2026 Winners | The America Library of Poetry

2026 Student Poetry Contest
Division Winners

Division I
(grades 3-5)

River
by Davis Domingo

It does not ask permission
to carve the mountain,
just a steady, cold insistence
moving through the valley.
It carries the secrets of broken stones
and fallen leaves,
a silver ribbon
binding the quiet banks together.
Never the same water,
but always the same song—
a quiet, relentless rushing
towards the waiting sea.

A Small Light
by Haven Solomon

There is a quiet kind of bravery
in getting up again
when nothing calls your name
but the dull weight of morning.
No trumpets, no applause—
just the soft decision
to swing your feet to the floor
and try.
The world does not always notice
how you carry entire storms
behind a steady face,
how you stitch yourself together
with invisible thread.
But something does.
The way the sun leans in
through your window,
like it remembers you.
The way your breath
keeps choosing you,
again and again.

Bittersweet
by Dylan Walker

The wooden table is so full,
But one chair stays empty.
Laughter echoes softly,
Tinged with memories that ache.
We pass the dishes quietly,
Trying not to notice
The absence that fills the room.
Scented candles flicker,
Casting shadows where smiles once glowed.
Even the food tastes distant.
As if it remembers who is missing.
And still, we whisper her name into the quiet,
Hoping it reaches her.
On this Thanksgiving Day
The memories of my dear grandma will forever stay.

Division II
(grades 6-7)

Before the Pages Fade
by Sophia Sartory

Memories fall through her hands
But I'm not quick enough to catch them.
The woman who once picked the best seashells,
The woman who majored in English,
Now beginning to forget.
From listening to the chimes jingle in the backyard,
To barely getting out of bed.
I wish I could erase all the bad.
What a cruel world.
The stories she once wrote,
Are now an empty page.
And a cover signed Grandma,
The print begins to fade.

More Than Just Animals
by Shay Parker

My world is built on soft fur and steady hooves.
The barn breathes in the morning light like a living thing.
Hay dust floats through golden air, sparkling
like tiny stars.
Gentle nose press against my palms,
twitching noises with quiet curiosity.
Warm eyes follow me, trusting and calm.
Paws thump against the floor in happy rhythm,
tails wag like bright flags of joy.
A deep nicker rolls through the stall,
Strong and steady as thunder before a
summer storm.
Their hearts beat beside mine,
a chorus of loyalty I can feel without words.
In their presence, the world softens.
They are my comfort after long days,
my laughter, my responsibility, my happiness.
With them, I am never alone.

The Beauty Beneath
by Kundhana Kanagala

I find beauty in depression—
not in the ache, but in the way it teaches silence to sing.
In the stillness where joy dares not tread,
I see colors no one else names—
shades of grief, tones of memory,
textures of thought too heavy for daylight.
There's a strange grace in the way sadness settles—
like dust on forgotten shelves, like snow on graves,
like lullabies sung to no one.
I do not worship pain, but I listen to it.
It speaks in poetry that no happiness ever wrote.
And in its voice, I find myself—
not whole, but honest. Not healed, but real.

Division III
(grades 8-9)

Summer Day At Grandma's
by Adeline Barba

The screen door creaks open,
letting in the smell of the freshly cut grass.
Grandma stands at the stove making lunch
watching the birds through the window
The house feels warm,
like it's wrapped in the hum of July.
My shoes sit forgotten by the back door
while I run barefoot through the yard.
Sprinklers glitter in the afternoon sun,
cool water splashing against my skin.
We eat watermelon while sitting in the grass,
juice dripping down our fingers.
The kitchen table holds our card games,
sticky from lemonade and the summer heat.
She tells me stories between each round,
turning an ordinary card game into something I'll never forget.
When the sun sinks low behind the trees,
the whole world turns quiet and gold.
I wish the day would stay forever,
tucked inside the comfort of her home.

Unassigned Seats
by Enyonam Amoah

My name is never written down—
just spoken, lightly,
like it could be erased
without consequence.
I sit where space allows,
a placeholder body,
filling gaps in conversations
that don't reach for me
Laughter passes through me,
echoes I try to wear,
but it never quite fits
the shape of my voice.
I am the in–between—
not chosen, not refused,
just present enough
to be overlooked.
And maybe that's why
I've learned to stay–
not because I belong,
but because leaving would feel the same.

Seasons Don't Stay
by Leia Castillo

Just because I am winter now
does not mean I will always be cold.
Time does not freeze for anyone
even the longest nights loosen their hold
I have lived inside many seasons,
some gentle, some with pain.
Some felt like sunlight on my skin,
others like quiet rain
Spring once found me broken,
but taught me how to grow again.
Summer filled my hands with laugher
that slipped away like grains of sand.
Autumn showed me how to let go
and how losing can still be bright,
how falling doesn't mean an ending
just a different kind of light.
Every season leaves a mark,
a lesson pressed into my skin.
Not all of them were easy,
but each one shaped who I've been.

Division IV
(grades 10-12)

Night Shift
by Tal Altman

The hospital vending machine ate my dollar again—
third time this week. I kick it gently, the way
you'd nudge a sleeping cat.
Room 314 is asking for ice chips.
Room 309 wants to know
if her grandson called. Room 318 just needs someone
to sit for five minutes while the morphine takes hold.
My sneakers squeak against linoleum
that's seen everything twice—births at 3 AM, last words
whispered to no one in particular, the sound a heart makes
when it forgets how to beat.
But also: the way Mrs. Chen laughs at her own terrible jokes,
how the night janitor hums
old jazz standards while he mops,
the quiet satisfaction of clean sheets
and a job that matters.
At 6 AM I'll drive home
past people starting their day, carrying other people's pain
and other people's small victories
in equal measure.

Arabesque
by Murari Ambati

We moved like water,
twisting beneath a pale moon's gaze,
her fingers tracing patterns
across the spaces only music knew.
The song was old,
a whisper carried through cracked vinyl,
notes curling like smoke
around the edges of the night.
When the music slowed
and silence pressed between us,
I reached for a past that wasn't mine,
a memory I never made.
The last note lingered,
a sigh lost beneath the stars,
and I held her hand,
not knowing it had slipped away
before I ever dared to dance.

By the Hour's End
by Adam Snow

I have lived most days
as a shadow trailing the man I meant to become.
Not out of fear,
but by habit ...
a quiet drifting,
like dust that forgets it once was part of something solid.
Time has not struck me like thunder,
but worn me like water ...
slow, patient,
without need for applause.
I have grown clever
in the art of looking forward
while standing still.
And now,
when the hour is late
and the noise retreats,
I am met with a face in the mirror
that knows too much
and says too little.

2026 Student Poetry Contest Division Winners

2026 Student Poetry Contest
Division Winners