Poetry

Under Pressure

By Amber Kakkar

Under Pressure

Sometimes this pressure is too much

It feels like the weight of the world shoulders

Looking at you…takes it all away

Under Pressure

More and more is piling on top of me

Large droplets of water are dying to fall from my eyes

But then you looked back… and took that feeling away

Under Pressure

My throat closes

And all of a sudden I can’t breathe

We started talking… and you took it all away

Under Pressure

The tears started pouring

My world starts becoming black and fading

Then our hands touched… and my world cleared up

Under Pressure

This feeling is just too much

My head is pounding, my heart is thumping twice as fast

You put your arm around my shoulder… my head stops pounding

Under Pressure

The droplets finally fell, completely falling from my eyes

My body shuddering in the corner of my room, alone

But you found me…and took it all away

Under Pressure

My heart is empty, nothing can crack this hollow figure

My shoulders start sulking, looking down at my feet

But that’s when I found you on one knee… Making my heart become whole

Over Pressure

I suddenly become carefree, feeling that I can walk on water

My world has a glowing light, the sun constantly shining bright

Because I have you… And that’s all I’ll ever need

***

Submittd August 14th 2019

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Shakespeare Sonnet


By Amber Kakkar  

Lately I have been feeling very lost

Like everything I do is just “okay”

All breaths I breathe is not without a cost

Colors are gone, I now only see grey

The weight of the world is on my shoulders

Heavy puddles in my eyes, scared to fall

Everyday I wish that I was older

Skip years and run away, to escape all

However this does not last forever

Darkness clouding the light turns bright once more

This feeling will not continue never

But my mental rain will no longer pour

    Sunshine is on its way, do not give in

    No one should let their darkness over light win

***

Submitted August 14th 2019

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Lost

By Dina Perulli

Where has it gone 

My ever breaking heart 

An anchor in the ocean

***

Submitted August 10th 2019

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The Forlorn

By Maansi Shroff

Inspired by a photograph of a poor woman and her crying child, I was reminded of my own experiences seeing poverty in India.

Somewhere, she remains absolutely alone. Forlorn – there is no future for her.

Her face streaked with dirt and tears, eyes brimming with anguish and desolation.

With nothing to her name, how is she to care for her sickly son? 

Penniless. Abandoned. Exhausted. Her lingering hope slowly drains. 

Her face streaked with dirt and tears, eyes brimming with anguish and desolation.

She crouches, huddled in the dusty alley, clutching her feeble child close. 

Penniless. Abandoned. Exhausted. Her lingering hope slowly drains. 

Eyes squeezed shut, she mutters softly – praying for a single act of generosity.

She crouches, huddled in the dusty alley, clutching her feeble child close.

The rags on her frail body have begun to decay. The child has no shoes.

Eyes squeezed shut, she mutters softly – praying for a single act of generosity.

Desperately in need of help, and yet, she is neglected and ignored.

The rags on her frail body have begun to decay. The child has no shoes.

Poverty, sadness, the inability to protect her child. What will become of them?

Desperately in need of help, and yet, she is neglected and ignored.

All she is granted is a single line in the newspaper: a final cry for support.

Poverty, sadness, the inability to protect her child. What will become of them?

All she is granted is a single line in the newspaper: a final cry for support. 

But the newspapers drift, faded and unread, through the empty streets. 

Somewhere, she remains absolutely alone. Forlorn – there is no future for her

***

Submitted July 21st, 2019


Maansi’s poem, The Forlorn was first published in the 2018-2019 edition of Schreiber High School’s Kaleidoscope

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Food 

by Alvin Paul

Food is so tasty to eat and consume;

It has nice flavour and some good texture;

Food is so good, the smell fills the whole room;

Food is so good, I can’t resist it’s lure!

Food looks quite nice and is quite colourful;

The taste it makes when it enters in my mouth;

All the styles of food are quite joyful;

I heard they have good barbecue down south.

But some food is not that good for you;

Sugars and fats and salts, oh my!

Most of the time food is still good for you;

I do like bread that is somewhat rye.

There are a lot of styles and kinds of foods;

Maybe one day you can try all them too!

***

Submitted June 24, 2019

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The Walkers

By John Southard

They trudge wearily

Never straying from their line

They show no emotion

They can’t

Their buddies are dead

But if they dwell on it they’ll die too.

So they continue

Walking, trudging slowly but steadily

Through the jungle

They carry thoughts

Poems

Letters from loved ones

They don’t know why they’re here

“What’s the point?” they’ll ask

But there is no answer

Their friends suddenly drop

Then they’re gone

Picked up by a chopper

Some wish that chopper in the sky would take them away.

Some feel that’s the only way out.

But they trudge on

Some don’t even know who the enemy is.

They don’t know why they’re here.

“You’re  American” they say

“Fight for your country” they say.

But they know

And they trudge on.

Submitted on June 21, 2019

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“If she’s bothering you, let me know.”

By Lily Labella

Little kid- can barely talk-

goes about shoeless on all fours like a chimpanzee.

Clumsily perched on the steps she forces traffic to the right,

Feeling the grit from people’s shoes beneath her fingers.

Eyes wide,

Mouth open,

Hair falling floppy,

She is an explorer going both up and down.

Older man- can barely notice-

Goes about in a checkered shirt tucked into his pants.

He forces traffic to the right,

Sliding his thumb across a screen,

Watching the little kid with the stare of the far-too-busy.

Eyes bound by glass,

Jaw locked,

Frightened hair clinging to his skin,

He is a navigator falling short.

Her sonar mouth emits whoops and chirps and stuffy giggles,

Matched with hands too small to grab at good stuff,

Delighted with her faint reflection in the glass partition.

She can look at herself,

And simultaneously looks past herself,

Down into the carpeted gallery below.

His faded brown beard sits motionless,

Matched with pockets that sag and hands that fumble with a cell phone,

Distracted by the far-flung reflections of the modern age.

He can pocket the device,

And will himself to look at her,

Then shuffles off behind her toddling steps.

Submitted on June 1st 2019