Twelfth Grade Poetry
Elisheva Wolff
Feeling of Love
That feeling
that you can’t describe.
When someone asks you
“How was your day?”
When you’re appreciated.
When you feel like you’re meant to be here.
It’s almost like you are floating
in happiness
in positivity
in affection
in bliss.
It’s powerful,
cool and quiet,
burns a roaring warmth
that fills you and puts a bright smile on your face.
This feeling
of love
erases those hateful scars
engraved painfully upon your heart.
Collaboration 12.4
What is Hate?
Hate is loving someone,
but not wanting to accept it.
Love is hating that
you didn't accept it sooner.
Aliza Shloush
How is it that?
How is it that
hate is so strong and heavy,
but letting go of it
makes you
so
much
stronger?
Fanni Melninchenko
We Are Not Alone
When we reach out to others,
When we smile,
When we help each other,
When we share with each other.
When we all hum the same tune,
When we sing the same song,
in prayer, in joy, and in pain.
When we share a common goal,
When we connect in the smallest ways we can,
When we look at our similarities
rather than our differences.
That’s when we understand
that apart
doesn’t mean alone.
Collaboration 12.3
Shine a Light
The only way that we can ever
Fight and banish
the darkness
of intense pain.
Of fear.
Of hopelessness.
Of emptiness.
Of apathy.
Of sorrow.
Of loneliness.
Is when we shine the light of
Hope.
A smile.
Courage.
Prayer.
Love.
Companionship.
Humor.
Connections.
Friendship.
Laughter.
Optimism.
Joy.
We fight the darkness of today
with the light of tomorrow.
Collaboration 12.3
How to Fight Hate
Hate is
a single text.
Rejection.
A flaw.
Discomfort.
Goodbye.
The end.
Darkness.
Dark, black
destruction
But we fight.
With a phone call.
With hello.
With light.
With connection.
With comfort.
With what you’re loved for.
With acceptance.
Love is rebuilding.
Yellow, beautiful
Perfection.
Collaboration 12.3
Isolation
Sitting alone in my apartment,
Wondering how long this will last.
If only I had someone to keep me company.
I wish I’d found a husband in my past.
Everyone with kids are complaining,
Not knowing how to keep them occupied.
I wish I had kids of my own,
So I could comfort them when they cried.
Quarantine is hard for everyone,
But especially for people who live alone.
It was the strangest Seder I’ve ever had,
I wish I was with my extended family, and had seen how much they’d all grown.
Chana Acobas
Today I Feel Lucky
We are one of the lucky ones.
We do not have to be alone.
We keep each other company.
We are one of the lucky ones.
Some people are not as lucky.
Some people live alone.
Some people don’t have others for company,
Some people are not as lucky.
I am grateful that I am lucky.
I am grateful that I do not live alone.
I am grateful for my siblings who keep me company.
I am grateful that I am lucky, during this time of quarantine.
Bracha Bayla Erlbaum
8230
If one finds themselves
Walking along a beach
In South End England,
They might pass a man,
An old man,
Tattooed in wrinkles lining his face,
But underneath his worn-out skin
Rests his heart,
The biggest heart I’ve ever learned of.
And if one were to discover
This man’s story,
They would be in shock
That his heart could be so big.
You see,
This man’s boyhood
Was ripped away from him.
Instead spent in a camp from hell
Surrounded by barbed wires
Consumed in a gut-wrenching stench,
The stench of his father and mother.
Just fifteen years of age,
He stood on line
To get a number tattooed on his arm,
A number which was intended
To drain the last trace of humanity from him,
But instead
With each number etched onto his skin
He was given a new life.
A new meaning to life.
8 2 3 0
Were the numbers engraved onto his arm,
A number,
When added according to Hebrew grammar,
Equaled to
אהבה.
Love.
And although one cannot fathom how,
This is the message that this man carries.
The message he yearned to exemplify when he was in the camps
And the message that he wears on his clothing today.
He is a man of love.
He loves each person
Because they are a person.
He is love.
And yet If one finds themselves
Walking along a beach
In South End England,
They might pass a man,
Leslie Kleinman,
And they would never know
Of his incredible gift.
Anonymous
Beginning and End
Hate is the end.
Love is just the beginning.
Anonymous
Wall of Separation
There is a wall in front of me.
I can't seem to get past it
It is this heavy brick wall that is separating me from everyone else.
Pound, pound, pound.
I keep pounding but can't seem to break through.
This wall is isolating, can't get past it.
Why am I stuck here?
Where is everybody?
With a last glimpse of hope I push.
One brick opens.
There are people waiting behind the wall.
I keep on pushing and the wall collapses.
