BY LANGSTON HUGHES

 

Metaphor Poem:  Life is being compared 

to a crystal Stair

Well, son, I’ll tell you:

Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

It’s had tacks in it,

And splinters,

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor—

Bare.

But all the time

I’se been a-climbin’ on,

And reachin’ landin’s,

And turnin’ corners,

And sometimes goin’ in the dark

Where there ain’t been no light.

So boy, don’t you turn back.

Don’t you set down on the steps

’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.

Don’t you fall now—

For I’se still goin’, honey,

I’se still climbin’,

And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

 

O my Luve is like a red, red rose
  That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve is like the melody
  That’s sweetly played in tune.

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
  So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
  Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
  And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
I will love thee still, my dear,
  While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve!
  And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
  Though it were ten thousand mile.

She swung bar to bar until one bar she missed,

Then she fell and was so mad like an angry cat she hissed.
By:  Kelly Roper

BY EMILY DICKINSON

“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.

“Ah, William, we’re weary of weather,”
said the sunflowers, shining with dew.
“Our traveling habits have tired us.
Can you give us a room with a view?”

They arranged themselves at the window
and counted the steps of the sun,
and they both took root in the carpet
where the topaz tortoises run.

My mom is like a cloud,
comfortable and strong.
I am like a raindrop
she keeps safe and sound.
When I am fully formed
she'll let me go
dropping into the world
like a raindrop to the ground.

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

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,

Coral is far more red than her lips' red; 

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; 

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. 

I have seen roses damasked, red and white, 

But no such roses see I in her cheeks; 

And in some perfumes is there more delight 

Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. 

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know 

That music hath a far more pleasing sound; 

I grant I never saw a goddess go; 

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground. 

   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare 

   As any she belied with false compare.

 Kimberly L. Briones

My family is the ocean around us.

My father is the hurricane,
knocking anything and everybody out of his path.

My mother is the sunshine after the storm (my father),
clearing and calming everything else.

My oldest brother is the sand,
kicked and blown away by my dad,
but warmed with care by my mom.

My oldest sister is the breeze in the wind,
cool, quiet, and there when you need her.

My other two brothers are the stingrays,
dangerous,
but also willing to fight anyone who comes along.

And I,
I am an old ship at the bottom of the sea,
lost, abandoned, but full of memories.

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed—and gazed—but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

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!

The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;   

They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,   

And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes

Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.

And comes from a country far away as health.

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

“I've lost my girl,” he said,

“I've lost my girl,” over and over,

shaking his head.

I didn't know what to say,

where to look,

my quiet uncle raising his voice

to silence.

My aunt was eighty-seven.

“women know.

Every midnight on New Year's Eve,

when others sang

and laughed and hugged,

your aunt looked at me,

tears in her eyes.

Sixty years.

She knew.

One day, we'd kiss good-bye.”
- Old Love by Pat Mora

But my mother believes

that girls who read too much

are unladylike

and ugly,

so my father's books are locked

in a clear glass cabinet. I gaze

at enticing covers

and mysterious titles,

but I am rarely permitted

to touch

the enchantment

of words.

Poems.

Stories.

Plays.

All are forbidden.

Girls are not supposed to think,

but as soon as my eager mind

begins to race, free thoughts

rush in

to replace

the trapped ones.

I imagine distant times

and faraway places.

Ghosts.

Vampires.

Ancient warriors.

Fantasy moves into

the tangled maze

of lonely confusion.

Secretly, I open

an invisible book in my mind,

and I step

through its magical door-shape

into a universe

of dangerous villains

and breathtaking heroes.

Many of the heroes are men

and boys, but some are girls

so tall

strong

and clever

that they rescue other children

from monsters.
-Books are door-shaped by Margarita Engle 

Who liked to roll all day long.

Timothy clipped a card near the spokes

So they chattered out loud and strong.

One day Timothy was sick

And couldn't come out to play.

The bike was sad and a little bit mad,

So he decided to run away.

The bike pulled up his kickstand,

and quietly rolled across the lawn.

He hit the sidewalk and started to run,

And in a flash, he was gone.

He rode past the park, his favorite route,

Unaware he was watched by the throng.

The kids were astonished to see a bike

Rolling along with no rider on.

The kids began to chase the bike,

And so he sped quickly away.

He headed straight back to Timothy's house,

And put his kickstand down to stay.

The kids then knocked on Timothy's door,

To tell him how his bike had run away.

Tim looked at the bike still right where he'd left it,

And closed the door saying "No way."

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.”

 A silence slipping around like death,
 Yet chased by a whisper, a sigh, a breath;
 One group of trees, lean, naked and cold,
Inking their cress 'gainst a sky green-gold;
One path that knows where the corn flowers were;
Lonely, apart, unyielding, one fir;
And over it softly leaning down,
One star that I loved ere the fields went brown.

Rafael Campo - 1964-

I used to dream of living here. I hike
 a trail I know that at the end opens

to glorious views of the city I did
 live in once, when men my age kept dying

while I learned how to diagnose AIDS.
 Some dreams don’t come true, and some dreams become

nightmares. Across a field that smells of sage,
 a few horses loiter. I want to think that they forgive me, since they’re noble creatures.
 They stamp and snort, reminding me they know

nothing of forgiveness. I used to dream
 that someday I’d escape to San Francisco,

when I was still in high school and I knew.
 Tall and muscled, the horses are like the jocks

on the football team who beat me once, as if pain
 teaches truth and they knew I had to learn.

Day is at the noon,
    No thread of bow or moon;
Rain is in the air,
    Drenched and limp the grass;
I have song to spare
    Till the shadows pass.

Day is at the close,
    Faith no logic knows;
Rain-clouds blur the air,
    All the world is dun;
I have song to spare
    Till to-morrow’s sun

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

The first snow of the year falls around me.
I stare out my window. It never fails to astound me

How each flake is different. None are the same.
None try to be like others, just stay how they came.

And the frozen rain falls from the sky with no sound,
Gently drifting to rest and to sleep on the ground.

A cool white blanket hides the scars of the earth,
Covering the ground in a winter's rebirth.

And I wonder, is this beauty what you see every day?
This peaceful wonder that you overlook and say,

"This happens around me. So I walk away."
This is the beauty you overlook every day.

Outside, snow is falling. A beautiful white.
Pressing my face to the window. A beautiful sight.

All around me is beauty. But inside me is pain,
So I watch the snow falling. The frozen rain.

The surface untouched by small children's shoes.
They watch in astonishment from their window views.

Heavy flakes fall from a calming grey sky.
I'm hurting, so the sky continues to cry.

I still miss you. I miss you every day that goes by,
Knowing that I am the reason why.

So I watch the snow fall...hiding what I'm regretting.
I'm sick of remembering what you are forgetting.

I still miss you. I miss you every day that goes by,
Knowing that I am the reason why.

I still love you. I'll love you till the day I die,
Knowing that I am the reason why.

-Erica

This is not a small love
you hear               this is a large
love, a passion for kissing learning
on its face.
This is a love that crowns the feet with hands
that nourishes, conceives, feels the water sails
mends the children,
folds them inside our history where they
toast more than the flesh
where they suck the bones of the alphabet
and spit out closed vowels.
This is a love colored with iron and lace.
This is a love initialed Black Genius.

This is not a small voice
you hear.

So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
   So deep in luve am I;
 And I will luve thee still, my dear,
   Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
   And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
 I will love thee still, my dear,
   While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve!
   And fare thee weel awhile!

And I will come again, my luve,
   Though it were ten thousand mile.