Shade (Press)

I remember the day you killed me.
As my soul drifted into the sky, I saw you
walking away innocently, and stashing
your knife in your pocket.

Nobody has bothered to bury my body yet,
but that's alright - I'm the only one
who can see it there, rotting
in the October sun, among the soccer players
and my old friends chatting after lunch.

Observing is quite easy now; people leave me alone
because I'm just a ghost.

I guess I could bother you, but you're fine.
You wouldn't even care about a faded memory
like me.
Besides, how could I torment
someone like you?
Even as you dulled those eyes
that you once falsely called beautiful,
and punctured that heart
that has always throbbed for you,
I knew you meant no harm -
you were blind.

Every now and then, as I float by you in the wind,
I think you might see me
with your fiery green eyes,
but they soon dart away
to that other blonde girl you like,
the one talking to your friend.

You'll see it someday, I'm sure.
Maybe you'll be playing the piano,
or speaking French with her,
or singing in choir without me.
You'll speak, only to hear
the rustle of leaves outside the window.

Tus Ojos/Your Eyes

This is a riddle poem that was originally written in Spanish and was inspired by Octavio Paz.

mares verdes
me llenan
con lágrimas del alma
lágrimas brillantes,
como piedras que reflejan
el sol en el cielo
ancho y azul y lleno
de los sueños mios.
El agua caliente
de eses nubes
nunca parará
hasta que
yo duerma
en esa manta
calma y suave
de tu pensamiento,
tu conversación
que simplemente
me permite existir.


green oceans
fill me
with the soul's tears
brilliant tears,
like stones that reflect
the sun in the
wide and blue sky
that's full
of my dreams.
The hot rain
of those clouds
will never cease
until
I sleep
on that
calm and soft blanket
of your thoughts,
your conversation
that simply
lets me exist.

Call for proofreading

Dearest Poets,

Please spell check and proofread your poems before you post them. (Use the ABC icon on the posting toolbar.)

When writing poetry, EVERY choice you make is critical, whether punctuation, spelling, formatting or word choice. Consequently, typos or spelling errors in a poem are very jarring and often confusing.

Take the time to do this little step in order to make sure that the poem you post is exactly the way you want it. Your poems deserve the highest standard of excellence, no?

Many thanks.

Relief (bless)

This was the sonnet we had to write for Brit Lit


Chosen words are few, as my blood filters through my heart and veins,
acroos my mind to my finger tips where my heart speaks as my pen takes
aim, between the lines of these sheets that have become waht I am.

And slowly I write waht I've become and what I want to be, as all the pain
is drained from me,the ink becomes my blood forever leaving a stain for all to see.

I've never been heartless, to know me you have to listen to my words speak,
to you there harmless, to me every page you turn is to see me bleed
as my heart cries pure emotion and nothing less, for my thoughts are the workds i breathe interperted into words you read.

To understand them is to understan me, and to understand me is to belive, my love fo you is as real as it'll always be, even if I'm too far, to far for you to reach, I'm always there for I am what you read.

hour glass by Omar Gomez

My friend wrote this, he is in jail now. I posted this becuse i think is real deep and i wanted to know if you all though the same.

