top of page

New Youth Poetry


As I hear you speak,
I notice your words almost as lyrics,
Flowing like waves;
Calming, yet expressive.

(c)2021 Stephanie Morales

Gutierrez Arana


A situation in which I find myself

watching a family with hidden motives;

they affect us all the time.


Family is a group of people who raise you,

but it is up to you to define them as a part of you.

Family; not every one of them is happy, or functional,

but all it takes is one action from them

to make you know what ugly really means;

it might have something to do with an appearance;

                it all has to do with your soul.

With the way most families are,

many can show us the true meaning of beauty,

but also distortion.

©2021 Melissa Gutierrez Arana


I used to hate the fact

that I would put a smile

to make the world happy

But now I try my best

to change my attitude towards the world.

I always say that I'm going to try my best the next day,

but I never truly believe in my abilities.

I once thought I had the world in the palm of my hands,

but now I realize that it was never like that. 

If I could be a perfect Mom, and teach my daughter

not to make mistakes like I did,

I would be so proud and accomplished in knowing that I did it.

I never put myself first

because I wanted to see others happy

instead of myself, but I might have taught myself a lesson.

I can't imagine growing old and watching my child grow,

but I can wait for my daughter to have her kids,

and their kids.

I won't dream to big, but I might work as hard as I can

to make it to those dreams.

I used to not give a care in the world,

but now I know that I can be anything

I put my mind to.

(c)2020 Jasmine Valencia


Social Media,

filled with pretty girls with perfect bodies,

and muscular guys getting all the “chicks,”

scrolling through our feeds. 

Seeing all these fake people

and their expensive kicks,

living life, feeling so lonely,

hiding everything with a simple smile,

posting to show off because

that’s the only thing life is about. 


Lamborghinis and Louis Vuitton purses,

big biceps and flat stomachs,

Kia Souls and tote bags,

self-hatred and self-consciousness.


Social Media,

like adding gas to a fire,

acting like fuel to all our insecurities.

(c)2020 Rebecca Altunkaryan

Announcing the winners of the 1st Annual Arcadia Poetry Slam!

1st Place

Bridgette Yang, "Dragon Fire"

click here to read poem

2nd Place

Eden Treimen, "17 Going On 18"

click here to read poem

3rd Place

Hailey Cheng, "I Wish I Could Tell Her"

click here to read poem


Cal Poets Student Poetry



All Student Poetry is the original creative product of the artist. No use of Student work is permissible.

All copyrights are retained by the author. 























Beyond Baroque's Student Poet Program with Tresha Haefner, Danielle Bailey, Marcellus Wilson,

Jessica Wilson, Owen Watts, Lilli Keeve, Monica Caris, Nathan Mosher, Hanna Kraus, India Radfar




Cousin passed away, broke my heart in two,

looking at the world, got nothing else to lose.

I turned to drugs, 

thinking it would lift me up,

but in the end, it fucked me up;

ended up getting me kicked out,

and pushing my family away.

It got me thinking about the day you passed away,

wishing for you to come back,

but it ain't coming true.

Hate how I found out that you passed away

by watching the news.

Still a young kid, I had no clue.

Went on Facebook, then saw a picture of you,

broke down in tears and knew it was true;

you passed away and there's nothing I could do.

Save a seat for me cousin, we'll reunite again soon. 

I can't use your passing as a reason to do drugs,

gotta find another way to bring myself back up;

gotta realize that it was only I who was fucking myself up,

I know you're looking down with the angels

from high up above!


- Michael Orozco (c)2017

Still I Stand

Still I stand

still I stand,

through the hard time in my struggle

through the pain between me and my mother,

still I stand through thick and thin,

through the pain that I hold

inside my heart,

through the pain of carrying my heart

on my sleeve

still I stand;

against police brutality,

because Black lives matter!

Still I stand because my life matters,

now more than it pobably ever has

so I'll stand

and I stand,

I'll stand up, and as I stand up

I'll rise.

