Roots

By Ben Johnson

Banjo in hand,

I rest.

The feeling of it in my grasp

Evokes memories from an untold past.

Do you heart it?

The strings waltz together beneath my fingers,

Exhaling a rustic sound of paradise.

It has soul.

Do you hear it?

From dark African nights,

When the instrument was still sprouting its roots,

To spring mornings in Appalachia,

The sound travels.

Here I am now,

One person,

Carrying on this eternal song.

Do you hear it?

— Ben Johnson is a Lawrence High School student.

Memory

By Aisha Hart

There is a memory that I can recall.

Dark and burning it is.

Long ago it happened, when the roses were not yet dry.

Dead are the sweet things that once brought me joy.

Rivers, only cracks now, are like drying bones,

Brittle, so very brittle.

No life springs forth,

Not on this day when everything is dying.

— Aisha Hart is a Lawrence High School student.