Emily Kulig

Limbs of Learning

By Emily Kulig
Rutland High School, Grade 11

Teach me everything and nothing.
I see you, everyday, everywhere.
A tree like you would tell me:
Just look and you'll see.
So I opened my eyes

Deep underground they are rooted and firm.
The body is hard on the outside,
yet tender and vulnerable inside.
The branches are ideas of the world-
the wind can turn them
this way and that.
But only the tree can decide how they settle.
The leaves adapt to their surrounding.
They change
and leave the tree behind.

Birds will land, and you will be
blessed to help them.
Both sun and cloud are friends,
feeding desires.

"So sway," the tree says. And adds that
other trees may get in the way,
so he says to
keep growing.

The Face of Time Past

By Emily Kulig
Rutland High School, Grade 10

The boy tried to balance the door as he opened it unsteadily for his mother and father. The mother shook her fur coat as she walked in, and the little boy took off his hat and gloves. The father brushed off his shiny new shoes.

They took a seat in one of the pews closer to the front with a scowl from the father, as their normal seat was in the back. The father knelt down to pray, and the mother and the little boy followed suit. The boy, who’s name was Jacob, finished quickly, sat back and made shapes and animals with his hands.

The love of mine, she cannot -- will not see.
Deep within, I yearn to know the secret.
Can she truly love? Will she truly love?
My heart is beating oh so much to know.
As she wields her taunting sword of heartbreak,
I send up my shield and awaiting sword.
Fear her: she claims not a guard of mercy;
She’s only known for her offensive strike.

The Glover pt. 1

By Emily Kulig
Rutland High School, Grade 10

He sits in his shop all day long. Plucking each hair off the skin of a goat, and returning them, properly, to an expensive looking shall. His beard is scruffy, white, and he has minimal hair on his head. The clothes that he wears are never polished, never as fine as the materials he fixes-at least that’s what I can see from outside.

Young men continuously pelt his window with rotten eggs and snowballs. Their hands are covered with a cheap, manufactured material. His own kind betraying him. As soon as they’re gone, he picks up his glasses and heads outside to start wiping the streaks off, always clockwise.

Poetry is . . .

By Emily Kulig
Rutland High School, Grade 10

Poetry is not something you can control.
Like a fire, it burns deep within you,
and grows with every passing day.

Poetry is spontaneous, and does not have an exact
time or day were we must write.
We dive into the soul and back;
into our very lives we play;
into our dreams we swim;
to produce a life-long story,

By Emily Kulig
Rutland High School, Grade 10

Moving, growing, changing; smiling
Separating, flying, laughing.
Smelling, landing, crunching.
Wet.
Dry.
Crumpled.
Scooped and piled.
Jump, play, float.
Happy, content.
Inner peace, and relaxation.
Turns to bitter conversation,
between the leaf and puffy snow.
Now under the cold and under cover.
Sleeping 'till it see the light,
of a happy, morning sun.
Then the leaf disappears, and rolls
until it's nothing.
Summer starts and Fall inevitably steals its turn with
the leaves
blowing in the cool wind.
Moving, Growing, Changing, Smiling.
Separating, Flying, and that laughter never stops;
those giggles never cease.
They keep on the whispers of the year to come.

On this day, the rain falls,
Heavy on my heart.
I can’t tell one person from the next,
From my tear-filled eyes,
But I hug them just the same.
Black surrounds me,
A soft glow, barely seen.

Pictures are now the memory for which I keep you.
Nevermore, will new ones be added.
The laughs that are in the past,
Now seem to have evaporated,
Like fall vanishes into winter.