FRIDAY AFTERNOON ON THE BEACH
Outside the Flora-Bama
a seagull perches on a post.
Boys and girls play on a
pizza raft in the clear turquoise water.
Bright multi-color umbrellas are
popped giving children relief from the
blazing sun. Music is blaring and
the smell of fried shrimp fills the air.
The hot sand burns a boy’s feet.
He runs to the water.
The boards on the board walk
are trashed with wet sand.
Inside the Bar, adults drink and
But I never get to feel
the water. Only the heat
from the fryer.
Oranges grow in the summer.
I always love peeling a fresh orange
Watching the damp surface pop off my tan hands,
making them sticky.
Pulling apart each wedge
& putting them back like a puzzle.
People grow in the summer, too.
We get darker,
the sun hits my skin melting my insides.
My worries grow old and I don’t hold up.
In the summer heat, our hair
One atom splits into more & more &
I on the other hand never got to
have dinner with Heath Ledger or meet Marie Antoinette.
Humans are made of millions of pieces
And I never got to be a Queen groupie.
Huge man-eating lizards once roamed
Yet I never got to kiss Spiderman.
Why? Because the universe hates me.
The Secret of Glasses
Glasses clink and clank at parties
when the evening gets in full swing.
The hostess takes a sip
then offers a glass to all her friends.
The waiter is over by the table.
Piercing crash turns heads
and the hostess goes to see
her once full glass
broken to bits.
Though nobody cares,
the hostess weeps.
I have a D+ in biology right now. Yes, I
should probably get that up. Because yes,
science is very important in life. But if you
ask me honestly, I’d rather learn about Anatomy
or chemistry. Everyone in my family has gotten
As in science before. That’s a lie though.
Why is it bright now? Six hours of waiting in
your messy closet. Don’t throw me! I was
expensive! Why do these things go
inside me, just so you can walk? You’re
perfectly capable of walking without me.
Where will we go today? Dirty bathroom
floors, the halls of a school? Who knows;
walking into your door – ow! You know, you
don’t have to throw that sack on me. Why
are you sitting down? Going upstairs?
Put me back in your messy closet.
Meditation on Purple
Purple is the color of my school: the walls,
the halls, and that one bathroom stall.
But it’s the color of you, your laugh
through a skype call that keeps me up
past dawn. The hue of your tone over
a text of your day and the kids who
pick on you. Purple is the color of your soul
when I know you’ve hid something from me
or kept alone. Your eyes how they
seem to look sad just by a simple sigh.
Purple is how I feel knowing I can’t talk
to you with my busy day.
I can feel your worry as I keep my
problems from your city life.
But blue is the color of your hands when
you stole my heart.
And here we go again
And here we go again
Behind me, they walk to the store
“Us only it is” getting into more trouble
Everything is so peaceful
Speed makes her drop the dessert
Irretrievably they walk,
Away to buy a new sweetness
It’s only two hours before midnight
Called to go home, we left our memories there
Impermanence, sadness, flows through us
We will buy a new one tomorrow.
I’ve Hit Rock Bottom
Have you swam so far down in the
ocean that you’ve crashed into
cold, hard rocks?
Have you struck the underside of
a marble table?
Have you dug so deep in the ground
that you’ve reached granite?
Have you shattered a crystal glass?
Lost your dog?
Forgot a test?
Failed an assignment?
Become a geologist?
Have you failed or have you smacked
The oldest garden gnome
Watches the streets and
houses as if it were a dog.
Guard of the garden. People that
move in and out of the house
never saw this little statue that
kept the flowers company outside
day and night. 24 hours.
Until, one day at open house, an
old lady asks to see the garden
outside and spots the gnome with
its little shovel by the pile of
flowers planted. 45 years. 45 years said
the lady and the gnome was still where
the old lady put it there when
she was younger and was outside
every day, gardening. The house got
remodeled, the flowers were new,
but the gnome was still there
as if nothing happened and time never
Thoughts on poetry
Words flow like a gentle river
on a slow descent towards a small
pool, or a ripple that was started by
a child drowning, scenes on the water of a lake.
Sounds like soft waves crashing on
a faraway shore, or low rumbles of a
rain storm putting me to sleep.
The look of letters dancing a
ballet over the page, twisting and
turning performing for me. Earning
every “ooh” and “aah” given
by the audience.
It’s Not the Destination, It’s the Journey
What would the journey be if there were no destination?
Cars would not have been invented if we didn’t want
to go anywhere.
People wouldn’t work out if they didn’t want
to feel better about themselves.
Teenagers wouldn’t go to high school if they didn’t want
to go to college.
Would the journey be walking in circles
on soft carpet instead of listening to your growling stomach?
Mount St. Mary Academy
Little Rock, AR
Dates of Visit: February 13 – 16, 2017
Faculty Sponsor: Monica Mylonas
Grade Level: 9
Appx. Number Students Served: 115
Visiting Writers: Kirsty Bleyl, Joy Clark, Emily Lerner, Gwendolyn Mauroner