What an incredible group of writers I spent my morning with! I was totally blown away by what they produced today. In fact, I was so engaged in their writing that I forgot to take pictures. Alas, their words will have to suffice.
Untitled
by Antigone
Their teacher had changed.
Long, long ago they stopped learning from school.
Gone from their heads were circumference and similies,
instead they looked to the sun.
They held each others' hand,
and dressed up their doll like a sailor,
and put her on a boat,
and floated her down the river.
She was one of our favorites,
they said.
They held hands and were taught
friendship and acceptance.
Then they went to school and learned
everything and nothing.
Numbers floated through their heads as they looked out the window.
Finally they got up and left.
They drove sixteen hours across the country,
to a new teacher.
It was crisp and white and flat,
it taught you eelegance and grace,
and they couldn't remember what a simile was,
but it turned out it didn't matter.
They kept traveling --
down they went
to people with cocoa skin,
where the air was humid and hot and lovely.
The people were their teachers
and brought them happiness.
They liked themselves.
They brought a bracelet back home to
try to hold on to themselves
but it only sort of worked.
A boy gave them a necklace.
Now you can't leave me, they joked.
They learned so much that day.
About trust,
and about placing a piece of your soul
into someone else's heart.
For the moment, equalateral triangles were forgotten,
and for the moment, that was okay.
Finally they went somewhere new.
By now they could not sit still,
they wanted more and more teachers.
But this teacher was different.
The floor bent and quaked,
there was too much water,
and houses fell down.
Streets crumpled and flaked away.
One little boy was lost.
For a moment, they thought about equilateral triangles and
circumferences and similes and going back.
Then they smiled and began to rebuild a village.
Untitled
by Antigone
My friend has cloud hair and raspberry lips, classy and distracting.
We sat on a field on the edge of a cliff and had a picnic.
"My mama," she tells me, smacking pink lipstick,
"Every time we go to visit my mama, all she talks about
are which of her friends are dying and which ones are already dead."
Her voice is a sharp whine.
I sip out of my straw and admire her freckles.
"I don't even know who she's talking about. Not my friends, not my problem. Jesus."
Her raspberry lips smack,
there is some pink smeared on the clear straw.
Her freckles shine.
I finish my lemonade and leave.
Peanut Butter and Honey Sandwiches
by Estrella
I walk into the noisy lunchroom,
fingers clutching my pink and flowered lunch box.
I sit down with my friends.
I open up my lunch box.
There it is.
The most delicious food in the world,
or so I thought.
I open my mouth and take a big bite.
The white bread, with the crusts cut off, of course,
tastes like heaven.
The mixture of the creamy peanut butter and
gooey honey make for a sweet and salty snack.
I smack my lips, trying to get the honey off of them.
I keep swallowing to get the peanut butter off
the roof of my mouth, stuck there like glue.
When I finish, I snap my sandwich container back into place,
and move on to the less exciting part of my lunch: vegetables.
And when I finish my lunch,
all I can think about is tomorrow,
and my next peanut butter and honey sandwich.
Untitled
by Estrella
"Not my pandas, not my zoo!"
her voice rang out.
My mother observes the chaos as we
gather at the cliff's edge.
She doesn't want to consume
the guilt of having one of us get injured.
Shes been trying to get us to come back off
the edge for minutes and minutes
but she can't stop us
the clouds are big and fluffy and the sky
is a startling blue.
We get ready.
"1...2...3!"
And so, we jump.
Relationship Between All of our Objects
by McKenna
Connections.
This is a story about connections.
How in even a puddle of objects,
clumped together into one space,
hardly enough room for their stories
to fit in next to them,
we see the similarities melting and
bonding those objects into one another,
for you see,
each story starts,
witha friend, a fmaily,
who decide that in order to
rebuild our island, our universe,
to know that our friendship is right around the corner,
that all you need do is call,
to write down our memories as we learn from another,
to be content with what we are given,
to cherish the places, the snowed-in cabins,
that do not require a plane ticket to be worty,
and to keep one another close,
when mountains, valleys, icebergs and rivers
may keep us apart,
these friends, these families,
have told us to believe in what we
see, to hold dear those things,
that we find on street corners,
in ocean markts
at the bottom of jewelery boxes,
and the pockets of backpacks,
for it's the little things that count.
Jelly, Mixed Berries
by McKenna
Bread, whole wheat,
brown, the color of weeds drying out, colorless,
in a fall pasture,
its beads of seeds crumbling into dust,
as the wind makes the grass dance.
Bread, whole wheat,
the sandpaper on wood symphony,
as the mare's muzzle bruses its crust,
the white, flaking seeds, falling
into the arena dirt.
Jelly, mixed berries,
capping freckled, yellowing fingers,
with purple, lumpy hands,
leaving little trails of its mixture,
along the worn leanter cantle,
giving color to the tooled flowers and
acorns along the saddle's slope.
Jelly, mixed berries,
leaving stains on white buttond own shirts,
billowing like sails on sunset orange walls,
far from this mountainous, emerald range.
