This is Where

This is where she waited every evening,

This is where the dog stopped barking,

This is where they were lovers for the last time,

This is where the parade ended,

This is where they kissed and promised forever, 

Once before she dropped the ring.

This is where the swings rusted,

This is where they carved their names into the bench,

This is where the pigeon gathered,

This is where they played music all night,

This is where the door slammed shut,

And no one ever came back in.

This is where she planted flowers,

This is where he fell off his bike,

This is where the ice cream truck stopped,

This is where they held hands for the first time,

This is where the leaves piled up,

Only to scatter with the next gust of wind.

This is where the wind took the kite,

This is where the bus never came,

This is where the fireflies gathered,

This is where the old woman hummed a song,

This is where the shortcut led,

Through broken gates and overgrown grass.

Footsteps in Motion

The man in the striped shirt,

Thin lines curling around his frame,

One cuff rolled higher than the other.

His shoelaces double-knotted,

A folded newspaper tucked under his arm.

The teenager with the headphones,

Thick black cushions pressed to his ears,

One wire disappeared into his jacket pocket.

His sneakers untied,

A keychain jingling against his belt loop.

The girl with the yellow scarf,

Fabric trailing loosely around her neck,

Fingers smoothing its edge out of habit.

Her boots are damp at the toes,

And a loose thread dangles from her sleeve.

The man with the suitcase,

Worn leather rubbed raw at the corners.

He grips its handle with both hands,

His brown loafers, the soles worn thin,

Catch the edge of a mat near the door.

The woman with the grocery bag,

A paper sack cradled to her chest,

The bottom sagging under canned goods.

Her sneakers, streaked with dried mud,

Pause as she adjusts her stance.

Each step resounds,

A quiet rhythm of passing lives,

Before it fades,

As footsteps shuffle them into the past.

The Gathering

The table glows under warm yellow light,

rice bowls steaming, chopsticks tapping,

and the smell of doenjang rising like a memory.

Our reflections blur in the polished wood.

Grandmother’s silver hair tied low, uneven.

She spoons the doenjang jjigae into my bowl,

her hands moving slow but steady, 

She is careful as always.

Father’s hair, short and slicked with gel,

He leans back, recounting his day.

His voice dips and rises like an old song,

the kind you don’t realize you’ve memorized.

Mother’s braid falls neatly over her shoulder,

its end brushing the edge of her apron.

She smiles faintly as she wipes the table,

her silence speaking louder than words.

My sister’s hair, cut blunt just above her shoulders,

bobs as she argues, words sharp and quick.

Her chopsticks tap the rim of her bowl,

her laugh cut through the warmth like a spark.

My hair falls messy and loose,

hiding my face when I look down.

I twirl noodles around my chopsticks,

letting their voices fold over me.

The air smells of sesame and roasted garlic,

the room alive with clinking bowls and laughter.

Steam rises, curling into the quiet spaces,

and love lingers in the pauses between bites.

Olivia Koo is a high school student and emerging poet. When she’s not writing she enjoys reading, movies and music. She is currently putting together her writing portfolio. 

The Dog and the Floor

The dog is laying on the wooden floor

It has brown and white patterns on it

And a round long body with stripes

The wooden floor, which is 30 years old

has stains all over it which looks like a piece of art

and has crumbs of food between its cracks

The crumbs, which are made of food and dust

abandoned for years and years to come

await eternal custody between the cracks

The cracks, created from constant use of the floor

continues to expand further and bigger

eventually taking over sections of the floor.

