MPitS - Point Arena Charter School

MPitS

Point Arena Charter High School
2002/2003

Wet Thumbs

Supernova under a madman's robe
Unconscious babies listen to nursery rhymes
Ugly hands reach under to find the bone
Slapped and nursed we rock each other to sleep
Feelings ripen as cheeks turn red from building heat
A bottle is passed with poison from child to child
Explosions deep down erupt like candy corn
Eyes of children shut with an iron fist
Blood-soaked cloth is torn from his majesty
Like monkeys we squeal and cry for what is wrong
Knotted rope held dangling from his sharpened teeth
Undressed, no one is saved from under the rubble
Stabbed through the lung Mr. Mindgame sells his name
Bored, we sink back into our black pillows
A magic show is performed inside his tv
Wet thumbs turn to guns inside our mouth.

Hannah Parsons

Peace in the Bathroom

Peace in the bathroom
Reflection against shower glass
The square aloneness
The absolute privacy
Like letting the fish out of your brain
Out of their bowl

Peace bathroom
Shower glass
Square
Absolute privacy
Fish brain
Out of bowl

Bathroom
Square
Brain out of
Bowl

Bathroom
Brain
Bowl

Hannah Parsons

Change

Changing takes forever, but change is instant
The time that we measure is circular
Clocks are circular
I have repeated, we have repeated
Everything
Fads, names, ideas all repeat eventually
We go in circles
Round and round the mulberry bush, we get confused
The weasel has popped so many times, I have lost track
I have looked for track
I have spent hours, days, years, then back to minutes
Searching for track
I put an ad in the newspaper
I posted fliers on all of the telephone poles
I have lost track

Noah Kaplan

911

Time is running in
A man ties his noose
We embrace our sin

We cannot win
Where were you when you heard the news?
Time is running in

Is it yang or yin
In the eyes of Zeus?
We embrace our sin

The truth is draped by linen
We will lose
Time is running in

Now lift your chin
Take off your shoes
Time is running in
We embrace our sin

Noah Kaplan

Ode

Oh, hands
Oh, idly tapping fingers
You make the beauty of life
Moving rhythmically across the page with a pencil
Creating art, poetry.
Who could guess that out of such things comes music?
You shake others in greeting.
Each is unique!
You leave your mark wherever you go,
Fingerprints proving your crime.
Who could guess that such modern art could come from your tips?
Oh, hands
Oh, wearily typing fingers
Who have memorized the keys by heart,
You make the beauty of life.
Scratching your head in contempt,
Creating such moving pottery!
Molding clay with force and confidence.
Who could guess such scrumptious food
Could come from your labor?
Oh, hands
Happily waving fingers
You make the beauty of life.

Danielle Spoor

Street Poem

Last night on 5th Street, a raccoon invaded
The neighbor's trash.
It tore its way into the yard and feasted on things the owners thought
Unsuitable for the kitchen.
Out came chicken mashed with coffee grounds
Dripping brown pudding spread from ear to ear
Raccoon fingers slimed with last night's salad dressing
And pieces of bread stuck in its little whiskers.

This morning the town stayed inside for
Fear they might come across
Some greasy paw prints.
Word 'round town was that
The raccoon went to many houses in the neighborhood
Causing riots with the garbage,
Convincing the used napkins and corncobs
That they were being treated unfairly
By being thrown in a can.
The trash felt looked down upon
They wanted the same rights as people.
They felt violated. They deserved to live in houses,
If not better!

Some trash broke into the homes of their creators
Demanding an equal share of things.
All over town trash were throwing themselves at the windows
And unplugging phones so that calls to the garbage man could not be made.
The people whose trash did not hear about the uprising
Are fearful to eat
Or buy things at the store
Because they don't want to make more trash
They don't want to give trash more power
Or see the day when their trash
Wants equal rights.

Danielle Spoor

Bag Poem

I can almost remember what's in it:
A pink cow, an 80s tape,
some rings, a taste of water.
Yet all these remind me
of the sound of Vern's truck
full gas up the hill
taking out trees
nothing but the sound of the 80s.
I can feel the vibration through my shoes.

It was that hot day
I lost my bag
that hot day I lost
my bag, with only a taste of water.

New he has my pink cow
and he listens to my tape
while he partakes of my
last taste of sweet water.

Janelle Barrett

The Perfect Little Buddhist Poem

On the train tracks
there¹s a girl
picking up bottles for her dad
my friend made a joke
-Matt Ladd
and her dad said,
You making fun of my daughter?
He said, Don¹t make me hit you with
this bamboo stick.
He lived behind
where we hid.

Josh Simon

Dear Anonymous,

When I saw that boat
I cried
It drifted farther and farther away
Out of reach
Out of touch
Gently rocking in the midst of a calming storm
Train tracks can never set your course
What the sound of waves held
Your only boundary the sky
Sand and mist are taken by the wind
Leaving behind only footprints.

Signed with regret.

P.S. What set the life of a wanderer?

