Abandoned Farmhouse
BYTED KOOSER
He was a big man, says the size of his shoes
on a pile of broken dishes by the house;
a tall man too, says the length of the bed
in an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man,
says the Bible with a broken back
on the floor below the window, dusty with sun;
but not a man for farming, say the fields
cluttered with boulders and the leaky barn.
A woman lived with him, says the bedroom wall
papered with lilacs and the kitchen shelves
covered with oilcloth, and they had a child,
says the sandbox made from a tractor tire.
Money was scarce, say the jars of plum preserves
and canned tomatoes sealed in the cellar hole.
And the winters cold, say the rags in the window frames.
It was lonely here, says the narrow country road.
Something went wrong, says the empty house
in the weed-choked yard. Stones in the fields
say he was not a farmer; the still-sealed jars
in the cellar say she left in a nervous haste.
And the child? Its toys are strewn in the yard
like branches after a storm—a rubber cow,
a rusty tractor with a broken plow,
a doll in overalls. Something went wrong, they say.
Deserted Farm
By Mark Vinz
Where the barn stood
the empty milking stalls rise up
like the skeleton of an ancient sea beast,
exiled forever on shores of prairie.
Decaying timber moans softly in twilight;
the house collapses like a broken prayer.
Tomorrow the heavy lilac blossoms will open,
higher than the roofbeams, reeling in wind.
When It Is Snowing
by Siv Cedering
When it is snowing
the blue jay
is the only piece of
sky
in my backyard
Poppies
by Roy Scheele
The light in them stands as clear as water
drawn from a well
When the breeze moves across them they totter.
You half expect them to spill.
Speak UP
by Janet S. Wong
You're Korean, aren't you?
Yes.
Who don't you speak Korean?
Just don't, I guess.
Say something Korean.
I don't speak it.
I can't.
C'mon. Say something.
Halmoni.Grandmother.
Haraboji.Grandfather.
Imo.Aunt.
Say some other stuff.
Sounds funny.
Sounds strange.
Hey, let's listen to you
for a change.
Listen to me?
Say some foreign words.
But I'm American,
can't you see?
Your family came from
somewhere else.
Sometime.
But I was born here.
So was I.
A Poison Tree
BYWILLIAM BLAKE
I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I waterd it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears:
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night.
Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine.
And into my garden stole,
When the night had veild the pole;
In the morning glad I see;
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
Summertime Sharing
Danitra sits hunched on the stoop and pouts.
I ask her what there is to pout about.
"Nothin' much," she says to me,
but then I see her eyes following the ice cream man.
I shove my hand into my pocket
and find the change there where I left it.
"Be right back," I yell, running down the street.
Me and my fast feet are there and back in just two shakes.
Danitra breaks the Popsicle in two and gives me half.
The purple ice trickles down her chin. I start to laugh.
Her teeth flash in one humongous grin,
telling me she's glad that I'm her friend without even saying a word.
byNikki Grimes
The Wreck of the Hesperus
BYHENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr,
To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,
That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now West, now South.
Then up and spake an old Sailòr,
Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.
"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!"
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the Northeast,
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.
"Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow."
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.
"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
Oh say, what may it be?"
"'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" —
And he steered for the open sea.
"O father! I hear the sound of guns,
Oh say, what may it be?"
"Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!"
"O father! I see a gleaming light,
Oh say, what may it be?"
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That savèd she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave
On the Lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe!
Every Cat Has a Story
by Naomi Shihab Nye
The yellow one from the bakery
smelled like a cream puff-
she followed us home.
We buried our faces
in her sweet fur.
One cat hid her head
while I practiced violin.
But she came out for piano.
At night she played sonatas
on my quilt.
One cat built a secret nest
in my socks.
One sat in the window
staring up the street all day
while we were at school.
One cat loved
the radio dial
One cat almost
smiled.
Seeing the World~ Steven Herrick
Every month or so,when my brother and Iare bored with backyard gamesand television, Dad says“It’s time to see the world.”
So we climb the ladder to our attic,
push the window open,
and carefully, carefully,
scramble onto the roof.
We hang on tight as we scale the heights
to the very top.
We sit with our backs to the chimney
and see the world.
The birds flying
below us.
The trees swaying in the wind
below us.
Our cubbyhouse, meters
below us.
The distant city
below us.
And then Dad, my brother, and I lie back
look up and watch
the clouds and sky
and dream
we’re flying
we’re flying.
In summer
with the sun and a gentle breeze
and not a sound anywhere
I’m sure I never want to land.
Tugboat at Daybreak
by Lillian Morrison
The necklace of the bridge
is already dimmed for morning
but a tug in a tiara
glides slowly up the river,
a jewel of the dawn,
still festooned in light.
The river seems to slumber
quiet in its bed,
as silently the tugboat,
a ghostlike apparition,
moves twinkling up the river
and disappears from sight.
Ode to Family Photographs by Gary Soto
This is the pond, and these are my feet.
