In honor of Mothers’ Day the May “Gathering of Voices” page features two young daughter poets, 13 year old Junior High School student, Elizabeth Knoll, and 16 year old Johansen High School student, Hannah Hyden. Elizabeth’s mom, Linda, does the page layout and graphics for Stanislaus Connections.
Elizabeth Knoll is an aspiring writer and artist, currently in 8th grade at La Loma Jr. High. She loves cats, computers and anything Japanese.
Her mom, Linda, has been layout editor for Connections for several years. She is an art teacher at Waterford Middle School. Both have been involved in Girl Scouts for many years. They also have volunteered at Earth Day the last couple of years in the Sierra Club/Native Plant Society booth helping children make birdfeeders.
Grandmother, Nancy Knoll will be reading Elizabeth’s poems at the Sierra Club’s “Earthwords” program meeting in May.
I am a person who loves furry things
I wonder whether I will ever not be shy
I hear the birds and the cats and cars driving by
I see many things that are liked by me
I want to be organized and open, and really
I am a person who loves furry things.
I pretend that I am in another world
I feel soft fur and fabric under my fingers
I touch the things that give me comfort
I worry that something or someone bad will come
I cry when something I loved is gone
I am a person who loves furry things.
I understand when it is time to be silent
I say what I think, but do not always speak
I dream about things that may happen
I try to do my best when I can
I hope that someday I might be well-known
I am a person who loves furry things.
A white, whispering cloud floats by,
Colors dancing on the wings of a butterfly
And with his feathers on the wind,
A light gray bird lifts into the sky.
Clear beads of dew,
Sun shining through,
Shining through an
Endless blue.
Silver water,
Golden sun,
Ruby tulips,
Warm sky
It’s all the sign of a season –
Spring.
I am Hannah Hyden, a 17-year-old Beyer High School senior with plans to attend California State University Sonoma in the fall. I play tuba in the Beyer Wind Ensemble and varsity soccer.
My poetry is motivated through my love of language. Involvement with my Jewish community also has played a big part in influencing my poetry and my outlook on injustice, prejudice and diversity. It has always been important to my family and I to give back and help those who cannot help themselves. I have participated in service to my community through Tikkun Olam (repairing the world), participating in such activities as serving food to the homeless and gathering and wrapping gifts for children in foster care and shelters during the holiday season. Volunteering at a camp for the disabled for the past five years has proven humbling and has inspired compassion, patience and an appreciation for life.
I have walked to raise money for Darfur, worked at many events at my synagogue to raise money for special programs and created and facilitated a special evening for seniors. When I was 10, my mother and I made dinner and helped at a rehabilitation center for women. I continue each year to raise money for the disabled.
While I am only seventeen, I know that I have made an impact on people’s lives and have in some small way helped them to have a better life, and it is an honor just knowing that. Throughout my life I will continue to volunteer, aid those in need and work to balance the ever swaying world towards a safer, more compassionate and just society.
They are just boys,
Tossing bombs like marbles,
To cover the ear popping sound.
Try to rationalize out of emotion,
War is like picking a scab attempting to heal.
Friends are dwindling,
Bubbles bursting into nothingness.
Effort dies along with them.
Your government lies.
But you stay because of embarrassment,
Afraid they misjudge your intentions.
Through the thoughts, unearthly and low.
They desensitize so they remain deadened,
Cutting off a dead man’s thumb
So they don’t suck they’re own.
It is hard to decipher,
To know that everything and nothing is real.
The terror of living another day,
Anticipating the kiss of death
Everything is so foreign and new.
It’s like trying to see through steel wool.
Attempting to find a glimpse of light,
But ultimately lost forever.
Everything you once knew is askew
From dreams of becoming a secret agent,
To Agent Orange.
They chase fear
Attack the undeserving,
Plugging they’re rights with corks.
Hysteria,
Crawling through minds like a computer worm.
Torches, burning down houses.
Cruelty is not a thought,
As a burlap sack tops a head,
Leave ethics behind.
Fight with words,
They use these words to pierce the skin.
Pressed by sovereignty,
In the form of algae ridden stones,
Cut from the hair of liberty,
Hatred falls in locks.
Smile with fright,
Laugh without happiness,
Pray to the G-d they require you endorse.
Pry open the depths these pitiful lies,
Rummage through the filth and the sizzling coals.
Cut a deep hole, dig,
And bloom new life.
We find them in the holes and creeks,
Between the sheets and behind the bed.
In the cracks and crevices,
Crumbs of lies will be found;
The rats of our mind will feast,
And grow big and swarm like bees.
Piercing their stingers into minds,
Leaving behind their poisonous stains.
Stinging the innocence of our thoughts,
Swelling, and
Become ugly and blind;
And destroying the place your beliefs call home,
Allowing these lies to infest and wander.
Losing air as it starts to drown;
And as white and a lie seems,
The lie is quite a dangerous thing.
The walls and halls of these places,
Mimic the expressions on their faces.
Coarse and tattered,
Hopeless and shattered.
These eyes lack the triumph and the glory
That is so befitting with their story.
As the pastels pressed against the sheer sky,
The dams of their lungs release a cry.
Along with the luscious grass sewn to the ground,
Similarly, their hearts are bound.
Despite the majesty of their land,
They are left with only bags of sand.
This little tree so tossed by wind
Is nearly skinned, lifeless, torn.
But it stands tall, puts up a fight.
The mountains boast with all their vigor.
Births grass greener than spring itself,
And the trees that it sprouts like gaudy jewelry.
Holding fast in the aching ground like stitches,
Do not hold a candle to this tree.
As bountiful as the mountains seem…
One assumes the mountains assets,
Leave this little tree to dwell in desperation.
But do not ignore;
The tattered limbs are standing tall,
The limping branches cease to break.
And the dear old trunk is holding firm,
With the most stubborn will.
For it knows its worth;
The mountains too.
That this tree is not desolate or tragic
It matters little what the mountains flaunt
Only the strongest shall be king.
