Morning Poem
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches ---
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead ---
if it's all you can do
to keep on trudging ---
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted ---
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
Morning Poem
by Ellie J.
Dead bushes reach their gnarled fingers
down to the ground to strangle the grass.
Tall bushes interlace to form caves
that beasts hide in,
crickets chirping,
birds tum-de-dumming and dum-dooing,
flying over the mesh of white, yellow,
purple, pink and green.
Hills so steep they're almost impossible to climb,
grass at the top silhouetted against
light and dark blue of the sky.
But try --
try to climb those hills,
try to see what's on the
other side.
It could be anything.
Three Green Pearls
by Ruby
Three green pearls in palm
so much life
here in these
small metallic spheres
these pearls show
that there's still
hope here
I see the rough
curves of my hand
and realize they
do no thave to worry
about age,
they just wait simply wait
to show more life in
the small, perfect flower
they'll become
they have a reason
to live and they
shall live for that reason
to show hope is their
reason to live
and that is what
the world needs
hope.
Extraoridinary
by Antigone
A field of stems
with slender stem tops,
all looking the same,
more perfect than not,
just standing there proudly,
all tan and all sleek,
just standing there
quiet and peaceful,
not loudly.
But along came a grass,
all crooked and green,
it twisted, it bended,
it runined the color scheme.
It looked out of place,
that one awkward plant
and many people passed by it,
thinking, "What's that?"
What they didn't notice,
in their scorn and distaste
as they walked by the plant
with unease and much haste,
is that on those small brances that had been hated for hours
sat something small,
something that turned out to be flowers.
There is still a field,
a field of stems
with slender stem tops,
all looking the same,
more perfect than not,
but standing thier proudly
al tall and all crooked
stands a beautiful flower,
speaking quite loudly.
And if you're small ears were listening,
you'd hear the flower say
in a voice strong and glistening
to stop trying to be normal
simply because
it robs you of the chance
to be extraordinary.
Morning Poem
by Sophia
A bird flies through the corners of my eyes
the sound of chirping reminds me
htat today I live
though tomorrow is unrecognizable
through the dark shadows
I left the internal peace behind
for yesterday was a different day
and the living memories still glow behind
closed eyelids,
though soon to fade
as yesterday becomes history.
The poisons of the city do not reach us,
but others do.Sheltered in this ravine of silence
birds fly by without danger in mind.
Along comes a lonely stranger,
saddened by no peace of mind.
Will his dreams soon come together?
That is for tomorrow to decide.
For now is the present and
present is action
and actions to take are
decisions to make
past, present, future
in living memory.
Morning Poem
by Eliana
Made of dirty lace.
Carefully woven into
asymetrical designs.
Made of dirty lace.
Intricate, wrinkled and messy,
made by children's hands.
Made of dirty lace.
Not first snow,
in fact,
one of the last.
Made of dirty lace.
Hard, cracked, mesh,
pale and delicate.
Morning Poem
by Isabella
The hills creating her gentle features.
The trees creating her long limbs.
Birds pecking at them
making her heavy and weak.
She knows it's not their fault,
they're just trying to live life
like any other
creature in this world.
Tired feet walking on her hard shell,
where deep down there is pain.
She aches and grows tired
of being what she is meant to be.
When she realizes,
the homes and the beauty she
creates makes people happy,
she continues her journey
of creating such things,
reminding herself every second
of everyday,
how important she is to others.
Before we continued up the hill, I read Lucille Clifton's "Homage to my Hips" to the group. We then isolated various parts of our bodies as we hiked, like wild, poetic creatures, in an attempt at paying our own form of homage to the marvels of our bodies.
We then journeyed up to the site of the former peace sign to eat and look out on the city. I read George Ella Lyon's, "Where I'm From" to the group.
Where I'm From
I am from clothespins,from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch.
(Black, glistening,
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush
the Dutch elm
whose long-gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.
I'm from fudge and eyeglasses,
from Imogene and Alafair.
I'm from the know-it-alls
and the pass-it-ons,
from Perk up! and Pipe down!
I'm from He restoreth my soul
with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.
I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch,
fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger,
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.
Under my bed was a dress box
spilling old pictures,
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments--
snapped before I budded --
leaf-fall from the family tree.
Using the view of the bustling city on one side and the green open space on the other, some of us elected to create our own, "Where I'm From" works.
Where I'm From
by Isabella
I'm from southern accents.
I'm from Alisson Krauss and Johnny Cash.
I'm from country music,
ya'll sayin' state.
I'm from dirt and cowgirl boots.
I'm from the place where
everything is bigger.
I'm from the heat,
from be a Texican and
not a Texican't.
I'm from iced tea on a hot day,
strong opinions and personalities.
I'm from ribs and brisket.
I'm from mashed potatoes
drenched in gravy.
Where I'm From
by Sophia
I am from the mountains that I
snowboard on all winter
and the hills on which I sled down.
I am from the benches on which I sit,
write, and vault over.
I am from the shadows that time to me
and stick to me by
the laws of physics.
I am from the plastic bottle that gives
me fresh water and sustenance.
I am from sweetness that gives me energy
and always is perfect for my stomach.
I am from the mountains.
I Am From
by Eliana
I am from Harry Potter.
I am from lakes and sand that burns your feet.
I am from imagination.
I am from watching sunsets and sleeping outside.
I am from switching schools and making new friends.
I am from show-offs and scaredy cats.
