Six 6th graders read their award-winning poems at the 2025 Parkmont Poetry Festival.

A blank page—or screen—can be daunting. Sometimes you just need to open your brain and heart and see what words emerge. That is just what 6th grade teacher Becky Farnum and her fellow Language Arts teachers—Ben Overcash and Joe Korth—have been encouraging their students to do, and it was in that spirit that six students, accompanied by many of their supportive classmates, read their poems at the 43rd annual Parkmont Poetry Festival on May 3.

The Parkmont Poetry Festival, which began in 1982, received 382 submissions this year from dozens of middle school students from DC schools. Sixteen Sidwell 6th graders were named as finalists and of those, six were selected as winners. “The recognition, while impressive, is just one part of the story,” explains Farnum. “What matters more is what these poems hold: the thoughts that students whisper to themselves when the world quiets down, and the dreams they are just beginning to name out loud.”

When Farnum started teaching at Sidwell in 2006, she researched writing opportunities for middle school students and discovered the Parkmont Poetry Festival. She immediately began having her students draft, write, and submit poems to the festival each year.

“My teaching philosophy regarding student writing has always aimed to extend beyond the confines of the classroom. I believe that writing is not merely an academic exercise, but a vital tool for self-expression, critical thinking, and connection with the wider world,” she says. “I actively require students to share their work with audiences beyond their teacher and peers, specifically through participation in writing contests.” 

Farnum believes that asking students to submit their work to contests provides a tangible purpose for their writing, transforming it from a graded assignment into a meaningful act of communication. Her goal as a writing teacher is to empower students to see themselves as writers, capable of contributing meaningfully to the world around them. By providing opportunities for them to share their work and receive recognition, she hopes to instill a love of writing and a belief in their ability to use and develop their voice. This act of writing for a larger audience is now a part of the 6th grade Language Arts curriculum. 

What do students think about writing poetry? Here’s what some had to say:

• “I learned that in the arts—and in life—you should just put yourself out there.” 
  — Carmen Bjoenson Moreno
• “I learned to adjust myself and open my brain to other types of expression and writing.”
  — Clara Soheili
• “Sometimes it’s good to go out of your comfort zone.” 
  — Naomi Karam
• “If I were to give a piece of advice, I would say to always believe in your writing. By this, I mean, just keep writing even if you think your writing is dumb. Many people in my class were uncomfortable sharing their poems in front of the class, but I found that those poems were the most interesting.” 
  — Carmen Bjoenson Moreno

“Every year it is amazing to see the incredible vulnerability and courage these Middle Schoolers show in sharing their voices,” says Farnum who attended the 2025 festival with many of this year’s 82 6th graders. “The students were wonderful! Each one stepped up to the mic with such poise and passion. It was a beautiful reminder of the creativity and wisdom of our young poets.”

Farnum’s students have been participating in the festival for many years and for the last three, all Sidwell 6th graders have submitted poems. This year, for the first time, the teachers compiled the works into a lovely bound book called dreams: an anthology of sixth grade poetry, 2025.

Read the poems of Sidwell’s 2025 Parkmont Poetry Festival winners below.

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This year, six students were selected by the finalist judge, poet and publisher Michael Gushue, as winners in the Parkmont Poetry Festival. 

Diamond Painting
by Jack Rothenberg

after Piet Mondrian
Forget the so called proper blue or grey diamond
 forget how diamonds cut and uncut are supposed
 to look forget how the facets are supposed to look
Remember the red that looks like blood and the triangular
black pits remember the numbing white squares the steady
grey rectangles for whatever it looks like it will always be a 
diamond and will always no matter what people say always
be beautiful

The Tree
by David Ssempijja

In the woods
Where the leaves are the sky
An ancient tree
Ceases to breathe
A strangler fig
Wrapped around
The tree is starved
Suffocated by its oppressor
It was kill or be killed
But when the battle is finished
When the tree has rotten away
The strangler is left hollow
An empty shell of its predecessor
Its bones all to see

Different
by Nayla Arze-Habal

The tiger paces its cell
Watching the cloud
What would he do if he could fly
The cloud watches the world go bye
The sun and the moon pass this cloud 
But still the cloud stands alone in the sky
For the cloud ponders
A very serious thing
As he goes along 
slow as a snail
he begins to wonder 
What would he do if he had feet 
So the tiger and the cloud 
stare at each other all day 
For the cloud wants feet
and the tiger wants to fly 
All of the day
And all of the night
 Not moving 
They sit their and ponder
What could I do 
If I were different

Bison in winter landscape
by Ryan Orgad

Shivering cold snowflakes
crashing into the terrain
Padding the soft fluffy snow

A time in life
by Romy Bronin

 The bee wants to sing, and the tree wants to run, breaking out of the ties tangling them
Walk into a time where they’re free
The river wants to stop for once and think about the years when it could smooth every rock
A time when it had a run swifter than a galloping horse 
the fish wants to stray from the school but it can’t, where would it go then
 The lion dreams about the days it was young and its roar was louder than fire
A time when he had the claws of a dagger
 The turtle wants to trade its shield for a sword, its cover for a brave coat
 the girl wants to live in a world free of judgement
 A time where she can just exist

Schadenfreude
by Isabel Sanchez

The rain starts to patter, thunder, shower, weaving its way under the cracks of the marina.
They pull for seemingly ages, hoisting the sails onto the ship’s mast. 
Boom. 
The captain's cat prods on the stone blocks, crying in the rain. She has escaped the terror of the ship. 
The soldier's cry’s rings through my open ear. 
She jumps back on the majestic ship, startled. 
They push off, the new sail billowing in the wind. 
Boom. 
Like a needle in a haystack, they find a ship. 
Boom.
Their opponents sink into the depths, cheering, screaming for dear life. They cannot hold on much longer. 
The cat slinks along the hull of our ship, her padded feet barely making a sound as we celebrate in the mist. 
Boom. 
We toss and turn, lowering farther and farther down with the waves. 
The cat screeches. 
We are sinking too.