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Acknowledgements “It is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge.” -Albert Einstein The desire to be both expressive and creative is innate in many of our middle school students. Promoting an environment where creativity and written expression are encouraged leads to great success. Students in all three middle school grades are encouraged to write creatively for class assignments, writing competitions and, of course, joy. All English classes focus on writer’s voice, word selection, and tone for various assignments. This, however, is a collection of pieces that students worked on outside of class for individual growth. A goal of this publication, Moriah Ink Spring 2012, is to promote and publish these outstanding efforts. Over the course of the school year, all middle school students at Moriah School were encouraged to submit original pieces of art to this publication. The forms of art range from short stories, poetry, photography, and drawing. Mrs. Adina Kastner led our outstanding team of editors and worked tirelessly to produce this literary magazine. Our student editors and layout staff – Madeline Nelkin, Zehava Seidman, Danielle Krim, Sarah Rebarber, Ayelet Rubenstein, and Stephanie Stifelman – worked tirelessly to ensure this issue was published successfully. A special thank you is also extended to the Moriah administration for all of their support. I am extremely proud of each student who used his/ her free time to contribute to this literary magazine. Please enjoy this Moriah School publication. Mrs. Rachel Schwartz Middle School English Department Head


Table of Contents Table of Contents “The Winds of the Dust Bowl” .................................................................... 5 “Horses Running”.................................................................................... 6 “Words”............................................................................................... 6 “Betsy Boo”........................................................................................... 7 “A Haven for the Jews”............................................................................. 8 “Ice Skating”......................................................................................... 9 “Writing a Poem”...................................................................................10 “Poison of the Public”..............................................................................11 “Ice Cream” (a concrete poem)..................................................................12 “Wind”................................................................................................13 “Now They are Seven”.............................................................................14 “Night”...............................................................................................15 “Art”..................................................................................................16 “Holocaust”..........................................................................................17 “Clouds”..............................................................................................18 “The Village” .......................................................................................19 “The Titanic”........................................................................................20 “Tap Dancing Feet”.................................................................................21 “Double-take”.......................................................................................24 “Daisies”.............................................................................................26 “Fall Leaves”........................................................................................30 “Green Grass”.......................................................................................31 “Nature”.............................................................................................32 “Rose”................................................................................................33 “The Robot”.........................................................................................34 “Peach”..............................................................................................35 “The Creek”.........................................................................................36 “Silver Water”.......................................................................................37 “Shadows”...........................................................................................38 “The Crow”..........................................................................................39 “Rose”................................................................................................40

Editors: Madeline Nelkin Zehava Seidman Layout: Danielle Krim Sarah Rebarber Ayelet Rubenstein Stephanie Stifelman


Poetry “The Winds of the Dust Bowl� by Bobby Miller Every day, The wind blows away my dreams, like a piece of paper, And now, I feel, That is my life, Something being blown away, Away with the wind. The wind, Is ripping up my soul, And all my hard work, And everything that means anything to me, I can feel it, The constant burning affliction, In my heart and mind. The whoosh of the wind, The dark afternoon sky, Black as night, Destroying any happiness, That I still have, The last of my possessions. Now it is over, The duster is gone, day is light again, This does nothing, To brighten my mood. I have nothing now, And what is man with nothing to call his own, Nothing but, Dust.


Poetry “Horses Running” by Devora Krischer The horses ran gaily through the field, Yet the wind refused to yield, Though they stopped in their tracks, The wind pushed at their backs.

“Words” by Devora Krischer Words are death, Words are life, Words are joy, Words are grief, Words can heal, Words can hurt, Words are love,


Poetry “Betsy Boo” by Anonymous Betsy Boo bought a book About an amazing cook. Betsy Boo liked the book As if it were her son. Flip, flop, flop That’s the noise when the pages turned. Another awesome page That gets you more attached to the book. The book laughed with her. The book cried with her. In every sad and happy part, They shared the same heart. The book is golden But one day, During art class It got stuck in clay. Betsy cried all night, And all day, After trying so hard To get it out of the clay. Betsy called the cops And asked for help. They took out a sword Then cut the clay and went home bored. Betsy threw a party With her son and the book. She bought 5 more copies About the amazing cook.


