2009 NPM

2009 - National Poetry Month Don't forget our student's poetry.

Untitled
By: Sonya Ashby

For a long and painful time
I pushed you, made you stretch, bent you to my will.
Eventually, you saw reason and succumbed.
Since then we've been together every day
Your support brought me to new heights.
After several years, it appears I pushed too far
your support began to slip, and I began to slide away from you.
You were coming apart at the seams
Your sole was worn.
But you were so cute I kept you around
far longer than I should have.
Even when you caused me pain.
But now I have the courage
to kick you to the curb!
I can tolerate your stench no longer!
I have the courage to go forward in the quest
for a new pair of shoes!

Untitled my attempt at a sestina
By Tia Miller
Through the depths of space,
A companion to waves of light,
Alone among the stars, we travel.
Our journey produces awe
In the eye of a blessed eternity
As our life continues to move

Toward that which only moves
Farther into the humbling space
Between mortality and eternity.
Reaching for the elusive light,
We find no sense of awe
In the darkness through which we travel.

It does not hinder our travel,
Nor does it encourage us to move.
It does not match the awesome
Power of the beacons which are spaced
Like islands, islands of light
That drift unattached through eternity.

And though they appear eternal,
As to their waters we travel,
We cannot depend upon the light
For it, too, is compelled to move
Proceeding through the vast space
Searching for something that brings awe.

For light needs a sense of awe
To counteract its race toward eternity.
And we, seeking the light of space,
Do not realize that, as we travel,
One errant, misplaced movement
Can disrupt the quest of the light.

And to disrupt the quest of the light
Is to erase that which causes awe
And compels the longing heart to move.
Not a single step toward eternity
Can be taken by any traveller
When the light has left this space.

Spaced between the pinpoints of light
We travel the darkness, wrapped in awe
As a slippery eternity continues to move.

The Walk
By: Sharon Blevins

I took a walk today.
I gazed up at a powder blue sky
and felt the warmth of a golden sun on my face.
I found a poem.

I took a walk today.
I lingered lazily at a neighbor's garden
and took in the scent of a lovely red rose.
I found a poem.

I took a walk today.
I strolled slowly through a park
and watched children freely laugh and play.
I found a poem.

I took a walk today.
I stopped for ice cream, vanilla with sprinkles,
and lost myself in the sweet treat.
I found a poem.

I took a walk today.
I counted each step and each blessing
and took time to realize how lucky I am.
I found a poem.

Where I’m From
by Marsha Walsh Jarrell

I’m from Chapmanville,
          Meetinghouse Branch and dirt roads.
I’m from the creek running serenely over the rocks
          and supplying hours of messy fun in the backyard.
I’m from the mountains
          from the old oak tree
          whose outreached limbs always welcome me home.
 
I’m from beans and cornbread
          from fried chicken and potatoes.
I’m from Clorox and Pledge
          and Friday night cleaning.
I’m from Sunday breakfast
          with cinnamon apples, bacon, and eggs
          homemade biscuits and gravy.
 
I’m from the coal mines and slate piles
          from gardening and canning.
I’m from the yours, mine and ours
          three children during the week
          and five children on the weekends.
 
I’m from clotheslines and wire hangers
          from well water and a pump house.
I’m from a laid back attitude and country slang
          from patience is a virtue
          and take your time to do it right the first time.

I’m from hard work and kind words;
          from treat others how you would like to be treated.
I’m from respect your elders
          from honor thy father and thy mother.

