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one of my favorite poems Is This Love poem Red Red Rose Did You Know Said to be Bob Dylan's. greatest inspiration, this little poem is one of Scotland's most loved songs. As with 'Auld lang syne', this poem is based on several traditional Scottish ballads that received the Burns treatment! here are some of the poems that I thought were my favorite parts.

My Love Is Like a Rose

That's newly sprung in June;

O my Love's like the melodie

That's sweetly played in tune;

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in love am I;

And I will love thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry;

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When I was seven,

I looked to heaven

and dreamed

of going to the moon

but pretty soon

somebody came along

to change

my tune.

They put me down.

Bang! There my dream lay

on the ground.

Thank God, eventually

I came around

and dreamed

another dream.

At first, it seemed

a good idea to hide it,

confide it

to absolutely no one.

But that was no fun,

besides, I realized

I couldn't. The joy it gave me

just wouldn't

be stopped up, It popped up

at the most

inconvenient times,

effervesced

in all my rhymes.

But, hey! Joy

is not a crime, though

some people

make it seem so.

Does anybody here know

what I mean?

You share your dream

and right away

people laugh,

try to dissuade you,

do what they can to

plant a seed of doubt.

Listen: you've got to

root it out,

laugh last, push past,

pursue. Be you--

whoever that is--

dream intact.

And dont look back.

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a love poem, The Way I Feel by nikki giovanni

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a love poem, The Way I Feel by nikki giovanni

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i've noticed i'm happier

when i make love

with you

and have enough left

over to smile at my doorman

i've realized i'm fulfilled

like a big fat cow

who was just picked

for a carnation contentment

when you kiss the special place

right behind my knee

i'm glad as a mortor

on a brick is coming

when you walk though

my door

most time when you're around

i feel like a note

roberta flack is going to sing

in my mind you're the clock

and i'm the second hand sweeping

around you sixty times a day

twenty-four hours a day

three hundred sixty-five days a year

and an extra

in leap year

cause thats the way

thats the way

thats the way i feel

about you.

(to anthony hanao.)

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Some people tell me to “fix” my hair

And by fixing they mean straighten; they mean whiten

But how do you fix this shipwrecked history of hair?

The true meaning of stranded

When tresses hug tight like African cousins in ship bellies

Did our ancestors imagine that their great-grandchildren would look like us?

And would try to escape the how we do?

Finding ways to erase them out from our skin,

to iron them out

This wild tangle of hair that strangles air.

Some call them wild curls, but I call them breathing, antecedents spiraling;

can’t you see them in this wet hair that waves       like  hello?

We're told Dominicans do the best hair.

We can wash, set, flatten the spring in any lock.

BUT What they mean is:

We are the best at swallowing amnesia in a cup of morir soñando:

DIE DREAMING.

Because it seems easiest to do that than live in this REALITY,

Caught between orange juice and milk;

between reflections of the sun and whiteness.

WHAT THEY MEAN IS:

WHY WOULD YOU EVER DATE A BLACK MAN?

WHAT THEY MEAN IS:

un PRIETO? COCOLO

WHAT THEY MEAN IS: Why would TWO OPPRESSED People come together? It’s two times the trouble.

WHAT THEY REALLY MEAN IS:

Have you thought of your daughter's hair?

And I don’t tell them that

my love and I are like sugarcane.

Dark-Skinned, paler-fleshed,

meshed and pure sweetness.

The children of children of fields.

Our bodies curve

into each other like an echo,

and I let my curtain of curls

blanket us from the world.

Our children will be BEAUTIFUL:

of dusk skin and Brilliant eyes,

HAIR

a reclamation.

Oh, how I will braid

PRIDE

down their backs,

and from the moment

they leave the womb,

they will be born IN LOVE WITH THEMSELVES.

SOME PEOPLE TELL ME TO FIX MY HAIR.

AND SO MANY WORDS

REMAIN UNSPOKEN,

BECAUSE ALL I CAN REPLY IS,

YOU CAN'T FIX WHAT WAS NEVER BROKEN.

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i am the image that darkens your glass,

The shadow that falls wherever you pass.

i am the dream you cannot forget,

the face you remember without having met.

I am the truth that must not spoken,

The midnight vow that cannot be broken.

i am the bell that tolls out the hours.

i am the fire that warms and devours.

I am hunger that you have denied,

the ache of desire piercing your side.

I am the sin you have never confessed,

the forbidden hand caressing your breast.

you've heard me inside you speak in your dreams, sigh in the ocean,whisper in streams. I am the future you crave and fear.

you know what I bring. now I am here.

