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Xanadu Poetry

Student Poetry

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The Mind

Paige Hiller
 

My mind is a busy intersection.

Cars, buses, people, animals, 

sirens, horns, voices, even screams filled the cerebrum.

Directions, right, left, straight, behind, 

navigating the ways of the emotions.

The red, yellow, green lights, 

followed with stop and yield signs

making the decisions for me. 

Curves, bumps, and turns taking over the vehicle, 

leaving my brainstem in an accident.

          2026 Xanadu Poetry Contest.
        Accepting  Submissions NOW.
        Hit the This link to enter. Love. 

WXPC (2).jpg
Lilah Black

Lilah Black

    Read the 2025/2026 PTA Reflections
                Award Winning Poems
 

​

Award of Excellence 

Ekaterina Talyzina
Anna Braglia
 

Award of Merit

Shay Lublin
Alyssa Vozza
 

Honorable Mention 

Lilah Black
Lucia Maniatis

Ana Pichardo
Angelica Canales

​

The Tide Between Us

Ekaterina Talyzina

 

I belong where you exist —

where the tide folds into itself, 

washing ashore a string of memories. 

The water hums with the thoughts you left behind, 

your faded voice caught

in the loud waves. 

 

I want to be the coral at the bottom

of the sea,

beneath the ocean currents, 

Anchored. 

but, alive

watching the light bend and break above me. 

 

I want to be the seagulls above, 

Watching the water shift and shimmer, 

circling the surface you once held. 

The wind carries your name, 

and I chase it. 

Yet, even so it drifts farther out each time. 

 

The sea does not answer,

my call. It only drifts me farther in,

creating a pulse that pulls and releases,

until I can’t tell where the sea ends. 

 

I belong where only You exist, 

where the sea feels endless,

where the silence slices through water, 

where everything moves towards you. 

Faith

Anna Braglia

 

My faith is an empty sketchbook

in a cramped art studio.

Oil dries on full canvases

as blank pages sit—pristine and plain.

Pencils and pastels spiral bound behind wires

holding together hot pressed sheets

yearning for pictures and thumbnails.

But the works that surround me mean nothing

when all I can do is envy their beauty.

The smell of acrylics burns my nose

when art block pins me down

preventing me from filling that sketchbook.

To A Shooting Star
Lilah Black


I do not wish 

to be the gaze of the great,

gleaming bright, bored of all backwoods,

air arrested at inhale, 

tongue tired of talk.

 

I do not wish 

to be the sighing swish of horsetail,

the cackling cry of the coyote,

Nor balding bluejay song.

 

I do not wish

for riches raided from the weary.

 

I do not wish

to be the teetering ant

Nor the tidal wave,

Nor the wakeful thought,

Nor the thorough strike.

 

You tell me to wish.

Why would I 

bend to you?

I am there as you 

are annihilated aflame.

I am field below and I am soil,

I am wail, warble, slap, and splash.

 

I am you 

and you are me.

What use do we 

have for wishes?

Life Skills Art Collective

The Life Skills Art Collective With Mrs. Raji

First to be forgotten 

Courtney Esposito

 

I stay in the gutter,

were the pages are pressed —

holding the book together. 

Never being seen. 

 

I am the leaf 

spilt to make room for others, 

creased by hands that turn past me —

never stopping to notice what opens the story above.

 

On the recto 

the words feel uneven, 

odd against the weight of the book. 

The verso stays across from me the whole time 

and who is to say just because they’re even

 doesn't mean they’re steady.

 

My corners bend,

dog-eared from being useful. 

From saving a place you will never return. 

 

You spread my pages and don't think twice. 

Pulling my gutter splits me like a knife —

the force that bounds me together and keeps me whole.

 

First to be touched.

First to be forgotten. 

Standing guard at the begging 

proof that what's over looked 

still holds everything together. 

A Lame Eclipse

Griffin Hamilton

 

Overrated,

But still as hyped as the apocalypse.

