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Elementary - 2023

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my grandfather and home

 i

 

my grandfather used to count the days for return with his fingers

he then used stones to count

not enough

he used the clouds birds people

 

absence turned out to be too long

thirty six years until he died

for us now it is over seventy years

 

my grandpa lost his memory

he forgot the numbers the people

he forgot home

 

ii

 

i wish i were with you grandpa

i would have taught myself to write you

poems volumes of them and paint our home for you

i would have sewn you from soil

a garment decorated with plants

and trees you had grown

i would have made you

perfume from the oranges

and soap from the skys tears of joy

couldnt think of something purer

 

iii

 

i go to the cemetery every day

i look for your grave but in vain

are they sure they buried you

or did you turn into a tree

or perhaps you flew with a bird to the nowhere

 

iv

 

i place your photo in an earthenware pot

i water it every monday and thursday at sunset

i was told you used to fast those days

in ramadan i water it every day

for thirty days

or less or more

 

v

 

how big do you want our home to be

i can continue to write poems until you are satisfied

if you wish i can annex a neighboring planet or two

 

vi

 

for this home i shall not draw boundaries

no punctuation marks

When I Am Old

Years from now

when wrinkles

decorate my skin

like henna

 

when my bones rattle

mimicking a bag of coins

when my hair is no longer

full and thick

but these wisps of moon

 

I will shake my head

a wistful smile tugging

at the corner of my lips

 

taking a walk

down the streets of memories

I will wonder at younger me

who though she knew so much,

who knew she was confused,

who needed rules–if only to break them

 

I will wonder at the girl I once was

and think, “If only she knew what I know now,”

and be so thankful that she didn’t.

Bilingual

Because I speak Spanish  

I can listen to my grandmother’s stories 

and say familia, madre, amor. 

Because I speak English 

I can learn from my teacher  

and say I love school. 

 

Because I am bilingual 

I can read libros and books, 

I have amigos and friends, 

I enjoy canciones and songs, 

juegos and games, 

and have twice as much fun. 

 

And someday, 

because I speak two languages, 

I will be able to do twice as much, 

to help twice as many people 

and be twice as good in what I do.

A Blank White Page

is a meadow

after a snowfall

that a poem

hopes to cross

Ode to My Shoes

my shoes

rest

all night

under my bed

 

tired

they stretch

and loosen

their laces

 

wide open

they fall asleep

and dream

of walking

 

they revisit

the places

they went to

during the day

 

and wake up

cheerful

relaxed

so soft

Playgrounds

In summer I am very glad

We children are so small,

For we can see a thousand things

That men can't see at all.

 

They don't know much about the moss

And all the stones they pass:

They never lie and play among

The forests in the grass:

 

They walk about a long way off; 

And, when we're at the sea,

Let father stoop as best he can

He can't find things like me.

 

But, when the snow is on the ground

And all the puddles freeze,

I wish that I were very tall,

High up above the trees.

Life Doesn't Frighten Me

Shadows on the wall 

Noises down the hall 

Life doesn't frighten me at all 

  

Bad dogs barking loud 

Big ghosts in a cloud 

Life doesn't frighten me at all 

  

Mean old Mother Goose 

Lions on the loose 

They don't frighten me at all 

  

Dragons breathing flame 

On my counterpane 

That doesn't frighten me at all. 

  

I go boo 

Make them shoo 

I make fun 

Way they run 

I won't cry 

So they fly 

I just smile 

They go wild 

  

Life doesn't frighten me at all. 

  

Tough guys fight 

All alone at night 

Life doesn't frighten me at all. 

  

Panthers in the park 

Strangers in the dark 

No, they don't frighten me at all. 

  

That new classroom where 

Boys all pull my hair 

(Kissy little girls 

With their hair in curls) 

They don't frighten me at all. 

  

Don't show me frogs and snakes 

And listen for my scream, 

If I'm afraid at all 

It's only in my dreams. 

  

I've got a magic charm 

That I keep up my sleeve 

I can walk the ocean floor 

And never have to breathe. 

  

Life doesn't frighten me at all 

Not at all 

Not at all. 

  

Life doesn't frighten me at all.

Mr. Nobody

I know a funny little man,

    As quiet as a mouse,

Who does the mischief that is done

    In everybody’s house!

There’s no one ever sees his face,

    And yet we all agree

That every plate we break was cracked

    By Mr. Nobody.

 

’Tis he who always tears out books,

    Who leaves the door ajar,

He pulls the buttons from our shirts,

    And scatters pins afar;

That squeaking door will always squeak,

    For prithee, don’t you see,

We leave the oiling to be done

    By Mr. Nobody.

 

He puts damp wood upon the fire

   That kettles cannot boil;

His are the feet that bring in mud,

   And all the carpets soil.

The papers always are mislaid;

   Who had them last, but he?

There’s no one tosses them about

   But Mr. Nobody.

 

The finger marks upon the door

    By none of us are made;

We never leave the blinds unclosed,

    To let the curtains fade.

The ink we never spill;   the boots

    That lying round you see

Are not our boots,—they all belong

    To Mr. Nobody.

Clatter

If I should list my favorite words,

They’d sound a lot like this:

Rumble, crash, snort, jangle, thump,

Roar, fizzle, splat, moo, hiss.

Not to mention gobble, clang,

Tweet, sputter, ticktock, growl;

Crackle, chirp, boom, whistle, wheeze,

Squawk, jingle, quack, thud, howl.

Then of course there’s grunt, toot, cuckoo,

Thunder, bang, pop, mush,

Rattle, splash, rip, ding-dong, and…

My parents’ favorite–Hush!

Break Free

I just want to be

where the earth breaks free

of concrete and metal and glass,

of asphalt and plastic and gas,

where sun is king

and water is queen,

where cactus grow tall

and the air is clean.

I just want to be

where the earth breaks free

of fences and alleys and walls,

of factories and traffic and malls,

where owls sleep

in the heat of day

waiting for sunset

to hunt their prey,

where mountains rise

in seas of sand

and coyotes roam

across the land. 

This Room

The room I entered was a dream of this room.

Surely all those feet on the sofa were mine.

The oval portrait

of a dog was me at an early age.

Something shimmers, something is hushed up.

 

We had macaroni for lunch every day

except Sunday, when a small quail was induced

to be served to us. Why do I tell you these things?

You are not even here.

To You from Me

Like a message in a bottle that is

cast into the sea,

my poems are messages of hope

I  send to you from me.

 

Hope that you’ll grow very wise

and also very strong–

wise to know what’s right, and strength

to choose it over wrong.

 

In each of them I search to find

exactly what to say

to help you laugh at all your fears

and rise to seize the day.

 

And so I send these little poems

because that’s what I do,

each nothing but a seed until

it finds a home in you.