I’m from the scrapbook of photos
          under my mother’s bed.
I’m from a cedar chest of memories
          reminding us of where we’ve been
          and those that made the journey with us.
I am from those moments—

Mother Who
by Marsha Walsh Jarrell

Mother who watches her children like a hawk
and asks if everything is all right
who is chicken and dumplings
who is pinto beans and cornbread
whose eyes are emeralds shining bright
is too nervous to let her children grow
who is the voice of reason
who is the rock of the family
can’t get over the empty nest
worries about her youngest daughter the most
who doesn’t live with her anymore
is calling everyday just to check in
who will call around town if she can’t get in touch
is a protectful mother goose
who watches her children fly away
who sits and waits for the next call or visit
asking if everything is all right
who needs me who?

by Marsha Walsh Jarrell

Pap-Paw who limps with a prosthetic leg
and asks how are you honey
who is tobacco and a spit tune
who is a handkerchief and Dickie work pants
whose skin is wrinkled from the sun
is too weak to watch TV today
who tells me I love you honey
who tells me not to go
whose hands are rough yet gentle
can’t work in his garden today
sleeps in his recliner while watching the Western channel
who used to have a booming voice
is gone
is lying in a hospital bed
has come home to die
doesn’t live here anymore
is in the mountain across the road
who is an echo in my head
is an imprint on my heart
who is beef jerky and deer meat
is cattle and tractors and hay bales
who is the apple trees in the orchard
asking who misses him
who misses him who?

The Day my Daddy Cried
by Marsha Walsh Jarrell

I heard the news on Monday night
that my Pap-paw had passed away;
I didn’t get to see my dad
until the morning on Wednesday.
Nearly three days he meticulously worked—
climbing and digging with no pay—
just to give Pap-paw the perfect place
where his body will now lay.
The second time in less than two months
Dad must endure the loss
of burying dear loved ones
with the last name of Walsh.
How can he handle all of this?
How much more can he bear?
Where does he pack this burden?
I wish he could give me some to share.
The family was all gathered
around the Freeman’s tent once more;
the wind gusts blowing wildly
and the snow too much to endure.
As a veteran played TAPS on his horn
while seven others gave the gun salute;
each face in the crowd cringed
when the signal was given to shoot.
I looked for my dad;
he was nowhere in sight.
Maybe he needed a moment alone;
maybe the feelings were too hard to fight.
The preacher said the final prayer
every head bowed and eye closed.
I walked up to the coffin to have my last glance
Then, I saw my dad at the front of the rows.
I ran and threw my arms around him
locked in a tight embrace.
“I love you, Dad,” was all I could say
as I stepped back and looked upon his face.
A single teardrop fell
from under his glasses down his bearded cheek.
I never say this to him;
I always feel too meek.
I will never forget this day;
it will be with me until I die.
This was the day
that I saw my daddy cry.

Time Marches on
By: Sharon Blevins

My mind wanders back
To days long past.
I silently wonder
how time moved so fast.

Crows feet,
Wrinkles,
Hair sprouting gray,
Bones creaking louder
Every day.

A middle getting thick,
No longer thin,
And when, oh when
Did I inherit that double chin?

My wardrobe has changed too,
It has changed plenty,
No low cut shirts,
No skirts that are mini.

I gaze at my reflection
As this "new style" I don.
I shake my head and smile.
Time marches on.
Certain things I can't change,
Any time, any place,
So I'll just keep growing older

With dignity and grace.
I'll look back on my life
With a laugh and a song.
I'll shake my head and smile.

Time marches on.

Midnight Blue
By: Laura Tracy Baisden

When I was nine years old
the midnight blue Crayola
was useless

too light to be black
too dark to be blue
it seemed superfluous
it was an appendix
a tonsil
in the Crayola box

I didn’t know the purpose
of midnight blue
at nine too young
to see the world in shades
other than white or black

I didn’t know midnight blue
is the sound of summer stars
singing their way through the
Perseids meteor showers
on the night a favorite uncle died.

Or that midnight blue is
the smell of Hyacinths whispering
their spring secrets to each other
under porch railings

I didn’t know midnight blue
is George Straight’s voice
A love without end amen
on the afternoon
your best friends sign
divorce papers

I didn’t know midnight blue
is the comfortable companionship
of twenty-three years

the color of passion’s first conflagration
burned down to hot coals and cinders
worth far more than
the initial flames

I didn’t know midnight blue

For Cat Lovers Everywhere
By Judith Ramsey Southard

A dead chipmunk lay on the patio
Its front paws across its chest
As if in prayer,
Its back paws gone.
The neighbors’ chubby, black cat
Her tail held high,
Rubbed her arched back
Against my legs
Meowing for an extra treat
In return for her special gift.
I leaned to rub my hand
Through her sleek black fur,
Glistening in the sun.
Suddenly I pulled back
With a shiver
As in my mind’s eye,
I saw myself the size of the chipmunk
My hands folded across my chest,
My feet gone.