Like a sack of bricks, 

Useless as unwashed parsnips.

 

The thief of bliss,

Providing only temporary companionship.

 

No more than a minor blip,

I despise the Solar Eclipse.

Grace Blaney

Grace Blaney

Life of a Leaf 

Maylin Velasquez

 

My mind is like

a brown leaf, 

torn off, falling 

onto the ground,  

being tossed

around 

waiting to be stepped 

on by everything 

passing by

in its path.

Mom
Katie Mondry

 

When I can not find you

and the house crumbles,

I will put down the spade.

I will abandon the brick 

and the mortar.

I will find your sweater—

of unraveled merino wool.

And I will pick up the needle.

And I will sit at the loom. 

Anna Braglia

Timetable

Alexis Guarisco

 

Cork Board covered with pin holes

from dated information. Rotting

leaves bound to the fall ground. 

 

Muddy airforces worn down to the

sole. The bakeries freshly made 

cinnamon roll. 

 

The wasted Lincoln Logs lying 

opposite of the newly bought fluffy 

teddy bear ready to enjoy its new 

home. 

 

A freckled face seen on all ages. 

Crackled leather wallet in the back

right pocket of worn down jeans with 

pages of little photographs.

Art by Anna Braglia

War                

Alex Feliciano

​

In a room full of nothingness,

The battle of a million voices,

Is being fought.

 

It's a blister.

A Bitchy Burden.

A bloated mind. 

 

The clock is ticking,

In a hollow room.

 

All that is left to do,

Is self reflect.

 

I should’ve—

I could’ve—

Why did I—

What if it was a—


 

Passes through the mind,

As 5 minutes

Is taxed,

To ten years.

 

It would be worthless,

But If I had one wish, 

It would be

To block the noise.

 

I wish our heads stayed clear.

 

The only guarantee of silence,

Would be inside 

A cobwebbed coffin.

 

Where death,

conquers all thought.

​

Pencil

Jack Fischer

 

For you, I’d be the graphite in your pencil.

Black smudged on your palm,

Back to when you engraved

Your first A, B’s and C’s with me.

 

Onto lined paper, blinding

White and silky, limitless in our potential.

The brick red shavings surround

Your cramping hand.

Xanadu Apple Morgan Franz

Tired of being free

Frankie Pugliese

 

Flying high in the sky, a flock of geese.

Flapping their wings, free as any animal can be.

They can smell the freedom, the silent sky stretches. 

A wide blue space calls the geese,

The endless view. 

 

Geese travel in groups to reduce the strain.

They often forget how tired they get

When traveling together.

It only sets in when the group of birds

Glide to the ground. They appreciate that moment,

A pause on their freedom. 

Like little kids tired from playing all day

They rest from all their adventures.

 

But does freedom truly tire, 

Is it freedom's weight, or the horizon's call,

That makes them treasure their leisure.

Katie Mondry

The Beginning of The End
Gavin Fisch

 

In the cockpit, a canvas of endless blue, 

Upon wings of wonder, the sky's embrace,

And where the sky meets the cowling with the

Whispers of adventure from the humming 

Engine. 

 

Her insides rumbling, almost like a 

Bad stomach ache, but she can still lift me up 

Like no one else could and bring me happiness I 

Thought that I could never have. 

 

Wings cutting through the sapphire sky,

My spirit surrendered to the splendid symphony 

Of a maiden flight.

 

In a silver chariot, through clouds we race but 

The clouds below, like a dangerous ball of 

Cotton candy, waiting to send me back down. 

 

The black and white runway, lights gleaming, 

Directing me to safety and to my future. 

Notebook

Sarah Larice

 

Full of blank paper,

eager empty canvas waiting for the thoughts 

of the owner.

 

My thoughts that no one 

can see, a gathering place for thoughts I 

need to let out without the judgment 

of a community who hates

different ideas. 

