Contact Us

Have a question or comment? Send it along, and we'll get back to you lickety-split. 


Pittsburgh, PA
USA

Slide6.png

Blog

 

 

Filtering by Tag: NaPoWriMo

NaPoWriMo Poem by You #24: Shards by Marcus Tschoe

Sarah and Jeff Boyle

"Glass Detail, Basilique Notre-Dame de Montréal, Montreal, QC" by Tadson Bussey. Via  Flickr  and courtesy of a  Creative Commons  license.

"Glass Detail, Basilique Notre-Dame de Montréal, Montreal, QC" by Tadson Bussey. Via Flickr and courtesy of a Creative Commons license.

Shards

The stained glass windows
of churches, mosques, and synagogues
places of purity and inner peace
but driving hate,
but also stained glass images--
a wife, some children, with a small house
broken into colorful
shards of
dead dreams,
For a small sliver
of holy land soaked in the pure blood of the young and innocent,
in a bustling desert of millions
driven by different images in a stained glass window
that shall never see
peace.

by Marcus Tschoe, grade 7, Hawthorne Scholastic Academy

NaPoWriMo Poem by You: #20: Petrichor by Emily Ashworth

Sarah and Jeff Boyle

Thunderstorm by Flickr user Arbyreed, shared via  Creative Commons

Thunderstorm by Flickr user Arbyreed, shared via Creative Commons

Petrichor

Breathe in
that scent of lightning,
the power resonating off the concrete.
Listen to the silence
after the roaring thunder;
a chance that the downpour
might cease.
Can you sense the hope?
The peace enveloping you
when the wind calms?
Renewal rises from the sidewalk
as distress evaporates
leaving cool air
to facilitate a fresh start.
Witness the hazy horizon,
precipitation clouding the eyes
and clearing the mind.
Can you sense the hope?
Can you smell the rain?


Petrichor: A pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather (http://www.oxforddictionaries.com/us/definition/american_english/petrichor)

by Emily Ashworth, age 17

 

NaPoWriMo Poem by You #19: Disintegrating by Sierra Caoili

Sarah and Jeff Boyle

Disintegrating

She reaches for the stars
but they pirouette into the cavernous sky.
Her fingertips linger,
before slowly,
sadly,
sorrowfully,
curling her fingers inward,
crescent shapes,
that remind her of the moon,
embedded in her skin.
The grass tickles her ankles,
and laughter emits from them as the wind stirs.
Coldness consumes her,
grips of ice encompass her elegant, pale, body,
that resemble the shining light of the moon,
as it agonizingly,
awfully,
atrociously,
lowers her into the earth,
where her dreams are corpses,
decomposing.

by Sierra Caoili, age 15