I Am From
By: Rebecca Johnson
I am from “I do”
I am from “Let’s have one more baby”
I am from “Twins! Oh Doc, you’ve got to be kidding”

I am from “God is watching”
I am from “Have you prayed about it?”
I am from “Praise the Lord”

I am from “The bus is up the road!”
I am from “Do your best”
I am from “Do your homework”

I am from “Try it, you might like it”
I am from “I knew you would”
I am from “I am proud of you”

I am from “Keep trying”
I am from “You’ll be sorry if you quit”
I am from “ I knew you could do it”

I am from “I’m glad you’re home”
I am from “When is your next visit?”
I am from “I am proud of you”

I Am
By: Mary L. Hawkins
I am Mother’s crying sobs
I am the mourning dress and deserted shoes
I am an American flag-folded and placed in empty arms
I am the embroidered lace on her handkerchief
I am the bugle somewhere in the tree line
I am the sentiments of friends and neighbors
I am a scared, solemn face
I am a tear
I am a forgotten child

A Random Autobiography
BY: Laura Tracy Baisden

I was born on November 22nd, four years to the day after President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Camelot had passed, and hippies lined the streets of San Francisco, protesting the Vietnam War. My parents hated hippies. They also hated the war. My husband is my best friend. I have one sister; I have one brother. I am an only child. I know a song lyric for every occasion . While I learned to crawl and ride a trike my uncle was doused with agent orange, as he crept through the jungle. I treat my dog like a child because I can’t have children of my own, but I do understand the difference. I struggle to be a Christian of Peace. I don’t like to decorate for holidays. I am an organized, sequential thinker; I enjoy calendars and watches. When I was a kid I only drank Tang because I thought it would help me be an astronaut; I hated Tang. I am an artist and writer. I learned the truth about Santa Clause from my first piano teacher. I could read when I was three years old and when I was six I tried to fail first grade because I didn’t want to be a classroom helper tutoring the retarded kid who sat in the back of the room and ate his boogers. My grandmother died at my grandfather’s funeral. I am a child of the sun and the winter solstice saddens my soul. I am an English teacher. Once while driving I saw a monkey swinging from the guard rails on the turnpike. I saw a teenager on an airplane get arrested by federal marshals. I lived in a haunted house for nine years. I remember how blue and beautiful the sky was on the afternoon of September 11th, as I stood on my deck and watched traffic. Someone bowled a 300 game at the Chapmanville bowling alley that afternoon and now every time I’m there I wonder why anyone went bowling that day. Batman is my favorite super hero, and I wore batgirl pajamas for my entire seventh year. I survive my world through humor. I am resilient.

April Fool
I guess you could call me an April fool.

Several other months come to mind too.

You see I teach school.

To students who

Don’t think learning is a tool.

Five days a week I go to school.

For nine months a year

My lessons I think are cool.

Planned and executed without fear.

Only to be dropped in a muddy pool,

Beside the playground in the rear.

I guess I’ll always be a fool

Because I believe in teaching school.

---

During National Poetry Month,2008, we celebrate by sharing poetry we love, both ours and others. Be sure to check the student work page often during the month of April.

Words
By: Bob Miller 2008
We write thoughts in a composition.
We speak in opposition.
We sometimes make a proposition
Or even an assumption.
But we have to have words

We discribe a sunset.
We tell how we got wet.
We report on a lost pet
Or the friendly person we just met.
But we have to have words.

We sing a song for all to hear.
We read a story about a deer.
We type a page so our thoughts are clear
Or whisper to one who is standing near.
But we have to have words.