- Keyomie Kendricks (c) 2017

Danielle Bailey


I cleaned out my notebook

stroked the pages

and thought of your sweet nectarine lips

missed you a little bit

but not too much

just enough to make me wonder

Why do caterpillars turn into butterflies?

Transitions and pasts are needed to flourish, I transitioned from you, my past, so I could build my future as a butterfly.       

(c) 2013



Love is shaving your mustache because your lover thinks it looks like you share your face with a ferret.

Love so bulletproof, every term meant to degrade you makes you blush,and bullets don’t kill.

Love is dressing up like a clown because your lover thinks its sexy,however, you know deep down, this is meant to embarrass you.

Love, sweet love , is swimming in a shark tank with a bloody nose to be a hero.

Love, is degrading yourself for love that doesn’t belong to you.

Communal entities tell you love is until death parts you, but real love goes beyond the gates of the afterlife.

 Love turns insults into terms of endearment.

Love turns you into your lovers bitch, but you don’t mind eating kibble and bits.

Love makes the intolerable acts of the one you “love” tolerable, you can manage to look

 passed the insults, cheating, alcoholism, B.O., webbed feet, STD’s,and drug addiction all for a pretty face to call “yours”.

(c) 2013



I'm a part of a part of man.

I kiss with my eyes open.

I give hugs, I don't shake hands.

I like butterflies, I loathe flowers.

I like hate, love makes no sense.

I'm everything, but nothing to the world


a worthless piece of a solved puzzle

I can't feed the hungry, including myself

 food for thought is all I have to offer

I sit on Volkswagens on tops and look for myself

over the horizon i think i see a familiar face similar to mine

I'm happy because I'm alive

I impose my beliefs on myself over and over, it's a never ending cypher.

Three 120's later I've come to know what is to be of woman

 I don't take that too seriously

It's just a distraction from the bigger picture, merely a consequence of man's lack of self confidence.

We can't simply be, we label ourselves.

Stoner, whore, village idiot, asshole, lover, fighter, gay, straight, bisexual, fat, anorexic, schizophrenic,bitch, nigga, cracker, prezentious, cunt, blasphemous human beings.

Who are you, you, or you to judge

We all bleed the same, breathe the same, do the same things to be okay as guests stars of American capitalism.

Peeking through hidden meanings is looked down upon, we're judgemental, in denial, and insane.

Sanity is a sick joke, created to kill self-confidence.

Your neuroses will not rule if you recognize and accept them.

I'm no longer in denial, I took off my mask that made it seem that I was calm, cool, and collected.

I break down, I get mad, I laugh whole heartedly, I cry.

I learn from myself.

Challenge my thoughts and yours.

Everyone's a sinner and a saint.

The balance is relative.

I've learned not to question my feelings.

I can't  hurt another person emotionally.

I'm not as good as some think or as bad as you expect.

I have a long list of problems cut short by forgiveness and gratitude.

I couldn't begin to complain about my life.

I have issues but my life is okay. 

I may change the world

I may start a war

I want every pen stroke to come with love attached.

Eyes are things that say everything I can't even murmur.

I believe in my power as a being.

I'm label free

I'm not sold in stores

A rare gem

Once bitten by malevolence

Once a scared girl in a room corner

I hope someone can understand

I am a part of a part of man.

(c) 2013




Monica Caris



Hello, My Name is Poetry

It woke up one night

And forced me to listen to it

It knocked on my door

And told me its name was poetry

I asked it how old it was

It asked me right back “How old am I?”

I asked it where it came from

“How am I supposed to know?” it chuckled

I asked it where it lived

It responded, “Anywhere you can find me. But if you have to chase me, I promise you will never catch me.”

