Flying Squirrels

by Jackson Tham

Third Place 

Waring School 

Grade 12

In the rattling, clattering darkness

of the concrete cellar,

the squirrels chase each other round and round.

They tumble in the basement beneath my feet.

Nails scratch and scrabble at the insides

of the beige walls.

My study vibrates, the desk lamp trembling

in the early hours when

the traffic light leaks through my window.

Once one appeared on my desk

twitching in the warm pool of light.

We stared at each other, eyes wide, waiting.

Q&A

by Julie Durning

Third Place

Waring School

Grade 8

Is this real?

The eyes stare at me through

The dark of the stark dorm room

Seeking the answer

My heart won't give.

Are you?

An unforgiving face

In a desk chair

Sees through my disguise.

I don't think I could do that, you know?

A door slams

And a friendship is forgotten.

Are you alright? Are you okay?

My sister holds a tattered paperback, her smile broken,

And the IV pulses in my left arm.

Can you hear me?

My grandfather laughs to break

The silence in his ears,

As a teenager pulls an old friend out of the road.

Why can't I answer?

I lay immobilized on the cool tile floor and

Keep my mouth shut. 

The tents (inspired by E.E. cummings)

by Ceci Herriman

Second Place

Shore Country Day School

Grade 8

the Tents                                           along the town

yellow, red, blue, green,

       craMmedwiThkidsOfallaGes

They     

       G    A

T                          H

      

       E     R

round the town when the music rings

       When the music rings

the music.

       When the music rings, the pennies cling

                             Happy

The child-named icecream man

                             Happy

he makes them

             

The world goes round when tents come to town

Six Word Memoir

by Abbie Jepson

Second Place
North Shore Recovery High School
Grade 12

Poem withheld upon request.

Being Muslim in America

by Zahraa Aljanabi

First Place

Briscoe Middle School

Grade 8

Being Muslim in America

is like being trapped in a world

where no one wants me

or understands me

None of my friends understand

that I can't ask my parents for everything I want freely

like having a sleepover

or going out at 6 pm

or just simply hanging out

because it's not like that back in Iraq.

Kids need to be home before dark.

They can't just go wherever they want without an adult

or just tag along

in case

we get kidnapped

or shot.

 Yes I'm in a safe country, Where kids just don't randomly go missing

No one here will call my parents and tell them unless

 They pay a HUGE amount of money

Their child is going to die, but My parents have been through so much

that they don't trust anyone.

Let’s talk about bullying.

My family and I get bullied

So much it’s sickening

Imagine visiting to New York.

You’re standing on the sidewalk, minding your business,

 and a random person pushes you

 and says, “Move, you Muslim.”

Imagine having to learn about Islam in school.

Classmates just give you dirty looks

 and make fun of your religion

They ask if schools in Iraq teach kids how to build bombs.

People ask

“Do you know anyone who’s involved in ISIS?”

Or “Do you have ISIS friends?”

Here’s my answer:

NO! I DON'T HAVE ISIS FRIENDS.

NO! SCHOOLS IN IRAQ

DID NOT TEACH ME

HOW TO BUILD BOMBS.

I just want them to know I’m a normal 15-year old.

I just have a different religion

Than they do.

And my parents have different rules.

I want to tell them that I’m not going

To bomb them if they upset me.

I just want to be treated like everyone else

And not get bullied for being me.

I just want to be me

Without feeling like I shouldn’t be.

A Poem Called "Poem"

by Sofia Bucco

First Place

Beverly High School
Grade 9

I was assigned to write a poem,

But I have no clue where to start.

Do I make it rhyme every other line,

Or maybe go free verse?

I could do a cool haiku,

Or a sonnet about bonnets,

No, that is too weird.

Maybe one of those picto-poems

OF

A BALL,

A PERFECT RED

BALL THAT IS CALLED

AN APPLE, BUT IS
THAT TOO
“ME”?

I could do one                                    OF

Those

                    SUPER

CONFUSING,                                                                            DIFFICULT TO READ,

WHY TORTURE US WITH THIS

Type       

                                 of       

  POEM

Or maybe for some reason type on the right side,

just because my poem is too unique,

too special,

too good to be typed on the left side, like it needs to make a statement.

There are just so many things to do, metaphors, personification, onomatopoeia (how did i spell that correctly?!), similes, true meanings that we need to figure out after a bunch of work and effort... only for our teacher to say we misinterpreted the poem incorrectly, and thinking maybe you did instead. But if I wrote that nonsensical type, everyone else would misinterpret the poem and end up confused.

I could try to write a story and say that it is a new type of poem,

Or go bake a pumpkin pie.