Mouths of Babes is an ongoing poetry submission category where kids get their chance to say “Anything they think moms should know.” This is a collection of poems submitted by students from the Missoula International School.
She Spins on the Hilltop
by Kine Stimac, 8th grade
The mist rolls
Over the snow infested hill
Sun falling, reflecting,
Clouds tremble in the weary sky,
She sits, wide-eyed, embracing
The intricate detail of each snowflake
That falls on her drained face,
Her small delicate body,
Spins on the hilltop.
She sways with the rhythm
Of the beating earth,
The snow falls heavy on the peak.
She is on top of the world,
Frozen lakes, creeks.
The animals wait for a new year.
She spins, closes her eyes.
by McKenna Quirk, 7th grade
Slipping down our cheeks,
pale white and ebony black,
slipping down our cheeks.
Is it rain,
or is it tears?
Is this the drizzle that has enveloped our clammy hands,
our frozen hearts,
Is it the souls of the
their faces once coated in rippling grace,
now stilled, now faded?
And the children,
hands clasped in their laps,
thier voices rising in prayer,
like the patter of the rain,
on our old tin roof.
We open our eyes,
our lashes ornamented with droplets of rain, or is it tears?
We look upon the gray world,
begging for its curtain of sorrow and fear to be lifted,
begging for the feeling of rousing sunshine,
on its crusted, rocky surfaces.
Begging for justice.
The hurricane comes before the rainbow,
at least that is what we have been told.
But we wonder, as he once did,
our leader, the carrier of the doves,
Is it possible that we must paint the rainbow?
That we must sprout the colors and splatter them
upon the gray world.
Begging for justice,
begging for peace.
Is it possible that we can paint the rainbow?
by Connor King-Ries, 7th grade
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Breathe in. The tranquility of the forest after rain. That fresh scent.
Breathe out. All my petty worries.
Breathe in. The pale red clouds on the horizon.
Breathe out. Upcoming tests. Homework assignments.
Breathe in. The brilliant white stars burn holes in the black paper of night.
Breathe out. The media. Newspapers. Headlines.
Breathe in. Jagged rocks. So sharp and yet so gentle, housing swallows.
Her Voice, Whispering Through the Trees
by Calvin Beighle, 7th grade
I can feel the earth,
her heartbeat pounding through.
I can feel her breathe,
her voice whispering through the trees.
I can hear her laugh,
her chuckle ringing from the
I can hear her cry,
her presence coming to me.
I stare her in the face,
and she looks back.
For the earth is alive
and we are all with her.
Tumbling Creek of Wild
by Grace Gibson-Snyder, 6th grade
It’s a note.
Pure and sustained.
A veil over a melodic scale, rising and falling, floating and sinking.
She sounds like laughter, a ring from a clean and unblemished soul,
she hovers above our life.
She leads a
circuit way of paths,
of the wild.