Moya Cavanagh

Here's the thing about me;
I am not so very good at math.
Here's something else:
I care about politics a whole lot,
Just one more thing,
let's add this to the equation:
my birthday is November 14th
19
93.
so,
This year I am turning fifteen. The last election,
I was in fifth grade and in all the excitement
(we thought someone was going to replace Bush,
I mean come on four years was enough damage.
Eight was unthinkable...)
I got to thinking
I
wonder
when
I
can
Vote
?
So little fifth grade me did the math
and it went something like this....
I am 10
you can vote when you are
eighteen....
So, if I am ten, and the election is tomorrow,
and my birthday is next Friday, then, hmmm....
I will turn eighteen
the week
AFTER
the 2012
Presidential Election.
I was angry.
I cried,
I raved,
I argued with people about possible exceptions to the rule.
Did any of YOU notice anything wrong there?
It was a long four years

Four years ago we were in the same spot as we are now, king of the hill fourth graders who went to move up day and came back scared and excited. We’re not scared now though, nope, not us, it isn’t possible, right?
When we started fifth grade we clung together in these little groups from the same elementary school groups, but slowly we made friends and now we don’t really think of people in terms of which of the three schools they came from, they’re just kids from our school now, our school.
Think of your little fourth grade self lying in bed four years ago thinking that it is all going to end; that there is no possible way they can leave the school they go to and make friends like the ones they have now. They’re hoping that time will just freeze, and they can lie there in the blackness with the window open listening to the crickets chirping in the spring air forever. But the reality in our wonderful world, is that time does not stop, things change, Monday rolls around, and the bus always shows up to bring us here. To school, for the thing they call education.
And here we are, little fourth grade selves look at us now, sitting in a gymnasium hung with colors we have represented and are leaving behind to be passed on to the fourth graders coming in. They’ll get our lockers, our classes, our teachers. They’ll walk the same hallways learn the same lessons; take our place, because now we are older, wiser, and have far less common sense. Now as they take our place, we are moving on to take someone else’s place, to heckle someone’s teachers, to wear someone’s colors, because that’s what it’s all about. And in four years we’ll be saying, “Little eighth grade me, what were you looking for, what were you scared of? Little eighth grade me, it’ll be ok. Make the best of today and live your life. You don’t know what you’ve got till you lose it.”

Fear's Disgrace

By Moya Cavanagh
Browns River Middle School, Grade 8

Today Fear came to me,
a pretty young woman offering
lies swathed in honey, which
I never cease to believe.

Today Fear reached out to me,
with a soothing hand to ease away
my apprehension.
And when, as always, I had slipped
Into her trap,
She flicked her wrist,
brought her hand back in a slap,
So that the pain and noise echoed from
My cheek bone.

Today Fear came to me,
Swaddling me
with lightning speed,
in bindings woven
from my worst imaginings.

Today Fear spun that cord around my joints,
Her icy fingers leaving my body rigid
As a board,
And my jaw free to babble
about what she had done to me
To the outside world;
Those who cannot see her tie
the last of my bindings to herself,
So as to eternally link us.
So I will never be free of her
Face.

Today Fear took me,
and the reasoning of her persuasive voice
has festered in my flaws.
Branding itself into my skin,

The Teachings of Mud

By Moya Cavanagh
Browns River Middle School, Grade 8

Mud is the soul of us,
The welcomed holy sign of spring
Here,
We have no reservations about it,
Or lie to our selves
About what it has stemmed from.

It is plain to see here;
For the children come,
Clad in their boots
They learn the mud well,
Watch their backs,
For they’ve lost many a shoe,

The game known as “Trouble” lives up to its name in our house hold, in many different ways. Playing games that need to consistently make the most annoying sound possible to function seems to be an obsession of my sister’s. Among her favorites are Ker Plunk, Boggle, Bop-it, Popcorn, and of course, Trouble.

The game known as “Trouble” lives up to its name in our house hold, in many different ways. Playing games that need to consistently make the most annoying sound possible to function seems to be an obsession of my sister’s. Among her favorites are Ker Plunk, Boggle, Bop-it, Popcorn, and of course, Trouble.

To Survive

By Moya Cavanagh
Browns River Middle School, Grade 8

It has been
Said,
All too often,
“When hell freezes over,”
What about
When hell runs in rivers
When it breaks the dams and brings avalanches
Of water in walls and blockades
With tearing destructive power
Hurling the anchors of civilization
Away for something else…

By Moya Cavanagh
Browns River Middle School, Grade 8

Winter’s dress
Is a gown of grace
A veil of white
To hide her face
Gleaming satin skirts
Billowing,
Hems of frosty lace
Pursuing.
Garbed in
Winter’s
Icy Dress,
Chilled to the bone
You lay in wait
Upon that hill,
That winter’s day

For the conquest of winter
Is difficult to escape,

Open your eyes
to the pulse
of the stars,
as they
Dance away,
from the touch
of the day.
Open your eyes,
For the stars are dancing
Away.
Wake,
The sun is rising
Up
to meet
The dark
to spread the light
Awake
The sun is rising.
Rise
The morning wakes
to the singing,
of the trees
Instrumental
to the wind,
playing a symphony,
whispering in song.
Arise

By Moya Cavanagh
Browns River Middle School, Grade 8

In the darkened
Cloak of night
I hear their voices
Speaking.

You can’t see me
I
Am invisible.
I
Have super powers,
But you don’t.
You can’t play.
Unless
You
Want to be the
Bad Guy.
No,
I’m
The good guy,
You
Have to be
The Bad Guy.
Ok, you can have
Fire powers,
Then I come,
Bam!
Smack!
Hi-YA!
And beat you up,
‘Cause
I’m
The Good Guy
And that’s my job.
Now I win.
No,
You can’t win,
You’re

By Moya Cavanagh
Browns River Middle School, Grade 8

Ho hum
The pocket sings,
Off to wander
The world.
Nestled in
Folds of grace,
Silken gold
The pocket
Waits,
A sanctuary for
Little things
Ribbons
Gloves
A piece of string
The pocket is home
To every thing.
Flying with
Spinning tiers of
Lace,
The pocket is
A special place,
A wormhole between
Time,
Generations slide by