People embraced in a pause in time.
Clipped by a single word.
Hair swaying, motionless as
a smile reaches out.
Sun that never fades
or hides itself behind the clouds.
Eyes of hazel.
Lips a faint crimson,
delicate, and everlasting.
A small suitcase, that
holds one inside.
I will creep onto the thin branch
of the willow tree, letting my
hairs blow softly. I attach my silk onto the twig,
take one deep breath, and jump into the storm.
The wind is furious and I whirl
around, clutching my dear silk. The
blow dies and I start to spin. I
spin myself into the crammed darkness
and drift off into an endless sloom,
knowing that I will soon be prettier
than the rest, and the days of
stillness and sleep would come to an end.
On a Tuesday, in a city that people
watched like TV,
there were lots of nasty Grandpas with
arthritis that tripped all the time.
Also, there were lots of pigs that were
small, messy, and ghostlike. These pigs also
ran around the shrunken, broken down city
and hit old people and buried them in
chocolate. The city looked like a broken, dead
city with walls always tumbling. Bees flew
around in their dirty suits giving rabbits
painful stings that made them inhale
so hard they broke their finger bone.
I feel myself pushing
out of a rectangle and tall box,
I miss the cup and fall on
to the floor, break into two pieces.
I hear people talking loudly while over
time their voices fade off into the distance.
I am melting into a liquid and I feel
no control of myself. I am a puddle
now with no use, I’ll sit here until
I soak into the wooden floor.
On weekends, the
city is hollow. People
bang to work. In factories,
they smell hot water
from bottles. On bad days, the
city reeks of expired ketchup
packets. They live in crates
and sleep in a box.
The man is sitting in leaves.
His bare arms filled with crows,
they sway in the breeze.
Spiders creep up his breast,
his thoughts fall down, one by one,
to be united with the pile of leaves.
His feet are planted solidly in the ground.
Worms are nestling on his toes.
A DISH OF PEACHES IN RUSSIA
I saw a big blue bowl
in the center of the city.
I looked in and saw
fresh picked peaches the size of
a human. I grabbed a piece
of a juicy part of the
peach. It was delicious.
So sweet, like some one fried it
and put brown sugar on it.
Crunching as I chew, I feel
the juice run down my arm. I wake up
and am so happy
to be a small mouse.
RED VELVET IS
Red velvet, like eating greasy
pepperoni. Red velvet, like smoke
after a fire. Red velvet,
tidal waves being set in motion.
Beautiful birds singing.
Red velvet, like holding a million year
Crunchy brown maple leaves
as big as my hand
I hear them sizzle
into the fresh cut dry
grass, tumbling and wrestling over
who will be on top of
the mile-high pile
Sap oozes out of nearly-
Making an orange ocean
on the ground by the roots
who always want to trip you
and your family
A gust of swirling wind
comes from tornadoes in
Kansas, and sends the
hill of golden and rich
red leaves to the moon
A million miles above my
Spring is spicy red butterflies
and sour, yellow flowers. Spring
is bitter green grass with
crisp dew drops. Spring is juicy leaves
growing from the crunchy tree
bark. Spring is a child running through
the spicy, crisp bushes.
Push Your Chair In
Apply wheels, an engine, and a
steering wheel to your chair, then
drive in circles around your mom until
she buys you a triple scoop, hot
fudge, ultra brownie ice cream cone.
3 ways of looking at a redwood forest
Walking on a tiny thread above
a forest of redwood trees
A kind Giant smells like pine
too soft for an axe, too hard
for a bull dozer
Covered in shades of reds, oranges
and browns, too far in for anyone
to hear my cry, scream, sing, and love.
With the cool afternoon
breeze and the yellow,
orange, brown and red leaves
fall gently from a mighty
oak. you hear a mixture
of cheers and boos, and hits and misses.
Then as the crows fly away a new set of
birds to take their place, This is Autumn.
Boredom. The smell of mahogany wood
that triggers you to doze. Sometimes
listening to someone speak of something.
Maybe the scheduling
of the next meeting
about the orchestra
of the same old Nutcracker.
“No I’m busy then. My 2 month late Thanksgiving is that day.”
They keep speaking while you slowly fall. Like buttons
with the thread fraying from the tiny holes.
Green stick people
Hugging other people
Cutting off the hair
But eating the stem
Hard to chew
But easy to swallow
The steel metal B-17 from the era of the war place was a beautiful silver even when they flew the silver steel shined like water on a pond
The frost surfaces the grass
Pressure is applied
and it shatter sand breaks
Just so the Chill can
breathe life into in again
Snow glints and gleam
as it rests on the great arms
of an old Evergreen Evergreen
coating it in a thick icing
against the forest masterpiece
The smell of cookies
hangs in the air
Draped over the room
as it will never leave
From the rolling hills
to green to white
to warm to cold
marked in thick gashes
where snow used to lay
From the children
that never left their sleds
Winter is where
this land could be found
as this rotation
will surely come your way
God of Guilt
Afraid of loud noises.
Eyes are blue
Clothes feel like they are woven
by the angriest of tailors.
Eats only bread, in silence
Will forever be alone.
House is all green.
Every word is a lie.
Home smells of salt and vinegar.
Hays A. Brooks
McNair Middle School
Dates of Visit: December 9 – 10, 2015
Faculty Sponsor: Susan O’Brien
Grade Levels: 6
Appx. Number Students Served: 320
Visiting Writers: Jacob Collum, Michelle Myers, Julia Paganelli, Lucas Palmer, Chris Tamigi, Vicente Yepez