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 Apr 2013 Nirmalee
Shayla Nguyen
there was once
a girl,
she was happy and confident.
never cared about
her looks.
her smiles were ever
so bright,
while her eyes shine like stars.
beginning of 8th grade
everything changed.
she's snow obsessed over
her looks
spending hours on hair
and makeup.
never believed anyone
who called her pretty.
now,
her smiles aren't as bright as
before.
her eyes still shine
but they shine with tears.
not tears of happiness
nor tears of sadness
but tears of
disappointment
she thought that
she would never be
good enough.
yet she kept a smile
on her face, even though
she was breaking inside.
because no one cares
unless you're pretty or
dying.
 Apr 2013 Nirmalee
Saumya
I haven't met you in person,
but it is your inner beauty that has touched my heart,
you are my sweet little sis,
Oh Marian, you're so pretty,
just like a goddess as a deity,
you are so wise, yet so young,
I hope all your verses are sung,
and celebrated,
'Cause, you envision the most beautiful things in the world,
making it a perfect Utopian world.
This is for my sweet little sis, Marian. She is so beautiful as a person, that I hope I would be like her some day.
She is so wise,you can never guess from her picturesque poems, that she is so young. 
Be as you are forever, sweetheart :) <3
Feelings are vibrations
Purring and winding,
Snapping with a scream
And if you listen closely
You can hear that
Indecision is silent, soft
And only different from loneliness
By its fatality.
 Apr 2013 Nirmalee
Nick Durbin
Alluring,
Pretentious nature,
Consuming thought and reason,
Overwhelmingly secure -
Infinite.
A poem constructed from a conversation with a new friend. The idea of forever and the nature of a shape.
 Apr 2013 Nirmalee
Tim Knight
Open internet bookmarked pages,
creased and cut newspaper pages
and what do you find laying there?
Lies! Written and typed white lies
that can change the minds of men
and the diet restrictions of nervous, plump women.

I know what is real, I think:
          1. Gradient blue skies that are swiped across the Cambridge ceiling at night. They are real.
          2. The feelings you feel for those you have felt feelings for. They’re real
          3. Falling hail and wet shoes, socks moist with Spring’s choice of weather. That was real.
          4. Falling shrapnel of the Boston Bombs that embedded themselves into the tired thighs of  marathon runners running upon high. That was real.
          5.  This poem may well be real, but I haven’t the guts to say in concrete-words that it matters in the grand scheme of things. This might not be real, I regularly think.
coffeeshoppoems.com
Dim dawn behind the tamerisks—the sky is saffron-yellow—
As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow
That the Day, the staring Easter Day is born.
Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway!
Oh the clammy fog that hovers
And at Home they’re making merry ’neath the white and scarlet berry—
What part have India’s exiles in their mirth?

Full day begind the tamarisks—the sky is blue and staring—
As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,
And they bear One o’er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring,
To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.
Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly—
Call on Rama—he may hear, perhaps, your voice!
With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,
And to-day we bid “good Christian men rejoice!”

High noon behind the tamarisks—the sun is hot above us—
As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.
They will drink our healths at dinner—those who tell us how they love us,
And forget us till another year be gone!
Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!
Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!
Youth was cheap—wherefore we sold it.
Gold was good—we hoped to hold it,
And to-day we know the fulness of our gain.

Grey dusk behind the tamarisks—the parrots fly together—
As the sun is sinking slowly over Home;
And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether.
That drags us back how’er so far we roam.
Hard her service, poor her payment—she is ancient, tattered raiment—
India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.
If a year of life be lent her, if her temple’s shrine we enter,
The door is hut—we may not look behind.

Black night behind the tamarisks—the owls begin their chorus—
As the conches from the temple scream and bray.
With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us,
Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day!
Call a truce, then, to our labors—let us feast with friends and neighbors,
And be merry as the custom of our caste;
For if “faint and forced the laughter,” and if sadness follow after,
We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.
 Apr 2013 Nirmalee
Sofia Paderes
i think
chickens can fly.
they've just forgotten how to.

i think
penguins can soar.
they just don't want to.

i think
dragons still exist.
they are just hiding.

i think
the dodos are still here.
they are just afraid.
afraid of other people
                other thoughts
                other words
                other cultures
                other beliefs

i think
you need to break out now.
 Apr 2013 Nirmalee
Sofia Paderes
Allow me to
Take you to
Another side of Linny where
Rustling papers and
Noisy staplers and
Grades and records are
Abundant in number and
Children speak and
Children listen.

This is she.
Calm and cool as water
Never breaking her dam
Despite our endless
Relentless questions and
Talking sessions
She is patience.

This is she.
A world of second chances
And in our English classes
Forever with
Grace on her lips
Grace on her fingertips
Speaking out
Breathing in
Grace.
She is grace.

This is she.
Understanding and knowing
When you are struggling
She is there helping
Because she knows
She knows what it's like
The students' life
Sleepless nights
Bottomless cups of coffee and milk tea
Sometime between midnight and half past three
Trying to finish up essays and submit projects on time
She is kindness.

This is she.
A flowing, gushing fountain of
Ideas, ideas, and ideas
She comes in with magic in her pockets
Sunshine in her hair
Excited to share
A part of her life
A part of her mind
With us
Wanting to unleash the
Artist in everyone she
Tries to squeeze out every ounce
Of imagination and creativity we have in us
She teaches us to think
To ask "Why?"
To question our surroundings
To be open to new things
To find answers
To learn and to live
And be more
Than we think we are.
She is art
She is inspiration
She is patience
She is grace
She is kindness
She is a blessing
She is
Ms. Linny.
Yes.
This is she.
My English teacher got married tonight and asked me to give a speech so that her guests will know how she's like as a teacher from the point of view of one of her students. I ended up reciting this spoken word poem as my speech.
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