“Foul Shot”
by Edwin A. Hoey
With
two 60s stuck on the scoreboard
And
two seconds hanging on the clock,
The
solemn boy in the center of eyes,
Squeezed
by silence,
Seeks
out the line with his feet,
Soothes
his hands along his uniform,
Gently
drums the ball against the floor,
Then
measures the waiting net,
Raises
the ball on his right hand,
Balances
it with his left,
Calms
it with fingertips,
Breathes,
Crouches,
Waits,
And
then through a stretching of stillness,
Nudges
it upwards.
The
ball
Slides
up and out,
Lands,
Leans,
Wobbles,
Wavers,
Hesitates,
Plays
it coy
Until
every face begs with unsounding screams--
And
then
And then
And then,
Right
before ROAR-UP,
Drives
down and through.
“The Microscope”By Maxine Kumin
Anton Leuwenheok was
Dutch
He sold pincushions,
cloth, and such,
The waiting townsfolk
fumed and fussed
As Antons dry good
gathered dust.
He worked, instead of
tending store,
At grinding special
lenses for
A microscope. Some of
the things
He looked at were :
mosquitoes wings
the hairs of sheep,
the legs of lice,
the skin of people,
dogs, and mice;
ox eyes, spiders’
spinning gear,
fishes’ scales, a
little smear
of his own blood.
and best of all
the unknown, busy,
very small
bugs that swim and bump and hop
Inside a simple water
drop.
Impossible! Most
Dutchman said.
This Anton’s crazy in
the head.
We ought to ship him
off to Spain.
He say he’s seen a
housefly’s brain.
He says the water that
we drink
Is full of bugs. He’s
mad , we think!
They called him
dumkopf, which means dope.
That's how we got the
microscope.
“Lineage”
By Margaret Walker
My grandmothers were strong.
They followed plows and bent to toil.
They moved through fields sowing seed.
They touched earth and grain grew.
They were full of sturdiness and singing.
My grandmothers were strong.
My grandmothers are full of memories
Smelling of soap and onions and wet clay
With veins rolling roughly over quick
hands
They have many clean words to say.
My grandmothers were strong.
Why am I not as they?
“A
Secret Sonnet”
By
Sara Holbrook
I gently plucked a kiss form your left ear
and softly slipped it there, beneath your chin.
Sh….sh…we mustn’t let the parents hear.
Shriek! They’ll stomp and holler, “Mortal sin.”
Let’s not announce this so our friends will know.
Please, keep this interaction off the news.
They’ll set alarms, keep asking “Yes or no?”
Tick tock—the clock---and we will have to choose.
On one side, half will moan we went too far.
The rest will mock us, screaming out for more.
Reactions! You will spring to arm your guard
and I will shrink to barricade the door.
Entrenched in public we will sadly miss
the private chance to savor just one kiss.
“We Real Cool”By Gwendolyn Brooks
We real cool. We
Left school. We
Lurk Late. We
Strike straight. We
Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We
Jazz June. We
Die soon.
“Every Cat Has a Story”
by Naomi Shihab Nye
The
yellow one from the bakery
smelled
like a cream puff-
she
followed us home.
We
buried our faces
in
her sweet fur.
One
cat hid her head
while
I practiced violin.
But
she came out for piano.
At
night she played sonatas
on
my quilt.
One
cat built a secret nest
in
my socks.
One
sat in the window
staring
up the street all day
while
we were at school.
One
cat loved
the
radio dial
One
cat almost
smiled.
Hoods
by Paul B. Janeczko
In
black leather jackets,
watching
Spider work
the
wire coat hanger
into
Mrs. Koops car,
they
remind me of crows
huddled
around a road kill.
Startled,
They
looked up,
then
back
as
Spider,
who
nodded once, setting them free
toward
me.
I
bounded away,
used
a parking meter
to
whip me around the corner
past
Janelli's meter
the
darkened Pine Street Grille,
and
the steamed windows
of
Sudsy's Modern Laundromat.
I
climbed-two at a time-
the
granite steps
of
the Free Public Library
and
pushed back thick wooden doors
as
the pursuing pack stopped-
sinners
at the door of a church.
From
the corner table of the reference room
I
watched them
pacing,
head
turning every time the door opened,
pacing,
until
Spider arrived
to
draw them away.
I
waited, fingering hearts,
initials
carved into the table,
grinning
as I heard myself telling Raymond
of
my death-defying escape.
“English a Second
Language”
The underpaid young teacher
Prints the letters t, r, e, e,
On the blackboard images
forests and gardens springing up
in the tired heads of her students,
but they see only four letters
a vertical beam weighed down
by a crushing crossbar
and followed by a hook,
and after the hook
two squiggles
arcane identical twins
which could be spying eyes
or ready fists, could be handles
could be curled seedings, could take roof “
could develop leaves.
“A Trip on the Staten Island Ferry”
By Audre Lorde
Dear
Jonno
There
are pigeons who nest
On
the Staten island ferry
And
raise their young
Between
the moving decks
And
never touch the ashore
Every
voyage is a journey –
Cherish
this city
Left
you by default
Include
it in your daydreams
There
are still secrets
In
the streets
Even
I have not discovered
Who knows if the old man
Shinning shoes on the Staten island ferry
Carry their world in
that box
Slung across their shoulders
If they share their lunch
With the birds flying
Back and fourth
If they ever find their way back home
“Harlem
Hopscotch”
By Maya
Angelou
One foot down, then hop! It’s hot.
Good things for the ones that’s got.
Another jump, now to the left.
Everybody for hisself.
In the air, now both feet down.
Since you black, don’t stick around.
Food is gone, the rent is due,
Curse and cry and then jump two.
All the people out of work,
Hold for three, then twist and jerk.
Cross the line, they count you out.
That’s what hopping’s all about.
Both feet flat, the game is done.
They think I lost. I think I won.
“Ducking out”
by Sara Holbrook
A drive-by.
It’s a hit-and-run
by hurt.
You need to cry
to bleed your pain.
A little shower now,
just might avoid a
hurricane.
“Whoa!”
You’re lighting fast with verbal fists,
your anger stabs and stabs the air.
“It wasn’t me!”
I step aside to duck.
It doesn’t mean that I don’t care.
I can’t answer for the hurt,
and I can’t’ tell you what to do.
I can wrap your wounds with love,
but I won’t bleed for you.
Finals By Sara Holbrook
The accident.
The news.
Sped like a
lighted fuse
to dynamite
our homeroom.
Facts were scattered
and confused.
Who was
driving?
At what
speed?
What road?
What curve?
What time?
How Bad?
Oh, god.
Which tree?
Respirator.
Coma.
Lifeflight.
CPR
Today’s
vocabulary words,
new
adjectives
for “car”
The explosion
left us staring,
unresponsive
with fixed
eyes
at
that blasted
empty desk.
No retakes.
No good-byes.
Lies by Sara
Holbrook
I got burned, but
you can’t say I was abused.
I’m just down
and feeling used.
My eyes are dark
but dry,
no one knows
about the lie.
I never should have smiled
and said
that everything’s all right.
I should have said,
“Hold on,”
but I’m scared to spark a fight.
When I’m all bugged up
in smiles,
I can’t say I’m victimized.
This arson is my crime.
I set fire to my insides
with a lie,
a smile
that let my hurting
hide.
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