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Thanksgiving Week

8 May

I thank god for:
My mom and dad,
My brothers and sisters,
My new holiday clothing,
My lavish Thanksgiving dinner that lies in front of me,
And the day off from school.

But it’s Friday now,
And oh dear god!
My mother and father are nagging me,
My brothers and sisters are bothering me,
There is a plethora of new clothing that I need to purchase,
I think we should to go out for a Black Friday dinner,
And I don’t want to go back to school again.

I think I will stay home this Monday.
Because, you see, there are some things that I still need to buy.

~ Submitted by Matti Fuld

Tears begin to pour,

8 May

Yet I make no sound,
I will to scream, yell,
and crush the world,

in my small hands,

Yet I stand there, silently,
scared someone may hear me,
weeping, like a little girl,

I feel as though everything is gone,
and I am alone,
the last to survive,
Yet people walk by, casually,
as though nothing has happened,

I bravely leave my hiding place,

checking if anyone is near,

I quickly wash my face,
tears gone, make-up reapplied,
I look as any other girl in the street,
I look like everyone else,

I open the door to the world,
Surprised to see nothing has changed,
the sun still shines, brighter than ever,
people chatting, cars speeding by,

It finally hits me,
the world cries to it’s own problems,
and my issues,
they’re just another candy wrapper,
in a gutter,

forgotten, and nowhere to be seen

~ Submitted by Neta Chizhik

The Everything Poem

4 Oct

Rain and shine,

Day and night,

Anger and hope,

Thick and thin,

 

I don’t even know,

where to begin.

 

Chap stick, toothpaste,

chocolate, flowers,

sleep, monsters,

spiders and bears.

 

Silly snakes slither and slide,

grilled, boiled, cooked, and fried.

 

All your thoughts, emotions, feelings,

falling down like orange peelings.

 

Pen, paper,

cupcakes, jeans,

gym, sneakers,

dolphins and dogs.

 

Just this way,

around the bend,

this is it,

this is the end.

 

~ Sara Buklan

The Needed Enemy

7 Jul

In a still black room, filled with the soft breathing of two sisters

Each sleeping in a soothing, unhurried, utopia,

With lids innocently closed and creases smoothed,

A vibrant enemy reigns.

 

 

It slithers through the darkness.

Then with the burst of banging metals

My stomach crumbles into

A pile of old autumn leaves.

 

 

My lids stay sealed, shading the dazzling glow

As groans reach my ears; a body flips over.

Lazily a finger triumphs over the foe

And I awake into a world where the lack of sleep cannot be forgotten.

 

~ Frumi Cohn

MY Shoes

20 Jun

This poem was inspired by a different poem I wrote while at the USHMM in Washington, DC. In the museum, there is a room with a pathway down the middle. On each side is a pile of shoes taken from people as they arrived at concentration camps. This was inspired by my journey through that room.

 

Shoes

 

At the top of the pile-

MY shoes.

Little black flats with little leather caps

On the toes. Just like mine.

 

They must have gleamed like stars at midnight

When she slipped them on her feet

In the store.

Mine did.

She must have twirled, a dancer with

Tip-toes extended, catching the light

In the mirror.

I did.

Their little leather tips must have twinkled

In the sun, wet with rain, black in night

On her journeys—

                             —til the last—

 

“Take off your pretty shoes, my dear;

Put them here, together, so they don’t get lost-

                                                                           -for later.”


My shoes feel strange on my feet.

 

 

~ Chani Grossman

2/14/13

21 May

Old, new. Stop, go.
Turn here, turn around
What used to matter before
Is dead. Buried in the ground.
Beauty, pain. Colour, stone.
Buses intertwine with cars
Count to three and it’s gone
You’ve forgotten who you are
Stop, then continue to go
Start from the start
Intertwine the new and the old
To repair your broken heart.

 

~ Anna Shapiro

Broken Windows

25 Apr

Broken windows in the dark–
Torn apart by lusty needs.

Does the pagan thirst succeed–
Or does it crumble into a used up heap?
Does it glisten like the sun–
Tempting those who have not won?

Where do these dead men go–
On the shores of milky bays,
Or do they scurry through lonely ways?

What becomes of the sharpened knives?
Are they thrown or do they die?

Where does this vicious cycle end–
In a friendly fire or a peaceful land?

~ Ariana Spalter

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