Category: 12th

In dreams of past and hopes of new
Of faith in God and other beings
In the souls of grocery stores
And small record shops
And in the tiny rural schools
The spirit lives

They wake up promptly
Make their coffee, kiss their wifes
Send their children to school
They march to work
Shake hands
Roll up their sleeves
And preach their do

Stories of old breathe down their necks
And strangle them
Beg them to uphold their do and deed
Or else march on like the rest of them

The safest place I know
is existing in my own house.
Down the hall and up the carpeted stairs.
Then there’s a set of white doors.

Enter the room
but be greeted by clutter and mess.
It’s like a bird’s nest.
carefully arranged

In the center lay the sticks
that make up my nest.
Made up nicely,
the sheets tinted a pastel pink.

A rectangle cut into the wall
floods the room with a marvelous light.
A drape feathered over the sunshine,
dimming the lair.

I wrap my wings around me
and settle into the sticks and stones
that I collected over the years
of memories

I walked
on the street.
There were
tall trees around me. The leaves
were bright green under the sunshine.

By listening to the music
from my ear phones,
I felt a moment of
peace and joy.

A kid was learning how to ride a bike
on the sidewalk.
His brother besides
Lost his patience,
And finally left him alone. He couldn’t get on the bike.

I stopped at a cross
and waiting for the traffic light to turn green.
All kinds of cars were
rushing by towards somewhere.

I looked up
at the sky.
It was light blue with a few clouds.
Today is a good day, I thought.
I stared at the sky
and witnessed a group of birds flying ahead.
Leaving the wires
They used to stand on.

The brightness of the sun
hurts my eyes, so I lowered my head.
Suddenly,
the music stopped
– it was in the period of changing to another song.

The traffic light turned green.
I started walking to
the other side.
As I walked,
I noticed that
the marks under my feet
were faded.

This place,
where willows watch with wandering eyes,
As lost souls stop for a sip.

The creek whirreles and swirreles,
When man’s hands seek
to quench their parched lips.

This place,
where the creek holds man’s hand,
Silently stretching it’s slippery grasp to consume sin

Spitting out only those whose washed away of their greed.

This place
where willows watch with wonder in their eyes,
As many men sink slowly down with a siren cry.

I have never seen the snow
but I have been
cloaked by
thick woolen blankets of cold.
Of nothing.
Melancholic chill emphasized by the
lack of sun shining,
reflecting in my eyes.

Everything tasted bitter.
No means of heart nor
hand held to be sweet.
An ocean full of people;
I was drowning,
and yet,
I wasn’t even submerged.

“Show me how to live.”
How am I to assist a
smooth faced angel
when I myself can’t stand on
my own
two feet?
I sway.
But if I can sweep the ashy blonde hair behind his ear,
then stagnant I shall remain.

From paper
to Rock.
You can write love letters on paper but
you can carve them
into stone.

“Show me how to live.”
Living isn’t being alive but
feeling.
“Show me how to feel!”
they’ll cry,
but crying isn’t an emotion.

Feeling…
Truly feeling
is being encapsulated by warmth when gazing into
icy blues.
Feeling halved when you are whole.
Aching cheeks when they smile;
red painted lips,
scattered hair,
you’re still perfect.

The snow I’ve never seen refused to flurry in my vision.
The sun,
she isn’t shy,
She dances and sings and she
glimmers sweetly on
beautiful faces.

To be lonely in a room full of people is to be freezing under a blanket.
Get a thicker blanket.
Surround yourself with different people.
Refuse to be alone for you will
thrive
when you pull back and see
eyes closed;
cheeks painted pink.

Flowers will blossom for
you
to pick and the rain
will sing;
for precipitation only bears
more foliage for
you.

Giving and taking and
giving
anything to see his nose crinkle.
You’ve shaken hands with symmetry,
but these marble sculptures are
whole.

Show me how to live?
No,
Friend,
do not watch, for this is not a show.
Seek it,
find the heat when the snow falls,
wear a coat,
not for fear of the cold but for
acceptance of the
warmth.

Make open arms
from closed fists and
sway.
Be a metronome until
you, yourself,
have found a rhythm.
And Sing.

The sun is bright, shining yellow against the deep blue sky. It sits. It hovers above air and land and sea,
ever present.
And so it shines.
Most days, the boy feels the rays penetrate his skin like the seeping of warm ocean waters –
wish-wash, wish-wash.
He feels the sun touch and seep, yet he is filled with no warmth.
And so he stands,
cold.
This coldness makes him wonder:
Am I okay? Is this normal?
And so he stands, wondering – pondering.
As time passes by, the rays increase in intensity, shaking him from head to toe. He looks at his arms – so brightly illuminated – and he watches as his dark hairs slowly grow tall.
It is as if he is a porcupine, preparing for attack. But there is no danger –
the sun shines brightly, a yellow yolk against the sapphire sky.
But he wouldn’t shiver, was there no danger.
He is cold. Not scared.
But maybe I should be, he thinks.
He is not.
The sun shines brightly.
On this day, the boy stands outside, and he realizes:
the sun does not move.
He stands there many an hour, imitating the stationary sun.
He wonders again. The sun sits high, right above his head.
Maybe that is the danger.
It wants to fall on my head, and burn me, he thinks.
But maybe this is no danger, because after all,
he is cold.
So now he sits, awaiting the actions of the sun.
The bright saffron star shines. Nothing happens.
The boy remains seated, still cold,
still waiting.
But waiting is tedious –
tiresome –
and so his eyes begin to droop.
The rays still shine, peeking through his half-shut lids.
Rebecca David
2nd period
9/25/2019
His head droops now –
he is asleep.
And so the boy sleeps, and the sun
does not.
He sleeps many an hour, body shivering,
sun burning.
The boy awakes. He looks around, at his body –
there are no burns. Only hairs, standing tall like summer grass. No rays, no warmth, no sun.
And so he shivers.
And shiver he will,
until one day the sun decides to move –
to fall –
again.

mijn broer deed een dunne jas aan gisteren.
blijkbaar mocht het niet.
toch deed hij het.
hij liep met zijn vrienden door het park.
ik hoorde zijn voetstappen, hun blije lachen gemengd met het getjilp van vogels.
het was geen winter meer.

vandaag doet hij weer een dunne jas aan.
maar vandaag loopt hij niet, en vandaag roept hij niet.
vandaag staat hij stil.
vandaag hoor ik geen zomer meer.
vandaag voel ik de winter –
hij voelt het ook.
voel jij het niet?