Creative People 

by Gail Balentine

Who is a creative person?   According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, creative means “marked by the ability or power to bring (something) into existence”. Other words for creative include: “gifted, clever, imaginative, innovative, inspired, or inventive.”

Over the years, I’ve come to realize that each of us is creative in our own way and often in more ways than one. However, many of us do not give ourselves credit for being creative - we think creative is a word only to describe artists. It isn’t.

Creative people:
… find innovative solutions for difficult problems.

… inspire people with poetry.

… provide a warm, welcoming atmosphere for their guests.

… write stories so entertaining you can get lost in them on a rainy afternoon.

… create new recipes by combining unusual ingredients.

… build practical pieces of furniture that are also lovely to look at.

… practice a swing over and over until the club behaves like an extension of the hand.

… raise children to be thoughtful, caring people in an ever-changing, challenging world.

Why are people creative?  People are creative to accomplish goals, to produce something aesthetically pleasing, to share their thoughts and feelings, to solve problems, to overcome physical limits, to use their intellect, to improve their lives, to invent something new, and more.

What stops us from creating? There are as many answers as there are people to that question but a frequent one seems to be that we stop ourselves.

The right side of our brain is the creative, emotional, intuitive side, while the left side is the logical, scientific, and often critical side. The left side should override the right when there is danger, when gathering knowledge, when a procedure must be followed; but, for creativity, it is best when they work in tandem. How?

You will develop your own method, but some of the steps to include may be:

… thinking about what you want to do and why it appeals to you (right brain);

… determining what information or materials you need (left brain);

… identifying the steps you need to take (left brain);

… giving whatever it is a try, taking it out of the “I’d love to …” phase and actually doing it (pure right brain). … then looking it over and tweaking it, if needed.

What if people don’t use their creativity? Well, then, the world loses some beauty, entertainment, unique expressions of thought, innovative solutions to problems, or positive inspiration. And what about us? When we are not letting our creativity free, we lose some of the joy with which life has gifted us, we lose that sense of something well-done, we don’t encourage others and we will not reach our full potential. Everybody loses.

So, why not do something fun/creative that you’ve been wanting to do but held back? As the saying goes, try it - you might like it. Take dancing lessons, learn to cook Hungarian Goulash, look at a problem as a challenge rather than an obstacle, write that book, map out that dream vacation, book a whole day at a spa with a friend, learn to play golf or take up chess. Enjoy, share, but most of all, be your creative self.

Beach Walk

by Lauraine Alberetti Lombara

Walking the beach very early on a summer morning, there is a solid, inky blue sky, slowly

creeping toward the coast and turning a paler blue. Not a cloud in view - an attic sky, an

unretrievable day, a consecrated day. The cool water is calm, gently lapping the shore and I 

am having a transcendent beginning as I make my way. I am the sole human; only the 

shore birds are sharing the open expanse of sand and sky.

The quiet is welcome...a time to think and enjoy nature - the sea, sky, birds, dunes and 

trees.  Far out on the water, there is one lobster boat gliding toward the pots and two 

sailboats trying to catch some wind.

In a few hours, the beach will be filled. Summer is short and winter is long.  The need for 

sun and sand is appealing and restorative for those of us living in the Northeast.  I find a 

few small stones, one tiny piece of the elusive blue beach glass and an interesting shard of 

pottery.  All enough to carry in my hands; treasures to add to my collections.

The Someday Rooms

by Beth Alexander Walsh

For several years they were a blank canvas. Two rooms of unpainted plaster walls and plywood flooring along with a small bath missing all its fixtures. These were the someday rooms. The rooms that would be finished as soon as the rest of the house was finished. No small task given that the job fell to my husband after work and on weekends.

When I got pregnant with our first child, our someday rooms were still on the back burner. Installing stair railings and a kitchen floor made much more sense and we already had a not-quite finished room close to our bedroom that was perfectly fine for our newborn. She was unaware of the lack of décor. When our daughter turned six months old, I found out I was expecting again. Our someday had a timetable; nine months.

The walls were painted and a bathtub installed to bathe small children. The carpet was laid a few weeks before my due date. My husband created built in desks and shelved alcoves in each room for books to be collected and homework to be done someday in the future. Before the cribs were moved into each room, I put giant Sesame Street stickers on my one-year old’s wall along with a giant border strip of the alphabet, while her newborn sister received Muppet Babies on her wall. The girls enjoyed their solitary space until baby brother was born. Bunk beds were set up for the girls and our son enjoyed his bedroom in which all things Toy Story ruled.

When the girls were preteen we became acutely aware that they would each need their own space if we were all to survive their teen years. Our basement, which was earmarked to someday become a recreation room with a bar and sauna, was framed for a bedroom and bath for our first born. She loved having her own floor away from siblings and annoying parents.  When the girls left for college, I would occasionally go and sit in their rooms; seemingly in suspended animation waiting for their occupant to return. When our oldest moved to China, our now teenage son wasted no time in moving his belongings to the basement, effectively putting two floors of distance between us and him.

For the first time in twenty-five years we had an empty room that would someday become a guest room, and I got to remake that room to suit me. The alcove became a walk-in closet and the wall color and bedding were of my choosing. A painting that I had purchased years ago came out of storage and a beautiful bureau built by my husband now had a home devoid of nail polish and the drinking glasses of the former residents. The room was immaculate and ready for guests.

Recently my oldest stayed with us for a few weeks while she was transitioning from the west coast to the east coast. In less than twenty-four hours there were clothes on the floor and a perpetually unmade bed reminiscent of the last time she stayed with us. The clutter finally left with her move to New York and the room restored to its pristine state but I hope that someday she will soon be back. I think I prefer that lived in look.

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.