I am from easter egg hunts in our living room and tea parties.
I am from the river we go to on hot summer days.
I am from best friends.
I also then shared Sarah Kay's, "Poppy" with the group. This piece looks at a person over time and uses shared images to link the stanzas together. Some of the girls elected to work on their own portrait poems, using Kay's idea of traveling through time to create a whole portrait.
Poppy
by Sarah Kay
Poppy is four years old. The only shelf in the cabinet she can reach is the one with the plastic Tupperware. She has started filling containers with water, snapping on lids, and placing them about the house. It is her new favorite game. One for Mama, one for Papa, one for Tessa, one for Ollie. Her hands can hold one at a time. Her dress is the color of marmalade, she chirps songs that have no words.
When Poppy is twenty-five, she will follow a love to France. In the summer time she will make jars of cold tea, place them in the sun to steep, forget them in the sunny corners of their house. He will love her for this. That, and the daisies in her hair; the way she reads in doorways, purring show tunes to the crinkle of the page.
When she is forty-seven, Poppy’s garden will be the talk of the street. Her French tulips will dip over the sidewalk, dragging leaves against the pavement. She will carry jugs of water—overflowing onto her arms, her overalls—back and forth from the house to the yard. This is her way now, since her son has worn holes through the garden hose with his trike. She does not mind. He rides circles around the jugs, while she sings and turns the soil.
Eighty. And Poppy carries cups of water to leave around the house. One to the desk for while she is writing, one to her bedside every night. The walk to the kitchen is long and her lavender nightgown is thin. Open the cabinet, find the cup. Turn on the tap, fill it up. Snap on the lid, off to bed. She hums to the radiator. Sometimes she forgets the words.
Sarah Kay is a poet who often forgets where she left her tea. www.kaysarahsera.com
Ian
by Antigone
The boy is named Ian. He swings on the hammock, peeling the skin off of grapes with his teeth, and marveling at the slimy texture. His new favorite hobby is acting. He takes a drama class on Tuesday afternoons and, even though he's only five years old, he's fooled his mom more than once into thinking he'd only had one cookie instead of two. His favorite place is on the hammock, because it's easy to imagine he is out at sea, rocking in a boat. When he gets older, he wants to be a sailor.
Now Ian is ten. His fluffy white-blond hair is sticking up the way he hates it, but right now, he doesn't care. Excitedly, Ian pulls his best friend Nathan into the backyard and shows him the new puppy. Nathan gapes and tells Ian that he wishes he had a puppy too. The next day, Nathan comes over again, but the puppy is taking a nap. He and Ian pass the time by playing with wooden swords in the backyard. Ian is a good actor by now, and at one point, tricks Nathan into thinking he got hurt and, while Nathan's guard is down, Ian ends up winning. Nathan sighs, but plays again until Ian's mother comes out with homemade grape smoothies. As Ian sips his drink, he decides he now wants to be a knight in shining armor when he grows up.
At age 30, the little boy is not so little anymore. He goes to work in the mornings, and teaches an acting class in the afternoons. THe evenings he reserves for his little girl named Riley who has fluffy blond hair and loves grapes. She will sit on his lap after dinner and while he snuggle and tells her stories about Peter Pan, she will try to convince him that she's only had one cookie, not two. It never works though and now Ian no longer thinks about growing up anymore.
Ian is now sixty years old. Each morning he gets up and waters the grape vines growing in his front yard. Around noon, Riley and her new husband call, wondering if he has any names for the baby soon to be born. He suggest Nathan. At 4:00 Ian decides to take a break from writing the script he is working on that features a sailor, a father and a knight in shining armor. He drives down to the community theatre to watch the children put on the show, "Peter Pan." Before he goes, he stops at a coffee shop to buy a cookie, even though he's already had one with breakfast.
Sara
by Ellie J.
Sara is six. She spends her days playing games with handsome princes and dragons and fair maidens. Other days she will chase butterflies, calling them fairies. She hides things and then goes and finds the long lost treasure and comes back an honored hero.
When she turns twelve, all she wants for her birthday are books. She loves to read. She loves biographies, but most o fall, she loves fantasy with dragons, fairies, demons and unicorns with their pearly horns. She tries to write stories and some are good but they don't seem complete.
At age fifty, she is writing fantasy books for kids. She has twenty-seven of her books published, complete with illustrations. She is single, but not alone. Her books keep her company. Not only the stories, but the books themselves. The thought of books, the sight of books, the smell of books.
At age eighty-seven, Sara is small and wrinkly with blondish-white, fluffy hair. She has stopped writing books but her passion for fantasy has not ceased. She still reads every night and has a glass unicorn collection.
Emily
by Eliana
Emily is five and goes by Emmie. She wants to be a singer when she gets big. She doesn't knwo her letters or numbers, and doesn't want to learn. Emmie doesn't like her teacher so she refuses to talk to him.
Eight years later, Emmie wants to be called Emily. She's tired of being told to be quiet. Tired of wearing her brother's hand me downs. Tired of having to go to school five days a week. She still doesn't want to learn.
Now Emily is twenty-seven. She just finished school. She was older than most of her peers, having had to repeat several grades. Emily smiles because she knows she will never have to learn again.
Emily is forty-six. She has three children who she sings to every night. She works at a coffee shop, and loves her job. But sometimes she stops and wishes she could go back in time, go back because now she wants to learn.
No comments:
Post a Comment