. THIRD PLACE . Splash and Dash by Chance Bottenfield, 11th Grade, Bishop Kenny High School, Jacksonville, Florida From the block, the motionless body darts Into the water, making the pool crack. Bubbles rush and flow as some movement starts; One arm pulls forward while the other rips back. Speed begins with sudden rhythmic movement. Like a propeller, feet begin to grind, Leaving waves that are not as transparent, Splashing spray high, pushing water behind. For air to breathe, heads turn fast to the right. Open mouths gasp air for just an instance. Right arm above, forcing submersion with might, Swimmers ride the lane, closing the distance. __The final wall is just within a single tap, __And the hand slams fast, completing one lap. . . The Leap of Perfection by Ryan Ke, 11th Grade, San Marino High School, California The voice, a tool that speaks our innermost, Conveys what words alone cannot express. When anger brews, a thunderous outburst, Or sadness reigns, a mournful cry confess. But joy and confidence, a cheerful sound, A symphony of triumph, pride profound. Yet, hidden in the silence, a power lies, A language spoken through our very deeds. The dancer’s moves, a tale that never dies, Each step and leap, a message that succeeds. With grace and skill, they paint a vivid scene, Of passion, dedication, and perseverance seen. A single leap, a sprint with head held high, The feet align, the arms extend with might. The body’s form, a symphony so nigh, As thoughts race through, mind and body unite. The landing soft, a gentle touch bestowed, The floor beneath, a carpet’s soothing mode. This dancer’s actions speak volumes untold, Their movements shout, their presence manifold. Passion screams, dedication roars aloud, Persistence bellows, a message to the crowd. In silence, actions speak with thunder’s roar, A language more potent than words of yore. . . The Final Dose by Elle Shueh, 7th Grade, Beacon Park School, Irvine, California He gave away his light until the end. A burning heart, once young, now dimmed by choice, Wisps of past hopes with no expectant voice. To unburden them, his self away must fall, A quiet echo to a greater call. He was a flame that quivered in the wind, A candle through a careless smolder thinned. His hands grew tired, his spirit worn and weak, But still, he gave, though nothing did he seek. Like paraffin poured out in endless flows, His vapors fled to places no man knows. He gave away his light until the end. . . Fortuna on the Barbed Wires —a villanelle by Seunghee Kim, 11th Grade, Korea International School Jeju, South Korea Where starlight weaves the dreams of men supine, Her voice descends, elysian tones resound: O child of dust, why chase the heights divine? I pray for Tom, a butcher dad of nine, Flesh rusted with a crimson bullet round, Where starlight weaves the dreams of men supine. Fortuna says, no mortal name shall pine, His sons are soldiers, and the daughters drowned. O child of dust, why chase the heights divine? John stumbles, stolen buskins stained with wine, A sin of stale regret when he’ll be found, Where starlight weaves the dreams of men supine. The stars bear witness and the moon holds sign, To fleeting dreams that bandit souls unbound. O child of dust, why chase the heights divine? But do not yield, my comrades of the line, Nor bow to phantom tribulation, bound Where starlight weaves the dreams of men supine. O child of dust, why chase the heights divine? . . FOURTH PLACE . Memories of Autumn Lands —dactylic verse by S. Z., 9th Grade, Northern Academy of the Arts, Middletown, New York Fiery foliage brightens the forest, Dry brittle branches crack, echoing loudly. Animals rush to prepare for the winter, Cold winds accelerate, hinting at what’s fast approaching. Overhead flocks of geese fly towards warm land, Sending their cries ringing through rows of grand trees, Higher and higher the wind whistles wildly, Shaking the brilliant leaves until they fall. Soon the dry leaves disappear beneath snow, but Colorful memories stay with us always. . . Colors of a Storm —a villanelle by Sennen Querijero, 10th Grade, Community High School, Ann Arbor, Michigan Can color fade from one’s own eye? Mine are both desaturated Each time I ask, I’m told a lie Once warm and light, bright as the sky Now seem burdened, devastated Can color fade from one’s own eye? Each day could be my last goodbye To this, am I acclimated? Each time I ask, I’m told a lie I’m getting close, I think and sigh Still I’ve not quite estimated Can color fade from one’s own eye? If all is faded, will I die? Leave as I’m eliminated? Each time I ask, I’m told a lie Thus I demand I should know why For I’ve sat and wondered, waited Can color fade from one’s own eye? Each time I ask, I’m told a lie . . Orchard Road Outside the Eastern Gate by Edward Lee, 11th Grade, Bergen County Academies, Hackensack, New Jersey From far away, a song drifts through the night, A sound in dreams that calls me back to home. To places where I lived, led by the scent Of acacia carried on the breeze. The sound of children’s chorus Pulls me back to days of yore, A melody that bridges years, Opening the gates of the past. Memories of youth, stirred from deep slumber, Forgotten tunes that sway my soul anew. Among the fragrant acacias I search For lost yesterdays within time’s swift flow. My yearning deep, my heart’s call still remains, Drawn by the distant tunes, so vivid, true. I sit with eyes shut tight, letting the song Guide my spirit back to the place I knew. . . Denmark’s Prince by Kalliope Luna Welch, 8th grade, homeschooled, New Mexico Mourning cries echo through the castle walls Yet only one man hears the ghostly calls His mother cries out loud, ‘Please help, he’s mad!’ Of his late father’s death was she not sad? Cast aside from the day his father died The boy could only curse while Denmark cried In every direction, people afraid Ophelia deep in her grave was laid See the poisoned sword and the poisoned cup Horatio bid the angels bring him up Was the prince of Denmark ever quite sane? Or were Gertrude’s words true; he died in vain? . . A Quarrel on the Beach by Ziao Wang, 4th Grade Santiago Hill Elementary, Irvine, California Splash! Thunderous waves pound Snap! Scarlet pincers flick Swoosh! Gulls bound from the ground Swish! Gusts rush past a stick. That branchlet budges, tilts, then falls That fall alerts the bird who flaps That foolish fowl then flies and calls The flock, filed up, alarmed. No traps Appear to justify their fear. Attentiveness is tiring, And as large humps nearby appear, The flock takes rest, retiring. All of a sudden, one hump shakes And blurred white arms and legs are seen Snails out of shells, like grasping rakes Soggy and thick and quite unclean. Oh well, another quarrel fought. Any beach-goer would surely think A beach just a vacation spot As simple as any precinct As any other spot you know An undemanding sort of place. But! May I add—by good repute— It also is a common place For gulls and turtles to dispute. . . HONORABLE MENTION . An Escape by A. Chang, 9th Grade, Northern Academy of the Arts, Middletown, New York The bar’s behind it, over’n crossed Excitement coursed and it was gone The flower closed and people weep They live to see the crack of dawn The flower floats away and up It opens up to see the sky It has escaped but not for long For now it knows the world’s a lie But time ticks by, it can’t be stopped a hand shoots up and grabs it tight and now the sun is on the rise the joy is gone, its mind goes white In a new field, a flower blooms Oblivious to all it once knew . . Seasons by G. Cheung, 9th Grade, Northern Academy of the Arts, Middletown, New York The leaves froze and thinned, The leaves swirled ’round and ’round, They danced gracefully in the wind, ‘Til they fell to the ground. With winter upon thee, Temperatures fell down, No more buzzing bees, And snow fell to the ground. Then came the spring breezes, And many flowers grew; Trees sprouted luscious leaves, In the sky birds flew. Then came summer, time for beaches and the sea. The sky was blue as ever, and felt so vast and free. . . Ode to Getting Older by Rachel Ha, 11th Grade, Herricks Senior High School, Searingtown, New York The gentle whirr of forelimbs, hoist a plumage—too weary to fly: the sybil casts a bad augury, & makes their arms enfeeble with time. Did the sybil leave the tower, once midnight mulcted our gold? ‘Twas an oracle that told the bairns, “O’ hair, spin silver rope!” Lo, blinded by the hearsay! Our minds alight with strife! We curse the crow foot skin & scorn the foggy sight. We miss days bathed in vigor, as a fledgling does their nest. But the gift of getting older, o’ what a beauty to never rest! Reap the wisdom of an oak! Smile lines ne’er fade! Maturity, a bespoke garb, thou fits in with growing age. To getting older! Lo, a feat! The jovial thought puts mind at ease. What is youth? Thou tell me: the ability to love, or the ability to grieve? . . Winter’s Weeping by Dylan Liu, 11th Grade, Saint Ignatius College Preparatory, San Francisco, California The thick tangle of branches, Gasping for a breath, Once lush, now blanched, Like petrified coral, on brink of death. Branches filled with fear, With secrets it yearns to share, Yet the wind, a puppeteer, Lies and lays a snare. When the wind whispers a sweet lullaby, It whips up a hurricane, Invisible to the naked eye, Powerless, I surrender to the pain. Its manipulation an inescapable bubble, The doubtful mind shrouded in mist, Its hatred a mound of rubble, Crushed by the wind’s iron fist. Broad outstretched arms, now filled with cold, Once able to carry the fragile body of glass, Now quaking, under the weight of the world, Swaying with the wind, unlike Atlas. Once vibrant leaves turn brown and bone dry, Elixir of life, sucked out, As the green hangs by a noose and tie, Backed into a corner, no way out. It teeters on the edge, Threatening to spill, A cyanide beverage, One drop could kill. Down flutters the last foliage, The air smells of certain doom, But dropping unneeded baggage, Allows a tree to bloom. . . Learning to Love Classical Poetry by Alma Raznahan, 8th Grade, National Cathedral School, Washington, DC To restrict our words’ sheer diameter To a construct, iambic pentameter, Constricts like a rose vine, stiff as a cosine, Strangles good poets in waking, so our words, Once so ripe for the taking, and pinning to paper Dissolve into vapor, and we must go back to the slate. Er, but wait, why am I in a state? For this writing is too fun to waste! My syllables simmer and baste, in a Pot of my own, salt to taste. This meter Supports like a vase the flowers that bloom in the space Of my heart (nay, my mind), not hideous Or unkind, but graceful, divine! So I suppose I should stop being base. Classical poetry isn’t a race. But if it was I would hope that I’d won it, ‘Cause I turned my critique into a defense of it. . . The Indifferent Enchantress by Amy Huo, 8th Grade, Morning Star Institute, Colorado Blue-skinned beauty ______releasing her kiss of death ____________at a single touch, Candescent but cold. ______With siren undulations, ____________Manipulating Fish and men enticed ______To fall for her toxic spell ____________and deceptive charm. Her stings seep through flesh. ______Peering through black eyes, she swims ____________unscathed, far away. . . NOTE TO READERS: If you enjoyed this poem or other content, please consider making a donation to the Society of Classical Poets. The Society of Classical Poets does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or commentary.