IM RUNNING OUT OF SAND I SEE LIFE AS A BIG HOUR GLASS//

IVE TRIED TO FORGET ABOUT IT BY INHALING CANIBIS TO THE POINT WHERE IM NUMB AND EVEYTHING MAKES ME LAUGH//

THREE MORE LITTLE GRAINS OF SAND BEING POURED//

I USE TO WEAR BANDANAS TO HIDE MY EYES I WORE DARK GLASS TO COVER MY EYES//

WHY MY EYES WHERE BLOOD SHOT RED AND CLEARLY U CAN SEE I WANTED TO RIDE FOR MY BOYS I WAS GONA DIE//

MANY PEOPLE CRITIZE ME FOR WEARING ALL BLUE WITH MY PANTS BEING TO LOOSE OR BAGGY//

NOW IM GONA DROP SOME KNOWLEDGE IM GONA WELCOME YALL TO MY MENTALITY//

IM A THINKER’S MAN AND MAN THINK I’LL SAY THINGS HEAVY ENOUGH SO IN YOUR MIND THEY CAN SINK//

PEOPLE HAVE ASKED ME WHY IM SO NEGATIVE WHY I THINK THE WAY I THINK//

WELL I HOPE FOR THE BEST AND EXPECT THE WORST FIRST//

THE WAY I SEE MY BIRTH MY LIFE AS A WAY GOD GIVING THIS WORLD A DEADLY CURSE//

I FEEL WHAT I SPEAK AND SPEAK WHAT I FEEL//

IF THE TRUTH HURTS THEN THINK AS MY WORDS AS A STAKE MADE OUT OF STEEL//

DIGGING DEEP IN YOUR BODY SOUL AND SPIRIT DON’T FAKE THE FUNK KEEP IT REAL//

AND LET YOUR WOUNDS HEAL//

DO YALL THINK IM REAL OR JUST A MITH?FOR THIS COLOR OF MY SHIRT I WOULD
DEFEND IT WITH KNIFES AND STICKS//

WE WERE ORGANIZED WE WERE TIGHT LIKE BOW TIES//

NOW IM THINKING ON HOW I WASTED MY LIFE NOW I THINK HOW IT WOULD’VE BEEN IF I ACTUALLY TRIED//

THE BUS TO HAPPINESS LEFT AND HOUR AGO IT LEFT ME BEHIND WITH NO PERSON IN SITE//

NOT A FRIENDLY HAND NO CAR NO CHANCE FOR A HITCH HIKE//

THEY SAY THE EARLY BIRD GETS THE WORM I GUESS I WOKE UP LATE//

NOW IM TRING TO WORK WITH I GOT LEFT//

NOW I GOTTA DO WHAT I DO WITH A DIFFERENT MENTALITY I DIFFERENT MINDSTATE//

DAM ALMOST OUT OF SAND MY HOUR GLASS IS ALMOST FILLED LET MAKE THIS SO
YALL CAN UNDERSTAND ME//

THESE MENTAL DEGREES I’VE ACHIEVED THE BRAIN FLUID IT TAKES TO BELIEF WOULD EQUAL THE SEVEN SEA//

SEE SOME OF YALL TELL HOW IT MIGHT BE I TELL IT HOW I SEE WHAT MY EYE MAKE ME BELIEF//

IM OUT OF SAND IM OUT OF SAND INSTEAD OF ASKING IF YOU CAN SPEAR A MINUTE IM GONA GO TO THE DESERT AND ASK A LIZZARD FOR SAND TO FILL UP MY HOUR GLASS//

The man with out a past (bless)

That man,
the one w/o a plan
no one's fan,
i know its him..
the one without a dream

You look into his eyes,
but you see no lies, no past
its like he's wearing a MASK

no tears,
no fears,
no lies,
no fights,
only blank eyes,
and empty nights

The man with the empty soul,
it's like he hasnt been told,
or doesnt seem to care,
that soon this world will just TARE

June (Press)

My thoughts bake
in my head
as the sun presses
down on me and my bikini.
Life just seems
to float in the tepid air,
like a wispy cloud,
an afterthought,
a sweet perfume.
My skin drinks in
the heat,
and the cold, sharp rain
and barren trees of winter
are far from my mind.

Red (Address)

This is a somewhat abstract response to La Maestra's latest prompt. Does it accurately reflect what the color red represents to you?

The burning heat
draws near to my skin
as I let my emotions run wild;
the passion in my dark blood
scalds me inside
with the anger and love
of a great flame -
my fiery heart
has finally conquered.

prompt idea

How do you describe a color to a person who has always been blind? Choose one and try, then post what you write.

(Where are the color poems you wrote on Wednesday...?)

Viento/Wind (Press)

El el verano
la vida duerme
en el cielo
en las manos
del viento,
pero se despierta
rápidamente
con el trueno negro
que el otoño trae.


In the summer
life sleeps
in the sky
in the hands
of the wind,
but it awakens
quickly
with the black thunder
that autumn brings.

Writing Prompt

I was sitting around in study hall,
bored out of my mind-
when all of the sudden,
out of the blue,
I had a brilliant thought.
What if I
posted a prompt
for all the other users?
About a time when they've been bored
and had them respond to it?

There ya go. Thats my ten second poem-prompt. Which I just wrote, out of the blue without even thinking about it. Enjoy! I can't WAIT to read the poems you guys post! Love ya ~pinkroses~

Frustration (Press)

Yesterday, I walked downstairs
and opened up the dryer.
I counted out the socks,
folding them as I went.
One pair... two pairs... three... three and a half...
wait- three and a half?
Wheres the other sock?
I opened up the washer,
but it wasn't there.
I looked inside the launry basket
and inside the hamper.
No where could I find
the missing sock-
Pink with gold and silver stripes
and a Hershey's chocolate kiss-
not a sock that it would be
easy to miss!
I ran around searching
until I grew so tired
I lay down on the floor
and there, rolled up inside
a shoe near my head
was my missing sock.

