Creative. Stubborn. Those are the words that describe Kestrel when she makes food. She makes the food from her mind. No help. Never recipes. Sometimes the food is yummy, like a plump juicy tomato coated in a thick covering of butter, cheese, and salt. Sometimes however, it turns out bad. And I mean really bad. Like the time she made banana toothpaste. I yawned and stretched my arms as I wandered downstairs in the morning. I was hoping for a bowl of sweet cereal and cool milk. When I came down there was no cereal. There was instead a sheet of mashed up bananas. Above the mush was Kestrel, happily adding a white powder that could be salt, sugar, or crushed up altoids. There was no way to tell. When I asked her what it was, she said “Banana toothpaste”. I stuck out my tongue at her, making my eyebrows into little arches, and walked away. Another time, I asked Kestrel why she never uses recipes. Her answer was “I like to create”. I wonder who she will turn out to be. Sometimes I see her watching her shows and I worry. I want her to be her own person. And then I remember the toothpaste. “Banana toothpaste. Banana toothpaste.” She’ll be okay. No, she’ll be amazing. My little sis and her banana toothpaste.

I am from chalked up climbing shoes
From pens and sneakers
I am from the chipping game cabinet that is exhausted from use
I am from the invasive red prickly bush
The towering evergreen tree whose long gone limbs I remember as if they were my own.
I’m from hannukahs and christmases
From Jack and from Jill
I’m from wannabe mothers and repetitive dad jokes and
From saying i love you every night
I’m from take a chill pill and **** it up cupcake
And every little thing is gonna be alright
I’m from long walks in the mountains
And Westchester county
I’m from Ashkenazi jews
And smoked meat and boca burgers
From the tendon my father snapped with an axe
And the wheat my sister coughed up
I’m from talking and good humor
From unconditional love and support

On my shelf is a box brimming with letters
Of the memories I hold closest
To my heart
My conscience
And my happiness

I lie here-restless
Reflecting and Collecting,
Late into the night

The constant chatter,
Patter patter, is beating
At my ears, calming

Climbing is calling,
I’m scared of falling. But push
On I must. Don’t fall…
                                                                                                                                                            
The big lake shimmers-
My dog jumps to catch the stick,                                                                                                                                                          
Water sound permeates

My friends are laughing.
Mouths wide open, spitting food                                                                                                                          All over...  at lunch

Sorry, I have no idea. I like to talk about myself. Too much. The good, the bad, the everything. I answer my own questions, I interrupt people. I take over the breakfast conversation with my words.  I take over the lunch conversation with my words. At least my family has dinner to express their… wait that’s me too. I reveal myself to people, so I feel vulnerable. I sink into my own thoughts, but out loud. But sinking can be digging too. I dig in to myself, learning, creating. I express who I am. Who I will become.

There are
Choices to make,
Chances to take,
Pieces that quake,
And pieces that break.

But we all have struggles

All stomachs ache,
All families flake,
All friendships shake,
And all dreams are at stake.

When life feels hopeless, we cry together.
When life feels awesome, we fly together
We sigh together
We lie together
We defy together
We try together
And most of all, we are tied together
So when life throws us down, let’s take it together

You are the noisy cuckoo bird,
The mother duck who guides her ducklings across the street.
You are the vast oceans and the waters,
And the fearless sky at early light.
You are the rubix cube on the kitchen counter,
And the chandelier swinging from the cracked old ceiling.

However you are not the silent chatter of the trees,
The elephant’s ear
Or the potters clay
And you are certainly not the overused sandpaper.
There is just no way that you are the overused sandpaper.

It is possible that you are the blind woman’s painting,
Maybe even the newborn puppy struggling to walk,
But you are not even close to being the dam holding back the water.

And a quick chat with anyone who knows you will prove
That you are neither the field of daisies,
Or the deep, restful marsh.

It might interest you to know that I am the taste of lemonade on a hot summer day.
I also happen to be the snowflake that doesn’t melt,
The little green sapling,
And the hammer and nail.