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Life is very similar to a boxing match,

Defeat is not declared when you fall down

Defeat is declared when you refuse to get up

every jab will sculpt you, but sculpting takes t

time and it hurts, you will find yourself back

in that corner, where all you do is cry, but

all you can do is get back on your feet

soon you will start to block out the punches

and focus on your craft, you think of the

perseverance needed to prosper, and soon

you'll find yourself better, but you only get

better when you GET BACK UP, take every

punch as a lesson, and you will find yourself

Improved with etiquette and perspicacity,

boxing isn't for all, but just know if you want

to make the world a better place, take a look

at yourself and make a change

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When people say they miss me,
I think how much I miss me too,
Me, the old me, the great me,
Lover of three women in one day,
Modest me, the best me, friend
To waiters and bartenders, hearty
Laugher and name rememberer,
Proud me, handsome and hirsute
In soccer shoes and shorts
On the ball fields behind MIT,
Strong me in a weightbelt at the gym,
Mutual sweat dripper in and out
Of the sauna, furtive observer
Of the coeducated and scantily clad,
Speedy me, cyclist of rivers,
Goose and peregrine falcon
Counter, all season venturer,
Chatterer-up of corner cops,
Groundskeepers, mothers with strollers,
Outwitter of panhandlers and bill
Collectors, avoider of levies, excises,
Me in a taxi in the rain,
Pressing my luck all the way home.

That's me at the dice table, baby,
Betting come, little Joe, and yo,
Blowing the coals, laying thunder,
My foot on top a fifty dollar chip
Some drunk spilled on the floor,
Dishonest me, evener of scores,
Eager accepter of the extra change,
Hotel towel pilferer, coffee spoon
Lifter, fervent retailer of others'
Humor, blackhearted gossiper,
Poisoner at the well, dweller
In unsavory detail, delighted sayer
Of the vulgar, off course belier
Of the true me, empiric builder
Newly haircutted, stickerer-up
For pals, jam unpriser, medic
To the self-inflicted, attorney
To the self-indicted, petty accountant
And keeper of the double books,
Great divider of the universe
And all its forms of existence
Into its relationship to me,
Fellow trembler to the future,
Thin air gawker, apprehender
Of the frameless door.

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Eliza is dressed uniquely

like a mannequin from three different stores

She wears a red dress

with pink leggings underneath

She wears a yellow sneaker on her right foot and a white sneaker on her left foot

Her socks have bumblebees dancing on them and touch her knees

She sports candy pop rings on both of her thumbs

She wears a scarf the color of grass

and her teeth dance with silver

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Once there was an elephant,

Who tried to use the telephant-

No! No! I mean an elephone

who tried to use the telephone-

(Dear me! I am not certain quite

That even now I've got it right.)

Howe'ver it was, he got his trunk

Entangled in the telephunk;

The more he tried to get it free,

The louder buzzed the telephee-

(I fear I'd better drop the song

Of elephop and telephong!)

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The lies I could tell,

when I was growing up

light-bright, near-white,

high-yellow, red-boned

in a black place,

were just white lies.

I could easily tell the white folks

that we lived uptown,

not in that pink and green

shanty-fied shotgun section

along the tracks. I could act

like my homemade dresses

came straight out the window

of Maison Blanche. I could even

keep quiet, quiet as kept,

like the time a white girl said

(squeezing my hand), Now

we have three of us in this class.

But I paid for it every time

Mama found out.

She laid her hands on me,

then washed out my mouth

with Ivory soap. This

is to purify, she said,

to cleanse out your lying tongue.

Believing her, I swallowed suds

thinking they'd work

from the inside out.

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I'VE BEEN THERE BEFORE By OLIVIA GATWOOD

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I'VE BEEN THERE BEFORE By OLIVIA GATWOOD

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When a person is in pain

sometimes the best cure

is to hear "i've felt that too"

from someone else.

when you cry and your best friend

puts their hand on your shoulder and

says, "i've been there before"

suddenly, you know you are not the only one. sometimes, we don't know the people

we feel for. sometimes, we've never been where they are. but we don't need

to look like each other or speak like each other or live like each other to know what it feels like to be sad, to be hurt, to be in need of a friend. instead, we can simply say the words "i understand", we can make a secret club out of our sadness, we can let everyone in who wants to join, we can sit in a circle and laugh and share, sing over and over

"you are not alone"

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I woke up this morning

exhausted from hiding

the me of me

so I stand here confiding

there's more to Devon

than jump shot and rim.

I'm more than tall

and lengthy of limb.

I dare you to peep

behind these eyes

discover the poet

in tough-guy disguise.

Don't call me Jump Shot.

My name is Surprise.

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anime anime the big 3 naruto , bleach and onpiece. anime anime one of

the best blue lock , jjk

and more of the rest. anime anime

what do you like there dreams , there gouls and how they fight anime anime watch every day how do you feel to watch anime

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giddiyap horsie giddiyap

giddi giddi giddi giddi diddiyap

riding on a rainbow cloud singing shouting giddiyap out loud

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"We Call Our Teacher Mr E" by Kenn Nesbitt

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"We Call Our Teacher Mr E" by Kenn Nesbitt

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We call our teacher Mr E.

His last name is a mystery.

It's a secret, but we don't know why.

We think that maybe he's a spy

who doesn't share his name so he can hide his identity.

Now, some day that last name of his

May tell us who he really is,

But only if we get to see

The true identity of Mr E.

Until then, there will always be

The mystery of Mr E.

