Zachary = Poem #9

Family Photos

There are family photos from every year

with smiling faces decorating the walls

changing slowing as seasons pass.

Baby pictures that are always “cute”

despite the spagetti sauce on their face

and ugly clothes that they used to year.

Vacation pictures in decorated frames

lined with postcards or sea shells

filled with silly children faces.

Photos featuring all the past decades

from the mowaks and the “utah poof”

to the crazy 80's hair do's.

How easy did I forget?

That time swiftly travels by

and life will always change,

never to be the same.

My History in Watercolor

So I wasn't sure what the rubric for the poem due today was because I missed class on Thursday, so i just wrote a poem of choice. Here it is! Let me know what you think!

My history in watercolor

The edges are blurred, the blue

of my favorite lunch pail bleeding

into the almond-colored siding

of the first Alhambra house.

A fearful night on the floor

of my mother’s room, a shadowed

home filled with roaches and

surrounded by men in black vests.

The Night Stalker was out front

I remember her saying then—

Or did she tell me later?

My reality weaves itself into

patterns of diluted colors in the gray halls

of my mind—colors that run

like dysfunctional pocket-watches,

starting and stopping—creating

new time, time unto itself…epochs

shaped by subjective reckonings

that only breathe for me.

And from these colors springs

a man, a man I only see in mirrors

or in photographs…a man,

I am told, is me.

It's me! David B! Hey that rhymes!

Hey y'all! I just wanted to let you know that I'm in like Erroll Flynn! I know it took me a while to join up, but as I'm pretty sure Confucious said (or would have if he'd thought of it)...better late than never! I will post something soon!

Zachary = Poem 8: revised

I was told to rewrite this and do it again: tell me what you think:

Stars are shinning in the sky

Little fireball in the night

While I sit, waiting for morning.

Dear Father-

I see the stars dotting across the black sky,

millions of lights in yellow, blue, and red,

dancing partners with the moons, planets,

weaving in and out of the milky way.

Even while you conduct the dance of time and space

you're still able look down to watch me today

without distrupting the music of the strings

and give an ear to my pleading prayer.

You control the sky, and the sun

gving commands when to rise or set,

yet you don't try to control me

but rather let me fall and cry.

Giving me a hand to climb the hill

when it seems to big to even try,

and protecting me from the flames,

stones, and storms of life,

all while conducting the art in the sky.

Thank you

Lauren

Zachary = Poem#7

My heroic Adventure

Eating little smarties resting in my hand

Surrounded by voices humming in the air,

all in unison except one -

“Are you humming Wizard of Oz again?”

Drat. It was mine,

The little bugger was humming without me knowing.

Wizard of Oz. Again.

“Maybe it's a sign” she suggested.

A sign? Maybe.

Maybe I need to go off on an adventure

far from everything I love and hold dear,

from all my comfort and zones of safety.

That's no secret.

Yet I'm still waiting, waiting for my turn to hear the call of adventure,

to go on a journey in search of a hidden hero

only to find one inside of myself.

Following the yellow brick road among little people

who live in the tops of tree and grow poisonous apples.

Running away from flying monkeys and

into a haunted forest filled with spider and snakes

only to find myself facing the devil within

a younger sister.

And yet at the end, when I'm flying in a giant balloon

I'll find myself saying that

“There's no place like home”

and craving for a piece of chocolate.

Hunt - Poem 7

Untitled

45 miles East from the Greatest Snow on Earth
lives a small outdoor stage where the air

rings with chatter--like the Tower of Babel
people gather, talking, laughing, waiting.

A man spreads a patchwork quilt on the lawn.
He holds his wife's hand as she sits down. Danke schon.

Performers dance around the Maypole,
tying up some blushing man in a rainbow of ribbon.

A woman in Shakespearean dress
sells fruit tarts and horehound candy

from a small wicker basket.
She sways back and forth,

Tarts for sale. Fruit tarts for sale.
Her American hiding under a cultured British.

Under magic boughs with guardian arms
Punch and Judy tease and play.

Children's laughter rolls across lush grass.
Eyes shine, smiles play on rosy faces

despite the summer heat
or the dampness of the grass.

Designer, Illustrator, Poet collaboration?

Hey guys! Just wondering who ya'll got as a designer, and, if you know, as an illustrator.

Kramer | Poem #7

We are

one thought evolving into another,

leading on until

we begin

confusing what we don’t understand

for what we can’t understand,

reverting to symbology,

detailing

this is man, this is woman,

in crude fashion,

we are man,

we are woman,

O, A, B, positive, negative, A, B, X, X, Y,

we are

the dust of the earth,

the breath of God stirring us

until we dream we are flying,

believing that we are supporting the sky,

pushing against the earth with our toes,

caught between abstracts where

we yearn for above, below,

for everything surrounding.