Bird Leaves


it’s not very wonderful when the leaves escape,

skittering over the muck hand in hand with the wind.

we need to pin their fragile bodies down

and shove them into stiff brown paper leaf bags.

is it odd that we entomb these tree-children in

the pulverized entrails of their cousins?

would it be better if we left them, soggy and dissolving in the mud,

interlaced with grass, to liquefy and pass away from us?

to nourish the sprightly greenness of a spring lawn

to weave into the food chain rightful place, to feed the worms!

better? that is questionable. but every time the wind comes calling,

I do what I have always done, and see the brave few leaves that leave,

away across the pastel evening, singing through the chill blue rush of air

escaped from the rake like birds set free

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A Tree Stump Poem

I was the best in the field,

and yet my owner cut me down,

Now I have become a short,

sad tree stump for now.

 

Once I was a towering tree,

the bravest and tallest giant of the woods to thrive,

Holding onto my leaves like an umbrella for humans,

happy to be alive.

 

And then I was cut down in pieces,

and sold for my parts,

Headed to a factory,

and then to supermarts.

 

You may have broken me down,

but still you use me everywhere,

From lumberjack to factory,

my life has never been fair.

 

I can be used for writing words and numbers,

acting as both required,

Or in the cold, frigid, winter months,

you burn me for your fire.

 

But now I have been cut –

a tree stump just sitting here I will rot,

alone and abandoned for more than a year.

 

And yet I still have faith,

and courage to shoot up again,

Become taller and stronger,

unable to be cut by men.

 

But for right now, I will just be staying here,

My back aching from the bumps I got,

So I shall just remain a sad little tree stump.

 

-Lynette M. Hemingway, 8th grader

Halloween Poem

On a hazy, moonless, October night,
The house glowed with an ominous light,
Like a moth to a flame,
The man was drawn just the same,
Through the creaky door,
The man heard a wailing roar,
Every hair raised on the back of his neck,
He pondered whether to leave or to check,
To the contrary of what he first saw,
The room was now as dark as a black cat’s paw,
He stumbled in and to his dismay,
The man felt breathing every which way,
The lights flashed on as he heard “Surprise!”,
He was surrounded by red beady eyes,
The man was never seen again,
And that house remains a vampire’s den.

Poem about Older Run -Gary Paulsen

After reading “Older Run” by Gary Paulsen, I had decided to make a poem to help me better understand the story. I also decided to write it in first person as well, with the main character being Paulsen himself with his dogs on a sleigh full of meat.

 

Older Run Poem- First Person                                                               Michael Hemingway

It was a freezing day through the mist and the fog,

But in my very sleigh were ten distinct dogs,

They were diverse sizes, ages, and different breeds,

And of course there I was in the lead,

I kept them on with meat, a lot of pounds,

We spoke no words,  made no sounds,

It was an open run until we reached the trestle/bridges,

By then my hand was entirely frigid,

As we tried passing, I noticed the absence of wood,

There was no snow, but I’d try to save the dogs, if I could,

I tried everything although there was only one way,

Leave the dogs and drag my sleigh,

For a while I, Mr. Paulsen, believed this ride had no purpose,

Until the sight of dogs left me wordless,

After the dogs had run away,

Cookie had brought the dogs and saved the day!

The Dream

large forest at night with a full moon in the sky

 

I dreamt I was in a forest

Surrounded by shadows of clinking tree branches

In the pitch-black night

The cool white moonlight

Around my pale reflection

In a dried-up stream bank

 

I dreamt I heard noises

CRACK.

I whip around

Nothing

And yet when there was really something there

I failed to notice.

 

I dreamt and feared the endless emptiness

In the misty woods

And my surrounded isolation

But I settled into the warm ground

Dead leaves, moss, and brush

And I fell asleep, shivering, in the freezing air

 

I dreamt I then woke

To a coyote curled next to me in the leaves

And above me a mouse that barked

 

I dreamt this was not a dream

I dreamt that this dream I dreamt was real

I dreamt I dozed off again to dream on the forest floor

 

And when I woke up

I was alone.

 

-Marie Walters (May 2018)

night swimming

bright full moon in a dark, slightly cloudy sky

wet tinted goggles give the moon a fractured halo

of faint chaotic cobwebs spinning white and gold

the water is full of dancing flashing shadows

faint songs drift over from the carnival next door

the soft smooth darkness blurs the leaves

that whisper through the windlessness

you drip on the deck in the empty air

in a clammy towel, water slips down your spine

around the porch light doomed moths spiral

their quiet wings flash across your eyes

and fireflies surprise you in the night.

Summer Light Becomes (Nove Otto Poem)

photo of the sunDelightful day on summer’s dawn
Calms me so much it brings a yawn
To behold the sight is magic
The sun creeping out of the night
The joy of the light brings no fright
Though the end of peace is tragic
But bird calls are hymns of nature
Elegance of noise manifested by this creature


This is a new style of poetry I tried out, it’s nine lined with eight syllables each line with a rhyme scheme of aacbbcddc. You can read up on it on this site.