 

I write because I love you.

I love you with all my heart.

And making poems, such as they are,

is how I do my part. 

Heat waves shimmering

Translated by Robert Hass

 

Heat waves shimmering

one or two inches

above the dead grass.

Going Down Hill on a Bicycle

A Boy's Song

 

With lifted feet, hands still,

I am poised, and down the hill

Dart, with heedful mind;

The air goes by in a wind.

 

Swifter and yet more swift,

Till the heart with a mighty lift

Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:—

"O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

 

"Is this, is this your joy?

O bird, then I, though a boy,

For a golden moment share

Your feathery life in air!"

 

Say, heart, is there aught like this

In a world that is full of bliss?

'Tis more than skating, bound

Steel-shod to the level ground.

 

Speed slackens now, I float

Awhile in my airy boat;

Till, when the wheels scarce crawl,

My feet to the treadles fall.

 

Alas, that the longest hill

Must end in a vale; but still,

Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er,

Shall find wings waiting there.

About Standing (in Kinship)

We all have the same little bones in our foot

twenty-six with funny names like navicular.

Together they build something strong—

our foot arch a pyramid holding us up.

The bones don’t get casts when they break.

We tape them—one phalange to its neighbor for support.

(Other things like sorrow work that way, too—

find healing in the leaning, the closeness.)

Our feet have one quarter of all the bones in our body.

Maybe we should give more honor to feet

and to all those tiny but blessed cogs in the world—

communities, the forgotten architecture of friendship.

The Ecchoing Green

The sun does arise,

And make happy the skies.

The merry bells ring

To welcome the Spring.

The sky-lark and thrush,

The birds of the bush,

Sing louder around,

To the bells’ cheerful sound. 

While our sports shall be seen

On the Ecchoing Green.

 

Old John, with white hair 

Does laugh away care,

Sitting under the oak,

Among the old folk, 

They laugh at our play, 

And soon they all say.

‘Such, such were the joys. 

When we all girls & boys, 

In our youth-time were seen, 

On the Ecchoing Green.’

 

Till the little ones weary

No more can be merry

The sun does descend,

And our sports have an end: 

Round the laps of their mothers, 

Many sisters and brothers,

Like birds in their nest,

Are ready for rest;

And sport no more seen,

On the darkening Green. 

The World Is in Pencil

—not pen. It’s got

 

that same silken

dust about it, doesn’t it,

 

that same sense of

having been roughed

 

onto paper even  

as it was planned.

 

It had to be a labor

of love. It must’ve

 

taken its author some

time, some shove.

 

I’ll bet it felt good

in the hand—the o

 

of the ocean, and

the and and the and

 

of the land.

School—12:15

Imagine the lunchroom,

crowded and wary—

seating charts a welcome apprehension.

 

Loose-leaf

papers spiraled from

ballpoint-scratched notebook covers

until the last hour,

when a teacher

sighed and sighed.

 

Today, we close our backpacks,

but minutes

come quick and quit

the ease of dawn.

Activism, Everywhere

Our voice

Is our greatest power

 

When we stand together

We can speak up against mistreatment

 

We are saying that we will not be silent about the mistreatment of people

We are saying we will not be silent

 

We are standing tall and firm because we believe in equity and equality

We are standing tall and firm

 

We are not yielding or bending because the conversation is uncomfortable

We are not yielding or bending

 

We understand activism happens online and offline

In the streets picketing

And in the classroom teaching

On the blogs writing

On the internet sharing information

 

It happens everywhere

It is active

It is energy

It is resisting to be comfortable

When we all have yet to feel safe and free

Jabberwocky

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

 

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

      The frumious Bandersnatch!”

 

He took his vorpal sword in hand;

      Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree

      And stood awhile in thought.

 

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

      And burbled as it came!

 

One, two! One, two! And through and through

      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

      He went galumphing back.

 

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

      Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

      He chortled in his joy.

 

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

The Crocodile

How doth the little crocodile

     Improve his shining tail, 

And pour the waters of the Nile 

     On every golden scale! 

 

How cheerfully he seems to grin,

     How neatly spreads his claws, 

And welcomes little fishes in, 

     With gently smiling jaws!

[ if mama / could see ]

if mama

could see

she would see   

lucy sprawling   

limbs of lucy

decorating the

backs of chairs

lucy hair

holding the mirrors up   

that reflect odd   

aspects of lucy.

 

if mama

could hear

she would hear

lucysong rolled in the

corners like lint

exotic webs of lucysighs

long lucy spiders explaining   

to obscure gods.

 

if mama

could talk

she would talk

good girl   

good girl   

good girl

clean up your room.

Myself with Cats

Hanging out the wash, I visit the cats.

 

"I don't belong to nobody," Yang insists vulgarly.

 

"Yang," I reply, "you don't know nothing."

 

Yin, an orange tabby, agrees

 

but puts kindness ahead of rigid truth.

 

I admire her but wish she wouldn't idolize

 

the one who bullies her. I once did that.

 

Her silence speaks needles when Yang thrusts

 

his ugly tortoiseshell body against hers,

 

sprawled in my cosmos. "Really, I don't mind,"

 

she purrs—her eyes horizontal, her mouth

 

an Ionian smile, her legs crossed nobly

 

in front of her, a model of cat Nirvana—

 

"withholding his affection, he made me stronger.'

The Orange

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange

The size of it made us all laugh.

I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave—

They got quarters and I had a half.

 

And that orange it made me so happy,

As ordinary things often do

Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park

This is peace and contentment. It’s new.

 

The rest of my day was quite easy.

I did all my jobs on my list

And enjoyed them and had some time over.

I love you. I’m glad I exist.

NUMBERS

I like the generosity of numbers.

The way, for example,

they are willing to count

anything or anyone:

two pickles, one door to the room,

eight dancers dressed as swans.

 

I like the domesticity of addition—

add two cups of milk and stir—

the sense of plenty: six plums

on the ground, three more

falling from the tree.

 

And multiplication’s school

of fish times fish,

whose silver bodies breed

beneath the shadow

of a boat.

 

Even subtraction is never loss,

just addition somewhere else:

five sparrows take away two,

the two in someone else’s

garden now.

 

There’s an amplitude to long division,

as it opens Chinese take-out

box by paper box,

inside every folded cookie

a new fortune.

 

And I never fail to be surprised

by the gift of an odd remainder,

footloose at the end:

forty-seven divided by eleven equals four,

with three remaining.

 

Three boys beyond their mother’s call,

two Italians off to the sea,

one sock that isn't anywhere you look.

[2 little whos]

2 little whos

(he and she)

under are this

wonderful tree

 

smiling stand

(all realms of where

and when beyond)

now and here

 

(far from a grown

-up i&you-

ful world of known

who and who

 

(2 little arms

and over them this

aflame with dream

incredible is)

anyone lived in a pretty how town

anyone lived in a pretty how town

(with up so floating many bells down)

spring summer autumn winter

he sang his didn't he danced his did.

