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War and Violence
Poetry Editor:
Erica Telisnor, 14
Massachusetts
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Flight of the Dove
Jennifer Hu, 14
Pennslyvania
There was a dove outside my window,
glowing and pearly white,
clutching a single olive branch,
in her golden beak.
When she was here,
the sky was blue,
the Earth was fresh and newborn,
and the sun shined like polished gold.
But right now,
there is no dove outside my window,
and the olive branch is gone.
All that remains is a single white feather
upon my windowsill.
The sky is the darkest red,
the Earth is cracked and blue,
the Sun is like a spot of blood
against the gloomy canvas.
The Earth mourns her flight,
weeping acid drops.
The people beg for her return,
crying salty tears.
I weep too,
for I miss her
and the ecstasy she brought.
But in my heart
I know the dove will one day come back
and land upon my windowsill,
A single olive branch
clutched in her golden beak,
coming to reclaim the feather.
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Just Plain David
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Sarah Guerra, 15
New York
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They called him Just Plain David.
Yes, that was his name.
But somehow I don't think
He will ever be the same.
Just Plain David was a bright young man,
always doing what was right.
But then came the day when
Just Plain David joined the fight.
We all loved Just Plain David,
more than words could say.
He knew that we'd support him
no matter what, either way.
We cheered on Just Plain David.
He was doing very well.
But this was around the time
that the Towers fell.
So, Just Plain David
was stationed in Iraq.
All of us here at home
wanted Just Plain David back.
Just Plain David was coming home
And, oh, How we rejoiced!
But I have this one concern
that I feel must be voiced.
Just Plain David must have seen
such brutality and war,
that somehow I think he's not
"Just Plain" David anymore.
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Reality
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Yesenia Ortiz-Godinez, 17
New York
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Words left unspoken,
promises broken.
Love turns to hate
death at a fast rate.
Religion misunderstood
state of mind no longer prudent.
People are dying,
children are crying,
gunshots being wired.
Innocent lives being taken,
hidden emotions awaken.
Truth turns into lies
smiles turn into cries,
Silence turns into sound
as bombs hit the ground.
Happiness turns to pain
as ash falls down like rain.
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Gangs |
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Adriana Villanueva, 15
Colorado
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I hear a loud bang!
Gang fights, shooting, killing all for what they claim -
They're dying but willing,
Wearing red, sometimes blue,
Killing for what they think they rule.
So many people dying because of this.
Rather kill than to get dissed.
Why are so many people dying because of the gun?
Bodies lying on the ground proving that they won.
But not only thugs are dying;
An innocent person's body is lying.
Blood is covering the ground with red.
Twenty bodies laying there dead.
Only five of their lives you meant to end.
What if that was you friend, brother or mother?
You'd seek revenge and kill another.
But it's not fair; no one deserves to die like this.
It's not your choice whose life you end,
It's HIS.
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Iraq
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Ashley Theys
California
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Standing alone on this checkerboard of blood.
An unknown cause drives me here.
A mere game to those who hold the cards,
moving these plastic knights as they see fit.
Trapped in this inescapable fun house
of gun shots and screams,
anticipating the next dreadful move.
My fate lies in the dealer's hands.
He speaks one thing with the intention of another.
Blinding all the players from his foul scheme,
he praises his players of their nobility and courage,
in knowing they will soon surrender and sacrifice themselves.
Why shouldn't they play for him?
He's from Texas,
He knows how to play.
His daddy taught him,
he was the dealer before.
But he holds the cards now.
He shuffles the deck.
He makes the rules.
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White Dove
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Erica Telisnor, 14
Massachusetts
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A small white dove
soars over the valley,
calm autumn,
peaceful breeze,
quiet serenity.
Nothing can disturb this sweet tranquility,
abundant in the air.
But,
soon enough
love is consumed by hate,
and blood covers roses,
death devours life,
and the air
is thick with smoke.
In the heat of battle
innocent lives are taken,
but why?
* * *
What does it take for us to awaken,
from this
hungry, hateful, bloodshed?
And so
again
a small white dove
soars
high above the valley,
covered in blood,
hate,
and sinful pride.
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