Imagine

If I Could Imagine a World
There would be
No crime
There would be
Safety in the streets
There would be
Freedom
There would be
No reason to shed tears
People would be motivated
There would be 
No homeless person
No child without a parent
And there would be 
Equality.

By Tshulthrim  

My Nana's Memory

My Nana’s Memory is Gone

She cannot remember

She knows me

But does not remember

Making marble cheesecake

Baking ooey-gooey brownies

Resting in the relaxing waters of the hot tub

Hugging me with her warm and happy smile

I visit with hope

Hoping, praying she will remember

Nana tries but she cannot

My Nana’s Memory is Gone

But Nana’s memory lives in me

By Luke 

I Knew You Twice

Goodnight to the woman I knew twice.

I knew twice – I knew forever

I knew you once from the ghostly white hospital bed sheets,

With wires and tubes reaching for me.

I knew you twice from the dimly lit, tiny windowed room. With the smell of old potpourri and flesh clinging to my clothes. 

I knew you twice but your perfume clings to me, the chair – and the walls. The house.

I was too young – To see.

Now I see.

Your bones belong to Nature.

It is their canvas.

Your eye sockets are now flowery reminders of the pain you once saw.

Of your Son.

Your golden tooth is still there, gleaming like you took a bite from the Sun when you first met Nature.

Your arms are welcoming. Welcoming of all of Nature’s instruments to renew your body.

Tiny and frail bones are adorned with jagged designs.

Art is fleeting but it is also eternal.

Art is something that the bones of death’s past engrave into the ground and the eyes of the living dead.

Especially you.

I say good night I say good morning. Welcome home.

I knew you twice but I knew you forever.

In a tree, in a lotus, in the heavy still air that I have no business breathing.

By Tabatha, 16

Where I Come From

I come from where carolers

don’t come to my door

and where graffiti

is on every wall of the store.

I come from broken sidewalks

and go to school

where people talk the talk.

I come from where salsa is hot

and where little homies rap

to find their spot.

I go home to doors that are locked

because bullets don’t have names,

you might get shot.

I come from, “I’m goin’ to whoop your tail

‘cause you’re my son and I don’t want you to fail.”

I come from where crossovers are tight

and shout out to Bros, man, that dude is nice.

I come from happy church days

where people love the Lord

and give him praise.

I come from so you think you can dance

in my skinny jean Levi pants.

Pause, but when’s my chance?

Mama says I’m creative,

but I’m always feelin’ tense.

By Jeremiah, 13

From This Chair

Sometimes I just sit here and think. No one really cares that I do because they’re under the assumption that if I cannot get out of this blue recliner without my walker or an arm underneath my elbow, I’m not who I used to be. If I have to ask for tea, because each day those stairs get a little bit steeper, I’m undeserving. I can hear the cars that run on the highway behind the house. I remember a time when that might have been me – then it was the side roads, then it was this recliner, my purse replaced with a silver walker that’s slow to move across these carpeted floors. There wasn’t much more to take – my freedom was already gone, replaced by a room that’s always full.

But from this chair I still breathe.

Last night I dreamed that I was home again, that my TV was purring softly in the background and I was cooking in a kitchen that I’ve missed for almost three years. When I opened my eyes, you were there, wide awake, half-smile hanging off chubby cheeks and eyelids twitching excitedly. I had to grin, because regardless of your feelings toward life, they never changed toward me. Although I wanted to beg for more sleep, to squeeze my eyes shut and disappear back into my kitchen, I grabbed your arm. With my free hand, I stabilized myself on my walker and allowed you to pull me out of bed.

“Morning, Grandma,” you whispered happily, and we trudged steadily through our normal morning routine. I got my toast and my tea, and you left for school, left me holding the remote in my hand and balancing a plate on my lap. It is how I’ve been since, only getting up to use the restroom, but I want to.

I want to open the blinds and look into the world past the four unchanging white walls of this house. I want to stand on the front porch without my walker and breathe in the fresh, dewy smell of another new day. The reality of the moment is that I never will. I won’t leave this house unless it’s in an ambulance. I won’t breathe in the sweet morning air, and I won’t open the blinds. I won’t wake up in my house tomorrow surrounded by the aroma of stew I cooked myself or drink a cup of green tea from my own pot. I’ll watch the world outside from my own, inside, blinds closed tight and the glow of the TV on my face, receiving verification of life from the very same screen I have watched every day for the last three years.

When you get home, you’ll tell me about your day, and then we’ll talk about mine: the shows I watched, the books I read; and you’ll take it in with such interest that when I finish, I’ll keep going, telling the story of the one time I took a road trip to California, savoring each image as it returns to me. Even though you’ve heard it before, you’ll act like it’s your first time. Then, I’ll sigh, and I’ll close my eyes, realizing that each passing minute I’m separating myself further from my old life and delving deeper into this new one – reliving each memory, taking in each day, breathing in each breath – from this chair.

By Chance