Poetry “A Haven for the Jews” by Rafi Jacobs Safe from Death and a world full of thieves A dove flies above from overseas, Arriving to perch on a sapling, full of life Like a newborn’s first cries. A land is built upon the mount, A country committed To God and Goodness A home where all have benefitted Boom! Rockets ignite While innocents are ignored, An evil that others accept We religiously abhor Israel mired in Joseph’s snake pit Like in the days of old, Will Zion be rescued, Or left out in the cold?


Poetry “Ice Skating” by Rebecca Barel There I go There I don’t There I fall Once again Cold and numb, covered in ice Why did I come here? Knees purple Feet sliding I am as graceful as a stampeding elephant The ice leering at me Taunting me Grabbing me And pulling me down And suddenly I am flying on frozen fun No worries in my head Zipping back and forth Arms spread Wind on my face Relief

I am no longer sliding on the ground Or smashing my knees The shining ice, A bed of diamonds Smooth lines Crisscrossing I’m glad I came here Oh wait Crash! There I go There I fall Once again Why did I come here? Ice skating Luring me back To test my balance Agility And luck Once again


Poetry “Writing a Poem” by Anonymous When writing this poem My brain starts to turn My thoughts then are solemn My mind starts to burn It’s like meeting anew person You have nothing to say My thoughts start to worsen Will I get an A? My paper’s a mess My rhyming is bad I’m in much distress My poem is sad Poetry can’t speak to me It never will One thing we can agree It’s not going well I almost quit But my poem is done I hate to admit it It was kind of fun


Poetry “Poison of the Public� by Samantha Maza Poison of the public Seeps deep into me It devours me Hatred Full of Cries and tears Death and fears Love everywhere the love of hatred the love of crime The injustice of world the world to come already destroyed like a shattered mirror Help everywhere help themselves selfishly sharing if sharing at all We do not notice We hide pain We take pain We give pain We are pain


Poetry “Ice Cream” (a concrete poem) by Anonymous Such a beautiful creation, Ice cream. Add a little milk and sugar And look at all the flavors that come out: Vanilla, Chocolate, Strawberry, Coffee, Cookie Dough, Fudge Brownie, Cake Batter, Peanut Butter, and so many more. The cold drops of it, dripping down your chin. DRIP DROP, DRIP DROP Yum , my mouth waters at the thought of it. Who doesn’t like ice cream? Is that even possible? It’s such and beautiful creation, ice cream. When I eatIce cream, happiness rages inside me. It’s the joy of life and it costs so little for such a great joy. That’s why eating ice cream is a such a good hobby, it tastes so good and you pay so little. And it’s convenient to get. Ben and Jerry’s, Haagen Daz, and even Coldstone. Some people consider frozen yogurt ice cream, but I don’t buy it. Ice cream can never be Replaced by anyone or anything.


Poetry “Wind” by Shlomo Korsinsky

The gentle wind blows, shaking the helpless grass The wind is like people For wind is soft but can be a rock that only destroys what is in its path Wind is gentle as sunrise when the beautiful rays of sun hit the earth O! How beautiful it is! The wind wails into the night, be it gentle or soft But the wind always blows Whether it be weak or strong, the wind always blows Woe to the wind, for people do not recognize its strength It can topple buildings with a single blow But barely shake the grass on a summer’s eve This is how we are, the wind is us


Poetry “Now They are Seven� by Anonymous When I was five To my surprise My mom was pregnant with twins. Bam! Things were going to change. Let the games begin. Two little critters will enter our world. My mom went pop, And out they came. Andrew and Benjamin, the cutest babies I have seen. Ahh, Andrew and Benjamin. Andrew, calm as tranquil waters. Benjamin, a screaming storm. My heart was bursting with joy, To bundle these babies to bring home And enjoy! February 4th, 2005 was the best day ever. Now they are seven and our home feels like heaven. Smiles all around, from ear to ear 2005 was a great year.


