Young Writers Society

17. i am here, i am not leaving 4.29.24

i am not your fair-weather-friend; I am your hurricane-across-the-sea,
tornado-touching-down, everything's-on-fire-friend,
i am not going to leave, just because of a little water;
i am not made of tissue paper or flower petals, let me be your umbrella;
and i will hold the rain inside my palms, until the sun comes out -
i will let the doves build nests in my hair if it makes you smile;
i will weave my bones into a raft, until the tide is low enough to walk
i will let the storm brew into my chest as long as it takes
for the clouds to break, and the sun to shine again;
i will be here if you want to wait out the storm with me.

18. goodbye april

my coping with napo not going exactly the way I wanted to this month poem :]
'this is okay too.'

19. flight patterns

i once caught a bird in my hand all at once
midflight she collided into my palm, and just as surprised as I was
she stared at me - unblinking black seed of an eye, seeming to ask
through accusing expression, 'how do you dare
interrupt the traverse of heaven's angels? - do you think
you are God, with your reaching arms, and heavy feet? - do you
pretend to know the way to the sun?' and just as suddenly
as i held her in my hand... i let her go, horrified
and dumb-struck, and nauseous at my gross-intrusion
into the feathered realm of the divine,
once my hand un-curled, she did not immediately leave -
almost as if to remind me, that she had never been truly bound
but only temporarily delayed - as she lept into the sky,
wings straining in half-ballet, half-
trapeze, half-faith, and half-bluff,
i felt the irresistible urge to join her,
to reach the clouds - then sky - then
if God would permit... i yearned to dare
to brush my fingers across the sun,
and if not for sheer-fear of drowning
i would of jumped into the sky then and there
and learned exactly how the sun feels -
but for now i am afraid - and so i just settle
for arm-stretches, and bird-calling,
and leaping towards the sun,
at least when no one's watching.

20. i want you to know there was more poetry this month than was written on the page

my dad said on the phone yesterday, 'you're the happiest
you've been in a long time.' and for the first time
in years, i realized, i'm not really heart-broken anymore.

22. garden of eden; 'this woman you gave me.'





TEXT: GARDEN OF EDEN

in / the / myth of / man (,)
who is / sacred (?)

23. Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field

is it any surprise that after letting adam's sons
give the sole-account of the day in the garden
for four thousand years, that eventually
eve's daughters too, blamed themselves
for man's appetite, and satan's trick,
for the low-cut shirt, and the distracted boy,
'the woman you gave me,' ... 'she's done it again'
'and again' 'and again' 'and again'

24. preservation (2)

in 1964 my grandmother took a flower from her garden
and wedged it between two glass window panes
hoping to keep something pretty close-by for the winter
and to remind her that summer's coming soon -

for sixty years, those flowers have been keeping
a breath of sunshine, for the day when summer returns.

25. this is your inheritance; do not dare leave this world with field-rocks in your pockets, plant your heart in every field, until the whole earth is bound in the roots of your veins, and when they steal that - we will steal the sky.

1. the only remaining-record for my great great grandmother's life is a short court document that states; 'the land stolen will never be her own' - life is not in the practice of giving back what it takes, and land has a way of becoming blood, and human flesh has a way of dying before we learn these things or realize we can fly. it is enough for me to know she tried, i will not tie her feathers to bitterness, i will not try to steal away soil in my shoes, or my hands, or my pockets, i will plant my garden in her honor and whisper to every straining tomato plant and geranium flower, 'this too is yours.'

2. the land killed my great grandfather before he was old enough to be old; though his skin was already weathered down in grooves of worry-lines, dynamite powder, and coal dust; and i always wonder if they were able to clean his fingernails before they buried him for the last time. if i saw him somewhere today, i would take out my nail-file and a bar of soap and a basin of well-water, and i would wash his hands until the grooves ran smooth. i would show him pictures of his son's and grandson's wrinkled faces, i would tell him they lived. i think of him when the soil clings to my own hands, and i promise him i will not track in soil in my home, even when nostalgia threatens to bury me too.

3. my grandfather farmed his whole life, with his whole life. one sun-baked plot of land split clean to seven brothers. some years the harvest was good, some years the seeds became rocks and gravel, and his daughters wandered the field harvesting stones. in the end it wasn't the sun that overturned the land inside out, it was the flood-waters. i never take rain for granted because of him. every drop in my cup, every river-bed, every sweat-soaked brow, i hear him saying 'the rain's coming strong tonight' - and i nod and believe i too am a prophet, and i warn my unborn children to not keep the field-stones in their pockets, in case the flood comes, in case the ground breaks, in case the land is stolen away - we will be light on our feet, when it is time to leave this earth, we will fly.