 

Women and men(both little and small)

cared for anyone not at all

they sowed their isn't they reaped their same

sun moon stars rain

 

children guessed(but only a few

and down they forgot as up they grew

autumn winter spring summer)

that noone loved him more by more

 

when by now and tree by leaf

she laughed his joy she cried his grief

bird by snow and stir by still

anyone's any was all to her

 

someones married their everyones

laughed their cryings and did their dance

(sleep wake hope and then)they

said their nevers they slept their dream

 

stars rain sun moon

(and only the snow can begin to explain

how children are apt to forget to remember

with up so floating many bells down)

 

one day anyone died i guess

(and noone stooped to kiss his face)

busy folk buried them side by side

little by little and was by was

 

all by all and deep by deep

and more by more they dream their sleep

noone and anyone earth by april

wish by spirit and if by yes.

 

Women and men(both dong and ding)

summer autumn winter spring

reaped their sowing and went their came

sun moon stars rain

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - (314)

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - 

That perches in the soul - 

And sings the tune without the words - 

And never stops - at all - 

 

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - 

And sore must be the storm - 

That could abash the little Bird 

That kept so many warm - 

 

I’ve heard it in the chillest land - 

And on the strangest Sea - 

Yet - never - in Extremity, 

It asked a crumb - of me. 

They shut me up in Prose

They shut me up in Prose –

As when a little Girl

They put me in the Closet –

Because they liked me “still”   –

 

Still! Could themself have peeped –

And seen my Brain – go round –

They might as wise have lodged a Bird

For Treason – in the Pound –

 

Himself has but to will

And easy as a Star

Look down opon Captivity –

And laugh – No more have I –

Excerpt from “From the Lives of My Friends”

What are the birds called

in that neighborhood

The dogs

 

There were dogs flying

from branch to

branch

My friends and I climbed up the telephone poles to sit on the power lines dressed like

   crows

 

Their voices sounded like lemons

 

They were a smooth sheet

They grew

 

black feathers

 

Not frightening at all

but beautiful, shiny and

full of promise

 

What kind of light

 

is that?

Happenstance

When you appeared it was as if

magnets cleared the air.

I had never seen that smile before

or your hair, flying silver. Someone

waving goodbye, she was silver, too.

Of course you didn’t see me.

I called softly so you could choose

not to answer—then called again.

You turned in the light, your eyes

seeking your name.

Poet Dances with Inanimate Object

for Jim Schley

 

The umbrella, in this case;

Earlier, the stool, the

Wooden pillars that hold up

    the roof.

 

This guy, you realize,

Will dance with anything—

—He likes the idea.

 

Then he picks up some lady’s discarded sandals,

Holds them next to his head like sea shells,

Donkey ears.

 

Nothing,

         his body states,

Is safe from the dance of ideas!

Turtle Came to See Me

The first story I ever write

is a bright crayon picture

of a dancing tree, the branches

tossed by island wind.

 

I draw myself standing beside the tree,

with a colorful parrot soaring above me,

and a magical turtle clasped in my hand,

and two yellow wings fluttering

on the proud shoulders of my ruffled

Cuban rumba dancer's

fancy dress.

 

In my California kindergarten class,

the teacher scolds me: REAL TREES

DON'T LOOK LIKE THAT.

 

It's the moment

when I first

begin to learn

that teachers

can be wrong.

 

They have never seen

the dancing plants

of Cuba.

Weighing In

What the scale tells you is how much the earth

has missed you, body, how it wants you back

again after you leave it to go forth

 

into the light. Do you remember how

earth hardly noticed you then? Others would rock

you in their arms, warm in the flow

 

that fed you, coaxed you upright. Then earth began

to claim you with spots and fevers, began to lick

at you with a bruised knee, a bloody shin,

 

and finally to stoke you, body, drumming

intimate coded messages through music

you danced to unawares, there in your dreaming

 

and your poems and your obedient blood.

Body, how useful you became, how lucky,

heavy with news and breakage, rich, and sad,

 

sometimes, imagining that greedy zero

you must have been, that promising empty sack

of possibilities, never-to-come tomorrow.

 

But look at you now, body, soft old shoe

that love wears when it’s stirring, look down, look

how earth wants what you weigh, needs what you know.

Punctuation

Translated by Sandra Tamele and Eric M. B. Becker

 

Without commas in her gaze,

the little girl dribbles colons with each breath

and swears an exclamation mark

is a lollipop:

 

“Is growing up for real or make-believe?”

Dot dot dot, I gasped.

A question mark is a fisherman’s hook.

 

I’d taken the bait of uncertainty, 

when she offered me as consolation,

wrapped in quotation marks, a single Smartie.

Little Talk

Don't you think it's probable

that beetles, bugs, and bees

talk about a lot of things -

you know, such things as these:

 

The kind of weather where they live

in jungles tall with grass,

and earthquakes in their villages

whenever people pass.

 

Of course, we'll never know if bugs

talk very much at all -

because our rears are far too big

for talk that is so small.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower;

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf.

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day.

Nothing gold can stay.

The Song of the Feet

It is appropriate that I sing

The song of the feet

 

The weight of the body

And what the body chooses to bear

Fall on me

 

I trampled the American wilderness

Forged frontier trails

Outran the mob in Tulsa

Got caught in Philadelphia

 

And am still unreparated

 

I soldiered on in Korea

Jungled through Vietnam sweated out Desert Storm

Caved my way through Afghanistan

Tunneled the World Trade Center

 

And on the worst day of my life

Walked behind JFK

Shouldered MLK

Stood embracing Sister Betty

 

I wiggle my toes

In the sands of time

Trusting the touch that controls my motion

Basking in the warmth of the embrace

Day’s end offers with warm salty water

 

It is appropriate I sing

The praise of the feet

 

I am a Black woman

Harriet Tubman

Harriet Tubman didn't take no stuff

Wasn't scared of nothing neither

Didn't come in this world to be no slave

And wasn't going to stay one either

 

"Farewell!" she sang to her friends one night

She was mighty sad to leave 'em

But she ran away that dark, hot night

Ran looking for her freedom

 

She ran to the woods and she ran through the woods

With the slave catchers right behind her

And she kept on going till she got to the North

Where those mean men couldn't find her

 

Nineteen times she went back South

To get three hundred others

She ran for her freedom nineteen times

To save Black sisters and brothers

Harriet Tubman didn't take no stuff

Wasn't scared of nothing neither

Didn't come in this world to be no slave

And didn't stay one either

 

            And didn't stay one either

In the Land of Words

In the land

of words,

I stand as still

as a tree,

and let the words

rain down on me.

