Riding the Coaster

Life is a roller coaster
A twisty, turning run.
Exciting it is
Full of moments of fun

Though it is not always an enjoyable experience
Sometimes it goes too fast for my taste
The ride is out of control
And everything seems to fall in its haste.

In those moments, I feel that everything has crumbled
The ride is unappealing beyond repair.
These moments are the worst
And they are unfortunately not that rare .

At these times,
I have choice to make
I can either pick up the pieces and try to fix it all
Or I can cut short the ride I hate

But eventually I bounce back
The coaster goes back up
I learn that not everybody wins all the time
But eventually I will leave the failure's dump

The ride will then be enjoyable
It will reach a peak
Where I'm at the top of the world,
I think, "How could this life have ever been so bleak?"

Then the coaster goes back down,
I'm back at the bottom.
Everything repeats,
Again I climb back up the totem.

As this pattern of success and failures continue
I see the truth
Both will come, but both are beneficial.
All in all, life is a hoot

Eventually, I grow weary,
I've lost the flavor of life
I think I see the ride's end
It is my time.

I do have to leave the coaster
And let the next generation enter the ride of life
Let them experience the twists and turns
All the fun in happiness and even strife.

As for us riders,
From the previous generation?
We have gone on to the next ride in the park,
one with just as thrilling sensations.

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The Pen and its Wielder (By Alessia Collia)

 Sometimes poetry,

feels like hyperactivity,

through a pen. 

Mental distraction,

in an action,

by the pen. 

But sometimes there is structure, 

the architecture, 

engineered by the pen.  

Sometimes just releasing, 

forehead un-creasing, 

thanks to the pen. 

We try to decode it, 

unload it, 

the thinking of the pen.

Though sometimes limitation is felt,

like the tightening of a belt, 

by the mind behind the pen. 

For furiously, 

curious is the nature 

of men.  

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Warmth (Poem By: Alessia Collia)

Warmth

I wrap myself up and try to hide.

To hide, to protect, to keep, what's inside.

I go out in armour but without sword.

Akin to a dragon, I'll smoke and I'll hoard. 

I leave from my stronghold, charge into the spray.

Hoping my treasure, with me shall stay.

The blades as sharp as any dagger, arrow or mace.

Cutting and stinging as they swing by my face.

My eyes are downcast, though there is little sun. 

It seems that the battle is already won.

For now I can see through the horrible white. 

How can I just give in, give up the fight?

I try to find strength, to complete my task.

But now I can see it is too much to ask. 

Defeated, I give up and trudge back inside. 

Trying to regain what I could not hide.  

By: Alessia Collia 

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Typical Poems-Test

The Blazer 

Cinderella

Pouring silver from the wand,

the enchantment is

encircling the girl lightly

as shimmering ivory melts into the  ripped, destroyed fabric

the Caster of Spells whispers a warning

of the time that the  girl mustn't stay

disappearing into

darkness

nothingness

emptiness

without another word

Ron Duberstein
November  24th

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The Battle of the Raven (By: Jennifer Eagle)

King's sword held high,

Warriors about to die.

Horses at the head,

Knights already dead.

Electricity running through the air,

Burning like a golden flair.

Rows of thoughtless minds,

Creatures of all kinds.

Timeless tales are told of this,

A battle we dare not miss.

Arrows spinning as they fly,

People with only tears to cry.

No hope for this land;

Destroyed by a King's hand.

An eagle flies above the fight,

An ancient symbol of might.

They charged on in,

Imagine how it must have been.

Staring Death in the face,

And rushing on as if in race.

Death claimed many,

Could he have left any?

Hope started to fade,

In the growing shade.

But still one fought without battle cry,

A childish girl refusing to die.

She continued to fight on alone,

With a foundation carved of stone.

She alone fought to stay,

As autumn slowly faded away.

Such a proud and distant face,

In a filthy warring place.

Radiant smile upon her face,

Only matched by unbound grace.

Slaying with her left hand,

In a harsh and hostile land.

Right hand behind her back,

With such a strength that did not lack.

Raven hair flying about,

And hazel eyes without a doubt.

She finished the battle by herself,

A single girl in bountiful health.

It did not matter if it was over sea;

She would fight and kill for me...

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The Glass (By: Hayley McDonald)

I will not look
I will not stare
Into the glass of despair
Though I dare not look
And never will
Images haunt me still

Painted by the tongues
Of a thousand remarks
I see myself
Emerge from the dark

Blurry at first but then I see
The ugliness
That is me

In the smirks I see my hair
Twisted and beyond repair
In the laughs I see my face
Out of proportion and what a disgrace
In the whispers I see my shape
Hidden beneath clothes that drape

I will not look
I will not stare
I will save myself the despair

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this is it. (By: Anonymous)

I feel alone, not a soul can understand me.

Sometimes I want to cry,

But I have to keep pretending.

Pretending to be strong, and happy; pretending that there’s nothing’s wrong.


But this is it.


Once the winters over, everything will go back to normal.

The trees will be green again, the tulips will grow again.


I hope.


This is it; we’re almost at the end.

I can see the light, shining from under the cracks

But how?

How do I get there, without losing everything I love in the process?

I can’t.


This is it, I’m at the end.

If they could do it, so could I,

It doesn’t matter what happens.


I’ll get through this, with or without you.

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Are we so different? (By: Cheryl Joseph)

I may not think like you.

I may not act like you.

I may live halfway across the world,

In a land you may not have even heard of,

Let alone think about.

I may not think about clothes,

Or exams,

Or movies that just came out.

No.

I think about food,

And how to get some.

I think about my parents,

Who died of AIDS before I even knew them.

I think about my grandmother,

Who’s so old she can’t even care for herself anymore,

Let alone her grandchildren.

I think about my younger siblings,

And whether they will survive another year.

I may not think like you.

I may not act like you.

But am I really so different?

Do I deserve any less?

Are we really so different? Take the Vow of Silence on November 30th. Make a difference in the life of another kid or teen just like you.

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