River (Bless)

I wait always
for the return
through a frosty window
or the gloomy autumn clouds,
the memories trapping me
in this desperate isolation,
a distorted hope -
everything is blurry and fluid
and the confusion pulls
at my tender core
with every glance.

prompt idea

In honor of Rosa Parks's remarkable life and unmatched contributions to the civil rights movement, try writing a poem about something that you are willing to stand up for - or sit down for, as she did on that legendary bus.

Be sure to post what you write...

Sidewalks (Press)

The chilly winter wind
has blown away my
spirit, and
the hollowness inside
this fragile frame
leaves me sick.
My thoughts echo
and bounce
in that dark empty space
pounding and pounding
weakening me slowly
until I fall
down, defeated.

Life goes on,
moving quickly,
for everyone else
as my dull eyes
watch them
walking away.

The Whistle Club (Press)

*This was from our Poetry Club meeting today, the whistle prompt (obviously).

The Whistle Club
When I was little,
in third grade,
to be exact,
my friends had a
whistle club.
Anyone could join-
all you had to do was be able to
whistle.
They sat around at recess and
whistled songs,
seeing who was the loudest.
I sat near them
listening to
Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star
Mary Had A Little Lamb
Frere Jaque and
The Barney Theme Song.
Everyday they picked a new song
and everyday, I sat there
listening as Geoff, Adam and
even Chelsea joined in.
Finally, I was there alone,
the only one who couldn't whistle.

This Lazy Afternoon (Press)

I walk down the sidewalk
slowly, quietly
savoring the happiness
from this lazy afternoon.
The click of my shoes on the
bare pavement,
the whisper of the wind,
slightly rustling the leaves.
The emptiness and the
solitude suit me-
my thoughts drift
from this to that
until they finally rest
on you.
I see your face, your eyes,
how you smile when I
enter the room.
The soft words you speak
when we're sitting quietly together
echo in my head
until a cool breeze blows
them away and
my steps lead me
home.

Untitled (Press)

*Ok, this is kinda lame. but I've been in a poetry slump for a little while, and this is the first I've written since I got back into the poetry mood.

If you're mine,
Why do I feel like you
Appreciate everyone but me?
If you're mine,
Why do I feel like
You would rather talk to
Someone else?
If you're mine,
Why do I feel like
she means more to
you than me?
If you're mine,
Then why do I
Wish you weren't?

Mirrors (Press)

Those eyes
once green
and bright,
now cold as
my hands,
dark as
stone.

Their shine gone
dull and distraught,
their tears
have fallen away
as my soul
has been drained
of its once
sparkling waters
off of which
light
will not glint
again.

New York Times article

Check out this article from the New York Times about a new prize for poetry, and the interesting story of the first winner. The end of the article also mentions several interesting initiatives that are aimed at raising poetry's profile in the larger arena. Enjoy.

Gardens (Press)

soft and fragrant
that rose
brightest
in the bouquet

dies from sudden disease -
edges brown
and crispy
petals falling to the ground
stepped on

the bloom drifts
to the earth
becoming
dirt itself
unnoticed it will lie forever
small and brown and dead.

No Title (Press)

Sweaty, nervous hands clench
a black, slippery phone as I
listen,
ring... ring... ring...
My insides knot
I bite my lip-
What if you don't want to talk?
What if I embarass myself?
Whatif no one'shome?
Whatifsomeoneis?
I chew my nails and
listen to it ring,
one... two... three...
Finally, a click-
you pick up.
Timidly, I ask a question,
gaily* you reply.
My terror slowly melts away,
I start to breathe a little.
I laugh and joke and
tease and play,
then finally, I say,
Goodnight. I'll call again tomorrow.

*For all of you immature people, gay can also mean HAPPY.
PLEASE feel free to say ANYTHING (within reason) about my poem. I would love to hear it!

I Remember... (Press)

*Written during the Poetry Cafe earlier tonight at the Lafayette Public Library*
I Remember
I remember...
smiles in the hallway,
eyes locking, then
tearing away.
"Secret" notes
passed through
twenty people,
ten second
conversations at
lunch, blushing
nervous, sweaty
conversations.
I remember
middle school
drama, tears
and sighs.
I remember.

I remember...
joking, laughing
blowing off tests,
singing
during passing period
fighting, crying
screaming
during passing period.
Hateful glares
and friendly hugs.
I remember.

Ode to My Flip-Flops (Address)

Address: Does the ending of this seem too cliche or too... for lack of better word, lame, for the poem?