Poetry “Night” By Tovah Weiskopf Us mortals go to sleep While mother nature stays awake Crickets chirping, owls hoo-ing Keeping busy with what they’re doing After a long day of work The town shuts down The city goes quiet Preventing a riot Beep! Honk! Shout! That’s what we hear all day But not at night Then, there’s no sight But for nature, night is only the beginning Critters busy finding someplace warm Searching for food Taking care of their brood All cozy tucked in bed Humans resting all night Like a chair that doesn’t move But somehow has lots to prove Tiptoeing through the forest As the hungry bear approaches To find a snack to eat To chew upon some meat Only a few more hours till morning As the critters wait For the excitement of the new day When humans come out to play


Poetry “Art” by Penina Steinberg A painting is: Like life on paper An idea A dream that walks around your head The color changes someone’s mood From blue, green to red Like life on paper. A pencil is: Like the creator tool that marks And lines the tip of my mind Like life on paper. Music is: The whisper in my ear The whip of lines The dainty strokes Like the colors of the rainbow And like life on paper My mind is: The swoosh of colors The creative lines The rounding stars Like life on paper. The creator is: The creative lines, the dainty strokes, the swoosh of colors That makes life on paper. I am the creator The creative lines I am the dainty strokes that put life on paper


Poetry “Holocaust” by Yisroel Solomon We were haunted and taunted We were like a bird without wings And to the Nazis we were rodents For the devil got up and corrupted their hearts. When we cried for help They didn’t care For they put the lives of others far behind Finally, the Jews were free To practice our religion publicly


Poetry “Clouds” by Solomon Freilich They’re the marshmallows of the sky. They’re as fluffy as cotton balls. But best of all, They can be any shape or size.

Some laugh. Some frown. But no matter what, Clouds don’t bring me down.


Poetry “The Village” by Anonymous There was once a cruel old village with no song nor dance; in this village everyone wanted a chance. People would sit all day, no laughter or play. All they had was to hope and to pray. There was no food, not one plate; This whole village was a witch’s fire grate.

But one night a boy said with bravery: “why not end this terrible slavery?” but to this the village said with a chant: “this is something the king won’t grant.” But the boy said with shame: “it is you to blame. So let’s not sit and do nothing but beg, Lets leave as if we have but one leg.”

So the village agreed and they got ready to leave with no armed forces, but only hearing the “CLICK CLONK” of horses. And the people left with pride, they left with pride from the cruel old place in which they used to bide.


Poetry “The Titanic� by Aliza Goldberg In the beginning, it was just a getaway, Wanting to step out of their busy lives To have some alone time. They waved so long to their friends and family As they boarded the ship, Certain that in a week they would return. But on the fifth day at sea An evil iceberg crushed these hopes. Whoosh! Was all that was heard as Water flooded onto the great ship. People scattered and hurried, Trying to find just a bit of safety or security, But their minds laughed at this thought As there was no safety onboard. It is mind boggling how in so little time Feelings of happiness and relaxation turned To resentment, pain, and sorrow. The last moments of that tragic night: escaping, Men, women, and children fled like fish from the fishing pole. All prayed to stay alive. Some jumped, some ran, some accepted their death was near. Now we look back at this tragic event. Trying to remember those who died. But we cannot ever feel at peace , Perhaps because there is no blame to place. No thief, no kidnapper, no murderer. Only a seemingly innocent iceberg, Invisible to the captain, On such a clear, pitch black night.


Poetry “Tap Dancing Feet� by Rachel Khutorsky Fa-lap, Fa-lap, Fast flapping feet tap Step, shuffle, leap, toe, hop, My feet never want to stop. Like a drummer in a band But using my foot, not my hand, My feet are syncopated raindrops, Or maybe popcorn as it pops. My tap shoes have lots of style, And tapping makes my feet smile.