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A website stutters numbers

about my town sheepishly

pushing them all the way

to the bottom

The percentage of residents living in poverty----8.5%

then the parenthesis:

(6% for white residents)

(9.6% for hispanic residents

( 14.3%for black residents)

I wonder why it is only the poverty statistic

that mentions race

then i remember everything is about money

that in this cushy suburb racial bias loves to glare

back at you from the inside of a wallet

in this chunk of non-city

the people are proud

of their diversity

even as the achievement

gap at my high school

glares at them

back when the chicago tribune covered

the 1919 chicago riots

they were over shadowed.

THE END BY ADRYEL peguero

for daiyln

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Withered and wise, I might as well

sift memory for the hard lessons you,my son

most need to learn, though how

I´ll

choose which stories to

tell well ... I´ll just share a few with

you.

I roll out the years of my

life step carefully, looking out for

Daddy, who´d drink, then try to skin

me six ways from sunday. Lord! I

ain´t had it easy. From birth, no meat,no

crystal slipper like the one Cinderella left on that stair.

Once, Sheriff pounded on our door.

It´s come, waving a not

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                            By John Grandits 

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The Lay-Up

There's a pass across court.

Right to me. I'm in the clear.

I take off downcourt.Dribbling,

running.A defender blocks me,

but I make a little move and get

around him.All clear in front of me!

Just keep dribbling and don't

Screw it up.Now for the lay-up.

Ive done this a thousand times before.

I could make this basket blindfolded.

I go up................Its on the rim it goes around around around around.Its almost in.

Oh,No!.ts out again!NOOOO! No.no.no.no.no.no.no.no.no.no.no.no. I was robbed.i never miss that shot.

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" I Do Have My Likes And Dislikes" By .... Nikki Giovanni 

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" I Do Have My Likes And Dislikes" By .... Nikki Giovanni 

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I like cashmere scarves and cashmere sweaters and cotton blouses with button down collars

I like mink muffs when my hands are cold and leather gloves up to my elbow

I like manicures but I don't like nail polish

I like facials but not to squeeze the black heads out

I like caviar and pecan fried chicken and double decker sandwiches white bread extra mayo

I really like anchovies on my pizza and quilts on my bed and eucalyptus soap when i take long bath

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As I wake up, I look up to the ceiling

I breath in and out

then get up from my bed

Lazily I get dressed getting

ready for school I eat breakfast

I look at the time,

seeing I got up a little early

and I realize I got enough time to watch some shows, then I walk up

to my TV I turn it on

grabbing the controller and

watching my show

now that im done watching my show being hyped for my favourite scene I then now have my normal energy as I

walk to school

excited for the day I walk and walk

getting distracted by some cars driving by

as for me paying attention

is hard for me as I have ADHD, I daydream of driving a car or a bike as

the wind moves threw my hair then I snap out of it as one of my friends saw me and shouted my name, "yo jenssy" I look back seeing one of my other friends Johan

we start walking with eachother chatting then I see my other friend up ahead Jerimiah

then we all start chatting walking to school then as we get to the school I open my bookbag heavy as all my books and notebooks is all in there and my packed homework folder I open the little patch grabbing my card and I swipe my ID card and I walk into school being ready to undercover the mysteries to be unfolded in the future.

Made by: Jenssy Javier

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Fresh out of middle school, we

all understand the rules: Wear

whatever's in, scowl on cue to convince the world we're fearless--anything to mask the million insecurities that

pockmark our skin like acne. gone the grins when we strut down the hall. We talk tough and hope to God it's enough to get us by. it's lies.

we despise the masquerade. it may disguise our fears, but also hides our kind and tender hearts, our agile mind, the wit that sits behind our cheeks-- who'd guess that some of us are geeks and nerds and poets, too? clothed in shades of chocolate skin, our color works to camouflage our

character and promise --- at least, in certain eyes.

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if music is the most universal language

just think of me as one whole note

if science has the most perfect language picture me as MC2

since mathematics can speak to the infinite imagine me as 1 to the first power

what I mean is one day

I'm gonna grab your love

and you'll be

satisfied.

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The Dead Woman Left Her Signature in the Front of My Book, or What I Have Left...

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The Dead Woman Left Her Signature in the Front of My Book, or What I Have Left...

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There's a dead woman's handwriting on my poems.

She sat in front of me before she died,

told me she wanted more to the story.

Her husband stroked her arm.

he looked at her like he was hanging onto

a kite whose string he knew,

they both knew,

would snap right above his white-knuckled reach.

Before my mother left on a business trip,

she gave me a piece of gum.

I chewed it for three day,

let it fall apart in my mouth,

convinced it would be the only thing I had left.

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This Letter Is Being Written.

From a place of raw honesty and love

but not at all

a place of expertise

on how to make

your dreams come true.

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The ways in which our bodies may move against the wind of the wind or the water climb stairs or swing high in a child's part

-both arms in flight

all on their own is different.

Sometimes we have sight

sometimes we have the sense of smell

sometimes we are working with a different

set of skills altogether.

There is more than one way to exist.

There is more than one way we learn how to speak with our hands

or our eyes. there are different tones to evoke a symphony of laughter.

our fingers and toes

our arms torsos each courageous cloud a thunderous declaration

echoing: I am here!