I am also the kangaroo with my little joey,
And the letter in the bottle.
But don’t worry, I’m not the noisy cuckoo bird.
You are still the noisy cuckoo bird.
You will always be the noisy cuckoo bird.
Not to mention the mother duck and--somehow-- her ducklings.

My Nana’s last year
Floating high in the sky,
You look unstoppable.
You could make a young girl cry,
If you were poppable.

A bright red balloon,
You’re not predictable or certain
Yet you’re always quite immune,
To the things beyond the curtain.

I love it when you fly,
But fear the destined crash.
I hate to say goodbye,
To the times you had a blast.

When the time comes and you pop
With pieces strewn about
I’ll remember how you never stopped
Loving us, no doubt

The past of my mother is non-existant in my name. Although, she is half of me. She birthed me. She feeds me. She provides for me. She understands me. She listens to me. She hugs me. She loves me. But her name is not in mine. My father’s name is in mine. That’s good. He cooks for me. He works hard for me. He advises me. He helps me. He waits with me. He supports me. He loves me. He deserves to have part of my name. But so does my mom. And she can’t have it. Just because she is a woman.

You were my source of tears in life,
But also smiles and dreams.
Oh how I love all six inches of you,
The way you crack and bend my toes,
Feels awful, but upbringing.
I’ve since sought shoes as painful as you,
But never will they come.
For you were the dark in the light of the day,
Always bringing me down and making me suffer.
You taught me what adversity feels like and how to crawl through it,
For when I put my toes in you, all I could do was crawl.
I never could stand in you,
For my legs would crumble beneath me.
But somehow I learned
To climb,
To push back my tears and fear.
I could not bear it when I lost you,
despite what you put me through.


For you were the broccoli to my mac and cheese,
The pickle to my ice cream.
You made me strong through through pain and anticipation.
Sometimes in life things grow apart,
Like the soft rubber you are made up of.
Too close we were pushed together,
So we had no choice but to part.
I had to replace you with something new,
A full size bigger and cleaner.
But these new shoes will never be like you were,
Despite how much comfort they bring me.
They are close to my feet in the perfect way,
But still, you were nearer.
I wish I could explain how much I thought about you,
Or at least the pain that coursed through me.

Now while I mourn the loss of you,
I smile in spite of myself.
I can finally, finally-
Stand up tall,
And hold my body on the wall

My skin is like sand in Hawaii.
Completely white.
Not in a good way.
From afar I could blend in with the whiteboard.
There is no color,
Accept when I run.
When I run, my whole face flushes with an ugly shade of red

My skin is so white that all the other features of me are hidden,
My hair that streams down my back, detailed, shiny,
Unnoticed.
My eyes that sparkle in the sunlight, thoughtful, unique,
Unnoticed.
The freckles that stretch across my face, powerful, plentifull
Unnoticed.

The power line outside my window is like me in so many ways.
It is long, but skinny.
Just like me.
The energy, it courses through it and explodes at random moments
Just like me.
It has great potential, but it is confined.
Just like me.

The energy in the powerline is not like me.
It always chooses the simple path, the easy one.
But I like to challenge myself.
It always chooses the path closest to the ground.
But I am a climber.
It has a chosen destination. It knows where it is going.
But I don’t.

I have no idea where my life will lead.

Outside my window I hear planes. They buzz by all night. All day. They are like busy bees, but instead of helping the world they hurt it. Sometimes I like to  watch them as I fall asleep. Two seconds it takes for the plane to disappear and reappear in the next window of my room. One...two...plane. One...two...plane. One...two...no plane. Where is the plane? Three… Did it crash? Four… Did it explode? Five… Are the people okay? Six… My head starts to spin. Like an out of control top, about to spin of the table. Seven... But right before it does, there it is, that plane. Seven seconds later. The fog of Seattle is scary, it hides things. So is change. Scary I mean. When two seconds change to seven, all my thoughts pause for a moment.

