Elementary School
First Place:
5th Grade, Encinitas, CA
Time Trapped
A memory
Can be something you regret, Or something you never forget.
A memory Is a badger,
It can nag and pester.
A memory Is a tear,
Kindness or fear.
A memory Is a captor,
Locking in chapters.
A memory Is a beast,
Brutal or sweet.
But a memory Is time, trapped.
Neither wasted, nor forgotten.
Second Place:
4th Grade, Hendersonville, NC.
Memory of a Tree
A small tree sprout peeks from the soil looks down
and sees just
the deep brown soil that lies inches below
After many sunrises, many sunsets
the young tree
looks down once again and sees
it’s beautiful brown trunk going all the way down to the soil’s gentle touch
It sees every little crevice between each piece of bark,
all the time it has spent there
it feels all the tiny little indentions
from where birds feet gently lay
it smiles to itself
as a soft breeze blows by
Third Place:
5th Grade, Hendersonville, NC.
Memories
Memory is when you look back in time
Remember the past
Know that nothing will last
Memories are like fog
Hanging in the air
Waiting for someone to come and stare
Memories come and go
Some may last until the day
That you go away
Memories are precious
Like solid gold
Some memories are very old
Some are young
Like the ones from yesterday
Some can take you far away
Memories are filled with emotion
Sad, mad, happy, excited/and more
The more you do the more you store
No matter where you go
Memories will always follow
Like the ones filled with sorrow
Sometimes the ones you don't want stay
But the ones you like go away
And new ones come everyday
You can share them
With family and friends, and even with people you don't know
But oh, I do love them so
Honorable Mention
5th Grade, Bethesda, MD.
A Foggy Ride
My experience of the ride sometimes creeps in,
I will never forget the smell of fish and the breeze of the wind.
As we flew down the streets, we were embraced by the fog,
I also think I could hear the bark of a dog.
My mother behind me, steering the bike,
I stuck out my arms to see what fog felt like.
In my mind it appears purplish-green,
When we were done at the market, the fog could not be seen.
In a way, fog is like a memory,
It can creep in and out,
But one day, it might also fade away.
Middle School
First Place
7th Grade, Hendersonville, NC.
Remembering
I remember summers affectionately
I remember driving down
to a small town in the panhandle
Where my favorite person lived,
My Grandmother, My Gunga
I remember getting to her house,
excitement bubbling up like a soda can.
I remember her embracing me,
telling me how tall I’d gotten,
And how beautiful I am.
I remember sitting on a sandy towel
snuggled up by the sea
Watching the waves breathe
In And Out
Wrapped in a blanket of her rose lotion and
sunscreen scent.
I remember when it would storm
When the thunder and rain would engulf the sky
And when I was trying to sleep
I would hear the
Drip Drip Drip
coming down on my window
Ironic for a place called the Sunshine State. Ironic for a place that gave me time with her.
I also remember when we got the call.
When the doctor told us about
the disease that would eat at her mind. I remember being at the hospital
Trying to get her to remember those summers,
Trying so hard to get her
to remember how much fun they were. I remember when she forgot my name. Then who I was,
Then who she was. I remember praying,
begging for her to remember, To be healed.
But she never did, I'll
always remember.
Second Place:
8th Grade, Pittsburg, PA.
The Metro
On the day of a great adventure,
In the beautiful country of Singapore to capture.
Zoom! The Bullet Train soared gracefully,
While my relatives chatted cheerfully.
As we journeyed through the land, The city skyline came to stand,
Tall buildings made of steel and glass, Shimmered in the sun that shone like brass.
Within the huge rush,
Something terrible happened.
An unforgettable memory,
An unforgettable nightmare.
While relatives and parents hopped on,
9-year-old me was gone.
I wandered around seeking aid,
As everyone was afraid.
Suddenly, there was a chime,
“The doors are closing, step away.”
Slam! The metal doors crashed from both sides,
Causing me to stay outside.