And then it left

Before I could open my mouth to ask it to explain itself

It was gone

It came

It confused me

Then it left

I tried to run after it

Then I remembered that it was no use

So I sat and I waited, hoping that it would come back to me

But sitting and waiting doesn’t get you anywhere

So I went to bed

And when I woke up

It was there

It was everywhere

In the radiance of the early morning sum

In the smell of the fresh dew on the grass

In the song of the blue jay high in the oak tree

Even in the oak tree itself

In fact, it was all over that ordinary oak tree

At least, it seemed ordinary yesterday

Has it always been there,

This thing who introduced itself as poetry?

It must have been

Of course it has

I was convinced of it

I just never thought I would spend the rest of my life convincing everyone else of it, too.

(c) 2013



Birds of a Feather


Birds of a fly apart-

Proximity never lasts.


There are more than two peas in a pod-

The others get left out.


Going to bed angry doesn’t affect the morning’s sun-

Waking up angry is why the flowers don’t bloom.


Curiosity didn’t kill the cat, life did-

If you aren’t curious you aren’t alive.


And so what if cats have nine lives and always land on their feet?

I’m not afraid of falling to my death.


A mouse scurried blindly across the cutting board-

There was only one, so I let it keep its tail.


I smashed a mirror with a hammer so everyone could see me as I do, so they could see how broken I am-

My luck hasn’t changed, only my face.


In the winter, they say no two snowflakes are ever alike,

But they melt in the palm of your hand before you can prove it.


And the birds fly south,



Even the tiniest bird with a broken wing flies towards the warmth.


And then it is spring,

And we will never know how far he got.

(c) 2013



Two Seconds Too Fast


Running after the minute hand,

Like racing a cheetah to its prey.


The 12 on the clock gets farther and farther,

Time is slipping away.


It’s hard to compete in a race

Which you’re sure has already been won,


But the seconds, the minutes, the clock never stops,

And neither can I, I will never be done.


I long to grab on to the hands of time

And break them both in two,


Just one more minute, one more second,

One more day free of time to spend with you.


But just as I am almost caught up

The second hand slips from my grasp,


I know there is no point in chasing something

That is always two seconds too fast.

(c) 2013




Amanda Gorman


The Front Line of Hope


Drowned in loss; never ending battles

Hope charred by Miss O'leary's cattle

Stranded in seas of humans, no paddle

Hate's hiss is hushed by baby's rattle

Look over back for devil to tattle

Submerged beneath government's prattle


The bees fly--be wary: the butterflies sting

Ears too deaf to hear the caged bird sing

Prejudice is a bullet--shot M. King

Atropos is cutting too many strings

The dove didn't return to Noah in Spring

Hybris tell us pride is a useless thing


Poverty is very real--wealth is fake

Can you blame Eve for believing the snake?

Souls deemed weak are the last to break

Bubbling our problems in the depths of sake

The ones with the least have the most at stake

The ones with the most are the most to take


Children placed on the front lines of death

Instead of the joyous front lines of hope

Politicians smokin' power like its meth

Racists gulping all that hate like its dope

Murder leads to nowhere, learn from Macbeth

Victims forced to take the world's final breath


The front lines of hope

Keep the front lines of hope

Sins will be rinsed with water and soap

Instead of hunger we'll eat food and love

We won't look at our feet but gaze above

And when we grow tired and cannot cope

We'll find solace in the peace of King's blessed slopes

Standing together: a front line of hope

(c) 2013



The Abandoned Inhabited City

  As the train chugged into its stop at the station, I was greeted by memories, hovering in the form of archangels, sweeping the dust with their gossamer wings. The emptiness shook my hand with great fervor, looking me straight in the eyes at its brethren vacancy behind my pupil. Pebbles murmured their hello as my shoes crunched over their persons. The shadows were shy, observing me from the darkness of thickets, wondering why I didn’t have a black reflection following me around on the ground. Trees waved from rooftops, as if I were a brave knight coming home. The sun, setting in a tarnished plum behind the wheezing buildings, muttered a greeting more deep and low than the final exhale of a man. The moon, however, who had taken rule, chimed a jingle. Potholes littered the earth like gaping throats, and nothing moved. The clouds were a thick gray of watercolor, the smoke did not billow, the leaves hissed and rustled without shifting. I struck a match, but the light did not flicker. It did not burn.


