Vol. I, No.9: 2. Writing: Poetry from the Schools

Poetry from the Schools ...
from a CVU Collection
A Best of the School Year Entry

The following selections were among a group of poems published in Ink and Thin Blue Lines 2001, published by The Garlic Press, CVU, Hinesburg, 2001. Justin Chapman was the teacher / advisor. ...

I Am Bird
by Andrew Volk, Sr., Charlotte

The wind brushes by me as I look to the sun.
The glare is blinding for only a second.
I refocus on the bug, jumping from leaf to leaf.
Dinner awaits.
I am Bird.
I am the gull of the sea, the hawk of the sky.
I am the swallow of the gringos, the parrot of the ticos.
The wind howls as I plunge towards the trembling leaf.
The still fly leaps, but too late.
I am Bird.

Cage Bird Freedom
by Elizabeth Brassord, Sr., Williston

Despair
Uncontrollably violent
A broken wing
You're caged behind bars
With no escape and no way in
Underneath the fine lines
Blow away the dust
And scatter the ashes
A new beginning

Your goodbye ruined grace
Your hello killed truth
For all words thrown off your tongue are lies
Waiting in the shadows
Ready to pounce on innocence
And trample hope

Your "take me back" destroyed individual salvation
But you throw away justice anyway
Just like you lost your integrity years ago
Along with the truth

You're not worth the sacrifice
I'll open the doors from hell on my own
Because with passion
I free my life from your chains

And walk myself home to liberty

The Old Man
by Eva Silverman, Jr., Hinesburg

The old man's face was loose
And withered
And wizened over itself
Like a peach left in the fruit bowl too long.

His white hair stood up
Wildly and untamed,
Sprouting from brown liver spots that covered his head.
His beard was stubbly gray.

His rough hands were pushed deep into his pockets.
They shook unsteadily, nervously
As the skin wrinkled,
Bunching at his knuckles with every twitch.

The man inched in from the door, and stood
Slumped slightly, in the line.
And from the piles of dishes at the beginning of it,
He lightly picked up a tray and a bowl.

Slowly inching forward,
He shakes his head passively at the platters of bread
And of cold cuts and of oatmeal-raisin cookies,
And is shy of the kids in plastic gloves who offer them.

Nodding slightly at the pot of soup
His shaky hands lift the porcelain bowl to the ladle's cup
And his jaw clenches as he tries to carefully
Lower the bowl, now brimming, back to the tray.

He turns and walks uneasily to the back corner table
Where he sits, his back to the rest of the room.
With hands that shake, and watery brown eyes that blur
He dips his spoon into the white soup before him and eases it to his lips.

It drips slightly down his chin,
Every drop catching on the short hairs of this stubble
And he clumsily wipes each one away
With the back of his hands.

Soup done, he rises from his seat
And walks quietly to the bussing table, discards his dishes.
A woman behind the table smiles warmly, ""Till tomorrow then, Nat," she says.
"Yeah, night to you," he says quietly and walks out.

The Last Hand
Aron S. Phillips, Soph., Shelburne

Why is it that whenever one goes to war
They really aren't just fighting for their country
But also for a higher power
Whether it is for their own satisfaction
Or the satisfaction of another
Or whether or not they are just trying to come to terms with something in their life
To go out
And set forth one day
And have the realization that you might die
Be no more
Become obsolete
Just another lost for a lost cause
It is a scary and screwed up subject
For one to come to terms with that
Or to seriously think about what will be lost
Or unaccomplished
It is just too much for myself
To be gone is one thing
But to know what you're facing
At a time of war and realize
If I die at war
I am doing this for my country
But do I get to celebrate in this "victory"
Or do my loved ones see me as a fool
Though they still honor me as if I was a savior that I really wasn't
The blood
Dripping
And seeing yourself steal and demolish another human life with your very own eyes

.
That must be a breathtaking experience
One that either haunts you or taunts you for
     the rest of your life
Until you die
And maybe that is what forces you towards
     death
Your own punishment in the utmost form of
     severity
Where you are too strong to take your own
     life
But yet are weak enough to let others do it
     for you
Maybe you have just given up on life
And have folded with that last set of cards
That ended up being an ace of spades
A two of clubs
Seven of hearts
Queen of diamonds
And that joker that you had been waiting for
     the whole game
But look who the joker is now
It's no one but yourself
And you have no one to blame either
But yourself
So you've decided to toss in those cards
And let that anti ride it's way around the camp
Until it may finally get back to you
In some way or form
Unknown at the present time
But you do know
That it was not a regret made
You knew what could and would happen
And you still chose to ride out the hand

Breakfast At Friendly's
by Devon Robbie, Jr., Shelburne

Just this morning she bought me breakfast
because on Mother's Day,
when I took her out to brunch
they weren't serving what I wanted.
She was sorry the world did not suit me,
and I was sorry I had done this to her.

She bought me three eggs,
scrambled to such a frenzy they overtook the plate.
She bought me bacon, curled in a corner.
She bought me orange juice, and coffee --
she bought me four slices of burnt toast.

She sat across the table,
and I couldn't look at her
because I had yelled at her this morning.
Shouted at her because she rushed me.

Her love caught in my throat,
but her eggs, her eggs and her bacon,
they were wonderful.

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