The earth voomed out like a baseball,"" says American Adam, age eight, of Creation; fourteen-year-old Edward Asare, from Ghana, contrives the wedding of fish and cornmeal and their safekeeping by Mr. Stomach; English Edward Crook, twelve, distinguishes between death (""it just wasn't sad, I was that young"") and bereavement (""I'm never going to play around in my mask and see Roger [the cat] in his forest of stems, and that's sad""). Like Miracles, Mr. Lewis' anthology of children's poetry, Journeys speaks in many voices--observation, invention, empathy, anguish--and admits of many hypotheses. On the influence of national origins, for one, or the roots of anxiety. But what matters most is the expressive strength of the selections themselves: whether brief or extended, fictive or evocative, they excel in metaphor--the road ""sitting down,"" chewing gum ""trying to scream its way out [of] the torturer's mouth""--and discerning candor--see the edgy confrontation in ""The Silence of Guilt."" And, more consistently than in adult writing, the form fits the content.