2007/2008
| MPitS | |
Mendocino Community High School 2007/2008 |
Opaque
I stand among the crooked stems of ancient pines
But I am not one of them; I do not share their pointed needles
Nor do I creak and sigh in the winter wind
I retreat into my own warm cave to hide from their swishing voices
The creek and the sand are my soft associates of choice, my quiet allies
But I am not made of ground pebbles or formed from rushing water
The clouds look down from above, white like eddies of foam
I cannot see my face in them; they flow like rivers, but their waters are opaque like snow
If the forest was a child, she would be my daughter
If the water was a woman, she would embrace me
If the sky was a man, I would wear him as a woolen cloak
If you where a daisy, I would place you in my hair
And kiss your fragile face with gentle lips
But in the clouds, I look for myself and see nothing
Nowhere can I find a hint, a path to where you sit in the morning
Not a whisper, not a flicker, not a shadow to guide my footsteps
Are you the reeds that ripple by the pond?
Are you the grass on the prairie?
If I find you by the roadside, will you point to my face in the sky?
Will you show me where we used to sit together?
Marie Champagne
Slam Poet, Mendocino Community High School
Sometimes Thanksgiving
The cracked pavement creeks under the too small sneaker that I wear
and the stale stench of cigarette smoke cascades from the open window
My suitcase is propped upwards, rigid as my back
as I stand in front of the shingled farm house
Peaches cover the front lawn, newly fallen
and I can see the onset of mold creeping over the ochre skin
I stand, with the brisk wind at my back
and a bucket full of shattered whiskey bottles in front of me
The rusty screen door creaks open, a gnarled pale hand
extending from the forbidden darkness of the house
Blue veins wind their way across her arms
Crisscrossing with wrinkles and dots of age
Her voice grates, like nails on a chalkboard
pierces like a worn down trowel
The trees shake around me, their leaves long gone
They have been carried away to find their homes
in black trash bags and street drains
"Hi Grandma", I say, clutching my Spiderman bag tighter in my small fists
She takes a long drag, burning ember and crackling tobacco
She flicks the ash onto the WELCOME HOME mat
This is going to be the worst Thanksgiving ever.
Connor Barnard
11th Grade, Mendocino Community High School
Lavender Grace Kent, Poet Teacher
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