Poem of the Day: (<=jan06), jan2010, all months & poets, (jan08=>)

Poem of the Day: 7 Jan 2010

The deer

The deer
with the arrow in his back
suddenly stopped
It checked itself
for any mark
that the hunter would have given
then
it saw
the arrow dripping with blood
It coughed
and out
poured blood that
formed a pool on
the ground. It
kept on going. Soon
its legs failed him. He
fell to the ground wheezing and
coughing up blood.

Tiger K. (Middle School, 2009-10) (p#7225)

You are

You are 
waiting for yesterday  
when things were good
and you were young
and happy.

You are blue, 
also gray.
You’re 
trying to hold onto
that last scent of
memories.

Every morning, 
all the same.
Quiet old man.
Glasses on your head.
You are quiet,
but your presence 
is quite loud.
Go home and relax, 
next winter will be
okay.

Nina P. (Middle School, 2009-10) (p#7226)

Prose or Poetry or New York

The tattered man with the tattered soul, leaning on the tattered cane of the Western Hemisphere, looks up and sees the sheathed bulbous shiny clouds. He sees the gray one in the middle, surrounded by its bulbous brethren.
“Hey you!” He says.
“Yea you! You in God’s blissy shadow. Yea you! You gray you! Go off and be shiny! Go off and cross your own/sweet/sky Rubicon. Go cloud! Go off on your way Julius Cloudius.
The tattered man with the tattered soul, leaning on the tattered shade of the forever awning of some building in some city, in some reality of confusing, strange distressing, utopic, sweet, vainglorious things.
He sits, sipping out of an umbrella straw. All men dream of this. All men dream of sitting on some beach with nice sand/nice sky/nice ocean/ nice umbrella strawed cocktail/ nice big-titted loinsy thing thong wearing busty babe putting on some lotion to similarly loinsy brunette chica.
That’s all this life is, too true?
A cyclic circle of soul/ a cyclic circle of strange/ a cyclic circle of spontaneity/ a cyclic circle of inward looking outward, “ What, why does he think, who does he think, what, why, where does she think/” Is all this world, this life, this circle simply a red glow? No! A dull glow of the bulbous cloud of fate-interaction and whatever the hell makes someone feel something and makes someone feel something else. Is the “Call me Ishmael” of mind constrained by the bulbous brethren, eh?
The tattered man with the tattered soul, leaning on the tattered cane of the Western Hemisphere, looks up and sees the sheathed bulbous shiny clouds. He sees the gray one in the middle, surrounded by its bulbous brethren.
“Hey you!” He says.
“Yea you! You in God’s blissy shadow. Yea you! You gray you! Go off and be shiny! Go off and cross your own/sweet/sky Rubicon. Go cloud! Go off on your way Julius Cloudius. Be on thy way in the dewy stretchy long night of New York/America/Texas/America/New Jersey (gulp)/America/Oklahoma/ America/ Ohio/ America/America/America. Gone into the long stretchy American star night. Gone. Gone Tattered. Gone America. Gone Am-Er-I-Ca.

Alex D. (High School, 2009-10) (p#7227)

Poem of the Day: (<=jan06), all of jan2010, all months & poets, (jan08=>) © Saint Ann's School and the poets.

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