I am guilty.
I cry for nothing
  Scream for minutia
    Fight for me.
Yet I do not fight for freedom
I do not fight for others
  I fight for me.
I am guilty.
I am done with being this way.
   Done with being imbecile
      Done with being ignorant.
Some know this about themselves
Yet they do not try
   They are imbecile
      Ignorant
They don’t try


But I will

I am the daughter of the wind.
Zephyr is my name.
Fierce and unwavering,
But in some ways, still.

I am a Racoon.
Wise and thoughtful but keeps her virtues hidden beneath a strange black mask.
My hair is like leaves in autumn: golden, soft.

My personality is unlike my hair:
Not soft, nor meek.
Loud and stormy.
Like the wind, once again.

My father is the master of the wind.
Strong, yet possesses a flowy personality.
He has strong hands and strong arms that shield me from reality.
But I like it.
His heart is warm and cozy. I can feel it when I curl up on his lap after a long day.

My mother is a dragon.
Protects us all from everything.
But to the princesses in her heart, she is kind, and loving.
We are the princesses and feel her warmth everyday.

She is unlike my sister, who is  a mantis shrimp.
Although small, she is mighty:
punches with her beliefs, no matter how much it burns.
But not always, sometimes she is a flower.
Budding: beginning to be kind.
She is colorful: bubbling with personality and will be brilliant as well as powerful someday.
Like a phoenix who will rise from the ashes.

I will sleep tight and clean tonight.
So a shower is a must.
To wait until it’s really late, is certainly unjust.
As I step into the spray,
I think hooray,
For there is no better place to let my mind erase,
then the comfort of this place.
I will sleep tight and clean tonight.
Despite the long days way.
I hear  the soft tinker- tinker
of the showers cooling swinker,
As I rub-a-dub-dub my hair
I hear  tapping on my ear, but here I do not fear,
for the power of the shower washes all the tears away.

There was once a boy who had a shield:

three fourths of his heart.

He ran around knight to night,

just trying to fight.

Not much later his heart was a traitor,

and he gave his shield to his savior.

She then used it, never abused it,

and passed it on to someone who used it.

Now I have the shield, use it to not feel,

whatever people throw back at me.

You are the edge of the universe,
The boundaries of my existence,
A place where students love to converse,
But only from a distance.

I had to write a poem,
But I didn’t know what about.
My mind was at a tipping point,
So I settled upon a pout.

I lay on the soft green blobs,
As I pondered the task at hand.
My head began to throb,
for it felt like a bag of sand.




And in my hour of darkness,
I did not wince nor cry aloud.
For then I heard a harkness,
That pushed me off the ground.

My teacher said a sound,
That made my heart abound
“The stairs that lead to nowhere”

Now that is quite a title,
I chose to use it for my poem-
The words are the most vital.

You are the edge of the universe,
The boundaries of my existence,
A place where students love to converse,
But only from a distance.

The jet black alarm clock reads “6:45” in neon green numbers. I moan and hit snooze. I feel safe in bed. Not at school. I feel safe in bed. Not at school.  I feel safe in bed. Not at school. But I have to get up. I have to start my day, I have to continue my life. I will do the same tomorrow. And the day after that. And after that. On and on until I die. With that, I sit up…


and hit snooze

We The Three
We who met
At tryouts on a cold day

We who have yet
To share triumphs in our own way

We who know fear
Will always succumb

We who share cheer
Amongst everyone

We who persist
And never do half

We who exist
With a smile and laugh.

We will never drift far apart

I don’t know where my home is. My house is where I sleep. Blankets cover me as I try to rest for the next day. But my neck aches from the long day before me and for the long day that is sure to come next. My cabin is where I play. When there is warmth, I spend my time splashing my sister in the icy water. When there is cold, I slide down the mountains on my skis with my father. But when I am there, I feel alone. My school is where I learn. For the future, for my good. At school my “friends” don’t feel like friends. But they will soon. I know. My climbing gym is where I play. There, I have friends. There, I have confidence. There, I have fun. My people is my home. Family, friends, whatever. My home is where I feel safe, my home is who I love, my home is where I’m loved.