Renée Meisner

Sky Blue

I am a voice like and yet unlike any other
gently faltering
bold
confident
upon the brink
of failure
of unthinkable success
of unbelievable brilliance
broken champagne glasses and scarlet tears
fall from my lips
dripping
and tumbling
under the inconstant tone of my words
painting an oblivion of vivid and incomprehensible mistakes
or surreal images

My voice is an imprint on the face of humanity
affecting all
by what effects me
woven into an immense pattern
from which I will never escape
always longing
to fall
released
into the blissfully empty blue
of a sea
reflecting the blue depth of our sky

Renée Meisner

Confessions

I did it
Confession is beautiful
When your heart overcomes your reality
You are not afraid of your actions
Confession is beautiful
I did it

I did it
Confession is beautiful
When you can show your understanding
When the truth sets your caged heart free
Confession is beautiful
I did it

I did it
Confession is beautiful
When the mirror can show your clear eyes
When you lift the weight off your chest
Confession is beautiful
I did it

I did it
Confession is beautiful
When you can show your scars
And not hang your head in shame
When your breath is as
clear as your thought
And your heart no longer bleeds
Confession is beautiful
I did it

Sarah Bice

This Generation's War

I sit on the cold steps. I have been here for twenty minutes, yet
still am unused to my surroundings.
I have a clear view of the ocean, hurling itself against the old bluffs.
Endless waves.
I am still hung over from last night's poetry slam.
Imagine, all those people, gathered in a room, filled with
competition, anticipation, terror and joy, bathed in the unearthly
glow of black lights, and the unmistakable sound of poetry.
I reflect now on that hour when, unbeknownst to us,
this country embarked on this generation's war.
Now at this time, I only have the waves and my
memories to turn to.
Do I seek guidance?
Or do I seek solitude?
Neither.
I sit on my step while thousands of miles away, someone I don't know
is dropping bombs on someone I don't know, in my name
or soon will be

I know in my heart, in the back of my high school
mind, that I should do something.
Still I sit. Undecided.
Alone,
And unchanging.

Leo Barton

Pom Pom Guns

Sometimes I want to be there
I want to cheer along with the Pirate fans
And shout
"Defense, defense"
While watching our team try to steal the basketball
I long to go to the basketball games
But the cheerleaders scare me away
Those damn cheerleaders who are always loud
Always happy
And their coach who is the happiest of them all
You might as well call her Dandy Mandy
She marches around in her knee high, black, leather boots
She has dance moves at the ready
And a cup of coffee glued to her hand
Just like the smile that is glued to her cheeks
The cheerleaders are always together
Always talking, always laughing, and yelling
"Go Pirates"
They're like a small army in short skirts
I can see it now
The army of six cheerleaders
Bravely striding down the battlefield
Ribbons in their hair and pom poms in hand
They are ready for anything
Their rambunctious coach leads them into battle
Her high pigtails blow menacingly in the wind
And the patriotic school mark of P.A. shines brightly on her cheeks
The cheerleaders march into the gym like they are marching into battle
Their long strides make them look strong and somewhat scary
They walk into the gym with that slow motion Armageddon stride
Pom poms like guns in their hands
And smiles that say,
"Don't fuck with me I'm a cheerleader."

Amanda Pence

My Windows Have Eyes Built Into Them

My windows have eyes built into them
Eyes that stare as I'm changing my clothes
Eyes that bring the red to my cheeks
Making me hurry as I put on my shirt
Pulling it down around myself to create a safe haven

My windows have eyes built into them
Eyes of an audience
Eyes that make me want to dance and smile
Eyes that make me aware of myself
The window forms a magic mirror and in it everything is beautiful, perfect

My windows have eyes built into them
The eyes of the windows watch me
Turn my room into a stage
Where every action, every gesture, needs to be exciting, dramatic and
interesting

The eyes are a cheering audience
A nosy neighbor
Or a creepy man.

Amanda Pence

Blood In The Lower East Side
(For the Nuyorican and for Peace)

If we all die for the cause
then there will be no one left
the halls will ring with empty footsteps
the beds will creak with tired, forgotten bones
all that wil remain if
we die for the cause
will be the blood
"Downtown
Uptown
Crosstown
our blood will splatter the ghetto"
staining, marring, injuring
the blood will forever remain
if we all die for the cause even
our bodies will disappear
and there will be no one to scatter our ashes
in the Lower East Side
all that will remain will be the blood in the ghetto

Lindsey Smith

The Bombs Are Dropping

The bombs are dropping
we think of what we could have said
should have said
would have said
and we blame it on someone else

The bombs are dropping
"this bull-wacky needs to stop"
is all we remember of our president's
State of the Union speech
that statment wasn't in his speech

The bombs are dropping
we think of how our government rejected peace
called those peaceful
"unpatriotic"
we think of how we bought duct tape and plastic sheets
to "protect" ourselves from Bio warfare
we think of how we should have spent that money on something better
could have spent it on something more important
would have put more thought into it, had we known
and we blame it on someone else

The bombs are dropping
we think of our son, our boyfriend, our fiance
dying on the front lines
"are there front lines in a war like this?"
we tell ourselves there are
it is better then thinking of our
sons, boyfriends, fiances
being killed by mustard gas in the night
we would rather think of them dying when they knew it was coming
than being burned from the inside out in their sleep

The bombs are dropping
we looked to our government for answers
when it all began
now we know better
we know there are no answers
the government has gone into hiding and we are left
with duct tape and plastic sheets
with no more use for them
than to make shrines for
sons, boyfriends, fiances

The bombs are dropping
Now everyone left at home is willing to think of peace
willing to see that side of it
now that the bombs are closer to home
those who attended peace walks are ashamed of their country
those who didn't are ashamed of themselves
some still have their picket signs
"Not in our Name" they read
now those who have them undestand
it doesn't matter whose name it's in
once a son, boyfriend, fiance
is dead
it doesn't even matter who did it
or why we were there
it only matters that now your other male loved ones
can't come home
"surviving son" you know

The bombs are dropping
as we clutch what we have left of our childhood
teddy bear
blankie
doll
we think
"it wasn't like this when we were young"
we, are only 15

Gina Lappe

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