The stains, which were results of liquid spills

is left on the floorboard as a remembrance of them

And would never be erased or forgotten

The Punishment of Filth

Step down or you will stay

where the crayfish sleep

Possibly eating the crayfish too

Where all the lost and defeated go

For the rest of their lives

With their cheeks open for eternity

How the fish would poke 

And feed on your excrements

How tingly and provocative it feels

But apart from it

There is nothing one can do

To stop this from happening

The tedious process 

certainly bores one to the death

And makes one regret 

what sins he committed 

All that awaits one is the infinite punishment

Here I Sit

The exhausted man,

with his eyes barely wide

trudging slowly toward the can

after getting a drink goes to the side

The happy child

And his ice cream on a cone

became satisfied and smiled

With his teeth whiter than a bone

The giant statue

With its condition at the purest

Its glory matches to

a rhythm of a beautiful courant

The miserable lady

With her makeup wet in the rain

Wanting to cry like a baby

And her whole mind in vain

The old man

sitting on the bench

watching his old hometown

reminisces his town’s past

The woman with a red dress

Sitting on a wooden bench

Drinking a cup of hot coffee

looks at her phone 

Ethan Lee is a student who loves expressing himself through creative writing. He enjoys writing stories, poems, and reflections inspired by the everyday world. When he’s not writing, Ethan can be found reading, sketching, or exploring new ideas. He believes in the power of words to inspire creativity and connection.

Eugene Han is a student at an international school in South Korea. His artwork explores themes of identity, culture, and nature, often blending abstract and representational elements. Through vibrant colors and textured layers, he aims to capture both the complexity and simplicity of the human experience. Eugene has been honing their artistic skills from a young age and is passionate about sharing their vision with a global audience.

What She Meant

My mother once said 

You only grow up 

when your heart grows

I cried,       not 

Understanding 

I cried,       not 

When your heart grows

You only grow up

My mother once said

Transient Keychains on Backpacks 

We chained it to our backpack 

Dirty scratches on one side 

To times we split the last slice of pizza 

To times we crouched, holding our stomachs 

Metal charms clipped onto split rings

Our names engraved on its tag 

To times we leaned heads on buses 

To times we finished each other’s sentences

The cool touch of the metal 

Its warm reminders of our memories  

To times we first met 

To times we waved goodbye in tears

Cicada, Fish, and Apples

I remember pieces of my past memories

The crying cicada, the fish, the apples 

But here in the city,

Cicadas are stepped on 

Fish are inside glass bowls 

And apples are not so ripe

Ah-Young Dana Park is a student attending a high school in Boston, Massachusetts. Her poetry often explores memory, interiority, and fleeting moments. Beyond her writing pursuits, Dana enjoys singing, painting, and exploring other artistic fields.

Black Wings

‘Twas the night before they hooted echoes of cackling laughter 

that played a loathing symphony;

knotted joints grasped the veins of empty melodies,

in hopes that someone would notice their song;

cobweb strings mourned,

as the roots anchored dust into its wooden body–

tilted softly along the whispers of dusk–and

entrapped notes being forgotten, gingerly;

pressing black and white muffled the air,

how stagnant they were under her ethereal beauty 

as she breathed warmth in their cadaver,

and hushed them a lullaby;

yet, one would only see the angelic dusts

flying ever so gently under the nacreous clouds of the evening, 

above the obscure fields of daffodils; 

their shadows pirouetted under the moon,

and they ambitiously started plinking,

caressing the void notes,

along the breaths of velvet, dark green Earth;

I heard them. 

The Korean Flower

Her glass drops reflect the eyes 

she once had sown,

as she sinks into the innocence that never 

drifted away 

A soft breeze swirls her silver hair as she 

slowly collapse 

her wrinkled eyes,

brim her lips 

with the last water,

cascades of them 

she last colored, 

kisses of sun bleeds through her body

Petals she collected in her vase,

withered too soon before goodbye–their

picturesque shades soak the 

great emerald beauty, floating 

Roses of Sharon on its gentle shivers,

and how she watch her fingers slip away from those

fading memories and the blooms

Gentle laughter of her children echoed like wind chimes,

each mellow tune harmonizing in her ears

and then she saw–

her daughter’s warm tears trickling down, her 

trembling hands cradling the weathered palms

that once taught her how to hold the world

With her last breath, the mother whispers one final lullaby for her daughter:

when mother leaves to pick oysters in the shadows of the island,

the baby stays behind alone, watching over the house

then, to the lullaby sung by the sea, 

slowly and gently, the baby falls asleep,

hoping that her daughter would marvel at the 

ephemeral Nature and one day realize 

how petals perish 

beautifully.

