Category	Place	Student Name	Poem Title
1	First	Kennedy Delp	Yellow
1	Second	Bennett Thiskstun	I am From (Books)
1	Third	Sasha Amerman	Tomatoes
2	First	Amanda Bastidas Diaz	My Reflection
2	Second	Jenny Young Lee	How Do I Love Myself
2	Tied for Third	Neveah Rowley	Family
2	Tied for Third	Maya Carbone	Melancholy Shower
3	First	Sabir Stephens	Ancestry
3	Second	Madison Montgomery	Dear 2035
3	Third	Gabriel Doantelli	Like Nothing Happened
4	First	Nina Tay	a few (of the many) reasons why i cannot write about love
4	Second	Adyson Reisz	Girl
4	Third	Ryan Eby	Temple
5	First	River Alsalihi	eye contact
5	Second	Evelyn Weaver	Between
5	Third	Lila Coburn	Disabled, Defiant, Autistic, Human

Kennedy Delp

4^th grade, 11

CCCS- Mrs. Kelley

Bloomington, IN

Yellow

Yellow is the color of the sun.

Yellow is the reflection off of the water.

Yellow is the feeling of happiness.

Yellow smells like pollen in the flowers.

Yellow tastes like bananas.

Yellow sounds like laughing with a joke.

Yellow looks like a pencil.

Yellow feels like a highlighter on my face.

Yellow makes me want to drink lemonade.

---

Bennett Thickstun

4^th grade Cccs

Mrs. Kelley

Bloomington, IN 47403

I am From (Books)

I am from books.

From dawn dish soap and baby wipes.

I am from the dog hair all over my house

Dark and fluffy, it’s almost the size of my cat.

I am from zinnias, beautiful flowers.

I’m from playing Uno at dinner and blue eyes.

From Betsie and Charlie.

I’m from readers and coffee drinkers.

From “Do your homework!” and “Watch your brother!”

I’m from Christians, Bible stories and snack.

I’m from Bloomington, and the Thickstun Branch

My mom’s brownies, and chicken chili.

From my great grandfather being shot in the war, but was up shaving the next day.

From my dad’s tiny room growing up and my great grandmother’s green thumb.

The box that holds our family

pictures in the garage

It is our legacy.

---

Sasha Amerman

10 years old, Grade 4

Maricopa Christian Academy

Mr. Tim Ihms

Tomatoes

I really really extremely hate tomatoes

I think they are worse than potatoes.

I don’t like the juice that splatters out.

The taste soaks into my mouth.

I sometimes hide it under my napkin

I really really want them hidden.

I don’t want them for my lunch

I hate to see them on that bunch.

My sister eats them like it’s candy.

I’d rather eat a sour Smartie.

I hate to see the way it pops.

I would probably call the cops.

---

Amanda Bastidas Diaz

6th grade

12 years old

Newburg Middle School

Cristina Crocker Escribano

My Reflection

I look into the mirror,

seeing chubby cheeks, muddy brown eyes,

big duck lips, and acne.

I touched my face with despair.

I open my phone,

looking at skinny blonde girls

with silky straight hair.

I look back in the mirror,

at my thick, nappy hair.

But in my house I see my abuelita,

her brown, velvety skin,

her short, coily hair,

her curvy, thick body,

the way she makes an arepa con huevo,

the way she moves her hips

to the groove of salsa.

I look into the mirror again.

I see a reflection of Abuelita,

Mami, my tia Becky, and Papa.

I see all the caring and strong

Afro-Latinos that speak up for themselves

and teach me that beauty is

the way my family smiles when they

move their bodies to the

beat of salsa: unstoppable and resilient

---

Jenny Young Lee

6th Grade

12 years old

Newburg Middle School

Cristina Crocker Escribano

How Do I Love Myself?

I’ll keep smiling and laughing,

still talking and conversing.

My peers and teachers question how I seem so merry.

Thinking and rehearsing, in the mirror, silently cursing at myself.