Come, rain, bring

your knowledge and your

music.   Sing

while I grow green 

and full.

I'll stand as still 

as a tree,

and let your blessings

fall on me.

Cat Scat

I am watching Cleo listening, our cat

listening to Mozart's Magic Flute. What

can she be hearing? What

can the air carry into her ears like that,

her ears swivelling like radio dishes that

are tuned to all the noise of the world, flat

and sharp, high and low, a scramble of this and that

she can decode like nobody's business, acrobat

of random airs as she is? Although of course a bat

is better at it, sifting out of its acoustic habitat

the sound of the very shape of things automat-

ically—and on the wing, at that. The Magic Flute! What

a joy it is, I feel, and wonder (to end this little scat)

does, or can, the cat.

The Last Word

 

I am a door of metaphor

waiting to be opened.

You’ll find no lock, no key.

All are free to enter, at will.

Simply step over the threshold.

Remember to dress for travel, though.

Visitors have been known

to get carried away.

Clarinet

Apart, we are two quiet things:

a person and an instrument.

I in my body,

the clarinet in its case.

 

We are like good friends.

The clarinet takes nothing away from me.

It lets me borrow its notes.

 

If I loan it my breath,

I can speak with its sweet voice.

Together, we will make a world

full of song.

Love Letter

I’d like to be a shrine, so I can learn from peoples’ prayers the story of hearts. I’d like to be a scarf so I can place it over my hair and understand other worlds. I’d like to be the voice of a soprano singer so I can move through all borders and see them vanish with every spell-­binding note. I’d like to be light so I illuminate the dark. I’d like to be water to fill bodies so we can gently float together indefinitely. I’d like to be a lemon, to be zest all the time, or an olive tree to shimmer silver on the earth. Most of all, I’d like to be a poem, to reach your heart and stay.

Others Are Us

He said I was different because I was dark. She said I was different because I wore a scarf. He said I was different because I had an accent. She said I was different because I couldn’t read. He said I was different because I stuttered. She said I was different because I couldn’t hear or speak. He said I was different because I should be a girl. She said I was different because I should be a boy. We are all different so doesn’t that mean we are the same? I mean it’s like heartbeats, we all share the same beats per minute but not exactly.

Remember

Remember the sky that you were born under,

know each of the star's stories.

Remember the moon, know who she is.

Remember the sun's birth at dawn, that is the

strongest point of time. Remember sundown

and the giving away to night.

Remember your birth, how your mother struggled

to give you form and breath. You are evidence of

her life, and her mother's, and hers.

Remember your father. He is your life, also.

Remember the earth whose skin you are:

red earth, black earth, yellow earth, white earth

brown earth, we are earth.

Remember the plants, trees, animal life who all have their

tribes, their families, their histories, too. Talk to them,

listen to them. They are alive poems.

Remember the wind. Remember her voice. She knows the

origin of this universe.

Remember you are all people and all people

are you.

Remember you are this universe and this

universe is you.

Remember all is in motion, is growing, is you.

Remember language comes from this.

Remember the dance language is, that life is.

Remember.

Mosquitoes

Mosquitoes,

 

with needle-noses

sucking blood

from elbows, cheeks, and chin

 

why were you not

designed to thrive

on brine, on swine,

or likewise-spiny

porcupines?

 

 

                       SLAP!

SLAP!

                                          SLAP!

Laughing Out Loud, I Fly

Laughing out loud, I fly, toward the good things,

to catch Mamá Lucha on the sidewalk, after

school, waiting for the green-striped bus,

on the side of the neighborhood store, next to almonds, 

José’s tiny wooden mule, the wiseboy from San Diego,

teeth split apart, like mine in the coppery afternoon

it’s about 3, the fly smears my ear, but I jump

I am a monkey cartoon or a chile tamal, crazy

with paisley patches, infinite flavors cinnamon &

banana ice cream, it’s 3 in the afternoon, no, at 5

my mother says she will call me

& arrive, a rainbow. 

The Promise

Stay, I said 

to the cut flowers. 

They bowed 

their heads lower.

 

Stay, I said to the spider, 

who fled.

 

Stay, leaf. 

It reddened, 

embarrassed for me and itself.

 

Stay, I said to my body. 

It sat as a dog does, 

obedient for a moment, 

soon starting to tremble.

 

Stay, to the earth 

of riverine valley meadows, 

of fossiled escarpments, 

of limestone and sandstone. 

It looked back 

with a changing expression, in silence.

 

Stay, I said to my loves. 

Each answered, 

Always.

You and I

Only one I in the whole wide world

And millions and millions of you,

But every you is an I to itself

And I am a you to you, too!

But if I am a you and you are an I

And the opposite also is true,

It makes us both the same somehow

Yet splits us each in two.

It’s more and more mysterious,

The more I think it through:

Every you everywhere in the world is an I;

Every I in the world is a you!

Appalachian Elegy (8.)

snow-covered earth

such silence

still divine presence

echoes immortal migrants

all life sustained

darkness comes

suffering touches us

again and again

there is pain

there in the midst of

such harsh barrenness

a cardinal framed in the glass

red light

calling away despair

eternal promise

everything changes and ends

Langston

Who would have known

a young lad

delivering

door-to-door newspapers

in a small town

would one day

see people the world over

carrying his papers–

 

his reams of poems–

 

poems about–

 

rainy sidewalks,

stormy seas,

crystal stair memories,

moon-glimmers,

moonbeams,

but best of all,

 

his dusts of dreams. 

April Rain Song

Let the rain kiss you

Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops

Let the rain sing you a lullaby

The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk

The rain makes running pools in the gutter

The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night

And I love the rain.

Harlem

What happens to a dream deferred?

 

      Does it dry up

      like a raisin in the sun?

      Or fester like a sore—

      And then run?

      Does it stink like rotten meat?

      Or crust and sugar over—

      like a syrupy sweet?

 

      Maybe it just sags

      like a heavy load.

 

      Or does it explode?

anthem for my belly after eating too much

i look in the mirror, and all the chips i’ve eaten

this month have accumulated

like schoolwork at the bottom of my tummy,

my belly—a country i’m trying to love.

my mouth is a lover devoted to you, my belly, my belly

the birds will string a song together

with wind for you and your army

of solids, militia of grease.

americans love excess, but we also love jeans,

and refuse to make excess comfortable in them.

i step into a fashionable prison,

my middle managed and fastened into

suffering. my gracious gut,

dutiful dome, i will wear a house for you

that you can live in, promise walls

that embrace your growing flesh,

and watch you reach toward everything possible.

Your World

Your world is as big as you make it. 

I know, for I used to abide

In the narrowest nest in a corner, 

My wings pressing close to my side. 