Because the smallest things that color are brilliant!

But the heart

Oh my! How are our hearts the same

Cameron Wilkerson

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take a break 602

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hope u like it and PLZ VOTE

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John Brambles, 55                                        'numbers runner'                                              

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John Brambles, 55                                        'numbers runner'                                              

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I don't sell dreams

I sell noise, a static buzz

That shuts out the whisper of despair

Sometimes for a day

Sometimes an hour

Sometimes just for the time it takes

To blink an eye

Between heartbeats

I don't sell dreams

Ain't nobody stupid

I sell a way for people

To lie to themselves

To weave the ragged fabric of a tale

Around a lucky number

A birthday, coffee grounds

In a cracked porcelain sink

Whatever pretends

To be a wall

Between today and insanity

-From "Here in Harlem",

edited by Walter Dean Myers

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I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You... By Pablo Neruda

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I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You... By Pablo Neruda

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I go from loving to not loving you,

From waiting to not waiting for you

My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;

I hate you deeply, and hating you

Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you

Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume

My heart with its cruel

Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who

Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,

Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

💛Dedicated to: Jerimiah A. 🩵

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I've been happy baby.

Ever since you died.

I've been rich baby.

Ever since you died.

I belong to nothing but the blues.

Baby,how blue can you get?

I wanted to invest my money.

But you said, '' Oh no!''

I said I want to save my money.

You said, "I want to got to the show."

I said you're being dumb.

you said, ''I'm having fun"

I saw you spend it on drugs instead.

And now you're dead.

I'm rich, baby.

Ever since you died.

I been having nothing but the blues.

Baby, how blue can you get?

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plz vote on it

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do u think this was a fun topic to work on 

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Life through my bloodshot eyes

would scare a square 2 death

poverty,murder, violence

and never a moment 2 rest

Fun and games R few

but treasured like gold 2

me cuz realize that i must return

2 my spot in poverty

mock my words when i say

my heart will not exist

unless my destiny comes through

and puts an end 2 all of this

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I woke up this morning

exhausted from hiding

the me of me

so I stand here confiding

there´s more to Devon

than jump shot and rim.

I´m more than tall

and lenghty of limb.

I dare you to peep

behind these eyes,

discover the poet

in the tough-guy disguise.

Don´t call me Jump Shot.

My name is Suprise

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"Made" by:mahogany l.browne

if we must live let it not be silence

each shadow surrounding our rights to be outraged

let us sit hand crossed while our stomachs growl upset

full of bad foods and assembly line ideas listen closely our bodies bubbling up angrily

at the lies we have been fed

if we must live let no one decide how our hearts beat or how songs should be sung or if our neighborhoods

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I thought about burning them at

least

I could use

the firelight for this

LONG AND OFTEN DARK ROAD.

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It sways

In the tree

In the yard

This paper pig

Bloated with

Candies this

Pinata my father

Bought and hung

on a low branch.

I´m Rachel Today´s

my birthday.

If six fingers

Go up that´s how

Old I am. I´m going

To strike the

pińata six times,

And then let my

Six guests swing

A broom at the pig.

Dad works the rope

With a dish towel

And turns me six times.

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¨You Were Fine Till I Met Your Mind¨ By Tinea Plummer

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¨You Were Fine Till I Met Your Mind¨ By Tinea Plummer

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¨Oh look at him. Now I like something like that.¨

6´1¨, gray eyes, slender, the cutest face

I have ever seen

¨Hey you! Yeah, what is your name?¨

And when he replied it was like

¨Whhuuttttt!¨

What happened! What up with that?

¨and what school do you go to?¨

when he answered it was like

huhhhh

I mean. . . damn!!!

¨and he didn´t know!

and he didn´t know!

Okay, it´s like damn another one?

Why the cute ones gotta turn our to be

The years to make y´all like that?

you have the face

But not the brains

You have the eyes

But not the heart

Now, it´s like ¨Okay, nice talkin to ya.¨

And send you on your way.

But it´s nice outside, a so-called ¨nice day¨

When I met a boy who turned out to be slom!

And it could be anyone,

It could be you, you, or you . . .

And that´s why

In this world

It makes love harder and harder to

Find

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we wear the mask that grins and lies it hides our cheeks and shades our eyes

this debt we pay to human guile;

with torn and bleeding hearts we smile

and mouth with myriad subtleties.

why should the world be overwise

in counting all our tears and sighs?

Nay, let them only see us, while

we wear the mask.

we smile but, o great christ, our cries

to thee from tortured souls arise

we sing, but oh the clay is vile beneath our feet, and long the mile; But let the world dream otherwise

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You are supposed to roll your windows up

Driving through certain neighborhoods

Because they are waiting for you at the intersections,

For you or anyone,

Where cars go bumper bumper,

Flirtatious shadows, wanting to clean your windshield,

Perhaps, or to shoot you, the way they shot my friend

The talkative flutist, lost on Detroit´s avenues,

Through his open old Ford window.

Got him in the cheek and shoulder,

No reason. He was just busy talking, and the summer

Evening was stifling.