As I gaze at my reflection every hour, I don’t see Jenny.

I don’t see me as what I could be and what beauty I could possibly have.

I feel like a penny floating in the ocean,

just a little piece of worthlessness floating in the crystal clear waters.

The ocean’s beautifly clear water shines the light back to the sun.

Then my friends attempt to make me rise up.

They tell me of my beauty that I can’t see:

of the thoughtfulness I bear when I elude my selfishness,

and of some sort of perfection I have worn,

when pimples are scattered upon my face.

But how can I believe in that beauty?

I utter my ridiculous, selfish opinions

where they aren’t meant to be said

when all I think of is myself,

and I accuse others of a crime that is my own.

But if I speak up I am still reminded

that others have it worse who are like me and go speechless.

My belief is that others are so beautiful and kind that I’m not on their level.

But if I tell them, tell them everything, I know they will call me a hypocrite:

a hypocrite that has forgotten how to love herself,

a hypocrite they’re ready to stand for,

so still I keep laughing and talking, smiling and conversing.

As I struggle to believe them all and improve myself,

knowing I’ll break away from the prison soon,

believing I’ll find a way to love myself at last.

---

Neveah Rowley

12 years old, Grade 6

Maricopa Christian Academy

Mr. Tim Ihms

Family

My family is biracial,

And all multicultural.

Yet, needless to say

They’re the same in many ways.

Stick them in different classes,

And note them by their glasses.

Give them lessons and tests;

They’ll ace them and the rest.

If you tell them of their talent,

They’ll say, “No need to talk about it”

Or they’ll tell you that’s not right,

And you’re stretching the truth real tight.

Be lowly, be humble, that’s how we go;

Step out, standout, let your fire glow.

Be courageous, be different, don’t let them under your skin;

Be caring, be kind, that’s how it is with my kin.

---

Maya Carbone

6th Grade

12 years old

Newburg Middle School

Cristina Crocker Escribano

Melancholy Shower

As the sky grows into a charcoal gray,

the humidity rises and the clouds slowly swell

As they coalesce together, like a gathering of mourners

While their ominous apparel trails and shroud the

unsuspecting city underneath them.

The fierce wind billows with fury like an angry beast,

As the raging storm waltzed with the same energy of a frenzied dancer

Amidst the chaotic traffic on the tiresome highway,

Jagged spear bolts of brilliance light the dusk night.

Droplets descend from sorrowful ones,

The whirring of the washing machine blends into

the composing noise of the pattering distress collapsing from above.

The exhausted machine relentlessly cleanses the fabric,

Wringing out the droplets that’s been seeped in.

The roiling clouds release a deluge as they grumble and howl.

Their frustration overflows and darkens with bursts of droplets,

releasing their pent-up energy letting out a torrential downpour

atop the rugged concrete underneath.

The sprinkling of the sky taps out a wild and untamed rhythm

That echoes throughout the city streets;

The irregular pavement transforms into a stage,

Its rough texture is a canvas on which the raindrops paint their intricate pattern.

Our minds and the world transform,

The scent of petrichor travels throughout the humid air,

A reminder of the storm’s power to cleanse and refresh.

Let your eyes overflow like a flood,

As the storm eyes do,

Embrace your melancholy,

For we have the opportunity to renew.

---

Sabir Stephens

8th grade

14 years old

Newburg Middle School

Cristina Crocker Escribano

Ancestry

I am black like the soil,

like the crack of the whip from the ship,

black like the hunted boar.

I wish I could know my land.

I wish I could smell the dirt and palm tree sap.

I wish I could hear our ashy, dry feet running

on the brittle dirt before they took us away,

the blood of our ancestors

on abandoned ground

then on the ship’s deck,

then on the pure white cotton,

and now onto a hard, cold floor.

Mothers, daughters and fathers,

cry tears of the Atlantic ocean

all because our skin

is the night sky that is taken.

He says he didn’t mean it,

but if it was his son,

it never would have happened.