 

But I sighted the distant horizon 

Where the skyline encircled the sea 

And I throbbed with a burning desire 

To travel this immensity. 

 

I battered the cordons around me 

And cradled my wings on the breeze, 

Then soared to the uttermost reaches 

With rapture, with power, with ease!

I Ask My Mother to Sing

She begins, and my grandmother joins her.

Mother and daughter sing like young girls.

If my father were alive, he would play

his accordion and sway like a boat.

 

I’ve never been in Peking, or the Summer Palace,

nor stood on the great Stone Boat to watch

the rain begin on Kuen Ming Lake, the picnickers

running away in the grass.

 

But I love to hear it sung;

how the waterlilies fill with rain until

they overturn, spilling water into water,

then rock back, and fill with more.

 

Both women have begun to cry.

But neither stops her song.

Everything Is a Poem

A garden is a poem

Lined with rows of similes

Like lyrical chrysanthemums

And epic peonies.

 

A spider web’s a poem

Composed upon the air,

Silk-designed and deftly lined to

catch the unaware.

 

A mirror is a poem

Revealing truths about

The poet, but it often leaves

The shadow of a doubt.

 

A firefly’s a poem,

A flashy verse sublime

That’s ready by other fireflies

One sparkle at a time.

 

A picture is a poem

If it’s painted in disguise

On a canvas of emotion

From a palette of surprise.

 

A rainbow is a poem

A phenomenon so rare,

It’s not that it is written

But is written on the air.

 

A shining star’s a poem

Penned by ghostwriter, the Moon,

Who publishes her verses

In a book called Clair de Lune. 

 

A busy bee’s a poem

With nectar that’s so fine

A reader-eater laps up every

Honey of a line. 

Places and Names: A Traveler's Guide

So many places have fabulous names,

Like Fried, North Dakota,

The Court of St. James,

Siberia, Nigeria, Elyria, Peru

The White Nile, Black Sea,

And Kalamazoo!

The Great Wall of China, South Pole and Loch Ness,

And 104 Fairview—that's my address!

 

Thousands of spaces are places to be—

Discover the World of GE-OG-RA-PHY!

 

Travel by boat or by car or by plane

To visit East Africa, Singapore, Spain.

Go by yourself or invite a good friend,

But traveling by poem is what I recommend.

How to Triumph Like a Girl

I like the lady horses best,

how they make it all look easy,

like running 40 miles per hour

is as fun as taking a nap, or grass.

I like their lady horse swagger,

after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up!

But mainly, let’s be honest, I like

that they’re ladies. As if this big

dangerous animal is also a part of me,

that somewhere inside the delicate

skin of my body, there pumps

an 8-pound female horse heart,

giant with power, heavy with blood.

Don’t you want to believe it?

Don’t you want to lift my shirt and see

the huge beating genius machine

that thinks, no, it knows,

it’s going to come in first.

Grand Slam

Dreams brimming over,

childhood stretched out in legs,

this is the moment replayed on winter days

when frost covers the field,

when age steals away wishes.

Glorious sleep that seeps back there

to the glory of our baseball days.

The Quiet World

In an effort to get people to look

into each other’s eyes more,

and also to appease the mutes,

the government has decided

to allot each person exactly one hundred   

and sixty-seven words, per day.

 

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear   

without saying hello. In the restaurant   

I point at chicken noodle soup.

I am adjusting well to the new way.

 

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,   

proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.   

I saved the rest for you.

 

When she doesn’t respond,

I know she’s used up all her words,   

so I slowly whisper I love you

thirty-two and a third times.

After that, we just sit on the line   

and listen to each other breathe.

How To Eat a Poem

Don't be polite.

Bite in.

Pick it up with your fingers and lick the juice that

may run down your chin.

It is ready and ripe now, whenever you are.

 

 

You do not need a knife or fork or spoon

or plate or napkin or tablecloth.

For there is no core

or stem

or rind

or pit

or seed

or skin

to throw away.

First Fig

My candle burns at both ends;

    It will not last the night;

But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends—

    It gives a lovely light!

A Simile

What did we say to each other

that now we are as the deer

who walk in single file

with heads high

with ears forward

with eyes watchful

with hooves always placed on firm ground

in whose limbs there is latent flight

I Left My Head

I left my head

somewhere

today.

Put it down for

just

a minute.

Under the

table?

On a chair?

Wish I were

able

to say

where.

Everything I need

is

in it!

In the Blood

The brown-eyed child

and the white-haired grandfather

dance in the silent afternoon

They snap their fingers

to a rhythm only those

who love can hear,

The Only Me

Spinning through space for eons,

our earth—oceans, rivers, mountains,

glaciers, tigers, parrots, redwoods—

        evolving wonders.

 

And our vast array, generations

of humans—all shapes, colors, languages.

 

        Can I be the only me?

 

Our earth: so much beauty, hate,

        goodness, greed.

 

“Study. Cool the climate,” advises my teacher.

                      “Grow peace.”

 

        Can I be the only me,

                      become all my unique complexity?

The Song Is You

Musical instruments sleep in the dark

for several hours a day:

the folks we belong to aren't always at play,

so we can't always be at work. 

 

Our silence holds music: an undiscovered bourne,

horizons which have never been viewed,

like undeclared love growing deeper in solitude,

or the crystalline heart of a stone. 

 

My sleep, however, was more like a death:

in the dark of an attic for years;

forgetting my existence, and my glorious career

with the best female swing band on the earth. 

 

I was the great love of my Sweetheart's life. 

A man came between us. And soon

I was in the dark collecting dust and out of tune;

they were pronounced man and wife. 

 

Instead of the charts, my gal read Dr. Spock. 

We played once a week, once a year . . .

At first, from my closet, I was able to hear

her family's coninuo of talk. 

 

My Sweetheart's grandson brought me to the shop. 

Something has ruined my voice. 

Older, not riper, I'm a sorry old bass. 

But that doesn't mean I've lost hope

 

 . . .that someone will hold me in a tender embrace, 

her arms will encircle my neck;

someone will press her warm length to my back, 

and pluck notes from my gut with her fingers' caress. 

Sunset

Since Poets have told of sunset, 

What is left for me to tell?

I can only say that I saw the day

Press crimson lips to the horizon gray, 

And kiss the earth farewell.

Baked Goods

Flour on the floor makes my sandals 

slip and I tumble into your arms. 

 

Too hot to bake this morning but

blueberries begged me to fold them

 

into moist muffins. Sticks of rhubarb 

plotted a whole pie. The windows

 

are blown open and a thickfruit tang

sneaks through the wire screen

 

and into the home of the scowly lady

who lives next door. Yesterday, a man 

 

in the city was rescued from his apartment

which was filled with a thousand rats. 

