Archive for December, 2012

Posted: December 5, 2012 in Ripple Effect

Natanya C


The dark, a place of unknown.

A place found nowhere, but is everywhere.

The dark, when nothing is told yet everything is thought.

The dark where one could never escape, but where one can always run to.

The dark, in which everything hid in every corner.

The dark, where no one could see.

The dark, a place to think.

The dark is what forgets.

The dark knows…

The dark, where hate and love battle.

The dark, where good and evil meet.

The dark, a place to sleep?


Posted: December 5, 2012 in Ripple Effect

Natanya C


The walls speak to me.

How long will they continue to haunt me:

The agonizing, helpless cries

They are screaming, yelling my name.

What more do they have to lose?

They have continued from the time they started to the moment I thought it was over,

It was then that my torture commenced.

It began on the day I know as the beginning of the end.

The sky rained like the child that cried in his mother’s arms that day.

The water bullets were acid on my arms and face, as I stared at the people just feet away.

I was a zombie.

The first tragic shot deafeningly screamed out of the guns surrounding the victims

When I suddenly screamed NO!

I was now part of the enemy, facing death as I threw myself in front of what I thought

Was my ex-targets.

Shots sang to me wishing death.


I opened my eyes and saw a lone familiar child facing me.

The boy watching me, my comrades watching me

Both waiting for my move.

Soon the ground was RED from the blood that ran from the child’s body, just

Like chocolate syrup on my ice cream at home.

That was my prize, the prize for the lifeless, still body of the child that just moments

Ago was crying in his comforting mother’s arms.

His tears caused the rain that day

Those drips and drops left SCARS,

I see him everywhere I go.

I wanted him to live

Why didn’t I?

I was forced, into the whole war!

I chose my life…….over his

He deserved to live.


His voice is everywhere, judging me; always glaring each time ice cream is near.

He was my little brother……

I celebrated it, and tried to forget

But I cannot.


I killed him.

I cannot forget him.


Picture Poem

Posted: December 5, 2012 in Ripple Effect

Kathryn B


Peppered black houses

Against that icy, damp, emotionless

White abyss of a field.

Frost bite on every turn

Distressed screams,

Faces of the weak, the young, the old.

The smell of burnt flesh amongst us.

Stone cold faces

Under steal helmets

With metal machines at hand

Daring you,

Taunting you,

To make one wrong move.

Locked, sealed down tight

Like a prison

Once in

There’s no escaping

Fences, towering

Like skyscrapers

Everywhere coils upon coils

Of razor sharp barbs.

Found Poem

Posted: December 5, 2012 in Ripple Effect

Natalie L


Everywhere I look, I see people as hungry as dogs.

Whenever I look up, I see people as confused as newborn children.

Everywhere I look, I see crowds of people like the long lines at an amusement park.

As I look around, I see unhappy expressions on peoples’ faces that show terror.

I can feel a sudden feeling of worry and uncertainty coming from the others.

Everywhere I look, I see people crying and looking for their loved ones.

Whenever I look up, I see that Jews are caged animals neglected and miserable.

Everywhere I look, I see poor, starving orphans searching for food.

As I look around, I see an image of horror.

I can feel butterflies in my stomach like the first day of school.

Found Poem

Posted: December 5, 2012 in Ripple Effect

Natanya C


The heavy blue star

The blank vision

The bare street with blood

A vision of horror,

The comfort of her, mother.

Suddenly cherished friends march

Open palms of a lamb, of ragdolls branded with the



 Dark Knowledge,

The vision of horror.

My Perfect World

Posted: December 5, 2012 in Ripple Effect

Natalia Castillo


My Perfect World








Full of Life,




Posted: December 5, 2012 in Ripple Effect

*Orange Jumpsuits

Joseph M.


What did he do?

Did he really do it,

Or was he framed?


How long is his sentence?

Is it for life,

Or just 5 years?


Was he an accomplice,

Or a murderer?

Is it because of his family,

Or was it all his own doing?


Why do I stare?

They’re just here to work,

Because they are “good prisoners”,

Just people,

In orange jumpsuits.


Take it easy

Deanitra Kaminka


How you’ve been led astray

Such happens as we age.

You journeyed through prisons

Through fire.

Winter and graveyards.

How you’ve been led astray.


Take a rest,

Listen closer.

 Can’t you hear the rustle of trees

On a cool autumn’s day.

They speak to you.


Turn around,

Take a stroll

Into the sun

Into the wilderness

Where you belong.

Your only home.


How you’ve been led astray.

Such happens as we age.

One breath:

Inhale exhale.

Take it easy.

Take it as it comes.

Between a Rock and Hard Place

Posted: December 5, 2012 in Ripple Effect

Joseph M.


            In the summer of 2012 my family and I had quite a fright. For vacation we decide to try the mountains of Gatlinburg, Tennessee, instead of the house we regularly rent a CinnamonBeach. My mom and I had been waiting for vacation all summer. Eight year old Nicholas was extremely excited to get to the mountains; all he wanted to do was run and hike the trails. Ten year old Brian just wanted to get out of the car. My dad was arguing with the GPS, insisting he was right. We finally arrived, and everyone was ecstatic. While we were there we rented a cabin up even higher in the mountains. On our last day in Tennessee, we visited a state park with a freshwater creek running through it. After lunch, we decided to take a walk along it. 

