Poetry
I walk where the world is cold,
where the Devil will retire in hell
and ask God for a soul, afraid He’ll say no.
Stars become scared when darkness falls
and streetlights become un-hunched;
when lights blink on,
and trees whistle at me.
I'm surrounded by abandoned thoughts
sleeping on the sidewalk homeless,
creating cracks.
I’m afraid to step on them
‘cause they may break my mother’s back,
and then her thoughts may be abandoned.
Riding the sidewalk’s neighbor, the curb,
I become a stray,
digging through left over thoughts
to see if they’re living,
‘cause thoughts can’t live without minds
and minds can’t live without me.
The Boogeyman lives in the light
‘cause the darkness scares him.
I've seen corpses come back alive,
beating on the door of the coffin
‘cause they see pirates
playing hide and seek in the darkness.
They believe they’ve never died.
Tears hike back up the cheeks
of those that were called mistakes,
drown themselves in hopes of being corrected.
Necks hang draped over, like necklaces,
but it’s only life, I see this way.
Reonna Barnes
Henry Ford Academy
Certificate of Merit - Michigan Youth Arts Article# 867, Created Jun. 6, 2006 :: Last Update: Jun. 4, 2009
Like the first sprout of grass
On the first day of spring
A signal of new birth
Fresh from the earth’s womb
Supported by the reflection
Of the sky on the water
Sort of like the color that spills
Out when a song plays and puts
You to sleep
With the sun’s promise of a new day
Bringing joy to the world
With each of its rays
That ripen fruit and better the taste
That shine on the hair that complements
Her face
Which shows the color of blood to be true
Olaposi Omishope
Cass Technical High School
Certificate of Merit - Michigan Youth Arts Article# 866, Created Jun. 6, 2006 :: Last Update: Jun. 4, 2009
I went to the urban fiction section
(previously named African American Lit
until an angry Lit Professor demanded a change)
and was surprised to find
that Love had been overshadowed
by nipple rings
and rough ashen hands,
that suddenly it was squished
between gun fights
and bleeding noses
that quietly vomited their breakfast of white powder.
Love sat like a crazy bum on the porch
of an abandoned building
talking to itself in amazement
as it watched urbanity wander around it,
laughing at it for its antiquity.
And I tried to help Love escape,
but I think
the gun fights
and bleeding noses
had pressed against it so hard
that its ears had popped
and it couldn’t hear my call.
Lena Cintrón
Cass Technical High School
Certificate of Merit - Michigan Youth Arts Article# 865, Created Jun. 6, 2006 :: Last Update: Jun. 4, 2009
One day while sitting in class,
I was told that love was abstract.
It's not something that affects any of your five senses.
but I'm thinking that’s senseless.
how could that be?
love is the feeling of his arms wrapped around me
as he embraces me in a deep hug,
that's the feeling of love
Love is the sight of a child’s face as they tear
open red and green wrapping paper December 25th,
at 5:30 in the morning.
They were able to do so because
Santa said they had been a good,
That’s the sight of love.
Love is the smell of big mama's chicken
Sunday afternoon right after church,
preparing for dinner and skipping lunch.
It is the kitchen table filled with soul food stuff.
That's the smell of love.
Love is the taste of the sweetest kiss
ever placed upon lips
that can’t be replaced,
Sugary sweet like cotton candy fluff.
That’s that the taste of love.
Love is the sound of a mother's heartbeat,
heard by a new born baby.
A steady beat that calms the little one just because
it's their mother.
That's the sound of love.
Love is someone singing a lullaby to a five year old
until they drift off to sleep,
where they'll dream of being superheroes
though you're the one that wants to protect them.
That is how you speak of love.
Love affects every one of my senses,
so I’m convinced it’s concrete
Myriha Burton
Crockett Technical High School
Honorable Mention - Michigan Youth Arts Article# 864, Created Jun. 6, 2006 :: Last Update: Jun. 4, 2009
Sound should quiet down.
I go out, and there is a headache all around.
RING, BAM, WHOOSH.
Sound won’t stop slapping me!
Sound needs to leave my room.
Sound makes my floor creak.
These keystrokes hurt my ears.
STOP READING THIS SO DAMN LOUD!!
Sound informs me, “IIIII’MMMMMM AAAAAAAAANOOOOOOOOOYYYYYINNGâ€Â
Article# 863, Created Jun. 6, 2006 :: Last Update: Jun. 4, 2009
I am a prisoner of words
Constantly on the chopping block
Thrown before my peers
as if I were a prized pig
And yet I am a slave to
my craft like a blacksmith
To iron
I constantly mold and misshape
these lyrics to my liking
Bound to this game by my
Heart and hands
Shackled by rhyme, diction, similes,
And metaphors
I am a prisoner of words
I am a slave to my craft
I am bound by my heart
I am a lyricist.
Jacquelyne Galloway
Mumford High School
Winner 2008 Lotus Press Award Article# 862, Created Jun. 6, 2006 :: Last Update: Jun. 4, 2009
After Rene Magritte's "The Lovers"
After I said I do,
I felt like I couldn't.
He changed before my eyes
as if he were a t.v,
changed with the flick of a button.
I remember when he reached
eight of his fingers
around my neck,
thumbs extended,
he shook me
until the White Diamond perfume fell
to the floor, in pace with me:
fast like a balloon filled with cement.
I gripped his pant leg
begged for him,
this sheep in G-unit clothing,
to stop.
But he didn't.
Maybe this man-child
was afraid I'd leave.
So I never left.
I shall always be his
his nothing wrapped in mystery,
the stranger he lusts after,
his emotionless bride.
Rowena Jackson
Detroit International Academy Article# 861, Created Jun. 6, 2006 :: Last Update: Jun. 4, 2009