No matter how badly we are beaten,

I still kiss my mother on the forehead

before I leave and tell her I love her,

and that I’m proud of her

because I am my ancestors’

prophecy of love.

---

Name: Madison Montgomery

Age: 13

Grade: 8th

School: Lake Center Christian School

Teacher: Casey Wilkie

Dear 2035

I’m sorry if we were in

a pandemic worldwide,

I’m sorry that we might not survive.

We’re killing the earth and that’s

really fun no one believes us because

We are young.

They think Global warming is an expensive

little hoax While people turn a blind eye and

tweet on their phones

Forests are burning and that’s a concern

Evil is a bird and we are the worm

Babies aren’t born and mothers are mourning

Please help us because this is concerning

Animals are dying cause we are not trying

All of this you see, started back in 1983

So don’t come to me when your child can’t think of

What a tiger is because they’re extinct

The fur on your coat ain’t so fake anymore

Because we’re killing all the animals we used to adore

All these things are happening for a reason

we might be gone by the end of the season.

There are kids in the world who don’t wanna die

so please stop hurting and help us survive.

Our futures are gone

and we are the thieves.

Don’t cry to me when your fur

coat ain’t clean, the endangered list is now 41,415.

Dear 2035, I don’t think we’re gonna survive If you

end up hearing this story I just wanna say I’m sorry

---

Poet’s name: Gabriel Doantelli

Poet’s age: 13

Poet’s grade: 7

School: Lake Center Christian Teacher’s name: Eric Schlabach

Like Nothing Happened

My dog licks everything

with his oversized damp tongue.

My dog also isn’t the brightest,

so he licked an uncovered outlet.

An outlet that uses electricity

to power things.

An outlet that is considered allergic

to water and all

things wet.

From all the way upstairs,

I heard a shock,

then a whimper.

I rumbled down the stairs ,

yelling my dog’s name.

“Cooper! Cooper!”

He rushed over to me

and gave me a gentle

puppy hug.

Then pranced off

like nothing happened.

---

Nina Tay

10th grade, age 16

Paul Laurence Dunbar Highschool

Kari Long

a few (of the many) reasons why i cannot write about love  

1. inflorescence

this is how i will choose to remember last summer:

the sun caressing the daisies that grew on our backs,

pollen dusting the tips of our fingers,

and ivy wrapping around intertwined hands.

we are knee-deep in mud and breaking out into clustered blooms of giggles,

and in the spur of the moment promise to never fall in love.

our short-lived infinity is tucked away in a seed packet.

2. the fear of drowning in infatuation

one look at your face

and i’m almost certain that you’re a goner.

the boy you swear you’re not in love with smiles

and i watch helplessly as you unravel

then desperately try to gather yourself back together.

i want to tell you that some promises are allowed to be broken

and we were fools for thinking it could just be the two of us forever

yet you are still attempting to fix something intangible with a bottle of glue

and at this point i don’t know who i’m trying to console:

you, the girl who still refuses to let herself fall in love

or me, the girl who knows that it has already happened.

3. brief interlude

two ravens are perched on a picket fence.

the october sun is burning off the ink from their feathers,

and the wood is rotting out from the inside.

i want to ask if companionship is worth it if it hurts that much,

but i am too terrified of your response to gather any words.

one of the birds flies away,

an answer to an unspoken question.

---

Adyson Reisz

10^th Grade- 16

Lafayette High School

Christopher McCurry

Girl

You should really stand up straight girl

You’ve gotta carry your weight girl.

Don’t worry bout your figure, doll

just wait till I critique every trait girl.

Your thighs too big, your breasts too small

so, you wait here at the gate girl.

Line your eyes black, pick a different dress,

Why are you always so late, girl?

Don’t be a slut, don’t be a prude.

If you look like that, you’ll never get a date, girl.

You talk too much!  Why so quiet?

Shut up!  Eyes on your plate girl.