 

The thread that holds the paper together— 

a bow holding the banquet of flowers

from falling apart.

 

Notebook covers made of leather and fabric

with a variety of colors, many options to pick and choose

 

Endless amount of pages to write with 

blue lines horizontally along.

as I write,

I smile.  

Jonathan Ponce

By Jonathan Ponce

Fighting Fears
Kate Pratt

 

I still remember the nights,

even if now they sometimes blur.

An occurrence that happened so often,

It feels like it only happened once.

 

I’d rise from my bed, 

the frame would creak.

Under messy hair,

tears would fall 

As I walk out of my room, 

into yours.

 

I would cry over it all,

for no purpose but fear.

And you’d say nice words,

teach me how to fight against it,

and urge me back to bed.

I’d return to my dark room calmer,

but I’d still be scared.

 

Now when it happens,

when my chest gets tight and the tears swell,

I simply breathe, and fight the way you taught.

A breath in, a breath out.

The fight ends in a draw.

Gin Rummy on Late Summer Nights 

Ava Tsolis 

 

You eagerly hopped out of the car and punched in the garage code, 

causing the door to protest with 

rattles and warped groans of old age before slowly operating. 

Up the stairs, you pulled the 52-card deck out of the kitchen cabinet. 

 

You shuffled and divided the deck — 

4 piles, 10 cards in each. 

You made a scoreboard on a napkin 

and wrote at the top, “first to 300 points wins.” 

 

With dripping hair — still wet from a day at Private Beach — 

and a store-bought cherry ice in hand, 

you yelled through the house that it was time to play, 

startling the Greenport deer munching on fallen apples in the lawn. 

 

Everyone gathered, and our turns rotated around the table, 

each player grabbing additional cards, 

forming sets of the same number 

or runs of the same suit. 

 

With every match, you saved the aces, 

hoping to reach a set of 3. 

Yet, by the end of the game, 

you were always 1 ace short. 

Aryaa Shah

By Aryaa Shah

Emelyn Morales

Emelyn Morales

Sharks & Minnows
Addison McCready

 

The sky bleeds

pink, orange

and blue.

 

Grass freshly

snipped by its

executioner. 

 

Hydrangeas, impatiens, tulips and daisies.

The gatekeepers of the forever poisonous

family secrets. 

 

Splashes and giggles

accompany the pollen

in the thick, moist air.

 

The baby blue bikini pulled and tightened,

my little body lost in the polka dotted 

fabric.

 

Pleading to our elders we say,

Watch this guys!

 

The diving board,

our throne to the rotating monarchy. 

 

Clenching the pavement,

miniscule rocks embedded 

in my palms.

 

Legs swaying,

neck bobbing above

and below. 

 

Hair dancing on the surface,

fingers and toes pruned underneath.

 

Will they hear me? Can they see me?

 

Tiny lungs filling

with air.

Preparing for the

ear popping pressure.

 

The perfected act

of sliding swiftly along side

the perfectly paved 

ditch. 

 

Survival located ten feet

above.

 

Screams or struggle,

to them what is 

a bubble. 

 

Arm stretched,

eyes assaulted by

the chemically curated 

water. 

 

The awaited attack—

the see-through surface 

shattered. 

 

Temporary King

attacking its opposition.

 

Fingers grazing the perimeter —

Free from vulnerability. 

 

A defenseless fish

in the sea,

snatched in the midst of

seeking safety. 

 

Heads penetrate the

liquid glass. 

 

Laughter and love 

from trees and children,

kissing the caves of my

big ears and button nose. 

 

I tagged you anyway. You’re it. 

 

Smiling in joy—

the baby of the 

family.

 

Being the youngest,

I know you won’t want to play much longer.

 

I won the race,

I know I did.

 

Never to state a rebuttal,

not taking the risk to call it quits.

 

How my hand once gripped the cement,

my brain now with memory. 

Ariana Arambaru

Ariana Arambaru

Featured poem september
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