Up at the red light now, they are doing their crisp dance

With their rags and squeegees

Around a helpless Subaru.

Watch it, mister-

A warrior strut, a cottonmouth snap to remind you

Of the wet odor of rural underbrush,

A little twirl, a little

Hustle on oily cobblestones.

When one of them advances on you, yellow eyes

And shining teeth, denim slung

Low on a wasted pelvis, you can feel

In your bones the awful

Cruelty of his life,

Nothing to lose-

As looking at you sitting behind windowglass

Just at the moment you resist the urge

Your foot has, to jam on the gas,

He sees that blank expression flattening

Your face like a heavy drug, and he

Can feel the cruelty

Of yours, man, right in his bones.

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We wear the mask that grins and lies,

It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,—

This debt we pay to human guile;

With torn and bleeding hearts we smile,

And mouth with myriad subtleties.

Why should the world be over-wise,

In counting all our tears and sighs?

Nay, let them only see us, while

We wear the mask.

We smile, but, O great Christ, our cries

To thee from tortured souls arise.

We sing, but oh the clay is vile

Beneath our feet, and long the mile;

But let the world dream otherwise,

We wear the mask!

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Excerpt from "Resignation" by Nikki Giovanni

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Excerpt from "Resignation" by Nikki Giovanni

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I love you

because the Earth turns round the sun

because the North wind blows north

sometimes

because the Pope is Catholic

and most Rabbis Jewish

because the winters flow into springs

and the air clears after a storm

because only my love for you

despite the charms of gravity

keeps me from falling off this Earth

into another dimension

I love you

because it is the natural order of things

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"we wear the mask" by paul lauernce Dunbar

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"we wear the mask" by paul lauernce Dunbar

# data[].attributes.body
we wear the mask that grins and lies,

it hides our cheeks and shades our eyes,

This debt we pay to human guile;

with torn and bleeding hearts we smile,

and mouth with myriad subtleties.

why should the world be over-wise,

in counting all our tears and sighs?

Nay, let them only see us, while we wear the mask.

we smile, but, O great Christ, our cries

to thee from tortured souls arise.

we sing, but oh the clay is vile

Beneath our feet, long the mile ;

But let the world dream otherwise,

we wear the mask!

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¨Other Reason Why I Don´t Keep a Gun In the House¨ By Billy Collins

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¨Other Reason Why I Don´t Keep a Gun In the House¨ By Billy Collins

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The neighbors´ dog will not stop barking.

He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark

that he barks every time they leave the house.

They must switch him on their way out.

The neighbors´ dog will not stop barking.

I close all the windows in the house

and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast

but I can still hear him muffled under the music,

barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,

his head raised confidently as if Beethoven

had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,

sitting there in the oboe section barking,

his eyes fixed on the conductor who is

entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful

silence to the famous barking dog solo,

that endless coda that first established

Beethoven as an innovative genius.

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¨Be Glad Your Nose Is On Your Face" By Jack Prelutsky

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¨Be Glad Your Nose Is On Your Face" By Jack Prelutsky

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Be glad your nose is on your face,

not pasted on some other place,

for if it were where it is not,

you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose,

were sandwiched in between your toes,

that clearly would not be a treat,

for you´d be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread,

were it attached atop your head,

it soon would drive you to despair,

forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be

an absolute catastrophe,

for when you were obliged to sneeze,

your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,

remains between your eyes and chin,

not pasted on some other place,

be glad your nose is on your face!

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"The Spring in Your Voice" by Jessica Diaz

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"The Spring in Your Voice" by Jessica Diaz

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The Spring voice sounds smooth

In your voice.

It makes you talk as the spring breeze

Goes flying toward a world of no end.

Voices are appearing from the

Spring of no end.

From the den of the bear to the voice

Of your spirit.

You will find a never-lasting wind

In the spirit.

When the bears come out for spring

It has a voice saying welcome to the new world

It makes you think of spring

In the voice of your spirit flying in the air

The spring in your voice.

For : Adryel

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Life's a gift for you to send

Life's a gift for god to end

Life's a gift now you're with me

Life's a gift for all to see

Life's a gift when love is true

Life's a gift when times look blue

Life's a gift with the one you trust

Life's a gift even if UN just

Life's a gift a ray of sun

Life's a gift though your head's held to a gun

Life's a gift when it's handed on a tray

Life's a gift even though it's always on display

Life's a gift it's hard to understand how

Life's a gift so take advantage of it now

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I know people who have burned from foot to torso emotionally. Legs of passion turned to soot

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   ''paint me like i am'' by tommi jones                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

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   ''paint me like i am'' by tommi jones                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                         

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page 44

I am the woman who pays her own way

I am the woman who is self-reliant

I am woman who is independent

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since Hanna moved away                                  By: Judith Viorst

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since Hanna moved away                                  By: Judith Viorst

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The Tires On my Bike Are Flat

The sky is grouchy gray

at least it sure feels like that

since Hanna moved away

Chocolate ice cream tastes like prunes

December's come to stay

They've taken back the Mays and Junes

Since Hanna moved away

Flowers smell like halibut

velvet feels like hay

every handsome dog's a mutt

since Hanna moved away

nothing's fun to laugh about

nothing's fun to play

they call me. but I won't come out

since Hanna moved away

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And who shall separate the dust

which later we shall be:

whose keen discerning eye will scan

and solve the mystery?