 

Something about being angry because

his pet python refused to eat. He let the bloom 

 

of fur rise, rise over the little gnarly blue rug, 

over the coffee table, the kitchen countertops

 

and pip through each cabinet, snip

at the stumpy bags of sugar,

 

the cylinders of salt. Our kitchen is a riot

of pots, wooden spoons, melted butter. 

 

So be it. Maybe all this baking will quiet

the angry voices next door, if only

 

for a brief whiff. I want our summers

 

to always be like this—a kitchen wrecked

with love, a table overflowing with baked goods

warming the already warm air. After all the pots

 

are stacked, the goodies cooled, and all the counters

wiped clean—let us never be rescued from this mess. 

We Have Been Friends Together

We have been friends together,  

  In sunshine and in shade;  

Since first beneath the chestnut-trees  

  In infancy we played.  

But coldness dwells within thy heart,

  A cloud is on thy brow;  

We have been friends together—  

  Shall a light word part us now?  

  

We have been gay together;  

  We have laugh'd at little jests;

For the fount of hope was gushing  

  Warm and joyous in our breasts.  

But laughter now hath fled thy lip,  

  And sullen glooms thy brow;  

We have been gay together—

  Shall a light word part us now?  

  

We have been sad together,  

  We have wept, with bitter tears,  

O'er the grass-grown graves, where slumber'd  

  The hopes of early years.

The voices which are silent there  

  Would bid thee clear thy brow;  

We have been sad together—  

  Oh! what shall part us now?

Excerpt from "Every day as a wide field, every page"

And there were so many more poems to read!

Countless friends to listen to.

We didn’t have to be in the same room—

the great modern magic.

Everywhere together now.

Even scared together now

from all points of the globe

which lessened it somehow.

Hopeful together too, exchanging

winks in the dark, the little lights blinking.

When your hope shrinks

you might feel the hope of

someone far away lifting you up.

Hope is the thing ...

Hope was always the thing!

What else did we give each other

from such distances?

Breath of syllables,

sing to me from your balcony

please! Befriend me

in the deep space.

When you paused for a poem

it could reshape the day

you had just been living.

Ode of Girls' Things

I loved the things that were ours—pink gloves,

hankies with a pastoral scene in one corner.

There was a lot we were not allowed to do,

but what we were allowed to do was ours,

dolls you carry by the leg, and dolls’ 

clothes you would put on or take off—

someone who was yours, who did not

have the rights of her own nakedness,

and who had a smooth body, with its

untouchable place, which you would never touch, even on her,

      you had been cured of that.

And some of the dolls had hard-rubber hands, with

dimples, and though you were not supposed to, you could

bite off the ends of the fingers when you could not stand it.

And though you’d never be allowed to, say, drive a bus,

or do anything that had to be done right, there was a

teeny carton, in you, of eggs

so tiny they were invisible.

And there would be milk, in you, too—real

milk! And you could wear a skirt, you could  

be a bellflower—up under its

cone the little shape like a closed

buckle, intricate groove and tongue,

where something like God’s power over you lived. And it

      turned out

you shared some things with boys—

the alphabet was not just theirs—

and you could make forays over into their territory,

you could have what you could have because it was yours,

and a little of what was theirs, because

you took it. Much later, you’d have to give things

up, too, to make it fair—long

hair, skirts, even breasts, a pair

of raspberry colored pumps which a friend

wanted to put on, if they would fit his foot, and they did.

How lucky we are that you can’t sell a poem

How lucky we are

That you can’t sell

A poem, that it has

No value. Might

As well

Give it away.

 

That poem you love,

That saved your life,

Wasn’t it given to you?

Wish

For someone to read a poem

again, and again, and then,

 

having lifted it from page

to brain—the easy part—

 

cradle it on the longer trek

from brain all the way to heart.

I Wave Good-bye When Butter Flies

I wave good-bye when butter flies

and cheer a boxing match,

I've often watched my pillow fight,

I've sewn a cabbage patch,

I like to dance at basket balls

or lead a rubber band,

I've marvelled at a spelling bee,

I've helped a peanut stand.

 

It's possible a pencil points,

but does a lemon drop?

Does coffee break or chocolate kiss,

and will a soda pop?

I share my milk with drinking straws,

my meals with chewing gum,

and should I see my pocket change,

I'll hear my kettle drum.

 

It makes me sad when lettuce leaves,

I laugh when dinner rolls,

I wonder if the kitchen sinks

and if a salad bowls,

I've listened to a diamond ring,

I've waved a football fan,

and if a chimney sweeps the floor,

I'm sure the garbage can.

Don't Go Into the Library

The library is dangerous—

Don’t go in. If you do

 

You know what will happen.

It’s like a pet store or a bakery—

 

Every single time you’ll come out of there

Holding something in your arms.

 

Those novels with their big eyes.

And those no-nonsense, all muscle

 

Greyhounds and Dobermans,

All non-fiction and business,

 

Cuddly when they’re young,

But then the first page is turned.

 

The doughnut scent of it all, knowledge,

The aroma of coffee being made

 

In all those books, something for everyone,

 

The deli offerings of civilization itself.

 

The library is the book of books,

Its concrete and wood and glass covers

 

Keeping within them the very big,

Very long story of everything.

 

The library is dangerous, full

Of answers. If you go inside,

 

You may not come out

The same person who went in.

Funny Bone (Humerus)

Your upper arm, the humerus,

has no idea what’s funny:

slip on a dropped banana peel,

invent something punny,

make your hand and armpit squeal–

how can it tell what’s humorous?

 

Even though your humeri

have biceps with a belly

they’re not for making belly laughs.

That name is simply silly!

Did someone on the O.R. staff,

thinking it’d be humorous

 

in the midst of a humorless

dissection, to make a pun

about the bone and how it hurts

like crazy when you stun

that tender elbow nerve that blurts

out PAIN and, more or less,

 

turns you into pancake batter?

That bone’s no laughing matter.

Somewhere or Other

Somewhere or other there must surely be

The face not seen, the voice not heard,

The heart that not yet—never yet—ah me!

Made answer to my word.

 

Somewhere or other, may be near or far;

Past land and sea, clean out of sight;

Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star

That tracks her night by night.

 

Somewhere or other, may be far or near;

With just a wall, a hedge, between;

With just the last leaves of the dying year

Fallen on a turf grown green.

Who Has Seen the Wind?

Who has seen the wind? 

Neither I nor you: 

But when the leaves hang trembling, 

The wind is passing through. 

 

Who has seen the wind? 

Neither you nor I: 

But when the trees bow down their heads, 

The wind is passing by.

Turtle

Who would be a turtle who could help it?

A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet,

She can ill afford the chances she must take

In rowing toward the grasses that she eats.