Peanut butter, sticky paste,
holds the three layered sandwich together,
as it falls from the muzzle of the sorrel mare,
leaning, ever so slightly,
on the young girl,
wiht hazel green eyes hidden behind
round, wired, red glasses,
looking as if they were molded during
a crafts class, where paper clips
were the only medium,
those eyes, hidden behind those glasses,
light up and join in the chorus of laughter
as the sorrel mare startles awake
and the weathered old man,
claw-like hands grasping his cane
he had carved himself and
patched it up with electric red tape
and black patches of sandpaper,
the young girl and the old man
laughed as the sandwich
fell and the mare awoke.
Pink Bubblegum Nails
by Eliana
Pristine white hospital rooms
babies are born,
mothers cry,
pasty white skin is held in
big, weathered hands,
small pale hands with
nails painted a bubblegum pink.
Across the world,
babies are born in
pastel green houses
with dirt floors and
no lighting.
The baby is passed
from hand to hand.
Hands the color of
caramel lindours,
chocolate milk,
glistening sandy beaches.
Family cries with happiness.
Across the world again,
babies grow up,
with glowing peachy skin,
white, sunbleached hair,
rosy cheeks,
gemstone blue eyes.
They are sent off to school,
bright flaking pencil pouches
clutched in
chubby hands.
Babies all around the world
grow.
Mothers and fathers
and mothers and mothers and
fathers and fathers
hold their hands.
Paint their nails a
bubblegum pink.
Travel across the world with me.
Put on your white and navy sailing suit
with silver buttons and
a hat.
Chubby children with
caramel linbdour skin
run out of a red school house,
chubby hands in the air,
bouncing the grassy island.
Shaking the world.
On pristine white ski hills
children whiz past trees.
They feel like they are
on top of the world.
On pristine white ski hills
people hit trees and die.
In pristine white hospital rooms,
babies are born
and mothers with
bubblegum pink nails
cry.
On cold, graying cement streets,
cars slip and crash,
last breaths smell of alcohol.
On cold, graying cement porches
best friends dress
baby dolls with
glowing peachy skin,
white sunbleached hair,
rosy cheeks,
gemstone blue eyes.
Little girls grow up,
yell at their mothers with
bubblegum pink nails,
lay in the burnign sun to tan,
freckles spread across
burnt skin.
Across the world,
babies grow to young adults
and fall in love,
hold hands in the
splattering rain,
gauzy air smells like roses.
Dancing and spinning,
in love.
Raindrops burst on puddles.
Hearts burst with love.
Silver necklaces like
silver buttons on a
white sailing suit.
White lace dresses and
black suits at the altar.
Hold hands at the latar.
You are in love.
Travel across the world
together,
children with caramel lindour skin
shake the eart
when they run.
Best friends dress up
in white and navy sailor suits with
silver buttons and hats,
wear two necklaces with
bubblegum machines,
mothers with small, pale hands and
nails painted the color of
pink bubblegum
cry,
hold in babies with
pasty white skin
in pristine white
hospital gowns.
Ice Cream Sundaes
by Eliana
Glitzy prom dresses spread
over bar stools
with red vinyl seats.
Hair is carefully curled
with a big, barreled iron
and ice cream sundaes sit untouched.
Hot fudge oozes over the edges of
soft serve vanilla.
Only eat a bite.
Watch your calories.
Keep your pale stomach
hidden with glossy silk,
pulled taught over your body.
Vanilla melts white in
the glass cup.
Peachy lip gloss matches
pale chiffon brushing the
metal bar of the stool.
Only eat a bite.
Watch your calories.
Eyeliner frames
saltwater blue eyes.
Brown eyes the
color of
untouched chocolate syrup
melting in your glass cup.
Chatter so you have an excuse
to not eat your
melting vanilla.
You're so tired and
put together.
Pearly earrings on
pale earlobes.
Pale stomachs
hidden with glossy silk.
Only eat a bite.
Watch your calories.
Stand up in metallic heels.
Flowers pin back
carefully curled hair.
The door closes behind you,
golden bell tinkling.
Melting white vanilla and
hardening hot fudge
sit untouched.
Story of Stuff
by Kine
As we grow
objects hold memories for us,
a safe of thoughts,
contain what we cannot.
Two children play with dolls
seeing past a plastic replica
of a baby and realting it
to a rash on infant's heads.
A bracelet brings memories of
growing as a thriving girl,
along with seeing and appreciating
a new culture, so different to our own,
a necklace referred to as chains
showing the dedication to her sweetheart,
now rings ton a new holder,
her daughter.
As memories fade
tossed into the wind,
stuff can always
share its mind.
The Wind Stirs
by Kine
The wind stirs the silk water.
Her voice tumbles over cliffs and jagged rocks.
The sun and the moon will never meet.
The clouds hustle over the glass
lining of sky.
A new mother stands alone
surrounded only by the
booming voice of the earth.
The sun creeps to find the moon.
The moon follows shyly.
She stands on the cliffs and jagged rocks
surrounded by the carved,
snow drenched mountains.
She holds her hands
in the air reaching
for what she cannot reach.
The water that crashed
against the rocks reflecting
the snow and white spirits.
Her head empty, simply waiting
to feel the intensity of the unknown.
She follows the crashing waves and
falls through the glass barrier of sky.
No comments:
Post a Comment