                Pripyat was a forgotten creation, the completed page in a child’s coloring book, whose loving mother tucked into a box of childhood artifacts in the dust clouds of the basement. It was the leaf shut between two thin pages of plastic, pressed flat and left as it was, forever; a work of clay crimped and folded and placed on a shelf, to still be the same decades later, just a sad, empty version of itself.


                The place was alive, soundlessly. Old faded, flower printed teapots, cracked like bones, lay overgrown by weeds and tall grass, like blue glass water pots who had discarded their job. The vases were empty, but they were full as an apple; heavy with the past and a future that would never come.


                After a while, I bordered the train again. I begged, oh, how I cried for them to come with me. But they seemed to accept there was no future for them here or any future for them anywhere else. And in that one moment, the shadows glowed; the dolls blinked; the archangels soared; the emptiness was full: brimming over like carbonated water and whistling like a kettle. The trees found their way from the rooftops to their homes in the grounding earth floor; the corpses of houses sprouted into their former selves; the sun breathed a haze of warmth; the moon was silent; the potholes secreted water as sweet as grapes; the clouds opened up to a cobalt sky, more blue than my sadness and clearer than diamonds. The flame flickered. But the wind blew, and the flame died, along with the resurrected forms of all the other citizens of Pripyat. Silence screamed once more.


                Tears streamed down my cheeks. For, in the bustling city with cigarettes, overpopulation, blaring music, forgotten dates, and bold, black depressing headlines, I was surrounded by people, but I was horribly alone. In Pripyat, I was in complete, rambling solitude. But I was not alone. The wretchedness of this was beautiful.


Beauty and ugliness are no coincidence, no matter how coincidental or accidental their factors. Beauty is the product of the wretchedness of the world.


Wretchedness is the product of being deprived of the beauty of the world.


When you experience both, you end up with Pripyat.


And sometimes, you end up with me.

(c) 2013



Sakana 魚


Listen, do not hear, as I tell you something so coincidental that it is fate.

The wind had died when I was set out on a task, and I watched from afar as the sun attended his funeral. He shuffled away solemnly, but soon realized he would have to attend the wake, and blushed an embarrassed red before hardening into the purple of the bruised plums that Ma dips into rice.

The path from the teahouse to the market followed the docks, where small boats could be seen bobbing upon the water as the fishermen searched into the depths of the water. Captured fish gasped in nets, their gray, slimy skin glistening like damp newspaper. Their eyes were dark as pebbles, but were wide and empty like vacant wells. However their bodies flapped, splashed, and twitched as if they had already been thrown into hissing, sizzling, vats of oil, while some lay still as if seaweed and rice balls muffled them.

Children raced and shuffled through the descending cloak of twilight like the geese scrambling and screeching over the gravel. I found it hard to keep balance in my blue kimono. Back then we wore sandal-like shoes with socks. There is a slight cleft in the middle, so we must totter and keep balance on the wood. I being an apprentice toppled over and slammed against the cold, unforgiving ground.

My eyelids were the shutters of the house nestled on the hill near the sea—wind and salt spray beat them open. They fluttered, like the sails of a ship in a relentless storm, yet they held the weight of curtains of a show on opening night, stained crimson. It wasn’t until I came around that I realized my own blood was blushing in a pool of red. When I had fallen and become disoriented, a fish, which had managed to flop onto the dock, had bit into my arm.

My arm had been gnawed into a tongue of scarlet that lapped at the salt, stinging my soft exposed tissues. The injury was not that pernicious—just a cut. In fact, the fish seemed in worse shape than I was.

His gills shuddered, his mouth agape in a big black hole that not only swallowed space but oxygen as well. He wiggled, overcome by the terrible poison that was my blood—his dagger teeth were dipped in it as if it were sauce.

