Student Websites:

http://edweb.cesjds.org/~feigam

http://edweb.cesjds.org/~feigpm/

Student Poetry:

The Life of Paint

by Maital

The texture of the paint
Once you paint it on the paper
The start of the masterpiece
There are no mess-ups in art
Calming
Just be calm
That’s all it takes
I feel the smooth paint against the paper
Like water running down a leaf
Calming
I feel as if I am the one moving down the paper
Smooth and chunky
Easy and tough
Messy
The start of the masterpiece
Will never be finished
The soul will remain young

Darkness
By Jacob

Approaching the piano room at night
Is like being covered
In a blanket of uncomfortable darkness
Where there is no where to go,
But into my own fears.

The cold, confusing, black,
Puts me in a trance
“There are things in there,”
I whisper to myself.
I notice silhouettes,
Under the piano,
In the sofa,
Shuffling carelessly,
Trying to lure me into
That haunted room.

I race
Up the staircase,
Seeming it will never end
Until reaching,
My parents’ room,
Filled with the reassurance of safety,
And escaping the horrors,
Of Night’s weapon,
Darkness.

The Night’s Voice

Arianna

As I fell to a restful sleep, I found myself awake again.
But I wasn’t in the snugness of my room.

Light slithered through a crack in the nearby wall.
I squinted through the hole, but it was too small to look through.
I put my head back down on the damp, frozen floor.


Then gross and disgusting voices drifted to my ear.
I didn’t know who was speaking, or what they were saying.
But I wasn’t startled when I heard them—I even expected to hear something,
I’m not sure why.

I rolled over, covering my ears.
I could still hear the voices clearly.

Everything I heard confused me,
Nothing made sense.

The sounds then ceased, but I could hear footsteps wandering towards me,
Never seeming to get closer.
But that too halted soon.
I turned to find the door half opened.

Blinding light slipped through the door.
But upon the now luminous ground,
There lay a shadow.

I did not see the figure, but I could see the shadow reaching out for me.
As it touched me, my head rose from my peaceful pillow.
Fright took over me, something had happened--
But then a beautiful streak of light shone at me through the window.
It was a dream,
Which is now far away.
 

The dancing angels on the cover
sing a sad song:
‘Here on the shelf, is not where we belong.
We belong in your hands and near the writing pen.

I know they are sad,
but to them I can’t explain,
that this journal is too pretty to write on,
the pages are too clean to have stains.