The high,the low,the rich,the poor,

the black,the white,the red,

And all the Chromatique between,

of whom shall it be said:

Here lies the dust of Africa;

Here are the sons of Rome;

Here lies one unlabelled

The world at large his home!

Can one then separate the dust,

will mankind lie apart,

When life has settled back again

The same as from the start?

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Looking into the chalkboard,

It looks like someone just erased it.

But to me it looks like a dragon with spikes

Pushing their way out of the dragon’s body.

If you move your head,

It looks like a fish pond.

If you blink your eyes fast,

It’s a elephant.

By: Sarah Villeda-Holmes

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The moon casts a shimmering light through the branches, while a whispering shadow blows through the grass. An owl hoots in the darkness, and the sound echoes. Suddenly, the night train departs.

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If music is the most universal language

Just think of me as one whole note

if science has the most perfect language

Picture me as MC

since mathematics can speak to infinite

Imagine me as 1 to the first power

What I mean is one day

I’m gonna grab your love

And you’ll be

satisfied

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excerpt from "For Everyone"    By- Jason Reynolds

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excerpt from "For Everyone"    By- Jason Reynolds

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AT SIXTEEN I thought

i would've made it by now.

At eighteen i said twenty-five

is when i'd make my first million.

At twenty-five i moved back in with my mother,

bill collectors

breathing on me like

Brooklyn summer.

And now at ALMOST TWENTY-EIGHT

im just ALMOST TWENTY-EIGHT.

SO I GOT NO ANSWERS.

THE TRUTH IS

our dreams be

as far away as forever

or as close as lunchtime.

Tomorrow you could

wake up and read

this letter on a billboard.

Or you could wake up

and have forgotten who wrote it.

IT ALL JUST DEPENDS.

Some say on skill.

Some say on will.

Some say on luck.

Some say on buck.

Some say on race.

Some say on face.

Some say on Sunday

God got a mighty,

mighty plan.

Nobody really knows

what it depends on,

but everyone knows

IT DEPENDS.

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Piece by piece

They tear at you:

Peeling away layers of being,

Lying about who you are,

Speaking for your dreams.

In the squalor of their eyes

You are an outlaw.

Dressing you in a jacket of lies

- tailor made in steel -

You fit in their perfect picture.

Take it off!

Make your own mantle.

Question the interrogators.

Eyeball the death in their gaze.

Say you won't succumb.

Say you won't believe them

When they rename you.

Say you won't accept their codes,

Their colors, their putrid morals.

Here you have a way.

Here you can sing victory.

Here you are not a conquered race

Perpetual victim -

The sullen face in a thunderstorm.

Hands/mind, they are carving out

A sanctuary.

Use these weapons against them.

Use your given gifts -

They are not stone.

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brown and furry

caterpillar in a hurry

To the shady leaf, or stalk,

Or what not,

Which may be the chosen spot.

No toad spy you,

Hovering bird of prey pass by you;

Spin and die,

To live again a butterfly.

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Excerpt from "Booked" By: Kwame Alexander

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Excerpt from "Booked" By: Kwame Alexander

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"Gameplay"

on the pitch, lightning faSt

dribble, fake, then make a dash

player tries tO steal the ball

lift and step and make him fall

zip and zoom to find the spot

defense readies for the shot

Chip, then kick it in the air

take off like a Belgian hare

shoot it left, but watch it Curve

all he can do is observe

watch the ball bEnd in midflight

play this game faR into night.

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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.

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"Since Hanna Moved Away" by Judith Viorst

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"Since Hanna Moved Away" by Judith Viorst

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The tires on my bike are flat.

The sky is grouchy gray.

At least it sure feels like that

Since Hanna moved away.

Chocolate ice cream tastes like prunes.

December's come to stay.

They've taken back the Mays and Junes

Since Hanna moved away.

Flowers smell like halibut.

Velvet feels like hay.

Every handsome dog's a mutt

Since Hanna moved away.

Nothing's fun to laugh about

Nothing's fun to play.

They call me, but I won't come out

Since Hanna moved away.

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"Since Hanna Moved Away" by Judith Viorst

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"Since Hanna Moved Away" by Judith Viorst

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The tires on my bike are flat.

The sky is grouchy gray.

At least it sure feels like that

Since Hanna moved away.

Chocolate ice cream tastes like prunes

December's come to stay.

They've taken back the Mays and Junes

Since Hanna moved away.

Flowers smell like halibut

Violet feels like hay.

Every handsome dog's a mutt

Since Hanna moved away.

Nothing's fun to laugh about

Nothing's fun to play

They call me, but I won't come out

Since Hanna moved away.