writing “Double-take” by Stephanie Stifelman Five years now. Five years I was running. Who was I running from, one might ask? The Monsters. The Monsters would tear you limb by limb if you accidentally put poison in their coffee. It was an accident! At least that’s what I told them. Then they started hunting me. What could I do about it? Nothing but run. So it came as a surprise to me when I saw a kid that looked exactly like my brother did. Why did it come as a surprise? My brother was dead. Ty was the one who convinced me they were bad. When I was ten and he was five, he quite simply said “They are the bad guys”. I shushed and scolded him to stop before they heard him. That night, though, I thought about what I’d seen the Monsters do. They killed innocent children and planned diabolical and evil ways to destroy the human race. Ty was right-- they were the bad guys. Yet we had a deal. I would be kept alive, as well as my family, if in exchange I worked for them. And from then on, my plan was to destroy them all. So I did a double take, a triple-take, a quadruple-take; and I knew it was him. But it couldn’t be. Yet there he was, sitting on the street trying to hide and blend in with the crowd. His head was slightly ducked, hood up, shoulders slumped. He shuffled his feet ever so slightly with a mask of utter boredom on his face. I smiled as I realize he was good. Then I ducked back underneath the steps I was hiding under. I wondered if he would even remember me; I wasn’t exactly looking my best. My clothes were torn, my hair looked like a rat slept in it, and let’s just say I didn’t smell like roses and vanilla. But I had to talk to him-- maybe he was my brother after all! I walked out from the benches. I hadn’t seen this much sunlight in ages and winced. I walked slowly towards him, reaching out my hand… Suddenly I was on the ground with a big muscular guy standing over me. He said “The Monsters have been looking for you. Come with me”. “No.” I said calmly, pulling away, “I will not.” And with that I ran away, using the skills the Monsters taught me, knowing no one would ever be able to keep up. I looked back. Ty had disappeared. I ran faster, gaining speed and strength with each step. When I was pretty sure I’d lost the guy, I sat down, about to cry. I’d finally found Ty when I thought


writing he was dead. I’d been lucky enough to find him once, but I was chased away. Then I heard a scuffling sound. I looked around rapidly. Finally, a blond-haired boy came out. Ty. “You didn’t think I’d ditch you that fast, did you?” he laughed. I pulled him into a bone-crushing hug. “How did you escape?” I muttered into his ear. “Faked my death, their methods had no effect on me.” he responded. “I taught you well.” “You taught me to survive and escape, I owe you my life.” He looked at me earnestly, tears brimming in his eyes. I looked at him and smiled, “We’re gonna stay together now, alright?” He looked up at me, playfulness in his eyes. “Of course” he said and then he shouldered me. I fell and started chasing him. Now I had a running partner.


writing “Daisies” by Stephanie Stifelman I woke up to a man’s scream. My eyes opened automatically. I saw an angry sixty-something year old man, towering over me, bushy eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. I knew I had to tell him everything; I just didn’t know how. I whimpered. “My name is Isabella. M-my family and I-I were captured by t-t-t-the N-N-N-Nazis! Thth-th-they left me, and I had scarcely survived.” I felt myself begin to cry, and I was not able to hide my weakness. I completely hated crying. Even the Nazis never saw me cry. I had only cried once before and that was when I had realized that I might never see my parents again. And, even then I had done so privately. That was the only time. Ever. And here I was, crying in front of this, this STRANGER! I was absolutely furious with myself. The man sighed and said “Go take a shower and then we’ll talk.” His German accent scared me, but there was something kind about it. I hugged him. His muscular arms enveloped me; the overpowering scent of dirt made me whoozy after my emotional meltdown. I thought to myself, hopefully it all went right during that talk and I could live here. I had nowhere else to go after all. If not, well, I didn’t want to think about that. I walked inside and ran upstairs. I walked into a large, luxurious, green room. Attached to it was a marble bathroom. I quickly undressed and ran into the shower. The hot water felt amazing against my dirty, tired, sad body. My mind drifted onto other things, such as where my family was. I’d never experienced this kind of guilt before. Oh great, more emotions. I was really starting to get annoyed with myself. I should be happy; I was only thirteen and had managed to escape the Nazis, to outsmart them! But no, instead I felt guilty. What was I going to do with myself? I quickly washed my hair and body. I never wanted to feel guilty like that again. I dressed in large clothes that he laid out and ran downstairs, not even brushing my hair. There would be plenty of time for that, hopefully. I walked in and said, “Before you make any decisions about me, just listen. Just please, listen. I never had the life you must have had. I was always an outsider, always the oddball. It got worse as I got older. Last year, the Nazis put me and hundreds of other Jews in death camps. I became the ultimate outsider. They intended for us to die. During the time I was there, I wished I was dead.” I watched as his facial expression softened. I let him think about it for a couple of seconds and then decided to go on, “I grew up in Berlin as a Reform Jew. When I was 12, I was taken from my home and put in a death camp. I was in that camp for a year. People were dying every day. Whether they were murdered or died of starvation and the horrible living conditions, no one cared. They were dead, and we had to shovel their bodies into piles and bury them. I finally escaped last night and please, please


