3rd to 5th Grade PoemsFirst Place The Voice by Julia Bledsoe The Voice
Second Place Little Bird by Edward Peyroux LITTLE BIRD
Sitting in its mother’s nest It flaps its wings Hoping to pass the test Just trying to hover a little The little bird tries ond tries But does not succeed Its dream is to fly, fly owoy And start its new life. The little bird is starting to waver A drain sucking its courage It sees its brothers and sisters It sees itself, a coward As I sit there I see It sitting there With no glee As sad as a kid who just Got denied ice cream. But then I see A glint in its eyes I see it just like me It spreads its wings and starts to soar And I like to think That That was my sign To start being strong Third Place The Power of Your Mind by Bhushan Mohanraj The Power of Your Mind Little Johnny, listen here, The world unfolds around you. The flutter of a bird, The croak of a frog, The sunset, the sunrise, A never-ending cycle. You shake the world, In your own little way. The power of your legs, The strength of your arms, The wealth you attain, And the way in which you prosper, Nothing matters, nothing matters. Listen to the gentle wind, The roar of the mighty lion, The ripple of the falling rain, The crunch of the fallen leaves, Under your bare feet. Listen to the roar of the water fall, The chirp of the smallest cricket, The howl of the mightiest wolves, The scutter of a mouse, Across the forest floor. The power of your legs, The strength of your arms, The wealth you attain, And the way in which you prosper, Nothing matters, nothing matters. What matters most, the power of your mind The way you observe the world, And the way you hear the River of Life. If you fight to go upstream, Or flow with the current. The power of the mind. Little Johnny, listen here, The world unfolds around you. Honorable Mention Dads by Davis Harvey Dads
Dads are strong like lions Dads protect you when you’re hurt Dads are smart like Einstein Dads are heroes! Dads are wise like some kings Dads help you like a friend Dads are brave like Superman Dads, love you! People's Choice A War to Win by Dathan Allison A WAR TO WIN
A war to win, A war to die. A war to prosper, A war to survive. Through the rain, Through the snow. Through the wind, Through the pain. A shot was heard over the crowd, Before they knew it, one was down. Through the screen of smoke he lay, Another shot heard, but it was too late. Through the smoke, on the mountain, A man approached, a man appeared. The men charged over the peak. Try as they may, no one reappeared. At Bloody Ridge the men lay. Strength to fight, Courage to try. One will live, One will die. A war to win, A war to die. A war to prosper, A war to survive. 6th to 8th Grade PoemsFirst Place by Clara Hockenberry The Soul's Vibrato
Second Place by Azra Erbatu The Power of the Wolf
The strength waits in your heart. It is an animal. A bird. A fox. A bear. Endless. I am a wolf. Fly to the edge of the world. Fly past the last tip of existence. Let it out. Slowly. lf you try to keep it in, it will fight its way out. ln the end. Your amimal can never change. Even if you do. It cannot change, but it can die. Strength is the storm in your soul. Only your animal can bring it out. Using your strength against you. ln its own time. The wolf is released. It runs. Its paws pound the forest floor. I watch the wolf from a tree. The power glimmers in its eyes. Its blue eyes. Faster and faster she flies. I watch, once more, from a tree. The wolf inspires me. The twig under me quivers. As I leap. For I am a sparrow. lnspired by a wolf. The power. The glimmer. The determination. It starts to rain. Her fur is weighted by water. And tears. Her snow white fur is now a muddy brown. She lays her great head on a rock. To peer at the stars. My tiny wings flap harder than before. I fly to a blinding white star. Two specks of the glowing diamond are in my clicking little beak. My wings slap to my sides. l plummet. I float to the ground. To place the glimmering star in the wolf’s eyes For she has lost her own glimmer. My friend. The strong wolf. Her eyes as bright as starlight. Once more. Third Place by Charlie Hastings Self- Portrait as Luke Skywalker’s Severed Hand Dark Lord how I wish That I could take my searing grip Off the blade of hazy blue light And lay my shaking fingers On your black coated shoulder That shone a fiery red glow From the kindling blade that burned The gap that separated father and son. Falling, farther Away from our destiny. Out of stubbornness I refused to Leave the ones that showed me the light, To join you and what You stood for. Dark Lord of the Sith, Because you were not the father We knew in our dreams You were swallowed by the darkness By a churning hate that pumped through Your mechanical heart And ran through your plated vessels To every cell in your half-organic body. As I was beside your son, I saw what you did And I turned to face The open chasm Away from you Because the gap was your doing And it grew between Father and son. You stayed steadfast And watched me fall With those cold empty eyes That refused to let themselves see. As I lay at the end of the great pit, I clutched that lightsaber - The light at the end of the dark tunnel. Honorable Mention by Olivia Sisson A Man Pushes a Wheelbarrow He holds onto the handles and pushes. Hard. The wheels turn and for a second The man can’t feel his aching muscles Or his calves which burn. He does this every Day, the morning light still on the horizon, Reflecting off the windows of his house Which stands as a silent wall, blocking the noise And motion of the city. Now, all the man can see Is the garden that he grew years ago and the fence Which he had built. All of it was his. This thought forces The man to the ground, making his jeans dusty with dirt. He watches it stand in front of him. Then with the strength He uses every time he picks up the handles, The man pushes once more. People's Choice by Ian Wright Hope
