First Place Winner

Second PlACE WINNER

Dust
Kayla Cohen

Sweeping your pinky around the dust of that mahogany chest
would be like trying to harness pepper in the sky;
like trying to harness butterflies swooping into the deep folds of
your lungs;
like trying to touch what’s between the grooves in your skin.
Your drawer,
holding vintage memories,
is a vintage memory itself,
a memento-- a world-- pulsed back to life until the dust resettles.
When you forget about it (again), remind yourself to:
be anthracite.
Simmer slow. Fuel your spirit. Turn into flaming coals. Glow.
be the citrus skin around the fruit of your thoughts. Cling to the
fingernails of others, imprint yourself in their memory.
Try puffing the air with orange citrus long after
your flesh is gone and your body returns
to the inflamed fields
as dust.

Third PLACE WINNER

Morning coffee
zahava ghoori

Ordinary life is
the affair
we take least
notice of

We don’t notice
the slow process of
getting out of bed,
making our
crack-of-dawn coffee,
running to catch the bus,
the good-morning and nights
said to all
the people
who took upon themselves
the supporting roles
in our lives.

We have to notice
that the regular patterns
are what make our
lives spectacular.

the tree that didn't topple
Hadassah Sunitsky

The throng of oaks stands tall
In the lovely summer sun
Each no different from the next
Among fragile cherry seedlings

Then a drizzle spatters the ground
And a breeze makes the oaks’ leaves retreat
Only a few remain upright
Over the delicate pink blossoms

Now angry rain begins to beat
And they all shrink back in unison
To protect their helpless branches
From the evil tempest of wind
While the feeble saplings shiver

But one plain brown tree doesn’t budge
And when the gust of wind blows strongest
It plants its roots firmly in the ground
And refuses to move
For the sake of the little cherries

And even as the thunder cracks
And angry lightning strikes down oaks
The brave tree stands firm and strong
Even though it might perish next

And it will stand there for all of time
Quite the same, just a plain brown oak
With a secret strength in its roots

The one that withstood howls of wind
While the others drew back
The one that chose not to join the storm
And stretched its leaves to protect its fruit
When the wind showed no mercy

the contract
chana leah backman

I should have read the contract
The one that would have said
That this wouldn’t last forever
That heavy backpacks and textbook-filled arms
Would be the best time of our lives
We didn’t know then
That we wouldn’t remember the tests and quizzes
But only
Hanging out before class, frantically copying homework
The loud, echoing lunchroom, filled with hungry students
Sitting with your best friends 
You may have paused and looked round
Stopping the world on its axis
For just a brief moment
before it was gone
But you may have not
Stopped to think
About walking home from school, friend by your side, spring in your step
But one day
You will
It will be the day
That you pack up your papers
And gather the books that had somehow spread throughout the school
You would pass, one last time, through the rooms that were once your home
You will climb the staircase where you once fell, past the wall where you once doodled
Through the hallway you, in a fit of rebellion, rollerbladed through
You will exit the doors, the ones you passed through
Every morning
And every afternoon
(And a few times in between)
You told yourself
In the beginning
That you would never be sad to see it go
To turn your back 
and walk away
But on that day 
The day where you say goodbye
And promise to keep in touch (a hopeful sort of lie)
It might take a week
or a month
But when you realize how much of yourself
You built behind those stone walls
You can’t help
But want
​To start again 

a universal truth 
molly kavanaugh

The world is hollow.
The sky is empty.
Sounds echo within
This extravagant shell
Before escaping Into nothingness.
                  No, that’s not true.
                  The sky is full of light.
But mostly darkness;
A world of shadows.
                   Shadows are proof of light.
                   Don't you see?
No I don't
And that's my point.
                    Look at the rising sun,
                    So exuberant!
Can't you see its wrath?
Just watch the raging sun!
                    Look at the shining moon
                    As it winks farewell.
Yes! Goodbye! Adieu!
Good riddance, fearful moon!
                     Look at the aiding stars
                     Lending their patient glimmer.
Weak and insecure!
​Not one can stand on its own.
                      We are talking of
                     Sun and moon and stars,
                     Not you.

                     You say the world is hollow,
                     But how can that be true,
                     When you know for a fact
                     That it is at least
                     Filled to the brim
                     With me and you?

midnight euphoria 
tamar plotzker

Drunk on a gallon of coffee
And the sight of eternal starry night
Complete with yourself
Empty of resentment
Your lot is your lot
So it goes
Contentment
So full
that in order to empty yourself you take a walk down a path
Illuminated by the evaporating rains of yesterday
Reflecting the sky and it's secrets
The streetlights
Your dreams
And your shadows
And the shadow of the stranger
Whose rhythm matches yours
Who’s exactly like you
But empty
A decreased shadow bent over in the moonlight
A select variety of euphoria
Complete enough to let go without an ounce of regret
Attempting to fill the empty soul with the heavens
But the soul clings to heaven and refuses to be satiated with the sky:
a mere representation of heaven-
the tangible heaven
So the two of you lie down on the cold steel track
Midnight euphoria is lethal beauty
So it goes