Ode to My Flip-Flops
Opening my closet door,
I spot
Them.
My fantastic
flip-flops-
Green as the summer grass,
slightly faded.
The feeling of sand, ocean and sun
clings to
Them.
My happiness,
by wearing
Them,
is like a
girls first real
birthday party-
screaming, giggling,
happiness,
innocent, playful,
happiness.
My toes sing
their thank-yous
as I walk from
here
to
there
in my
lovingly worn
flip-flops.
Memories adhere themselves to
Them-
as if
stuck
with glue to
Them.
My flip-flops
more than just
shoes,
they're life,
my life
stuck to the sole.

Dizzy (Bless)

wither
shrivel
die
What?
lost
no idea
she’s blind
can’t see
actions
emotions
thoughts
red
blue
green
blended
into a bland
meaningless brown.
I fade away slowly…
I’m gone.
What’s left?
Is it fear?
Fear of me?
Fear of you?
Fear of us?
Fear of truth?
unclear
and
strange
life just spins
and leaves me dizzy.

living the poet's life (bless)

living the poet’s life
means walking around
with a bruise slowly
spreading across my skin

a loss of defenses in
exchange for seeing the
world in jeweled necklaces

(words link to phrases) that
circle my neck and
rest across my collar bones
threatening to choke
but decorating me

adding a modicum of glimmer
to the world

Cinderella (Address)

Address: What moment do you think this is describing? What does it seem to mean?

Bittersweet solitude -
still and alone
in the moving crowd.
Unnoticed, I stand
with these thoughts
that threaten
to tear me to pieces.
Warmth surrounds me,
but the hole in me
grows larger
and the frigid wind
continues to blow.

Wet/Mojada (Press)

This was originally written in Spanish.

Wet

The clouds have cried
all the oceans of my soul.
A strong and furious rain,
a rain saved
Forever.
I feel sick
from all the water
That's still here.

Sometimes, the clouds
Disappear
before they can quench
the dry world's thirst.


Mojada

Las nubes han llorado
todos los mares de mi alma.
Una lluvia fuerte y furiosa,
una lluvia guardada
Para siempre.
Estoy enferma
por todo el agua
Que todavía está aquí.

A veces, las nubes
Desaparecen
antes de que pueden aplacar
la sed del mundo seco.

Otoño (Address)

Address: Does it seem like the poem just stops abrubtly in the middle and change subjects? (ie. the part about the pumpkins to the part about the lawns)

Otoño
Estaba caminando
Por una calle vacía
Pateando las hojas,
Secadas y muertas,
Rojas, oras
Marrones.
Oliendo las calabazas
y los pasteles.
Los céspedes de
Mis vecinos con
Brujas, fantasmas
Y monstruos,
Terribles, espantosos
Horribles.
Pero, cuando
Otoño esta terminada,
Las hojas han ido,
Y no huelo
Las calabazas y los pasteles
Estoy allá
Solamente caminando.

Autumn
Walking down
An empty road
Kicking the leaves
Dry and dead
Red, gold
Brown.
Smelling the pumpkins
And the cakes.
My neighbor’s lawns with
Witches, ghosts
And monsters
Terrible, frightening
Horrible.
But, when
Autumn is done
The leaves are gone
and I don’t smell
The pumpkins and the cakes
I am there
Just walking.

To harness a moment...(address)

Address: does the inconsistent capitalization and punctuation make this too hard to follow or does it help the poem flow?


To harness a moment
significant
in its singularity
though never obvious
to the rushing commuter
nor important to the
state of the union
to corral it
saddle it
mount it
(though not always
on the first try)
and ride it
all the way home to
the page

that is the purpose
of a poem.

Welcome Student Poets!

If you are a member of La Maestra's Wednesday Afternoon Poetry Club, you will receive an email invitation to post your poems on this blog. By posting poetry on the blog, we will be able to read each other's writing and respond to it much more regularly than if we were limited to our Wednesday meetings.

In order to post your poems, you need to get your parent/guardian's signature on the permission form, and return it to La Maestra in her classroom. You do not need to wait until the next Wednesday meeting to return the signed form. Once La Maestra receives your form, she will send you an invitation at your email address.

In your email invitation, you will see a link. Click on it, and it will take you to a window asking you to sign in to join the blog. Before you may sign in, you will need to click on the "Create an Account" button. You will choose a user name, a password, and a display name. Your display name will be seen every time you post a poem or comment on someone else's post. Your display name must protect your identity and all your personal information. It should not reveal anything about you. This is your chance to choose your slam poet name. Be creative. In addition to creating a slam name, you may also create a user profile that anyone reading the blog will see by clicking on your slam name. Again, for your own protection, you may not share any identifying information in your profile.

Once you create your account and sign in, you will be able to post your poetry on our blog.

Enjoy!