Her track is graceless, like dragging 

A packing-case places, and almost any slope

Defeats her modest hopes. Even being practical,

She’s often stuck up to the axle on her way

To something edible. With everything optimal,

She skirts the ditch which would convert

Her shell into a serving dish. She lives

Below luck-level, never imagining some lottery

Will change her load of pottery to wings.

Her only levity is patience,

The sport of truly chastened things.

Mi Casa

When I was a boy

I was either a child eating bugs

or a child being eaten by bugs, but

now that I am older am I a man

who devours the world or am I a man

being devoured by the world?

 

Someone once told me that mothers

come from a different planet. And if she was correct

then my mother was a warrior from that planet.

And now that my mother is older the history

that is her face is starting to look like a worn map.

The hills that once were her cheeks now have roads

carved into them that tell her secrets.

The roots of her hair are starting to shimmer with silver

that she colors once she sees ten or more.

 

She no longer cares for long hair.

She says pelo largo is a young woman’s game.

In a few years she will be older than my grandmother

ever was.

Humdrum

If I had a million lives to live

  and a million deaths to die

  in a million humdrum worlds,

 

I’d like to change my name

  and have a new house number to go by

  each and every time I died

  and started life all over again.

 

I wouldn’t want the same name every time

  and the same old house number always,

  dying a million deaths,

  dying one by one a million times:

  —would you?

                       or you?

                               or you?

My Locker

My lockers filled with lots of things

like golden crowns from queens and kings,

a heated brush for ice and snow,

Connect the Dots and Tic Tac Toe,

a crystal ball, a time machine,

a robot mop that likes to clean,

a lightning bolt, a treasure chest,

and cowboys from the Wild, Wild West.

 

It also holds Da Vinci’s bed,

the magic hat from Frosty’s head,

a talking tree, a flying train,

the knowledge found in Einstein’s brain,

a baseball team, a balance beam,

a chocolate cookie dipped in cream,

fluorescent moons, colliding stars,

and ancient stones from Earth and Mars.

 

Although they’re not on shelves and hooks,

you’ll find these things inside my books.

I Know I'm Going Somewhere

I know I’m going somewhere,

and I can hardly wait.

Somewhere’s not the sort of place

where someone should be late.

 

I’m leaving soon for somewhere.

I’ll ride my bike, I guess.

It all depends where somewhere is–

if it is far, or less.

 

I’m sure I’m going somewhere.

I’m finally on my way.

I hope I find that it’s the kind

of place I’d like to stay.

 

I wish I had directions

to show me how to go.

If you’ve been somewhere recently

please call and let me know.

 

Why, we could go together there,

around each bump and bend.

Somewhere seems much closer

when you go there with a friend.

The Rose That Grew From Concrete

Did u hear about the rose that grew

from a crack 

in the concrete

Proving nature's law is wrong it learned 2 walk 

without having feet

Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams,

it learned 2 breathe fresh air.

Long live the rose that grew from concrete

when no one else even cared!

Morning Warming

sun

sunwarm

sunwarm on back

sunwarm on back legs

sunwarm on back legs loosens

            my heart

            my heart beats

            my heart beats faster

            in sunwarm my heart beats faster

                        I flex

                        I flex legs

                        I flex legs loose with sunwarm

                        I drink dew from dripping leaves

                        I beat

                                    flex

                                                crouch

                        leap!

 

                                                What am I?  

(grasshopper)

Who Will Tell Them

It turns out you can kill the earth,

Crack it open like an egg.

It turns out you can murder the sea,

Poison your own children

Without even thinking about it.

 

Goodbye passenger pigeon, once

So numerous men threw nets over trees

And fed you to pigs. Goodbye

Cuckoo bird who lays eggs

In the nests of strangers.

 

Goodbye elephant bird

Who frightened Sinbad.

Goodbye wigeon,

Curlew, lapwing, crake.

Goodbye Mascarene coot.

Sorry we never had a chance to meet.

 

Who knew you could wipe out

Everything? Who knew

You could crack the earth open

Like an egg? Who knew

The endless ocean

Was so small?

 

Right now, there are children playing on the shore.

There are children lying in hospital beds.

There are children trusting us.

Who will tell them what we’ve done?

April Is a Dog’s Dream

april is a dog's dream

the soft grass is growing

the sweet breeze is blowing

the air all full of singing feels just right

so no excuses now

we're going to the park

to chase and charge and chew

and I will make you see

what spring is all about

recipe for understanding

 

Share bread,

share histories —

dense, chewy tales that take

time to rise. Crisp sketches as light

as air.

 

Share bread,

share histories —

loaves baked so long ago

or served up fresh from the oven

today.

 

Share bread:

bammy, brioche,

chapati or lavash . . .

Pass it around the table. Share

the world.

At the Student Poetry Reading

 

I guess you could call me broken,

says one. I’m still lonely, says another,

but now I can name it with a song.

 

In my poem, says another,

I can forget I am forgotten. Now

I understand being misunderstood,

 

says another. And another says,

in a bold, undeniable voice of power,

I won’t step down from myself again.

 

And they are beautiful, beautiful,

standing one by one at the mic

where they have come forth at last

 

from behind the curtain.

The Land of Nod

From breakfast on through all the day

At home among my friends I stay,

But every night I go abroad

Afar into the land of Nod.

 

All by myself I have to go,

With none to tell me what to do —

All alone beside the streams

And up the mountain-sides of dreams.

 

The strangest things are there for me,

Both things to eat and things to see,

And many frightening sights abroad

Till morning in the land of Nod.

 

Try as I like to find the way,

I never can get back by day,

Nor can remember plain and clear

The curious music that I hear.

The Swing

How do you like to go up in a swing,

   Up in the air so blue?

“Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing

   Ever a child can do!”

 

“Up in the air and over the wall,

   Till I can see so wide,

Rivers and trees and cattle and all

   Over the countryside--

 

“Till I look down on the garden green

   Down on the roof so brown--

Up in the air I go flying again,

   Up in the air and down!”

Eating Poetry

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.

There is no happiness like mine.

I have been eating poetry.

 

The librarian does not believe what she sees.

Her eyes are sad

and she walks with her hands in her dress.

 

The poems are gone.

The light is dim.

The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

 

Their eyeballs roll,

their blond legs burn like brush.

The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

 

She does not understand.

When I get on my knees and lick her hand,

she screams.

 

I am a new man.

I snarl at her and bark.

I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

A smile always heals

You cannot pronounce my name.

“Soor-ya.” Not “soar.”

Surya—the sun god.

Mom always tells me that a smile heals everything.

So I try.

I sit beside you in the cafeteria

and smile.

 

You look down at your food

and eat your cheeseburger,

I eat the lemon rice in my box.

 

My mom cut and squeezed two lemons

and cracked open a coconut to make my lunch.

I savor every spoon of my vegan rice

while you savor your meat patty.