Conquistador in a Blue pickup truck
Chaya Sara Oppenheim

I wish I could tell you
a different story
about the boy
who would sit on the back
of the blue pickup truck
when his dad would come
to mow the lawn.
He would rub pieces of gravel
from the driveway
together,
making a terrible, squealing noise
until we told Mom to tell him to stop.
He would dangle his dark legs
over the side of the pickup truck
and bite his fingernails.
We called him Dandelion
for no particular reason,
except that we found the name really funny;
so funny, that when his dad was finished trimming the hedges
you would call out,
Rrrrrapido, Dandelion!,
because that was the only word you knewin Spanish.
Your face would twist
when you shouted this from the swing set,
in that awful way
that an Anglo-Saxon’s face twists
when he thinks he's better.
But if I would tell you
that his eyelashes are
what middle-aged women would die for,
framing black eyes
that have seen the furthest constellations,
or that if he would whisper Spanish
in your ear, you would shiver.
He used to own an empire,
and silver,
               and silver,
                                 and gold.
When he would return to Madrid,
maidens would toss flowers at his feet
while the pounding of  bulls’ hooves
in the stadiums
echoed the brass trumpets
in the streets
celebrating his arrival.
He could make the matador’s crimson cape
wave more wildly
than the pink and white
streamers on your tricycle
when you ride fast
downhill
in the wind.
The boy on the back
of the blue pickup truck
is a prince
exiled to a land
where an Inquisition
has cursed him so that no one
will recognize him
and will see him-
just as a boy
who would sit on the back
of the blue pickup truck
when his dad would come
to mow the lawn.

the SILENCE
YOCHEVED HESS

Anxiety isn't what finally breaks you
Nor the hours you spend sobbing in your bedroom
With the door locked
Feeling like it’s you against the world
It's not the depression that creeps up on you 2:00 AM
Leaving you feeling helpless hopeless defeated
Like nothing will ever get better
Don't be mistaken
The pain it brings drives you right to the very edge
But only to the edge
Never over
What finally pushes you over the edge is the silence
The silence at 3:00 AM
After the anxiety has settled into its temporary slumber
And the waves of emptiness from hours of crying wash over you
Pulling you out to a sea of endless nothingness
And the icy burn of loneliness depression has imprinted on you
Starts to leave you numb
When all you want to do is cry for help
But all that word does is choke up your throat
And all that you can muster is a weak "I'm Fine"
Using all your strength to hold back the tears threatening to spill from your eyes
Wishing someone would look at you
Not your mask
But no one seems to notice or if they do they just don't care
That's when you break
You don't cry because you’re weak
You cry because you've been strong for too long

the Desert
Hannah Waide

In the daytime the desert holds a stifling atmosphere.
In the night it’s cold.
I like the heat, and I like the cold.
But what I really love is the afternoon.

Most say the desert is dead –
full with bones of long-decayed animals.
I think the desert is more alive than most people I know.
If you stand real quiet and real still-like,
         you can feel it.
    The thumping heart of the desert.
It calls to the birds to spread their wings and soar.
It calls to the mice to scamper off and explore.
It calls to me – to disappear in its grasp and never come back.
    I think one day I might answer that call.
So if one day I never come back – don’t worry.
​    I’ve become one with the desert.

The Minds of Generations
Esther MEHLMAn

If life demanded of me nothing, 
I’d build a perennial fortress
Stack my pillows just right.
Get comfortable,
Too comfortable.
I'll rise, nevermore!

Diving into the wreck of my archives
Of an unseen world,
Into a swimming sea of words and wisdom
I hold my breath till my lungs give way. 
But the center cannot hold. 
 
All sorts of idiocy, 
They beckon me with outrageous requests. 
“Kid, you’ll move mountains!!”    
Do this, do that, with muchness.   
If it were up to me,
The only place I’d go would be right here.
But it isn’t.          

So I tear down my fortress  
Feather by feather, 
Leaf by leaf
and back I go 
Into the bitter sky
which we call our home 

I’ve read that words are lovely, dark and deep, 
And I have promises to keep, 
And miles to go before I sleep, 
But pages must turn so I can reap 
The minds of all generations.

the art of the read
yocheved goldberg

When my heart feels like strings, forever being tightenedWhen I feel like those strings are being strummed by a hand none too gentle
I can open a book
Thereby open a door
Then I'm not on solid ground for long
That's when I fall through a porthole
To a faraway land    
As my eyes race across the pages 
Their thirst cannot be quenched
As an adventurous thrill runs down my spine
I'm a mirror reflecting the characters
It's as if I'm invisible as I whisper into their ears 
But alas, they are deaf, closed to hear
I am them for these moments
So precious and few
Which fly by too fast
Slipping through my fingers, quick as sand
And when the last page is read
I fall through velvety darkness
Landing with a thud on reality
When I try to retrace my steps
I find it cannot be done
The heart that smiled 
The heart that wept
To the same story with the same characters
Cannot quite weep but can smile again
An alternate world exists in the pages
Anyone can obtain the key
​By losing themselves in the art of the read.

the afraid
Allison gellerstein

I am among the afraid
who, when standing on a mountaintop
Get tangled in a predicament, between a rock and a hard place,
to look up and out at the vast sky or to gaze down below at the height
I am among the afraid
who do not take the imposing risk head on or experience the subsequent adventure
No, the calculated risk is enough chance for the fearful
So there is no thrill of jumping off the cliff and either soaring through the sky or plummeting down below
Instead I am satisfied by the minor victories
Because I am among the afraid

Sleep escapes me
chavi kagan

I’ve always been told
Count sheep
But me
I think of calm ocean waves
As I drift
Off to sleep.