Hope is a long strong rope that binds you together in your dismay, It will hold, it will never fray. Hope is the branches of a sturdy tree. Holding tightly to leaves pulled by a mighty breeze. Hope is not just Seeing or hearing but believing in the Almighty One who provides strength night and day. 9th to 12th Grade PoemsFirst Place by Dillon Reese Fischer Wanting to Die in homage to Anne Sexton, who has ironically reminded me to live. It’s always been there, even as a child. Eight years old, thinking of myself as a penny swept under the rug, value in theory, not in practice. A girl on my bus told me my thighs were ugly when loose, when I let them breathe. So I shut their mouths in denim and never wore shorts to school. I thought I could sew myself together, tight seams, pretty stitching. But blisters grew like weeds in the gardens of my inner thighs, painful, invasive, my doctor had me bathe in a bath of hot water and bleach. Now only small tombstone scars are left where they festered, where they died, small inscription in memoriam of the first time I truly hated myself. I was ten. I was thirteen, standing in the kitchen, doing dishes, wanting to die. I picked up my mother’s chef knife from the sink and turned it to accuse my gut. I took short and deep breaths, each rough exhale gently forcing my stomach into the tip of the blade. I knew I wasn’t going to kill myself then. I just wanted to feel the power of it, the control, the handle of the knife making love to my palm, I could die at my own hands. Ancient Grecians believed stars were holes torn in the sky where you could see straight to heaven. I have decided that is what it’s like to want to die. Suffocating under the ink of the night and learning to bear wounds of light. Second Place by Maya Green Before the Middle, We Were Slaves ln the middle of my family tree three sisters married three brothers. I don’t know the very beginning: once I asked my grandma where we were from. Somewhere in West Africa, most likely. We only know rusted chains on wooden boats. Brown bodies pressed against one another and tossed into gray, frothing oceans. Years and years of swollen fingers, bloody backs, a hollowed out cavern in the very middle of a person where something unnamed and very essential is supposed to be, but isn’t. Fields of rice, then cotton. These came from the ground. It’s easier to start in the middle. I like to imagine my ancestor sitting outside looking at the dirt beneath her toes, feeling nothing but full in the middle. How does a woman live
resenting the very thing holding her up?
The earth demands no understanding, but there is a reckoning that must happen. I don’t know how she got there. Maybe she saw rows of dried dirt and was reminded of white scars on brown backs. Maybe she realized they had a lot in common. She wants to know each shade of earth. Its color on days that smell like sun, days where the horizon melts into the sea, when she knows the world is round because she can see it. And the heavy-looking black after rain, buds green and unfurling roots beneath the surface. Days when the worms are too brave. How do I live
never knowing when we’ll reach the end? I try to do what she did;
I want to know the brown, cracked like skin on the days when the sky is white with heat and fragile like glass. Third Place
by Maclean Hueske Our Daughters (A Slam Poem) We raise our daughters until a certain age to think their mouths are cathedrals, that their tongues worship the words they spit, that their lungs are the catacombs, crushing themselves with the weight of breathing. We raise our daughters to think that blood tastes like copper because hearts are made of gold. We teach our daughters that crying is prohibited unless it’s because a boy has turned her heart to porcelain and let it drop. We teach our daughters that they should believe in the benevolence of people for the first time in their small lives, the first time, every time a boy tells them they would be their first time, first “I love you,” first “I’m sorry baby,” first “I can’t live without you.” But pinprick our daughter’s shallow surfaces like you are testing for diabetes, draw blood from their frivolous bodies, can you see that they are burning their cathedrals, crushing their catacombs, that our daughters know that hearts aren’t anything more than blood and muscle because you can try to teach them to think with their hearts not their heads, but their heads are filled with brains, beautiful brains beautiful, beautiful, Beautiful. Something about the way we have branded that word onto the chest of our daughters so it has to rise to their eyes every time they take a breath. Something about the way we have promised them that honesty is unfailingly baptized in the holy light of positivity. And we’ve taught our daughters so that these days, it’s hard to meet a girl who holds redemption in the locks of her own beating heart. These days, it’s hard to find a girl who knows that you can’t put foundation on your morality to hide the blemishes. These days it’s hard to meet a girl who holds her own self value closer than she holds someone else’s hands. Honorable Mention by Caroline Macurda "Listen to Me"
People's Choice by Joanna English Treatment
Just a doctor’s visit- she drove. Just a normal day- she thought. I’m healthy, I’m fine, just tired, that’s all. The doctor walked in thinking she already knew, He talked about treatment and tumors and time. At that moment she realized- I’m not healthy, not fine, more than just tired. I’m... Small. It’s not just a normal day, she thought. It wasn’t just a doctor’s visit- she drove. She planned to fight with everything she had. She had 3 kids who needed her there Her husband, her family all made her care. I will be healthy, I will be fine, I refuse to be tired- There’s more I need to do! It cannot be over! She planned to fight with everything she had. She planned to fight with everything she was. First treatment. She walked in, hands trembling, but Psalm 63 kept her head high. Toughness and tenacity filled her that day- One down, I will be healthy, I will be fine. Her oldest was concerned, her middle wondered why, her youngest felt afraid. Her husband prayed for healing. Her family trusted in His plan. For His strength is what would carry her through. Eighteen weeks later she went into surgery. No hair, little weight, but filled with Psalm 63. Toughness and tenacity filled her that day. She realized soon it would be over- I will be healthy! I will be fine! Eight years later she still stands with strength and radiance. Her trust stayed strong throughout the pain. It wasn’t just her 3 kids that needed her thereit wasn’t just her husband or her family that caused her to care. It was her undeniable strength that no one else had. I will be healthy, I will be fine, I will be tired- for I have kids but I don’t mind. I saw my son graduate and I continue to watch my children grow. I will never forget that not normal day, I drove. I will live, she still says; With everything she now has. |
Last updated: April 25, 2017