MPitS   Laytonville High School
2007/2008

My true country is faraway with me and my violin

as my mind and the bow flows across the strings

my fingers fly swiftly and free, nowhere to go

except into my deep mind, where as clean

as my violin sounds, does my head.

I no longer worry, nor feel any feeling

as I hear the ocean sway back and forth

the sound so sweet and the feel of my feet

beneath the sand.

The wind blows and the sweet melody flies away

and in my calm place, I stop to play again.

Rhonda Oeth
9th Grade, Laytonville High School
Dan Roberts, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

 

I am the cold in the ocean

I am the heat of the flames

I am the ground that I walk on

I am a pair of shoes that will

walk me into my future

I am the thoughts in

my head that will help me achieve

I am the words in my mouth that

will show you who I am

I am a prisoner stuck in a jail cell

I am the keys that will set me free

I am reality

Audrey Brandon
9th Grade, Laytonville High School
Dan Roberts, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

 

Taking photographs is like breathing

the lens like a third eye

twenty-first century Siddhartha

I see a world once

and then again as it appears

slowly, slowly

in the bath of chemicals

in dim red light

bat light

I feel like a bat sometimes

as the hours

strike off soundlessly

entire afternoons passing

the sacrifice of one day

to document another

life is fleeting

and I feel as if the most splendid

aspects of earth are slipping

if I could just hold them

bring back the tribes

lost to technology

bring bank the spotted lynxes

taken

when I shoot people

I do it with film

I own no guns or ammunition

stacks of negatives pile up

adding dimension and depth

to my dining room table

weight shifted from one foot to the other

anxious

and then they appear

the millions of black dots

combining, fusing to create not just

a photograph, but a sensation,

an interpretation,

a passion.

Bryn Robertson
11th Grade, Laytonville High School
Dan Roberts, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

Piano, My Steps

Steps, black and white steps,

Like a miniature world for miniature feet,

Each step has its own note, its own tone,

My fingers responsive and strong,

Dance on these steps, dance and

from that dance come melodies

and songs that are only created by

me.

My steps.

A chord of notes, like a church choir,

echo, and I feel the strain on my hands.

The cool ebony and ivory notes beneath

my skin are mine, they are mine

for the time being, they are mine

for eternity, they are my steps.

The ivory and ebony may be taken

away, my sanctuary may be taken

away. Anything physical on this earth may be taken away

but the notes that prolongingly

play   in   me   will forever persist and linger.

My steps.

Jenny Pierson
10th Grade, Laytonville High School
Dan Roberts, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

 

Boom, the glass vile shatters into millions.

The damn experiment that I put so much effort,

poof, so easily destroyed.

My mind turns its gears as my ears

revoke the surrounding sounds.

I think and think, where is the answer?

My thoughts seem to be traveling around

the universe, a never ending path.

Each experiment has continuous, unavoidable flaws,

when shall I be blessed with the flawless experiment?

My ideas piling up like heaps of sand.

The answer seems to be the needle in the haystack.

I can't wait for the utterly ecstatic moment

that my brain brews up the right recipe.

Teal Mandzik 
9th Grade, Laytonville High School
Dan Roberts, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

 

Today I wore my mother's mask.

She wakes up every morning smiling as did I

She exercises at 7 and eats at 8 as did I

She hides from all but her family as did I

She does the right thing in a boring way as did I

But yesterday I wore my friend's mask

She dances and sings in the shower as did I

She plays softball and loves to ditch as did I

She wears bright clothes and makeup as did I

She plays with dolls and loves to laugh as did I

But the day before that I wore my boyfriend's mask

He played basketball aggressively as did I

He walks without fear as did I

He is mean to those he does not like as did I

He stays up late and sleeps in as did I

I think tomorrow I will wear my own masks,

my personalities and my masks

I will be who I need to be

Because the best mask for me

            is my own

Emily Blaize
10th Grade, Laytonville High School
Dan Roberts, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

Age

My hands age with me

I am born inquisitive, my skin soft and chubby

I start to learn about the world, my hands roughen

I come to a part of my life where I'm lost, my hands cold

discovery makes me fidgety, my hands become fragile

I find my calm, now they are smooth and understanding

I gain knowledge and love, they grow indifferent

I grow and have kids, hands are tired

I have grandchildren, my hands are wizened

I am on my deathbed, my hands are my memory

I die and my hands are bare, I have lost my thoughts

River L.
10th Grade, Laytonville High School
Dan Roberts, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

Poem About Hands

The soldiers of my memory

marching out to do justice

or revenge

My soul incarnate

The messengers of love

they express what words cannot capture.

Even the most fragile of emotions

lie cupped lightly in two conduits of self

or suspended breathlessly between finger and thumb.

Everything that I am

may be gathered by the perceptive

through the flick of an ivory finger

or a beguiling turn of the wrist.

Seamlessly,

they flow into me

and I into them,

and around it all, the world turns.

Every facet of my being

is conveyed through these restless, fluttering,

silken beings of steel and leather.

The world turns

and I take my place in it,

alone and unique among millions.

Kelsey Grullett 
10th Grade, Laytonville High School
Dan Roberts, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

If you ask me of my true self and true country, I will tell you where I go to find myself.

This place I go, is atop my mountain homeland,

sitting upon my horses back, as we are overlooking

the herd of cattle and horses,

physically feeling only the two heartbeats, my own

and that of my horse as we, two creatures, become one.

Emotionally feeling only as free as the wind is,

the freedom that can only come to me when I am here.

For when I am here, I feel as though I am reborn

time and time again.

Friends who are with me when I am here

they know, really truly know, who I am.

And if I am lucky enough to bring that one special friend here with me, then this endless beauty can never be destroyed....EVER.

When my true country becomes greater and greater

I will only become stronger and more free.

When I am in my homeland I feel as though nobody can crush my spark,

for this spark is my soul,

and I in fact keep my soul safe

in my true country.

Ashley Barney 
11th Grade, Laytonville High School
Dan Roberts, Poet Teacher

 

 

 

 

My hands are my minions, they carry out my will. 

They never falter, never disobey

My hands work for me, day in and day out

I am cruel to my hands, yet they still obey

Every command I give them, faithfully carried out

From games of bloody knuckles

to playing my guitar

My hands are my expression

but that's not all they are

My hands are worn and battered

My hands are scarred and beaten

yet my hands help not only me

but others as well

My hands help cure the pains of life

Without my hands I would be helpless

Without my hands I would not be me.

Freeman
12th Grade, Laytonville High School
Dan Roberts, Poet Teacher


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