Tears poured down from my eyes,
Relatives looked out with surprise.
Alone on the concrete platform, fear in my heart,
Stranded in a foreign land, a family apart.
No one around me knew I was there,
They all walked around without a care,
Until . . .
A kind woman approached me,
A kind woman helped me.
At that moment I realized something –
Life can be unfair, it’s true,
But a hero always comes through.
Third Place
6th Grade, Jacksonville, Fl.
Memoirs
What stories would a blade of grass tell
If it had a choice
To have a voice?
The dog running across the lawn,
The human mowing,
The caterpillar in search of food,
Does the blade of grass remember?
And how does grass remember?
Its trampled form,
Its missing point,
Its gnawed edge.
What stories would an eagle penny tell
If it had a choice
To have a voice?
The die stamping its form on the new coin,
The hundreds of hands handling it,
Dropping on the gravel path,
Does the Flying Eagle remember?
And how does a penny remember?
Its eagle soaring over the numbers 1857,
Its tarnished and worn appearance,
The scratches left by the small, loose stones.
What stories will I tell
Since I have a choice
To have a voice?
Riding my bike with training wheels,
Falling on Carl Sandburg’s favorite boulder,
My mother’s bedtime singing,
Do I remember?
And how do I remember?
An image of my hands on the handlebars,
The blue-gray bruise on my knee,
The sound of her lullaby.
Honorable Mention:
8th Grade, Warren NJ.
Skipping Stones
Dampness of rocky stones,
Friends close by, the sun hangs down and shines.
Painting a serene vision upon me,
Listening to the outside breeze and water rippling, falling at ease.
Tiny hands and soft smile.
A tranquil day, chasing dreams, imagining the world waiting to be seen.
A sense of luck, curiosity, and joy.
Smooth pebbles fall, each skip of the stones reminds me.
They remind me of the dreams I have yet to achieve,
Along with the hope, the power people bring me.
Sticking together, like how the pond freezes in the glimmer of winter ice.
I will always wonder what the future holds beyond my hands,
Like the stone being released into the unknown.
Sometimes, don’t you wish time could freeze,
So you could step back, and feel?
Feel the air around you in the summer breeze,
The excitement of childhood, memories captured and released.
One day that sight will fall into place.
Still, today, here I am, skipping stones in a quiet place.
Memories, a timeless grace.
High School
First Place:
11th Grade, Upper Tumon, Guam.
the gramaphone in the garden of eden
so what if i want to put the home back into the homage. scented smoke
twirls from the unforgiving mouth of a saxophone, as dark as the waters
on the lake polished by silver floodlights. the honks of geese drape
over my skin and i remember how we spread our hands against the ghosts in
concrete to give them the chance to evolve into angel wings: the opposite
of prayer, and yet the unrelenting forgiveness of the road forced our eyes
upward. thumb to thumb, pinky to pinky. and this must be what it is to be
human: opposables meeting each other on the skyline. in remembering, i bar
myself from comfort. bar: a segment of music bound by vertical lines. i watched
the notes drip from the bars onto the pavement, staining my shoes, my
hands,
my sky. i stole a peach from the womb of the bass clef and sank my teeth
in it to keep from writing myself into concrete. after, i unhinged my arms from
my shoulders and hung them up from golden lights just to see if i could become
a child again. childhood: when one can fold up the day and set it on fire and
walk through the ashes to the waiting carousel. when we peeked over the fence
at the geese in the lake and played geese noises on your iPhone at them, our running
footfalls the metronome to our lives. our giggles, 50 cent sprinkles. peach juice runs
from my chin and wrists and this is what it’s like to be manacled in your own body. to
replay in the brain’s VCR the geese flying overhead in a lake’s reflection, and
waiting for a feather to fall in the water’s hunger. around and around, we stagger: a chairoplane
made of stars’ exoskeletons and inked promises. the violet haze of jazz concert halls
runs through my veins to the pulse of an A flat chord, a breath slipping through
a saxophone’s throat. here, i see now that i thought i had remembered it as me, folding myself into the embrace of a closed parentheses but it was a comma,
our heads circling into the thumbprint curling towards its own heart.
i remember now.