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clouds float by on a summer sky

i hop scotch over to you

rainbows arch from ground to gold

i climb over to you

thunder grumbles

lightning tumbles and i bounce over to you

sun beams back and catches me

smiling over at you

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Unfurling people (from book: Woke by mahogany L. browne, Elizbeth acevedo and Olivia gatwood)

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Unfurling people (from book: Woke by mahogany L. browne, Elizbeth acevedo and Olivia gatwood)

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People leave their home

even when they love their homes

because people are like flowers

and sometimes, the places where we live do not have enough to water us all,

or they have enough sunlight,

but it´s being used to scorch us

or the soil is fertile, but those

who tend it want to pluck us straight out

before we´ve grown to our full potential.

And so immigration is like tucking your roots carefully into yourself and repotting in a different land.

Immigration is an attempt to bloom and blossom and brighten a new place with colors and scents you´ve brought with you

it is an attempt to remember where you are from, and the place that made you, and unfurl to the possibilites of the new place you call home.

Immigration is learning to stretch into a bridge, backward and forward, one limb in each place,

learning to hold tight to tradtions and customs and names and memories in one hand and with the other hand let go and lean into a place you hope will see you all the beauty that you bring

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Some people forget that love is

tucking you in and kissing you ¨Goodnight¨

no matter how young or old you are

Some people don´t remember that Love is

listening and laughing and asking questions

no matter what your age is

Few recognize that Love is

commitment responsibility no fun at all

unless

Love is

you and me

Dedicated to: Christopher

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The turtle hides

in her shell.

But maybe their is space,

a place

for hidden treasure.

Just for pleasure

she could put an emerald

and a ruby or two

there.

When she walks

she listens to the rattle of the gemstones.

That is why she goes so slowly----

she doesn't want to spill

her secrets.

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Sunrise

Mary Oliver

You can

die for it-

an idea,

or the world. People

have done so,

brilliantly

letting

their small bodies be bound

to the stake,

creating

an unforgettable

fury of light.But

this morning,

climbing the familiar hills

in the familiar

fabric of dawn, I thought

of China

and India

and Europe,and I thought

how the sun

blazes

for everyone just

so joyfully

as it rises

under the lashes

of my own eyes, and I thought

I am so many!

What is my name?

what is the name

of the deep breath I would take

over and over

for all of us? Call it

whatever you want, it is

happiness, it is another one

of the ways to enter

fire.

-edited by Gail Bush & Randy Meyers

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Lilacs,

False blue,

White,

Purple,

Color of lilac,

Your great puffs of flowers

Are everywhere in this my New England.

Among your heart-shaped leaves

Orange orioles hop like music-box birds and sing

Their little weak soft songs;

In the crooks of your branches

The bright eyes of song sparrows sitting on spotted eggs

Peer restlessly through the light and shadow

Of all Springs.

Lilacs in dooryards

Holding quiet conversations with an early moon;

Lilacs watching a deserted house

Settling sideways into the grass of an old road;

Lilacs, wind-beaten, staggering under a lopsided shock of bloom

Above a cellar dug into a hill.

You are everywhere.

You were everywhere.

You tapped the window when the preacher preached his sermon,

And ran along the road beside the boy going to school.

You stood by the pasture-bars to give the cows good milking,

You persuaded the housewife that her dishpan was of silver.

And her husband an image of pure gold.

You flaunted the fragrance of your blossoms

Through the wide doors of Custom Houses—

You, and sandal-wood, and tea,

Charging the noses of quill-driving clerks

When a ship was in from China.

You called to them: “Goose-quill men, goose-quill men,

May is a month for flitting.”

Until they writhed on their high stools

And wrote poetry on their letter-sheets behind the propped-up ledgers.

Paradoxical New England clerks,

Writing inventories in ledgers, reading the “Song of Solomon” at night,

So many verses before bed-time,

Because it was the Bible.

The dead fed you

Amid the slant stones of graveyards.

Pale ghosts who planted you

Came in the nighttime

And let their thin hair blow through your clustered stems.

You are of the green sea,

And of the stone hills which reach a long distance.

You are of elm-shaded streets with little shops where they sell kites and marbles,

You are of great parks where every one walks and nobody is at home.

You cover the blind sides of greenhouses

And lean over the top to say a hurry-word through the glass

To your friends, the grapes, inside.

Lilacs,Lilacs,

False blue,White,

Purple,

Color of lilac,

You have forgotten your Eastern origin,

The veiled women with eyes like panthers,

The swollen, aggressive turbans of jeweled pashas.

Now you are a very decent flower,

A reticent flower,

A curiously clear-cut, candid flower,

Standing beside clean doorways,

Friendly to a house-cat and a pair of spectacles,

Making poetry out of a bit of moonlight

And a hundred or two sharp blossoms.

Maine knows you,

Has for years and years;

New Hampshire knows you,

And Massachusetts

And Vermont.

Cape Cod starts you along the beaches to Rhode Island;

Connecticut takes you from a river to the sea.

You are brighter than apples,

Sweeter than tulips,

You are the great flood of our souls

Bursting above the leaf-shapes of our hearts,

You are the smell of all Summers,

The love of wives and children,

The recollection of gardens of little children,

You are State Houses and Charters

And the familiar treading of the foot to and fro on a road it knows.

