“Write a poem in which you say how much you like a whole lot of different things of a particular kind. You could praise round things, whatever’s blue or orange or purple, sparkling things, flat things, things that are triangular or heavy or new. Begin with one thing--say, an icy window if you’re writing about cold things or square things or white ones--and then just go on naming others as you think of them. When you mention each thing, think of some particular time you’ve seen it, and try to get the way it looked at that time into what you say. One way to do this is to make up a word combination--a combination of words that is so particular, that gets the color and shape and movement of things so exactly, that it could perhaps be used only once, only to describe what you see at that one second in your life--‘skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow.’ You can try alliteration, too, if you like, and rhymes that are inside of lines.”
--from Kenneth Koch and Kate Farrell’s Sleeping on the Wing (Vintage, 1981).
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Burning Scorch
Molten lava, moving like a snail across grove,
burning wood to heat the pan, at the stove.
Flaming blowtorch heating unblemished steel,
propane tanks, they burn the color teal.
Diesel engines, powering grand old cars,
rocket fuel burning to the stars;
luminous light radiated from a torch,
magma buried in the earth's inner forge,
kettle boiling, whistling, for hot tea,
spontaneous combustion, suddenly scorching me.
Match being lit with friction, after which smoke.
Laser tools in preventing a crippling stroke. --J.A.C.
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#1
Her feelings she hides
the dreams she can’t find
she’s loosing her mind
she’s falling behind
she can’t find her place
she’s losing her faith
she’s fallen from grace
she’s all over the place --B.B.
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I felt the ocean.
It felt so cold.
Like winter.
I like winter.
The way snow falls.
The way it gently kisses the ground.
How it falls by the pound.
Ice cream is sold by the dollar.
Made in the ice-cold rooms.
Packaged with a green lid.
To be sold to small kids.
Cold hands are deadly.
They are the product of dead animals.
They end up in the sky. --I.C.
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I like windows,
round windows,
square windows,
big windows,
small windows.
I like windows that are blue,
or yellow,
or maybe even red.
I prefer the windows with patterns around them,
like flower patterns.
I like windows with ice around them:
It looks pretty, how the ice curves around the window.
I like that you can have the ability to see through windows.
Windows are like superheroes.
They are like gossip.
That windows tell you about the outside world
is why I love them. --C.D.
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I like doors. Doors amuse me.
I like doors that are round from the top, and I like square doors.
I like wood doors. I like glass doors.
In my room I have a square wooden door.
When you think about it, doors are like you’re hiding something
because you can go into a room and lock them.
I hide things a lot. That’s why I like doors.
I like doors with the locks on the doorknob, not under it.
I also like doors with handles that you have to push down,
Not handles you have to turn.
Doors can hide you from the world and sometimes keep you safe.
That’s why I like doors. --R.E.
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Oranges on the counter in the kitchen.
Super cars at a stop light.
Fox photos on the Internet.
Tigers zooming at the zoo.
Big pumpkins in my friends’ backyard.
Carrots in the giant garden.
Cheez-its in the back of my bedroom.
Drinking real Fanta at a restaurant.
Eating Cheetos out of a big bag.
Candy corn in a beautiful bowl.
Butterflies in Palmer Park.
Eating Popsicles in my fantastic front yard. --M.F.
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Kings of Space
The mountain sits still, low but still tall;
Near is a broad lake supporting endless lives;
Above it the spacious sky, where there is no stopping;
Beneath it the earth on which we walk--we could walk forever.
Above the planet, far above, there is a star that brightly shines;
It brings warmth to even the largest consumers of space.
It is the greatest. --J.H.
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Circular Sphere
A circular Sphere in the sky--
some say of cheese, but I ask why.
Bouncing on the ground,
flying lower every bound;
oh, circular sphere on the ground,
Flying through the air so high--
Flying fast though the end is nigh,
oh, circular sphere, don’t fly by.
Hot molten core,
Through the vacuum space you soar;
Oh circular sphere below, where we chore,
don’t be bothered by our war. --C.M.
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I thank the heavens for things that are warm,
The fire that warms us, playful and kind,
For the torch that guides us, wise and old,
For the sparks from the fireworks, young and spirited,
The elf-like sparks that form from the lighter,
The dragon-like flame that explodes from the flame thrower,
All this heat all different, yet all the same.
All this heat, thick or thin,
What is it, tiny fickle or giant flames?
Some swift, some strong,
All the same,
All beautiful,
All part of the flame. --L.M.
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I love the early evening
The cold dark and its sparkling stars
The smell of wetness of the road with cars
The way the ice forms on the window
And how it melts when the sun shines
Making sparkling ice designs
I love the smell of fresh tea
How it makes me feel free
I like way snowflakes fall
The way they settle lightly on the ground
Wants to make me take flight
Where snowflakes small
Sit on the ground and shine
When Christmas things are being sold
I really like the cold --J.R.
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“BEAUTIFUL” stayed in my head
as the beauty of the word “beautiful” turned grey
and all that was left was radiation that greyed the sky.
When it happened, it was quite beautiful.
All that stood around me were mushroom clouds
that soon started to swirl in a formation.
I recognized it, it was home in 2013.
I saw a whole other universe that looked just like today.
It looked clean, warless and breath taking.
It was an arm’s reach away. I could almost touch it.
I reached and fell, and it was gone.
I realized that this is my world and this is my home.
I must stay here and fix what we have started. --S.T.
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Dread
Death is a nuisance, one to be ignored.
We must learn to live without the fear of losing.
Fear is one thing not to be underestimated,
An element to be faced,
Not disgraced.
Suffering is what those do who lose,
And talk about a football game, I do not.
Speak of those who have lost their loved ones, I do.
They are the ones who cry but move on.
For they have learned
That mourning over the past is something.
However, those we mourn for, would want us to move on.
Mourning over someone until their buried body rots
Simply isn’t showing respect.
Everyone lives once.
Some think they may live a second life born differently.
Whether you believe it or not,
It’ll be easier to live life as we were born to,
Free. --M.V.G.
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Realm of the Dead
I reel in amazement as I recall the things that are dead—
The ones whose lives have come to a sudden end;
A bird with feathers of white and brown, falling into the cold hard ground;
Pictures of corpses in black and white, a time when days were dark year-round;
Directed by talented people world-wide, the twenty-six ways one could ever die;
Toying with the eyes of a steamed poor soul, dinner is served in East Shanghai.
Dead things, queer things, dried blood and ants;
Objects of rotted, decomposing flesh;
Things that have expired of its use;
Just like the dead computer on my lap:
Why. --B.W.
