i finally understand female rage.

The Willow Project is a multi-billion dollar oil drilling project in Alaska.
The federal government plans to release 629 million barrels of oil and produce 287 million metric tons of CO2.
This project is extremely harmful to the environment and all the animals living in Alaska.
Half of these species are already at risk of extinction, and due to this project, over half of them will most likely be wiped out.
This oil drilling will cause even more climate change and damage to our Earth and environment.
President Biden has recently just granted approval for the continuation of this project to secure jobs for those living in the area.
Although many will receive jobs from this harmful project, the conditions they will be living and working in will become extremely polluted and dangerous. 
Our planet needs our help, and we are not providing for its needs.
We are doing the complete opposite.

It’s hard when I never really knew the real you. 
The illness clung to you, pulled you down and you were lost. 
You didn’t know the years of tears that were cried for you. 
It’s easy to miss somebody, especially when I wish that we had more time. 
I don’t remember much from before the cracks in your mind got so big 
That you forgot us. 
Just that year on the porch in the so delicately designed house
With the Hello Kitty cake and candles and light, camera, smiles, Real smiles.
We didn’t know, even though we saw the signs. 
Until it was too late and all we could do was watch. 
It makes me sad because before I even got the chance to know you
It was ripped from my grasp all because of something that we had no control over. 
I won’t lie it was hard that one summer, the last summer, 
You waking up and not knowing us. 
We made the best of it while we helped you eat breakfast.

When the sun sets,
And the moon is high in the sky,
The naiads swim to the surface-
of their watery home. 
The moon's pale light reflects-
off of the sea of stone, 
They look out past their home.
On the land, instead of sand, sits-
a forest full of slumbering trees.
Moss covers each and every tree
like a soft, green blanket. 
They stare in awe at the dryads-
as they grow oak trees in seconds.
In the pale moonlight, the dryads'
moss green skin looked like sea glass.
As time quickly passed, the dryads disappeared-
into their homes, high in the oak trees. 
 

On cloudy days, the sky is gray,
But that's why I prefer it this way,
For in the absence of the sun's bright ray,
There's a certain calmness that comes to play.

The world slows down and takes a breath,
As if to say there's no need to rush ahead,
And the stillness brings a certain depth,
To all that's around us, both living and dead.

The clouds themselves are works of art,
A canvas of white and gray and blue,
And as they drift across the sky's expanse,
They paint a picture that's ever new.

On sunny days, the heat can be too much,
And the glare can hurt our eyes,
But on cloudy days, there's no such fuss,
And we're free to roam beneath the skies.

So let the clouds come and have their way,
For they bring a beauty all their own,
And on cloudy days, I'll always stay,
To bask in the peace they've sown.

 

     The other day, I was biking down my street, when I heard a small crash, followed by a long yowl from the alleyway down south. All the alleys in New Rochester were beat-down and disgusting, with bricks so old that if they could talk, they would probably recall the dinosaurs like it was yesterday. The asphalt was gray and hardened bits of gum were stuck to the ground, weathered and blackened from the pollution in the air. Everything was slightly chipped, and the balconies jutting out from above were boarded shut with wooden planks. Trash bags littered the floor, some ripped open by alley cats or raccoons who were hungry. Against my better judgment, I walked in. 

This poem is not Chat GPT
I promise to convince you that
and I will attempt to convey
the human
sitting and picking the words
from cobweb corners where
computers can't find them.
there is a beating heart here
so perfectly tainted
it folds in on itself
in such a random pattern
that a computer would find it
counterproductive
but that is poetry
and I shake at the thought
that they could
tap this old tree
and write all the poems
we have left to write
clapping the erasers clean
til all the chalk-plume clouds
fade on the breeze
please
I'm begging
don't pick this lock
because we're all hiding in here
in the last room that you haven't found
drowning you out with typewriter keys
see now
have I not convinced you
it's me?
can you not hear my voice
as I whisper into your ear?
this is not a Chat GPT poem

-Reach Up-
Hope in the Night Sky

To those who are brave -  the blind they seek
      Call past a dark dancing - look up

A whisper, a strand, a sigh
      Find where the stars - hope
             Where it lies

To those who brave the mist
      Call - to churn the strands of fog -
Mist blinds the seeked in ravines - hopelessness 
      Where it lies

Weaving, spinning, thawing 
       Brave a storm of dark dancing, fog churning, sighs spinning. 
Find the hope - dwelling between weeping shadows. 

Reach up.  
      These speckles of light.
             They dance for you.
                       Hope.

By Ella S. 

 

Sometimes I have to ask myself hard questions. 
I almost never have an answer. 
I delve into the depths of my mind looking for clues, and always resurface with memories. 
Memories I'd rather forget. 
Memories that make me worry. 
Memories that never should have happened. 
Memories that make me cry. 
Once I remember one, I can't stop. They keep on coming until there's nothing left of me
But a puddle of memories on the floor of a darkened room. 
Sometimes all I wish for is to choose what memories to keep, and which should be buried away in my brain where even I can't find them. 
Sometimes that feels impossible. 
But I'll just have to keep trying, for there's nothing to do but carry on, 
Put on your hat, 
Drag your feet through the slushy snow
And face the day.