May is lilac here in New England,

May is a thrush singing “Sun up!” on a tip-top ash tree,

May is white clouds behind pine-trees

Puffed out and marching upon a blue sky.

May is a green as no other,

May is much sun through small leaves,

May is soft earth,

And apple-blossoms,

And windows open to a South Wind.

May is full light wind of lilac

From Canada to Narragansett Bay.

Lilacs,

False blue,

White,

Purple,

Color of lilac.

Heart-leaves of lilac all over New England,

Roots of lilac under all the soil of New England,

Lilac in me because I am New England,

Because my roots are in it,

Because my leaves are of it,

Because my flowers are for it,

Because it is my country

And I speak to it of itself

And sing of it with my own voice

Since certainly it is mine.

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"Black Box" by Devon Hope from Bronx Masquerade  

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"Black Box" by Devon Hope from Bronx Masquerade  

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"In case I forgot to tell you, I’m allergic to boxes: Black boxes, shoe boxes New boxes, You boxes— even cereal boxes Boasting champions. (It’s all a lie. I’ve peeked inside And what I found were flakes.)

Make no mistake, I make no exceptions For Cracker Jack Or Christmas glitter. Haven’t you noticed? I’m made of skeleton, Muscle and skin.

My body is the only box I belong in. But you like your boxes So keep them. Mark them geek, wimp, bully. Mark them china doll, brainiac, Or plain dumb jock.

Choose whatever Box you like, Mike. Just don’t put me In one, son. Believe me, I won’t fit."

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clouds float by on a summer sky i hop scotch over to you

rainbows arch from ground to gold i climb over to you

thunder grumbles lightning tumbles and i bounce over to you

sun beams back and catches me smiling over at you

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La tortuga se esconde

en su caparazon.

Tal vez hay un vacio,

un espacio

para un tesoro escondido.

solo por gusto

la tortuga podria meter

una esmeralda y unoos rubis

alli.

Cuando anda

escucha el traqueteo del tesoro.

Por eso ella anda lentamente----

para no deja caer

sus secretos.

# data[].attributes.body
clouds float by on a summer sky

i hop scotch over to you

rainbows arch from ground to gold

i climb over to you

thunder grumbles

lighting tumbles and i bounce over to you

sun beams back and catches me

smiling over at you

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"All Hallows" by Louise Gluck

Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
sleep in their blue yoke,
the fields having been
picked clean, the sheaves
bound evenly and piled at the roadside
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises.

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i said wouldnt it be amazing to be the last bit of light from a collapsed star he said what i said wouldnt it be amazing mused light has to stop coming at one point

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I like this poem because it say that. Shaggy dog wiggles, wiggles, squirms and leaps. His wagging tail fans wild happiness into the wide world.

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Kidnap Poam

ever been kidnapped
by a poet
if i were a poet
i'd kidnap you
put you in my phrases and meter
you to jones beach
or maybe coney island
or maybe just to my house
lyric you in lilacs
dash you in the rain
blend into the beach
to complement my see
play the lyre for you
ode you with my love song
anything to win you
wrap you in the red Black green
show you off to mama
yeah if i were a poet i'd kid
nap you

-Nikki Giovanni

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since the days i was born to the days i was told "you're a good artist"but am i really. am the type of person to give up without even trying.am the type of person to paint them self in a black sheet with a black marker.because thats how much i try.even if the world is ending.i will the do less than i every do since that is my life so but. with all these people in my life lifting me up to greatness maybe my life is that great to other people but how i see it.its a life with out trying

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noah

the thunder blossoms gorgeously great hollow bell like flower rumbling in the wind stereching clap to strike our ears

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The night is beautiful,
So the faces of my people.

The stars are beautiful,
So the eyes of my people.

Beautiful, also, is the sun.
Beautiful, also, are the souls of my people.

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Excerpt from ''For Everyone Jason Reynolds''

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Excerpt from ''For Everyone Jason Reynolds''

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Them books didn't bandage my fattened flat feet, swollen from this Journey. The pages didn't spend nor could they be eaten to ease the hunger.

- Made by Jason Reynolds

Ivan Pereyra Castillo

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Morning is

A new sheet of paper

For you to write on.

Whatever you want to say,

All day,

Until night

Folds it up

And files it away.

The bright words and the dark words

Are gone

Until dawn

And a new day

To write on.

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"Reuben Mills, 34, Artist" by Walter Dean Myers

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"Reuben Mills, 34, Artist" by Walter Dean Myers

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Vein red,bruise purple

The Pallet of my soul drips slowly

Onto the canvas of this Life

flashing amber,blinding white

Gardish hues screaming through the night

orange reflections on a switchblade knife

undertaker gray,church-organ gold

Moonlight glimmer against mahogany

A moire pattern edged in strife

moody midnight shading of the blues

Pink raised welt on a amber back

A rich tapestry of muted hues

All to create the pointillist color of black .by Reuben Mills

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Post your favorite poem here to share it with others!

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Share your favorite poem by posting it here!

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Post your favorite poem and share with 6th grade!