A POETIC MORNING
It's not that I have writer's block, there are just too many
thoughts humming around in there for any one to
get out safely.
Poems are hard to write;
Romantic poems are the easiest - they strike
like a stab of lightning onto the page,
and they come during thunderstorms
of the heart.
Insanity poems are a little bit harder -
They are the buoys in seas of doubt,
but like buoys,
they disappear easily in waves of thought.
When they find the page
they are often depressing and self-pitying.
The end is the hardest - the tension.
For every poem
The writer must leave
a little bit
of their soul,
Until it is all used up.
The Nurse's Office, Third Period
The light, turned off,
casts a shadow which
fits precisely the outline
of the tiles.
I close my eyes and
paint a picture of past rooms.
In seventh grade, when I was sick,
the room they put me in had two cramped beds-
And was smaller than the back of a van.
A Viking boat paddles roughly by
I reach further back.
In third grade, the sick room
had curtains - it was always dark.
The nurse's desk shared the room
with a cracky-sounding heater
and a small refrigerator.
I tied yellow ribbons to the tree in front
of Maplewood - The hostages untied them.
Explosions of sound crash my earlobes.
The teacher assistants are arguing
again
beyond the open door.
When I was very young I used to be very prone to sickness. Or rather, I was able to consciously raise my body temperature to slightly over 100 degrees so I would get sent home from school without having a real doctor called in. I was sick more often than not, it seems. I did not have a pleasant childhood. I recall myself as being too tall, too awkward, I couldn't fit in no matter how hard I tried. I was teased a lot, but more often I would get myself rejected, I didn't want to get along with anyone.
When life got too hard, I would suddenly have a temperature and go home. I used my ability enough to clearly remember, even now, the exact feel and look of the sick room at Maplewood Heights.
I have one clear memory of tying yellow ribbons to the trees in front of Maplewood Heights, and I remember asking "But who will untie them?" and a sad faced teacher, not one I knew at that time, said, "The hostages will, when they come home." I did not understand, then.
I didn't use my talent so much when I got to Dimmitt Middle School, home of the Vikings. Not because I didn't want to, life there was harder than elementary school, but because of the distance the school was from my home. I knew my parents would not put up with driving all the way across town too much, especially if they caught on to the fact that I was never really very sick.
The Viking boat I refer to in the poem was a mosaic wall hanging that graced the hall of the middle school. I really liked it, and it floats in my memory still.
January Bantu
Grey clouds rumble over the water.
Basketballs trundling down the court.
The sun hesitates each morning.
Tired songs turn off radios.
Evergreens whisper the snow into drifts.
A pencil drops from a student's cramped hand.
Origami is my Favorite Pastime on Thursdays
I folded my ditto into a
canoe
and skimmed down
a dream-blue river.
I folded my assignment into a
plane
and whisked it over
misty violet mountains.
I folded my homework into a
horse
and trundled across
a tear-green valley.
I smoothed the page
flat
and wrote this
poem on it.
My Homework Thinks It's a Kansas Tornado
When I feel around in my
bag for an ancient-last-chance
assignment, I wonder
if my notebook went for
an afternoon on the town.
I only have twenty pages
of important reports
slammed in a suffocating pocket.
A problem-filled paper I finished
only yesterday comes out as
a butterfly that
flew through a hurricane. Following
come troops of overdue sheets of
story problems that crinkle in my hands
like the distant crackle of gunfire.
As the bell rings I triumphantly yank
A blurry-lined-sheet from my
out-to-lunch notebook.
too late.
Running out of time was an issue I dealt with a lot when I was in High School. I always seemed to be getting things done just a moment too late. This poem is supposed to reflect the utter chaos I suffered from being forced into trying to learn in the stew of glands and emotions the adults in this country call High School. Those were some of the worst times I ever suffered, and also some of the best.
Clarinet to Soloist The music of the Bassoon Drifts slowly To the listening crowd, And gets louder.
When I was talked into learning how to play the bassoon, I didn't think much of it. When we gave our first concert, though, I suddenly realized that I was the only person playing my part. Not exactly a soloist, but close enough for me.
AFTER A BASKETBALL GAME
The track is a dark dream
in the moonlight, it begs
for presence, for someone to whisper
empty words.
Every blade of grass is blue clarity
and frost sparkles like a universe.
Above is fog and an ice cube moon,
Casting shadows.
Here is
silent.
Here is
free.
Here is forget, because home
is loud
and we just lost.
I spent a lot of time in High School at basketball games. I timed JV games, and was in the band for all boy's varsity home games, and a portion of the girl's games too. My freshman year, the basketball team made it to state, and we spent a lot of time on the road with the team. I will never forget the final seconds of the final game that season, when we lost with only a few more games to go.
But hey, life's like that.
GOEMETRY AT 11 O'CLOCK
The room washes silent, and cool;
whispers drown in tenseness.
a paper is found and shuffled
And the clock adds its buzz.
Without notebook paper emptiness
I couldn't have a math book.
Diet Coke is not creative
Unless a cliché is added.
Maybe tall thoughts aren't the best;
short thoughts run much faster.
The desk shudders in mock fear;
the test just laughs.
SO THIS IS WRITER'S BLOCK
Windows don't break
when you want them
to.
Heat pours in through vents
Made by confident flames.
They want to stop
You, make you hate
walls that burn.
Don't
Mention the ash and black-wall despair
or it will break in
again. Think of
Everything you've ever
fought and raise the
heaviest oak chair
to break the window.
One of Mr Mitsui's rules was: No self-pitying. No "Why Me?". I wrote this poem in response.