Second Place:
10th Grade, Hendersonville, NC.
How's School Going?
I remember getting irritated when you asked,
“How is school going?”
The question you asked every time
And I would tell you again
The same thing I told before.
“It's going great.”
When I was young you’d tell me stories.
Now you smile at me
And don’t know my name
But it’s okay I’ll remember for you
I remember before your room
Became so sterile
And wisteria hues turned white
I remember your hands raked through my curls
When I couldn’t sleep at night
I remember you’d smile
at dolphins and sing to waves
And feel the sand through your toes
And sit on towels and sunbathe
I remember the way you
Used to laugh over a game
And how your brilliant mind
Found words among tiles
That beat whoever played
I remember it all for you.
My fifteen years went by so fast
But it is missing from your mind,
One that remembered every laugh
Now I long for our repetition
Instead of empty quiet sounds
It’s been years since
“How’s school going”
But I know that you’d be proud.
Third Place:
11th Grade, Washington, DC.
They Stood
There,
they stood, menacingly,
awaiting inevitable confrontation. Their demeanors, although tell a tale, seemingly resist the
outside noise.
Joint in hand,
they stood,
bolstered above the stoop. Their faces stern,
they stood, effortlessly,
self-fashioning,
projecting a provocative stance around the neighboring land.
However,
these are just kids,
sort of like me and you. Unlike me and you,
they didn’t play for pleasure, rather,
they stood,
like lifeless dolls,
deep down hoping for interference.
Underneath,
it appears there’s a new story to be told inside of their narrowing hearts.
One of tragedy and turmoil.
One that scrapes the soul, decays the mind.
Yes!
Like you and me!
always self-fashioning.
The powerful presentation takes on a new meaning! One of pure strength,
these boys wore a look of fatigue on their faces, however,
they didn’t back down, instead,
drowning out the inside,
they stood.
Seen as the nadir, they were shut out. Indeed,
different from you. Still,
they bear the weight of kings. Always distressed,
past decisions overbearing, they wrestle with despair.
Weights this heavy don’t fall on a commoner.
Nonetheless,
the young men portray themselves as knights,
hoisting their battle scars.
They defend themselves, against you,
against the system.
A new perspective arose! Rather than displaying a somber image,
they now expressed otherworldly resilience. Emerging from bloodshed,
at the zenith, they still stood.
No longer a photograph of the past, reality sneaks in,
the boys transcend time.
Their position hadn’t changed! Still wounded,
still stone-faced, they face us now,
They Stand.
Honorable Mention:
12th Grade, Paul Lawrence Dunbar High School, Lexington, KY
August
was feverish. Hazy,
I can’t quite remember
_________ But in the blur, I feel
yellow. Shades and blades looked crunchy
driving through _________
to Wailea. July drought
shriveled my tongue:
Jasmine Plumeria Protea
in hushed hymnal conversations,
worship the blue sky
and gentle sun. I spend
evenings eavesdropping
on __________ ‘s flora
as I watch summer
grow restless.
Hair in knots. Fingers through hair.
Wind in hair. 50 mph through hair.
Where are we again?
Jasmine ___________ Protea
The flowers no longer sing
or dance hula. Their muse, muted
and gray. I cannot recall
when we started to breathe anguish;
Maui stank of __________
As soot swallowed sea salt,
I hope that more than
phoenixes bloom from ash.
I ask La'a Maomao to remember
________ Plumeria _________
crouching among leaves. Soliloquy
spoken through sealed lips. Her petals
not fit for solos, she tells me
that she may never sing again.
Here, my memory smears —
patchy and inarticulate,
but somewhere in the muddled
hues of August, I remember
how the ash left stains.
