Mother to Son by Langston Hughes
Identity by Julio Noboa Polanco
Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor -Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now -For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
Let them be as flowers,
always watered, fed, guarded, admired,
but harnessed to a pot of dirt.
Abandoned Farmhouse by Ted 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.
I'd rather be a tall, ugly weed,
clinging on cliffs, like an eagle
wind-wavering above high, jagged rocks.
To have broken through the surface of stone,
to live, to feel exposed to the madness
of the vast, eternal sky.
To be swayed by the breezes of an ancient sea,
carrying my soul, my seed,
beyond the mountains of time or into the abyss of the
bizarre.
I'd rather be unseen, and if
then shunned by everyone,
than to be a pleasant-smelling flower,
growing in clusters in the fertile valley,
where they're praised, handled, and plucked
by greedy, human hands.
I'd rather smell of musty, green stench
than of sweet, fragrant lilac.
If I could stand alone, strong and free,
I'd rather be a tall, ugly weed.
Spring Storm by 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.
You'd Better Believe Him - a Fable by Brian Patten
Advice from a Speed Skater by Priscila Uppal
Stay low to the ground.
Pass on the inside.
Beware of those who get too close, too fast.
Beware of trips.
Be your own machine.
Be your own speed demon.
Grow a second skin,
not necessarily a thick skin.
Everything that’s ever happened
will happen again, probably
within seconds.
Trust time—you don’t
have the luxury of watching the clock.
When they need it, give
friends a strong push.
At the end of life,
stick your foot out.
Better yet, kick.
Discovered an old rocking-horse in Woolworth's,
He tried to feed it without much luck
So he stroked it, had a long conversation about
The trees it came from, the attics it had visited.
Tried to take it out then
But the store detective he
Called the police who in court next morning said
“He acted strangely when arrested,
His statement read simply ‘I believe in rocking-horses.’
We have no reason to believe him mad.”
“Quite so,” said the prosecution,
“Bring in the rocking-horse as evidence.”
“I'm afraid it's escaped, sir,” said the store manager,
“Left a hoof print as evidence
On the skull of the store detective.”
“Quite so,” said the prosecution, fearful
Of the neighing
Out in the corridor
.
Things That Hurt Me by William Stafford
A Rose That Grew From Concrete by Tupac Shakur
Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature's law is wrong it
learned to walk without having feet.
Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams,
it learned to breathe fresh air.
Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared.
Turn into pearls.
First my tongue turns them over and over.
They have an edge that lacerates
and then brings out a coating.
They begin to shine.
I can’t leave them alone. They take on
that lustre of suffering made pure.
They accumulate as decorations around my neck
or dangle from my ears.
Trophies have a polish. You hold them close.
But they hide a hollow of pain.