Forest

To be performed like " What Teachers Make " by Taylor Mali --- IHS and LACS One choice can transform you. IHS or LACS? Most people chose IHS But that doesn’t mean LACS is wrong. Someone once told me LACS was a school Where they only do art. All day. If you don’t know anything about LACS, how can you judge? My brother, my best friend, they both went there. They did fine. My brother went to college and He’s majoring in economics and art. They tell me about Slow halls             Where people don’t push. Graffiti walls             A goldfish, the Beatles, the house from Up A student-made salad bar             because what you eat is who you are. A week where you get to go far             They call it trips week. All school meetings       ...

Cupcakes   The school breathes with whispers,             laughs,                         talk. The lockers slam,             the polished floor squeaks. Across the murmur three words drift…             “That’s so gay.” A pang in my chest and my eyes snap up.         My mind spins back to that day when my brother made cupcakes.                     Cupcakes with icing.                                 Icing that made wor...

Pebbles on a Beach Pebbles on a beach beside an ocean. "I like the smooth ones," said I, running my fingers across the surface. "I like the rough ones," he said. He inspects them, tracing every seam. "I like the red ones," she said. They are easiest to spot. I collected some, put them in a bag. I like to take them out and file them, and arrange them until they speak. He frowns, "Why so many? All you need is one." He found one by the bridge, waves had crashed around it and made a little hole. He likes to watch the moon through it until he can't see spit. She rolls her eyes. "It's just a hole. Who cares?" She found a dry stone, not much kissed by glistening waves, ephemeral. She chipped away at it refining and structuring until it gleamed the shine of centuries. I pick up the chips. I like them too. To each their own, I guess. And to me, a poem.

Creation Story: Rain When the world began, there was no rain. The gods made a sun to light the new world, and the gods smiled. They created animals to run and jump over the firm ground, and the gods smiled. They created humans to worship the gods, and the gods smiled. However, the humans soon grew hungry. They ate the animals, but there were only so many animals. The gods scattered seeds, but they would not grow without rain. The gods frowned. They could not sit by and watch as their creations suffered. Now, among these people, there was a girl named Raina. She was the best weaver in the whole world. Her thread was as fine as spider silk, and she made it just as quickly as the spider itself. As she was spinning thread, she loved to watch the people outside. She laughed at the children and their games. She smiled at the boy who helped an old woman across the street. And she blushed when he smiled back. The boy who smiled back returned the next day, and the next. He came...

Wild sky Wild sun Wild sea. On wet sand I stand still. Like a lot of other short poems I've written, this poem was originally posted on Instagram. "I Stand Still," in particular, is closely tied to its picture. The poem describes the picture from top to bottom. It makes me think of the first episode of Doctor Who (I know- NERD ALERT). Rose asks the Doctor who he is... here's the conversation: Rose: Really though, Doctor. Tell me. Who are you? The Doctor: Do you know like we were saying? About the Earth revolving? It’s like when you’re a kid. The first time they tell you that the world’s turning and you just can’t quite believe it because everything looks like it’s standing still. I can feel it. {he grabs her hand} The turn of the Earth. The ground beneath our feet is spinning at a thousand miles an hour. And the entire planet is hurtling around the sun at sixty-seven thousand miles an hour and I can feel it. We’re falling through space...

Mensch Cold bites. I bark back. White water whirls across asphalt, through spokes, under chassis. Bitter, piercing air burns as it begs for bits of warmth. The streets are savage and raw: the stud whistles to the bitch, “Fuck you,” calls the car. We bark back, shouting a primal, heart-filled “Ei ei eieeeeeeeeeeeee” to the roar of falls, the crack of thunder, the steep depths of blood-red earth. Exhilarating. Cruel. The mother of us all: she taught us well. We know how to run. Rubber presses against metal. Speed dims. Blood burns through my fingertips and flesh aches in protest. But warmth is only heartless to the cold; when it’s just us two, we are content. Sunlight slants through the pale hall,     warm heart beats softly under warm skin,         shadows flicker. “Bitter” is just a memory; embers glow steadily with agreeable satisfaction and sparks burn long and bright. In the dark, dazzling frost disturbed...

Whisper With soft fur and godlessness It creeps into your consciousness With little mews It delivers deadly news With quiet padding paws The Whisper spreads With small piercing claws The Whisper shreds.

 "Life" is a problem set, a good-sized packet, spiral-bound with time. Question follows question, annoyingly repetitive, each asking, "How shall I live this day?" So vague, and yet each demanding an answer. Not everyone receives the same packet, though. Some get sheets with the answer in parentheses after the question, which hardly seems fair, but then again, it's not as fun to solve a problem you already know the answer to. Some don't get a reference table, and have to scramble to answer the question with whatever they can find in the recesses of their psyche. The formulas don't always work, anyway. As soon as the work is finished for one, the sheet is taken away; no time to go back and correct. It's unclear if this assignment is graded or not, so some just muddle through and fill in the blanks. Some flock to the smartest, the prettiest, or the most popular in the class and copy her answers, but there is no answer sheet, so the fruits of...

"Forest" was my first masterpiece, and I will remember it forever. Inspired by my first-grade teacher, who had a unit on poetry, I wrote "Forest" and read it in front of the whole school. Unlike previous poems, I spent a few days developing the idea in my head, and when it finally came out onto the paper, I was so proud. Reading it today still makes me smile. I believe in that little girl. Forest I step into the forest: The squishy earth gives way beneath my toes. Dotted with flowers, speckled with light, thriving with underbrush to insects' delight. I lean against a tree: Long thick roots curl into a strong grey trunk, Graceful branches taper into twigs in a natural way That no photo or drawing can quite catch. Twigs flick into leaves, Leaves flutter and twist, like blinds on a window, Letting small slits of golden light drift through green lattice. I look at the sky: Soft shafts of golden light filter through lea...