Fast as lightning, a fisherman scooped the dying fish up. His beard and hair were speckled with salt and pepper, as if he had risen from the foam and barnacles of the sea. Without a word he threw the fish into the street. It flopped pitifully there for a moment, twitching like a thin branch, before the peasant children descended upon it. They came in a stampede of scratched knees and dirty faces, empty eyes and roaring stomachs.

They ate the fish raw, and sucked the puddle of blood around it. My blood. The blood that had poured from my arm. I watched, horrified, as it dripped like syrup down their faces. When that was gone, their faces rose, starring at me with those drained pupils, before they retreated back into the shadows of the path.

The man drew in his net, simple as that, and shoved himself away from the dock, sending ripples spreading out like cobalt bangles around him. He held up his fishing line. “Be careful, they’re carnivorous,” he mutters in a voice low as the sea.  We both eye the fishes in his net, which were tearing at each other. They snapped at each other with razor sharp teeth. “They also eat their own kind.”

As he pulled away from the dock, I didn’t know if he was talking about the fish or the children.

(c) 2013




Lilli Keeve




Echoes of your faded voice

My past decisions

Frightful and uneasy

2 a.m. sadness

It’s lonely in the cave of life

I only hear them

I only hear the echoes

And when they’re gone

A little part of me goes, too

(c) 2013




A sixteen year old

A girl who sees the world differently

Than how it really is

A sensitive, heartfelt mess at times

Not ready for real life

Not ready to be an adult

Or to get a job


She finds solace in rock n roll music from a time long gone

In films where she can escape the real world

In books she can hide behind

In pictures she can tell stories about


England is her true home

She’s walked along a tree filled bank at Versailles

She’s seen the world atop a mountain in Colorado


No, she hasn’t found true love

Like many people her age think they have

She’s never gotten completely wasted

Or tried any drugs with “so-called friends”

That would show her how destitute and frightening

A teenage life can be

(c) 2013






Like the snowflakes

That fall in the winter


When you feel as if

Everything’s gone to shit

When you don’t

Know what to do next

Or how to proceed

A certain emptiness

A hole that can’t be filled


When your chest heaves

And your mind shuts down

The tears pour out of your eyes

Like a waterfall



Like a bird that’s broken its wing

Or when you feel your

Heart shatter into a million pieces


It’s when you know

You’re losing a lot of friends

Or when your judgment is clouded


There’s layers of imperfection

Flaws in the system of society

It’s not a definition or a fact

It’s just sorrow

(c) 2013



Hana Kraus


Where Poems Hide


Poems hide like a diamond in the rough,

They hide in a place where one's too afraid to enter,

but when brought to life,

a beautiful ensemble of letters, words and phrases,

dappled in the golden rays of discovery can be found,

They hide in the shadows, evading the prying eye of the flashlight beam,

They hide,

Stuck in cobwebs,

In an old tortoise shell,

Between violin strings,

Under rocks lost in the tide,

Beneath Hebrew characters,

Behind the oppressive veil of Sharia Law,

They hide in  a Shinto Shrine,

In a Buddhist monastery off the beaten path,

They hide in a frozen lake,

protected by a dark green, frigid veil,

Poems hide in the cracks of pavement.

They hide in the iridescence of a hummingbird,

In a child's first breath of life,

They hide in the farthest depths of the sea,

where everything is so dark you can see the stars and how the universe it self was made,

Pomes are poems are found so deep you have to waltz around the Milkyway sometimes to reach them with your fingertips,

In the dregs of green tea.

(c) 2013 






It's morning

White walls,

The tick-tock of a clock,

sleepy eyes,

pencils scratch.

My mind didn't wander,

I found the key and opened a door labeled 'ME,'

Unlocking it, I was sucked right into a maelstrom of doodles and crazy things.

A black and white masterpiece of scribble scrabble.

The ink of my pen travels to distant lands,

I dip into other worlds,

swirling between the margins,


jagged lines,


I draw the Mona Lisa but abstract.

Waves of black lines.