I swear she’s just an emotional mess

Did you see how much she ate, girl?

C’mon babe, it’s no big deal.

Maybe it’s you, I can’t take, girl.

---

Ryan Eby

Grade 10, Age 16

Lafayette Senior High School

Christopher McCurry

Temple

here, where I can run my hands

along the columns of

my childhood

indents:

peaks and valleys—

my fingertips brush perpendicular

to these channels

smooth stone reassures me:

“I will be here long after you’re gone.”

            but

I take microscopic flecks with me

when I touch these treasured columns

home with me,

home degrading;

held within the pocket-universe of

my memory

            not

forever,

never was gonna be forever

            but

longer than me,

and I hope that’s enough

for you, for me, and

for whoever

            comes

                        after

---

Name: River Alsalihi

Grade 12, Age 17

Lafayette High School

Teacher: Christopher McCurry

eye contact

wish my eyes were so big / they could drown the arrogant / staring contests made deadly / my eyelashes turned shark’s teeth / jaw open / and my own smile an enormous wet gash / and blinding so beautifully / hideous and charming / yet horrifying / a short haired siren whose face / is its song / soft hands oh soft hands / oh bony fingers / oh smooth flesh / I would be easy to fall into / I would be a common trap /

it would all be quite seamless /

they would put me in a glass chamber / expect me to claw at the walls / crush my face and my tongue against / them in some rabid hope / of escape I would know / there is no such thing / that is why / I would do the favor / of giving people the only peace /

below the ground / there is nothing / above the clouds / there is nothing / here / there is a perfect opportunity to climb in / adjust to the cold / get comfortable / go ahead / give it a try

---

Evelyn Weaver

12th Grade, 18 years old

Lafayette High School

Christopher McCurry

Between

Sometimes, I feel our distance like a cavity in my chest, a loop around my lungs, an ache that I woke up with—something I’ll try to sleep off or I’ll call you, or I’ll wait by the phone and hope.

                    I don’t want to be your 50s housewife, I want us to be the ones leaning on each other on the park bench in the dark after missing the bus home, in your dorm room, pointing out people on the ground below as I fuck up your hair, as you trace your fingers up and down my arm.

       If you’ll see me the way I am in this natural light, not anything else. If you’ll meet me in these in-between places, in all your evening, loose t-shirt, sleepy-eyed glory. If you’ll check up on me when the tides are high and rolling, even if you can’t feel them from 100 miles away. If you’ll step out,

                 I will walk along with you.

---

Lila Coburn, 12th grader, 18-years-old.
J. Graham Brown School.
Teacher’s Name: Christina Densford

Disabled, Defiant, Autistic, Human

There once was a girl, a scared girl, a crying girl, an autistic girl, a girl who pushed everyone away because she didn’t want to get hurt again. She sat at the edge of the cafeteria, the spot designated for her so that she wouldn’t spook the others with her roars, and danced with emotion, her body swinging back and forth, rocking to the tune of her internal music. She spoke sometimes, but mostly, she just wrote, creating the happier endings to her Grimm Brothers fairy tales. She didn’t write these stories because she thought that they would become true. She couldn’t even think that far ahead because she was in too much pain.

“Disabled” they called her. “Defiant, Autistic,” they said, their words filled with venom that struck her hard, but something happened when they bit her: The venom ran straight through her blood and to her heart, where it pulsed, pulsed, pulsed to her brain. “I am bitten,” she said, her cheeks red like the others. “I am ill, but not with hate like them– with passion.” Now, she wrote, but she also spoke. “Defiant,” I sung, my writing slipping from the paper and into the world like fairy dust, covering the room in its sparkle, in its color. “Disabled, Autistic. But still Human. Human. Human,” I said, my antidote filling the air and starting to heal the hate that had poisoned the bullies for so long, and they looked at me, and they listened. For the first time, they listened. I am Disabled. I am Defiant. I am Autistic, but more than that…. I am Lila. Lila. Lila.

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