My brother Brian and I were told we could walk ahead of our mom and dad. After about ten minutes, my other brother, Nicholas, started running toward us. He began shouting “MOM SAYS WE ALL NEED TO COME BACK TO THE …” his eyes filled with fear as his legs and arms frantically swung through the air. As he fell his legs straddled the rock and his head flew forward and hit a jagged rock. He immediately started crying; Brian and I exchanged glances and then moved forward toward Nicholas quickly. However we did not too quickly; we didn’t want to suffer the same incident Nicholas had just encountered.

When we got our brother we saw tears mixed with blood running down his right cheek. I automatically picked him up and held my shirt against the gash along his eyebrow. Nick looked up at me and between his tears mumbled, “Am I going to die?” I replied “No.” It was a bad wound, and it would probably need stiches, but it was far from fatal. The next words that came from his mouth struck fear into my body, and made me question my previous response.  “But I can’t see,” he uttered.

I felt like my heart was in my throat.  Nick said, “Your t-shirt is blocking my eyes!” I had never been more relieved in my life.  Four words scared me half to death, and six more made me breathe the biggest sigh of relief on record.  We finally reached my parents, they were comforting but strict. We all headed to the nearest hospital, thirty-five minutes away.

Nicholas was still bleeding profusely as my mom was applying pressure to the wound.  Nick continued to cry, not only because of his gash, but because of the idea that stiches kept him in hysterics.  I made sure the GPS was taking us the right way by checking the road signs and map.  We parked at the ER at two-twenty five PM.  The waiting room was almost half full, as we signed in and tried to comfort Nick.

When we left at seven forty five PM, Nick had a patch of medical sealing glue and three bandages across the right side of his forehead, while my father held an important looking paper with a large number preceded by a dollar sign on it.  We left the hospital and Tennessee, sad we missed out on our last day of vacation, but happy that everyone was now well and safe


How I Met My Best Friend

Posted: December 5, 2012 in Ripple Effect

Ema O.


Most people meet their best friends in kindergarten, or even preschool, but I met my best friend the day I was born. Her name is Marta. She has thick curly hair, and she’s Hispanic, like me. She has my brown eyes, but I am an inch taller than her. She is two years older than me. We’ve been through everything together, from good to bad, happy to sad. My mother told me that when I was born, Marta counted all ten of my fingers and all my toes; just to make sure I was perfectly healthy. I don’t remember much from the early years, but I know Marta was with me the whole time.

When I was three, Marta was rolling me on a laundry basket with wheels. Whipping around corners, the wheel bumped off the tile and tipped forward. I smacked my head on the corner and had to get four stitches. While I was getting my stitches, and screaming that I wanted to “go home NOW”, Marta was lying under a chair pretending she was fixing a car. Looking back, she remembers that it was because she didn’t want to see the needles. She hates needles. She was there again when I broke my arm. She was seven, I was five. She heard me hit the ground and came running out. She made sure all the adults knew I was hurt, calling to my mother that “her nose is bleeding!” She sat with me and held my unhurt hand while I was getting arm re-set and even had a song that she sang the whole time. “Ema is the bravest, she is so brave.” Marta always makes me feel better when I was hurt.

For as long as I can remember, we’ve played sports together. I can recall years of soccer, sweaty cotton socks and ‘Kangaroo Kickers’. These days we both run on the varsity cross country and track team. It is great to be able to be on a team with her, and it definitely brings us closer together. Our captain, from last year, told us that we were running together too much, and that our running was attached. Whenever she was hurt, I was hurt, and when she ran well, so did I. Now I still play soccer, but Marta quit that a long time ago. She never really liked it. Even though I can’t have her on the field with me, I know that she’ll be out in the stands, cheering, even if she doesn’t want to.

Music is a huge part of my life; all the people in my family play instruments. I play the mandolin in a bluegrass band and, coincidentally, Marta is in the band as well. We both sing. We lean on each other for support because we are the only girls, and the boys don’t give us much say. Our band does performances outside of school, my favorite of which is Florida Folk Festival. Between camping and swimming in the river, it’s just an overall good time. Camping with her just adds to the ever –growing number of hours we log sleeping in the same house.

Marta is the person I talk to late at night, when I can’t sleep. She is my best friend, and I can tell her anything. When something happens to me, the first person I want to tell is Marta. When we were little I used to be a charismatic little charmer, and Marta was really shy. I brought her out of her shell and she simultaneously knocked me down a few notches. Our mother always said that siblings were made for each other, and Marta was made for me.

Posted: December 5, 2012 in Ripple Effect

Aurora Y.


I make up stories,

For me, not for you

They come to me

They shout with glee

They rumble and tumble

Cascade through my mind

They make me smile

Most characters kind

Some live in the shadows

I like them the best

Others thrive with light

They show far too much

Too much of me

I like my façade

That I’m cool and dark

That I don’t like the light

It’s entirely untrue

The sun is my friend

At least sometimes

But they don’t need to know

I hate talking

That’s why