MANIFEST DESTINY
I can see it now,
a new memorial,
Thomas Jefferson and Alexander Hamilton
Stand on a pedestal and upon their
shoulders rests a reclining lady liberty.
She holds the grapes of wrath in one
hand and the world in the other.
The pedestal states:
This is America, country destined to rule
the world.
Look on our works, you powerful,
and cringe.
This is a poem I wrote for a history class, when I didn't believe the teacher had emphasized the failure of America to carry the "White Man's Burden" and I felt that he had missed the point history was trying to teach us. We aren't a nation of giants, we failed.
I was really full of myself, wasn't I?
LOS LIBROS
interesantes, diversos
ensenan, ensanchan, ansamblan
candelas que iluminan obscuridad
conocimiento.
I'm sure there is a word for this type of poem, but I've certainly forgotten it. It's in Spanish (duh), and it's not the only poem I've written in another language, but I'm afraid the Greek ones won't make it here.
AN AMERICAN SONNET: NEWSWEEK
Two policemen attack a Mexican immigrant and his little daughter
as the men on the next page drink Blended Scots Whiskey and talk.
A page later, two buffalo fight for USWEST direct and
Snoopy sells insurance. Page five shows green-clad soldiers
marching into Mozambique, while the ever present Marlboro man
looks ruggedly at the sun. Special this Month:
The good and bad -- A day in the life of America.
In Texas, cowboys rope a calf
In Washington, cheerleaders adapt to nuclear circumstances
In California, two men beat up a drunk in an alley
In Georgia, a Ku Klux Klan member kisses her granddaughter
In Connecticut, a yellow-haired boy gets his first haircut
But the end shows a back cover father studying with his son.
Real fathers don't. Maybe the summit meeting will settle that.
-Laura Dunham
4-17-87
This is one of my favorite poems from my High School life. Not because it is any good, though I've been told it is, but because my teacher unwittingly complimented me hugely when he critiqued it.
The assignment was simple, take a magazine out of the huge box 'o mags the teacher had brought, read it, then write a poem about it. About any aspect of it. Another assignment that week was to write a sonnet, and he suggested that we combine the two and write a magazine sonnet.
The first magazine I picked up I hated. I absolutely detested the callous way in which horrific stories were thrown together with trivial ads for alcohol and cigarettes. It made me so angry just reading the piece of crap... that I wrote my poem about it. I intended to subtly critique it, a task I'd never tried too much of before.
To my surprise, the teacher loved it. But there was one problem with it, he said. Although it described the magazine in wonderfully simple and stark words, he got the uneasy feeling from the poem that I didn't like the magazine.
And so, I present it to you whole, as I first turned it in. Completely unrevised, because it was my greatest triumph yet.
WITH THE FUTURE LEFT BEHIND
The model student
across the room,
Writes constantly, looks up
occasionally.
A thought slips in and whispers
"If I were her, I would fly out
That window and
become the hawk that searches for
words and paints others' lives
on paper sky."
She stops writing - that
thoughtful feeling moves across
her face.
Maybe she isn't an A
student, but her nerves are
imbedded in poetry,
and I can only hope
that someday
I will sit under that
window with a
freshman wishing at me.
Everyone has a role model, even if you don't know it. This role model was immortalized in a half-envious poem, written because I wanted to be one of the "old" crowd, the folk that knew how to act, knew how to react. I eventually reached that pinnacle of life, and learned that it was more of the same.
THE BUS DRIVER ENROUTE TO THE FIRST STOP MAKES-BELIEVE SHE IS A POET
She stops at the red light, wishing it would stay red
forever. The radio sings about the glory of love; the bus
thrums with the beat. The car noises drown in the music and
dreams ease in. Thoughts surround her like electric currents.
This is where she learns the most, with a cold red light above.
Philosophy floats above the bus, and plays with long remembered
questions. The sorrowful sky empties nothing but acid rain.
She turns, misses the changing of the light. Her mind empties
as she begins the journey again. Everything is as it will
always be for the poet bus driver who spills her dreams on a
schoolday route.
Prose can be a type of poetry, and I worked with it a lot in high school. This piece was in honor of a friend who had helped me keep my sanity during the 45 minute bus ride to middle school the year before.
Thanks Linda.
DREAMSCAPE PAINTED IN GREY WITH
HINTS OF GREEN CANVAS
Fog opens a door.
Olive clouds and light-
Black stones drift and merge.
notice the city's graffiti-covered
Walls are hidden.
UNPREPARED TO ACCEPT DEATH
The clouds darkened and a dragon's breath wind flew by.
The sky became twilight as I strode down the street. The wind
blew down fabricated walls of protection that I had built up
for years. In the half-purple light of thunder, I lost my
confident stride and moved faster. Then the rain started.
Saturated to the bone in an instant, I ran to find shelter.
Any shelter. Fire danced on the telephone wires, a twig of
evergreen hit my mouth; for an instant the dry smell of
pinecone prevailed. I looked for any familiarity and found
rain unlike the usual Washington brand I've always experienced.
I ran hopelessly, and even when I switched directions all I
felt was the narrow street beneath my shoes. I quickened my
erratic pace, hoping I would run into the side of a house or
tree that could provide security. I stumbled and the rain
mercilessly held me down. I cried but my tears were the rain.
I waited but the torment was forever.
I woke up.
Reality shattered through the window and I remembered. Just
yesterday daydreams came on the summer sun. I cried again.
LONELINESS TASTES LIKE A MATH BOOK
The black outline, done in pen,
shows the contours of a classroom.
There are desks, and chairs,
a clock buzzing on the wall and a shelf
of old books. The room is empty except
a figure sitting, hunched and writing.
The background is
white with grey speckles, like
photocopied pages.
60 YEARS OR 6,000 SILENT MILES
ARE TOO NEAR
News in the back of the Times wakes
me and I flow to an old box with
an older date on it.
Sitting inside is the Ragged, wild blue,
sunshine green
and singing gold on the satin skin
of the Letterman's Jacket.
A symbol for band
and everlasting garlic laughs
make me remember the old fear
of acceptance.
We never see far enough in the distance to know,
because another friend has died
and my High School is closing.
I often wished my High School would close. And, as the title implies, time has yet to heal the wounds that were inflicted on me during that "wonderful" time.
BASKETBALL CHAMPS
My anger, joy--
Words fold and crease,
balance in the
Simple complexity of a
Paper airplane. We are losing;
tempers have become firecrackers
Without fuses. Emotions stretch
To their rubberband limits. It
wouldn't be hard to lose
Control, blame the refs,
Or the other team.
instead, I express me
Folds and creases until
Sharp edges and undaunted lines
appear. As the game ends, a
Light blue airplane sobs
And twists through the air,
strangled; crashes against
the floor, smashed by
angry spectators.
I remember a basketball game when both sides accused the other of cheating, and the refs of being unfair or on the other team's side. There could've been a riot, but lighter emotions prevailed, because in the big scheme of things, a High School basketball game doesn't mean all that much.