This is the rooster, and this is more of my feet.
Mama was never good at pictures.
This is a statue of a famous general who lost an arm,
And this is me with my head cut off.
This is a trash can chained to a gate,
This is my father with his eyes half-closed.
This is a photograph of my sister
And a giraffe looking over her shoulder.
This is our car's front bumper.
This is a bird with a pretzel in its beak.
This is my brother Pedro standing on one leg on a rock,
With a smear of chocolate on his face.
Mama sneezed when she looked
Behind the camera: the snapshots are blurry,
The angles dizzy as a spin on a merry-go-round.
But we had fun when
Mama picked up the camera.
How can I tell? Each of us is laughing hard.
Can you see?
I have candy in my mouth.
Hoods
by Paul B. Janeczko
In blak leather jackets,
watching Spider work
the wire coat hanger
into Mrs. Koops car,
they remind me of crows
huddled around a road kill.
Startled,
They looked up,
then back
as Spider,
who nodded once, setting them free
toward me.
I bounded away,
used a parking meter
to whip me around the corner
past Janelli's meter
the darkened Pine Street Grille,
and the steamed windows
of Sudsy's Modern Laundromat.
I climbed-two at a time-
the granite steps
of the Free Public Library
and pushed back thick wooden doors
as the pursuing pack stopped-
sinners at the door of a church.
From the corner table of the reference room
I watched them
pacing,
head turning every time the door opened,
pacing,
until Spider arrived
to draw them away.
I waited, fingering hearts,
initials carved into the table,
grinning as I heard myself telling Raymond
of my death-defying escape.
Friends in the Klan
by Marilyn Nelson
1923
BLack veterans of WWI experienced
such discrimination in veterans' hospitals
that the Veterans' Administration, to save face,
opened Tuskegee, a brand-new hospital
for Negroes only. Under white control.
(White nurses, who were legally excused
from touching blacks, stood holding their elbows
and ordering colored maids around, white shoes
tapping impatiently.)
The Professor joined
the protest. When the first black doctor arrived
to jubilation, the KKK uncoiled
its length and hissed.If you want to stay alive
be away Tuesday.Unsigned. But a familiar hand.
The professor stayed. And he prayed for his friend in the Klan.
Spring Stormby Jim Wayne Miller
He comes gusting out of the house,
the screen door a thunderclap behind him.
He moves like a black cloud
over the lawn and---stops.
A hand in his mind grabs
a purple crayon of anger
and messes the clean sky.
He sits on the steps, his eye drawing
a mustache on the face in the tree.
As his weather clears,
his rage dripping away,
wisecracks and wonderment
spring up like dandelions.
Foul Shot
by Edwin A. Hoey
With two 60s stuck on the scoreboard
And two seconds hanging on the clock,
The solemn boy in the center of eyes,
Squeezed by silence,
Seeks out the line with his feet,
Soothes his hands along his uniform,
Gently drums the ball against the floor,
Then measures the waiting net,
Raises the ball on his right hand,
Balances it with his left,
Calms it with fingertips,
Breathes,
Crouches,
Waits,
And then through a stretching of stillness,
Nudges it upwards.
The ball
Slides up and out,
Lands,
Leans,
Wobbles,
Wavers,
Hesitates,
Plays it coy
Until every face begs with unsounding screams--
And then
And then
And then,
Right before ROAR-UP,
Drives down and through.
a hot property: by Ronald Wallace
I am not. I am
an also-ran,
a bridesmaid, a finalist,
a second-best bed. I am
the one they could just
as easily have given it to
but didn't.
I'm a near miss, a close second,
an understudy, a runner-up.
I'm the one who was just
edged, shaded, bested, nosed out.
I made the final cut,
the short list,
the long deliberation.
I'm good, very good,
but I'm not good enough.
I'm an alternate, a backup,
a very close decision,
a red ribbon, a handshake,
a glowing commendation.
You don't know me.
I've a dozen names,
all honorably mentioned.
I could be anybody./
Junkyards
by Julian Lee Rayford
You take any junkyard
and you will see it filled with
symbols of progress
remarkable things discarded
What civilization when ahead on
all its onward-impelling implements
are given over to the junkyards
to rust
The supreme implement, the wheel
is conspicuous in the junkyards
The axles and the levers
the cogs and the flywheels
all the parts of dynamos
all the parts of motors
fall the parts of rusting.
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Robert Frost,1874-1963
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Beat! Beat! Drums!
BYWALT WHITMAN
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force,
Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation,
Into the school where the scholar is studying,
Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with his bride,
Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering his grain,
So fierce you whirr and pound you drums—so shrill you bugles blow.
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets;
Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers must sleep in those beds,
No bargainers’ bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—would they continue?
Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow.
Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
Make no parley—stop for no expostulation,
Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer,
Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,
Let not the child’s voice be heard, nor the mother’s entreaties,
Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the hearses,
So strong you thump O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.