More people rushing in to greet me,
There is no more wall of separation.
Shifra Weiss
House Without Light
There is someone in her house alone.
In the house, there is a very sad tone.
Comes Night.
There is still no one in Sight.
Where can she find the light?
She knows to find the light here would be right.
In the morning she opens her window to the outside air.
The shining sun and blooming flowers in her eyes are a great pair.
She hears the chirping birds, sees some people walking by.
She no longer feels so alone and lets out a happy sigh.
She realizes there are so many people in the same situation and then no longer feels alone.
In the house, there is now a very happy tone.
Eleora Fine
Accepting Diversity
Judgement
Too many races.
Too many nationalities.
Too many gaps.
Too many languages.
Too many cultures.
Too many differences.
Yet if we open our eyes,
We will be awakened to the positive reality.
Acceptance
So many differences.
So many new experiences.
So many people to learn from.
So many skills.
So many talents.
So many lessons to learn.
Celia Shaoul
Aliza Eidlisz
Paint
Night to Day
Waking up to rainy storms,
This whistling, endless tunnel
Groping blindly with no hand to grab
Falling into a deep, sad void.
Silence.
You are stuck.
What is this darkness?
When the light has gone out completely and it feels like there is no hope?
Is it fear of the unknown?
Is it hatred displayed from one race to another?
Is it the not knowing?
Feeling useless?
Feeling empty and alone?
Is it sadness?
But the morning is slowly rising,
crawling out and getting back up again.
Fighting the darkness
with the light of
happiness.
Of the bravery we have to conquer our fears.
The light of
learning.
Of love.
Of life, laughter, acceptance.
And of peace.
Collaborative 12.4
Debbie Glass
Debbie Glass
Strike the Match
Darkness.
These walls suffocate me in a fogged embrace.
Footsteps.
We clasp hands over dry lips, trying to suppress cries.
A light,
Yet it burns our eyes, our enemies have found us.
Captive.
I am thrown onto a train.
Separated from those whom I knew, whom I loved.
They took my hair, my body, my life,
And six million more.
There is a storm in this world,
A storm created with Adam and Eve.
It is a storm of hatred.
For years we have hated others, we have been hated,
It is a storm of pouring tears, gusts of windy screams,
Thunderous cries, whirlwinds of blood.
This storm covers the sun, rips the light from our eyes.
Yet we light a fire,
We strike the match, a flame of hope erupts.
But it flickers, the storm blows it away.
No matter how many flames are lit,
just a breeze from the storm, just a drop of rain, will extinguish.
There is only one way to keep the light.
We must unite.
Not through ideas, not by faith,
But with hands.
We must clasp each other’s hands.
White hands, black hands, fresh and worn.
Hands that have been buried, hands that are yet to exist.
We must cling to each other with all we have, with all we don’t have,
Will all that has been taken from us and with all that we are yet to receive.
And only once those hands, all the hands of the universe unite,
A barricade shall be made.
The storm will come for us.
Darkness.
Yet the wall prevents its fogged embrace.
Hands hold on tighter.
A light,
It burns our eyes, yet our hearts are warmed.
Just a small flame.
Just one strike of a match,
Without the evil storm.
Will provide light for all,
And the fire will spread.
Tehilla Bitton
I Am 8 Years Old
I am 8 years old.
Normality is bliss.
Blonde pigtails, pink dresses, friendship necklaces,
Bubbles drifting lazily through the sky,
From the whispers of our lips.
Born to live which we truly were.
I am 13 years old,
Transitions galore.
First entering the building, tiptoeing on the high school floors,
Light-headed on my feet,
Blurry vision flicking from my lashes.
And yet still born to live.
I am 16 years old.
Something is wrong.
Vertigo, shaking, collapsing on floors.
Mother's concerning eyes, father's raised brows.
Was I born wrong?
18 years old.
White.
From the walls to the bed, to the blaze blocking my sight.
Trading blonde pigtails for a smooth crown,
Pink dresses for hospital gowns.
I have a clear necklace, one that goes through my neck.
Born to survive which I truly wasn’t.
I am 20 years old.
Motionless, lying in my bed.
I think,
Feeling nothing, hearing nothing,
My sight remains.
A beautiful blessing, yet a horrific curse.
For I see my little sister's tears, but I can do nothing but scream in my head.
Born to die.
21 years old.
I met my best friend today,
A little girl adorned with a white paper gown and blonde pigtails.
How long they will remain is unrevealed
Sitting close, arm to arm, eye to eye,
Telling her how she will not just survive, but live.
Eye to eye, my smile birthing hers,
Born to make smiles, born to give light,
Born to tell my story.
Amalya Teitelbaum