Last Moments with the World

A mother’s wail drifted through the gust of waves,

beware of him who walks where echo fades.

Clung her tight from the

Devil’s hand–choking,

eating those

fleshes 

gargling Death before it spoke

hushed by the piercing wind

Is that what it feels like–to be

Justified? 

Kingdoms fall

like lullabies luring a child to 

marvel at the synchronous aurora and dirge 

Nature sings so calmly,

one day it will realize 

petals wither with with beauty too cold to touch

quivers of sand and wind 

rocked the ship 

side-to-side 

tilting the decks

until all that it left was the

vulnerability a human endures–how they 

writhed.

xanthic light flickers between the rumble while her

yearning carved on the woods

zipped shut by the deep hush.

Jian Yeo is a student of poetry based in Massachusetts, where the changing seasons and scenic landscapes serve as a constant source of inspiration for her work. She is currently a student, balancing her academic pursuits with her passion for writing. 

The Colorfuls

Grey like an old man’s hair

Ringing alone as the person across waits

The handset shivers on the hook switch,

After a short silence,

It continues to shiver

Pigmented by the grey shadows of the city

The eyes move rapidly

Seen all the time but never recognized

Breaths the clustered solitary,

under the boisterous footsteps

rotting liquid inside trying to catch up the greyness of the cup

Someone’s lips slightly printed on the orifie

Someone who will never return

Not for the cup,

nor its content

Dripping from the sink

Meant to be clear but seeming grey for its grey background

Clashing onto the button surface,

Losing its shape

Constant, continuous drops

Not entirely black, nor white,

Just in between: grey

Completed its duty,

Therefore its tip remains blunt and round

Waits for its presence to be required

As the Distance Grew

As the distance grew

between my toes

and the battlefield

the grip of hypersomnolence

got firmer,

tightly bounding my ankles

Every inhale I took,

from the cigar I returned to,

was filled with diphosgene,

eager to strangle the throat 

And yet every night 

I reached for another sip

The heart was limey and cold

it may seem valuable,

but I found it vulnerable

The heart was spoiled,

spotted with fingerprints of the lives that I owed

and the sin that I suffered

Should I have bolshie?

Bolshie the deaths my own fingers caused?

Or could I have bolshie 

Lustrous Glass Pieces

Laughter behind a door that’s not yours

Every joyful pitch knocks on the door,

Calling for you to grab the knob

Knowing the door is locked,

You still have hope—

that will soon be wasted

Applause in a room you’re not in

Rings in your head

as the noise bounces around

Manifesting your thoughts,

The sound gets heavier and heavier,

crushes your limbs and squeeze your lungs

Until your last exhale

A fire you can touch but never see

Burns in you stomach, 

Grilling you from the inside

The embers travel through your blood streams,

Into your capillaries and finally to your heart

Ready to boil you inside out

Wind chimes in a neighbor’s yard

with beautiful, lustrous glass pieces 

Dance through the wind,

Singing with a charming voice,

Attracts the small songbirds

Blinded by the sound,

The naïve birds glide 

into the precisely sharpened glass pieces

Too intoxicated to notice 

that their wings, legs, and eyes are teared apart

Lauren Kim is a high school student with a fervent love for both poetry and visual art. Her work delves into the intricacies of identity, the nuances of nature, and the emotional currents of teenage life. Through her poems and mixed media artwork, Lauren seeks to capture and convey the beauty in moments of introspection and everyday experiences. When she’s not writing or creating art, she enjoys exploring the outdoors, reading contemporary poetry, and experimenting with new artistic techniques. Lauren’s work has been influenced by her diverse cultural background and her deep connection to the natural world. She aspires to continue growing as an artist and a writer, sharing her unique perspective with others.