2025 Winners | The America Library of Poetry

2025 Student Poetry Contest
Division Winners

Division I
(grades 3-5)

Sunday Lunch With Granny
by Destiny Kelley

In the heart of the kitchen, warmth lingered,
Every Sunday, her hands danced,
flour dusted, spices swirling like whispers,
The air thick with love, simmering in pans.
She stirred memories into the broth,
a pinch of laughter, a dash of stories,
Her apron stained with colors of time,
each meal woven with care,
I can still hear the sizzle, the clatter,
her voice, a melody, saying the food is done,
sunlight spilled through the window,
As we gathered, shadows and lights intertwined.
Now, the table sits bare, echoes of feasts,
Yet in each bite of memory, I taste her warmth.
A legacy simmering forever rich,
In my heart, her recipe lives on.

Words of Regret
by Summer Crozier

The Lemonade spills all over the table
But the words of regret stay inside the cup
As I clean up, I spit out the words
That I do not mean
Because I knocked over a glass
And the words of regret and rage
When the glass tilted
Felt the need to spill too.

The Dipper of Hope
by Selina Liu

From the window of the plane,
the pinpricks of light
shimmer
from outside the dark dome,
forming a ladle,
the bright Ursa Major,
a constellation of dreams
that guides the north wind.
Looking down upon the luminous cities
and up toward the North Star,
I dream of my future
and the vastness of the universe.

Division II
(grades 6-7)

Where You Should Be
by Eliza Rodriguez

I set two plates, then take one back–
the silence sits where you once sat.
Your laugh still lingers in the hall,
but no one ever answers that.
Your sweater waits behind the door,
still holding shape, still smelling true.
I trace the threads like they're your skin,
like touching cloth might summon you.
The bed's too wide, the nights too still,
I dream in shades of what we had
I smile when asked, "Are you okay?"
I nod too much, pretend I'm glad.
But every day, I miss your name–
the way you spoke, the way you'd be.
You left this house, but not my heart,
you're everywhere–except with me.

Centimeters
by Emma Araceli Martinez

I remember buying my first ruler in 2nd grade
A clear ruler covered with small, yellow smiley faces
"4.3 centimeters, a size of a walnut"
The words "it's still inoperable" followed
Endless tears flowing down our faces
Life teaches you the hard lessons
That centimeters can measure the time that is left
My Grandma's fate is based on a ruler measurement
Cancer can be the thief of time, but not of memories
A lifetime of cherished memories
There's no ruler big enough to measure a Grandmother's love

A Bell
by Ethan Cho

The sun spills gold across the stones,
A quiet field holds the weight of morning.
Mist drifts, unbothered by direction,
A crow lifts off with no announcement.
Trees lean like old listeners,
The wind carries no promises.
Shadows stretch, then forget themselves,
A river speaks like broken glass.
The sky does not apologize for its vastness,
Footsteps dissolve behind the walker.
Time moves without looking back,
Light touches, but does not linger.
Somewhere, a bell rings,
No one answers.

Division III
(grades 8-9)

All I Know Is Your Name
by Anchal Verma

I used to know all about you;
now, all I know is your name.
I blame myself for all that happened,
the pain I caused, the weight I brought.
I watched you drift further away from my life,
choosing to leave our problems unresolved.
Thoughts I've tried to forget still resonate in my mind.
You were the one who stood by my side,
the one I turned to when no one was there.
And still, I was the one who walked away.
I smile whenever I go past you;
"Hi," I say, a meaningless word.
There are thousands of words I wish to say,
How my happiest memories were with you,
Or how I miss our inside jokes.
But I don't know if you'd care.
And I don't blame you;
I'd have done the same.
If I could, I'd redo it all in an instant.
Because I want to know more than just your name.

The Shape of Grief
by Amber Smith

Grief is not a thunderclap,
but a hush that fills the room—
a coat left hanging by the door,
a teacup cooling in the gloom.
It moves in songs you used to play,
lingers in the things you can't put away.
It's a shadow on the wall, a sigh,
a quiet breath, a reason why.
It doesn't scream, it doesn't shout,
it weaves itself in day-to-day doubt.
But still, you rise. You always do.
Grief means love still walks with you.

My Story, Her Trophy
by Carly Hunt

She will win the award,
For my talent,
My passion,
My safe haven.
She will win because she writes by the rules,
I write to survive.
She writes to win a medal,
I write to stay alive.
They always award what's more comfortable,
What they think is more suitable,
Not the truth,
Not what makes you rethink your youth.
She will win the ribbon,
She will get the trophy,
Because she writes fiction,
And I write my story.
Truth hurts, and they can't stand the pain.

Division IV
(grades 10-12)

The Watchmaker's Hands
by Anaya Jain

The watchmaker's hands bleed time,
fingers stained with hours that slip like sand
through the fissures of an old, tired heart.
Each tick a whispered promise that falls apart before it's even made,
each tock a fracture in the silence, dust settling where shadows fade.
I watch from my own cracked window,
where the rain drums like a thousand forsaken voices,
each drop a memory yearning for release
but faltering,
spilling into puddles too deep to traverse.
The clock spins backwards
its hands cleave the air,
fingers brushing against wounds
too old to mend but too raw to ignore.
The watchmaker's hands speak the language of gears,
but all I hear is the hum of a melody too sweet and bitter to taste.
The weight of things I'll never say
as the world spins, and I can't keep pace.
As the thread of time unravels fast,
as I clutch at moments that will never last.

The Day the Silence Came
by Audrey Hickman

His chair still sighs when I sit down,
wood aching where he used to lean.
The cushion holds the shape of him,
a ghost pressed into fabric and time.
I trace the rings in his old coffee cup,
faint stains like years circling back.
He swore he'd fight, and God, he tried –
but cancer is crueler than prayers.
The hospital swallowed him whole,
wires and tubes where arms should be.
I held his hand - thin as paper,
his grip a whisper, then nothing at all.
His last breath rattled through my bones,
a sound I wake up screaming to.
They closed his eyes, but I saw it—
how death is just another kind of theft.
Now the chair still waits in the corner,
wood cracking in the silence.
I swear, some nights, it creaks like him,
like he's trying to come back home.

Crimson Laughter
by Anna Arnold

Laughter spills like wine,
Crimson and careless
Across the polished floor.
A tide of voices.
A shimmering ocean of chatter,
But I'm drifting on a raft of silence.
Their words,
Bright pebbles skipping across the surface,
Never reach the shore of me.
Faces blur,
A kaleidoscope of smiles,
Yet none truly see me.
A ghost in a machine,
A shadow in the spotlight,
Breathing the same air,
Yet miles apart.
The music swells,
A vibrant pulse,
But my heart beats a slow,
Solitary drum.

2025 Student Poetry Contest Division Winners

2025 Student Poetry Contest
Division Winners