writing don’t call them on me. I’ll leave, if you want. But I’ll die for sure if you tell them. My life is in your hands. Help me. If you say no, you have ensured my murder, you will be the same as them.” I could tell the man was thinking. He finally said, “Now you are my niece. You will call me Uncle. My real name is Hugh. We won’t be seeing a lot of each other; but when we do, I want you to treat me with respect. You will live here as my niece, but you are not to leave this property until the war is over. I will get you a tutor, and you can look around. Goodbye and I will see you at dinner. Here, eat something.” He pushed some bread toward me. With that he left. I looked hungrily at the piece of bread; it had been months since I had a whole piece of bread for myself. I wanted to stuff it all in my mouth right then and there. But instead, I slowly buttered it. I broke off the smallest piece possible and ate it. It tasted so good; I quickly devoured the whole thing. I went outside after finishing my bread. I walked into the barn. On the floor where I had slept last night was a wet, smudged, crumpled note. I picked it up, knowing exactly what it was. I saw Jacob’s messy handwriting. This was the note that saved my life. I opened it and read it. “Leave now. Heard Nazis say that they will kill everyone tomorrow. Don’t go in the showers at the camp. Love, Jacob.” If I survived the war and he didn’t, I could never live with myself. He saved my life. He was my best friend. My last defense. I realized that for the rest of the war, I will never see him, maybe the rest of my life. I fell to the floor in despair. The dark wood was the only thing keeping me from sinking into the ground. This led to remembering my escape last night and more importantly, how I hadn’t tried to save anyone else. I curled up into a ball, sobbing again. I ran inside and looked at my old clothes. I looked at the whip marks, fingering each one. I looked at the dirty pajamas. I thought about the others wearing the pajamas. I must have thought about that in my dreams because I dreamt about pajamas, crying and screaming. I woke up determined to find some answers. I decided to start investigating Hugh’s home. I walked into a pearly white room. On one side there was a big wooden desk and then the rest of the room was empty. I looked at the dark brown desk and walked towards it. I opened a large drawer ands looked inside. Inside, there were five pictures in it. One showed Hugh as a young boy. Then I saw a picture that really startled me. I saw a young girl and Hugh hugging. But the thing that startled me was the fact that the young girl was my mother. I ran downstairs, needing to find some answers. I waited until Hugh got home and marched right up to him to show him the picture. I tried to be calm when I asked “How. Do. You. Know. My. Mother?” He looked down at me and led me into the living room. He started “Your mother was my...... sister. I loved her. She was my best friend. I will never forget her. But we fought like any other brother and sister. We had one particularly gruesome fight the night


writing before she left for college. We never talked again after that. A couple of years later, our parents died. That was the last time I saw her. At their funeral.” I watched Hugh wipe a tear from his eyes. I was a bit amazed. He was my actual uncle. Really? I decided to ask him a couple questions about my mother to see if he was telling the truth. I stayed composed as I asked “Really, well than what was her favorite color? “Yellow.” “Why?” “It reminded her of sunshine and happiness.” “What was her favorite flower?” “Daisy, because it is always so cheerful and grows even in the hardest of times.” I looked at him with amazement in my eyes. This man was my uncle. And I realized with a start that, more importantly, he was my daisy. The brightness in my gloom. I hugged him. I felt guilty telling him I had no idea where my own mother was. Ugh, guilt, my least favorite emotion. Suddenly, it hit me, I had escaped and now I wasn’t alone. I looked at Uncle Hugh, I was sure that he was like me in that he detested showing emotion, the two of us were like walking robots, but together we were something magical. I knew I had to find my mom, dad and Jacob. And I would, I was sure of that, but for now at least I had a daisy.


Art & photography “Fall Leaves” by: Ayala Stone


Art & photography “Green Grass” by: Lauren Borenstein


Art & photography “Nature” by: Saul Goldstein


Art & photography “Rose” by: Ayelet Rubenstein


Art & photography “The Robot” by: Mark Mammon


Art & photography “Peach” by: Ayelet Rubenstein


Art & photography “The Creek” by: Maya Greenbaum


Art & photography “Silver Water” by: Ayala Stone


Art & photography “Shadows” by: Saul Goldstein


Art & photography “The Crow” by: Mark Mammon


Art & photography “Rose” by: Ayelet Rubenstein



Moriah Ink - Spring 2012