I draw deserts, mountain ranges, oceans, and cities,

mandalas of yins and yangs,

coconuts and tigers,

A monster

with horns, sharp teeth, shaggy, tangled manes and friendly eyes.

It smiled up at me with a toothy grin.

I created life between the lines.

(c) 2013





Her spirit like a tumultuous wave of fire,

and at times,

cold like a heartache,

Stones on your bear feet,

She hurts,

Like nails on your neck,

Also beautiful like a painting made of  gold leaf and peacock feathers

But wicked causing blood-soaked tears,

Her eyes like world maps when you stare too long.

A graveyard,

Lightbulbs and paperclips died here,

Fishbones catching in your hair,

Taste pain in these murky waters,

Death resonates on the lilly-pads of life.

(c) 2013




Nathan Mosher


A Day In My Ideal Life


When I wake up a dog,

or a woman, or both

will be at my bedside.

The shower’s already on

My jacket’s skewed

a little to the left,

and my shoes battered

but still expensive. The

woman is still asleep without

a leash. The dog, the opposite.

We will walk, on the sidewinding

streets of San Francisco. Mostly up,

and when down, the dog strays

and wanders. But we make it

to the coffee shop. The coffee shop,

the one and only. Setting my stuff

down on the run-down couch,

the barista gives me

the usual.


The couch feels warm and

homeless and my laptop is

expensive. Then I write,

in my notebook or laptop,

sometimes chatting

with randoms or people I have

seen many times but refuse to

indulge more than just

a Hey you, how have you



But I will write, then

perform at night in an obscure

place where people do not

know my name. The lights shine

on their faces and darken my shadow.

And somehow,

I’m not poor.

(c) 2013






I will die in the realm

of life, plagued by some illness

that antibiotics has transformed

many times over until

modern medicine from right now

cannot cure it. Maybe it

will be cancer, but not cancer

that is known now, but a different

cancer, a super cancer, per se,

or cancer of the appendix.

And the doctors will say, take

This poison and get rid of that

poison, but the poisons will

complement each other like a

jacket over a button-up shirt

and they will tell my immune

system to sit down, cause it’s

old and senile. I will be in

the US, that’s for sure, probably

in some big city, maybe New

York. I think some people will

Be at my funeral, that don’t

know me personally. I won’t

care though cause I’ll be dead.

(c) 2013





Ambition cages one

in a nonexistent, metaphorical

cage, that has no physical

boundary, but that nonetheless

cages you, expanding

slightly slower than the force

you exert on its fragile

frame. Everything’s within

your reach, but coincidentally

it’s also not, and coincidentally

it’s completely out of everyone

else’s, they

outside the cage.

Shaped like a corridor

rather, is what I meant. It’ll 

never escape you, unless you

biologically alter your body,

becoming dependent on marijuana.

Soon that will wear off. Two

paths can develop, a yolk tying

you to inadequacy or a helium filled

balloon yoked to you, pulling

you higher, but always up,

never down.

(c) 2013




Owen Watts


Here’s how it happened.

There was a huge light

And all of a sudden

I was in a world

Out of this world

Rainbows, cats in PopTarts,

Monsters, people doing

Back flips with no legs,

Then there was a door

That was saying Owen,

Owen, so I went in the door,

I came back

To the real world and

That’s how I got an F on my History test.

(c) 2013





Angry, but I’m no Bird,

I am red, but I’m no tomato,

Screams come from my mouth, but I am not dying,

Water comes from my face, but I am no sprinkler.

Why would you do that?

You know I don’t like it when my food is touching!

(c) 2013



Give Me a Sign


I walk down the street

With my doughnut and coffee, the usual,

When I run into something hard.

The world goes slow-mo as my doughnut falls.


What’s the deal man that cost me

2 easy payments of $5.99.

The man stands motionless.

Hey, are you listening to me?

It was strange cause

He didn’t move or talk, but

Had a tattoo that said STOP.

(c) 2013

bottom of page