You enjoy your burger. I enjoy my lemon rice.

 

We don’t say anything to each other

until almost the end of the lunch break.

I apologize for splattering ink

on your shirt when you got my name wrong this morning.

 

You smile back at me. “Surya,” you say.

You don’t know how that makes me feel.

Mom is right.

A smile always heals.

Filter

I come from a country so far away

that you may have visited only in your dreams.

My face does not bear the pale color of my palms.

I don’t speak your language at home.

I don’t even sound like you.

If you come to my house, you’ll see my family:

my mother in a sari,

my father wearing a sacred thread around his body,

and me, eating a plate of spicy biryani

instead of a burger or pizza

at the dinner table.

If you, for a moment, shed your filter,

you will also see my pockets filled with Tootsie Rolls,

waiting to be shared with you.

The Blacker the Berry

“The blacker the berry 

The sweeter the juice” 

 

I am midnight and berries

I call the silver stars at dusk

By moonrise, they appear 

And we turn berries into nectar

 

Because I am dark, the moon and stars 

shine brighter

Because berries are dark, the juice is sweeter

 

Day could not dawn without the night

Colors without black, couldn’t sparkle 

quite so bright. 

 

“The blacker the berry, 

The sweeter the juice” 

 

I am midnight and berries

The Empty Notebook Interrogates Itself

 

The empty notebook wonders

about existence. It wants to

know how blank space can fill

a void, how emptiness can be

a burden. When a page detaches

itself, the empty notebook feels

pain ruffle its edges. The empty

notebook thinks emptiness contains 

something more than nothing, but

is filled with possibility, with longing,

with the urge to start from scratch.

The Storyteller Gets Her name

My dad used to call me Eagle Eyes. I was the one to find eagles, owls, blue jays

on a dark day. He called me so until my brother was born infant and grew to boy.

 

Having heard my name, as younger siblings often do,

he wanted to be called Eagle Eyes too. He studied the birds’ flight, kept his

 

eyes to the skies for hours, and soon he knew their long names

and could correct me. Except, at sixteen, I never liked to be corrected.

 

But my brother showed me the work, and I had to learn to give.

Give him all I could as my elders did for me.

 

So I tugged on my heart to let go, as I knew he had earned Eagle Eyes

more than I ever could. And what I found instead was new room, for a new name.

 

I am Siwa’köl, storyteller.

 

And my brother, he is Eagle Eyes.

 

I tell his tales and mine so someday when we join the elders,

my stories may be told and his birds can take to the sky.

 

But for now, I will share with you my story so that you can know who you are—

and maybe you are Siwa’köl too.

Undone

They ignored the new boy,

snickering behind his back.

 

                                                    In silence, I stayed     safe.

                                                    My lips pressed          together.

 

Growing bolder, they

pierced him with arrow-sharp

words.

 

                                                    I pretended

                                                    I hadn’t                       heard.

 

They twisted his arms.

One word escaped his lips

before they dragged him

out of sight, out of earshot:

“Cowards!”

 

                                                    I ran                             away.

 

 

                                                    All the                          words

                                                    I didn’t say                    haunt me every day.

Learning

I'm learning to say thank you.

And I'm learning to say please.

And I'm learning to use Kleenex,

Not my sweater, when I sneeze.

And I'm learning not to dribble.

And I'm learning not to slurp.

And I'm learning (though it sometimes really hurts me)

Not to burp.

And I'm learning to chew softer

When I eat corn on the cob.

And I'm learning that it's much

Much easier to be a slob.

SPRING BREAK

The best clouds in the business

          are right above me

right now.

 

We’re riding in this teal convertible

          those clouds just dozing

          in about forty-nine different shapes

          white as clean paper,

          their edges like feathers against the blue sky,

blue as Dad’s eyes.

 

Dad drives, my sister’s in front

          I lay my head on Mom’s lap in the back.

          I lay my head on her lap as he drives

          this teal convertible that we rented special

just for these four days in Albuquerque.

 

In it, we are open to the whole world

          to the whole sky

          and I know right now

          I can see

          that these are 

the best clouds in the business.

Poets to Come

Poets to come! orators, singers, musicians to come!

Not to-day is to justify me and answer what I am for,

But you, a new brood, native, athletic, continental, greater than before known,

Arouse! Arouse–for you must justify me–you must answer

 

I myself but write one or two indicative words for the future,

I but advance a moment, only to wheel and hurry back in the darkness.

 

I am a man who, sauntering along, without fully stopping, turns a casual look upon you, and then averts his face,

Leaving it to you to prove and define it,

Expecting the main things from you.

To a Poor Old Woman

munching a plum on 

the street a paper bag

of them in her hand

 

They taste good to her

They taste good 

to her. They taste

good to her

 

You can see it by

the way she gives herself

to the one half

sucked out in her hand

 

Comforted

a solace of ripe plums

seeming to fill the air

They taste good to her

And I wonder where you are

Sacred stars blanket a nighttime sky,

each light reminds us of the preciousness of life.

Your memory lives along the Milky Way,

each twinkle saying don’t forget my name.

 

It’s an epidemic, a sickness of the earth,

a war we enter as soon as we are birthed.

Indigenous women, girls, our two-spirit, too.

When did this world start disappearing you?

Being

Wake up, greet the sun, and pray.

Burn cedar, sweet grass, sage—

sacred herbs to honor the lives we’ve been given,

for we have been gifted these ways since the beginning of time.

Remember, when you step into the arena of your life,

think about those who stand beside you, next to, and with you.

Your ancestors are always in your corner, along with your people.

When we enter this world we are born hungry,

our spirits long for us to live out our traditions

that have been passed down for generations.

Prayer, ceremony, dance, language—our ways of being.

Never forget you were put on this earth for a reason—

honor your ancestors.

Be a good relative.

on paper

The first time I write my full name

 

Jacqueline Amanda Woodson

 

without anybody's help

on a clean white page in my composition notebook,

     I know

 

if I wanted to

 

I could write anything.

 

Letters becoming words, words gathering meaning,

     becoming

thoughts outside my head

 

becoming sentences

 

written by

 

                                                  Jacqueline Amanda Woodson

Five Tips On Writing A Poem
  1. Look at the world through metaphor,

         seeing one tree in terms of another.

 

  1.  Let two words bump up against another

          Or seesaw on a single line.

 

  1. Tell the truth inside out

          Or on the slant.

 

  1. Remember that grammar can be a good friend

         And a mean neighbor.

 

  1. Let the poem rhyme in the heart,

         Though not always on the page.

Carrying Our Words

We travel carrying our words.

We arrive at the ocean.

With our words we are able to speak

of the sounds of thunderous waves.

We speak of how majestic it is,

of the ocean power that gifts us songs.

We sing of our respect

and call it our relative.