

The Perfect Family

By Zsuzsanna Juhasz, age 15, Maryland.

The father figure stands above,

No one can compare, just because.

Goes to work, and brings home the money,

While the rest stay at home, and wait for daddy.

We eat when he does, we smile when he looks,

We do what he says, or we get into trouble.

His word above ours. That’s how it has always been,

Because a change in tradition goes against everything he says.

The mother of the house doesn’t leave,

She’s not a human, she’s property.

When they wed, the maiden names goes too,

That’s the way it’s been, what should we do?

She cooks, she cleans, she obeys every word,

No speaking out, or she gets hurt.

She’s the uplifting spirit that we all need,

Unless she’s hushed, she just washes and feeds.

The eldest daughter, the pride and joy,

The one to go on and have kids of her own.

She must leave college, to marry a man,

She must do what she’s told, because she’s a woman.

Soon she will learn, what she must do,

It’s her “honor,” it’s her “duty” to be told what to do.

She takes the abuse, she holds it all in,

A sound out of her, would ruin the perfect image.

The youngest son, who learns from the father,

Does anything he says, and learns from his lectures.

He takes careful notes, so he knows what to do,

Like how to sit on the couch and work a grill too.

Looking at girls, poking at skirts,

Blaming their impulses on simply being a flirt.

Growing older, carrying his father’s beliefs,

One day he’ll become who his father turned out to be.

Men go to work, and women just stay at home,

Why change now? That’s the way it’s always been!

“Stop nagging and speaking, and clean the house!”

It’s written in cold blood to be as quiet as a mouse.

Nothing will really change, it’s all an illusion,

To make you grow up to be just like your father.

“What do you mean you don’t like it? That’s how it’s always been!

One day you’ll know when you’re married and have three kids.”

By Zsuzsanna Juhasz, age 15, Maryland. She adds: “My inspiration for this poem was the study of family norms in history, during the 50s and 60s. I’m currently enrolled in AP United States History, and when I wrote the poem, we were learning about how the average middle class family lived, and what life was like for the typical family. I thought it was incredibly interesting topic, especially when learning about Betty Friedan and how she challenged this observation, eventually publishing her own novel, The Feminie Mystique.

“I am Hungarian; I was born in the capitol, Budapest. My parents are from there, and my family and I moved here when I was just one year old.”

Advice to My Younger Self

 Advice to My Younger Self
 A poem by Michael Sitarski, 17, Italian American, Missouri.
 
 There’s no way of predicting the future
 You’ll just have to go with the flow
 So don’t worry
 Do your best
 Do what you believe in
 Do what you think is right
 But if there was one piece of advice
 I had to give you
 It would simply be
 Moderation