We announce the birth of a king.
We promise to be faithful with a ring.
We pray and ask for many things
Or offer escuses for failings.
But we have to have words.

We preach our funeral while we live.
We die and have no more words.

Nancy Terlizzi
I'm from...

I'm from the endless rutty road to Grandpa's farm,
the spring-slamming screen door and smell of sweet clover.

I'm from barefoot summers with a thermos of Kool-Aid on the back porch.

I'm from Mom who always had time for tea parties and homemade tents,
who taught me to cook, sew, and wash the dishes...
...from black-faced, blue-eyed Daddy trudging home from the mines to my gleeful, expectant little face haloed in golden curls.

I'm from Uncle Rossie and Aunt Allene -- simple, sweet and always there.
... from Aunt Ruby's exquisite quilts crafted by work-worn hands
gifted by God.

I'm from homemade bread and cookin' from scratch!
...from honesty, work, and a fighting spirit...

I'm from respecting your elders--watch them stand in awe by my
dying mother's bed.

I'm from loving family more than life.
Yes, I'm from passing on simple beginnings to mine and theirs.

Diversity
Debra Secrist 2008

Sunlight sparkles in morning dew
Sunset's colors changing hues
This world is a beautiful thing to see
Creations made with such diversity

Flowers dance and bob and sway
Flaunting their colors in grand array
This world is a beautiful thing to see
Creations made with rich diversity

Mountains and hills playing games of tag
Trees and wind move in tandem as a flag
This world is a beautiful thing to see
Creations made with loving diversity

Animals of every shape and color
Each different species like no other
This world is a beautiful thing to see
Creations made with thoughtful diversity

As people we are the most diversified of all
Able to enjoy all the splendor and recall
This world as a beautiful thing to see
Created by the Father's hand so lovingly.

Poetry
Bob Miller 2008

Poetry I do not understand.
There are volumes in the bookstands
And forms in every language book
Whenever I decide to look.

There are poems about nature and romance.
Poems about people and the last chance.
Poems that make my heart stand still
And one about two kids and a very steep hill.

Still when it comes to poetry
I think I would rather be
Writing a story about the time
I could not think of a single rhyme.

Dolores Conley

April is the month of rebirth
Piece by piece when mother earth
Reveals to us
infinite colors galore
Lovingly wanting more!!!

What I Wish I’d Known
Peggie B. Hensley
The empty nest is as full as you make it
You can order dessert for the main course
Never loan what couldn’t be a gift
At 40 you’ll be glad you didn’t get what you wanted at 16
Vacation with people you love
Learn something new every week
Use rules to your advantage
You will be warm one day
Get back on the horse
Hair grows back
God’s timing is perfect
Say no (Mean it)
Yucky becomes yummy as you age
Skinny people can be flabby
Virtual reality isn’t
Do something…even if it is wrong
Look; it will be there
You find a use for it when you give it away
Death can be a blessing
Worrying won’t change it
You will wait forever if you’re waiting until it’s perfect
Soft answers DO turn away wrath
Birdseed will feed your wintry spirit, but ruin your lawn
You can disagree 100% while loving 100%
Forgiving heals the forgiver

Gullible
Laura Tracy Baisden

When I'm grown young again
I will grow up sooner.
I will not be so gullible
as to believe
my belly button could deflate me
like a balloon.

I most especially will not listen to my cousin, Kelly
(who never did mature and will still be there
waiting for me)
I will not be convinced
by him that
Earl Hager's gold fish pond
is a new well stocked fishing hole
and that Earl means for us to fish there
any time we like
and take home the fish to granny for a fry.

I will refuse to let Kelly tell me
that the gun is only for play
and, besides,
Grandpa says it's okay
so that when we shoot
it puts a hole right through
Earl Hager's window and into his TV
(which was playing Hee Haw at the time.)

I most especially
without a doubt
will not believe all of these things
in a single day ever again.

I will not ever again
be spanked by mom,
and Granny,
and Grandpa,
and Aunt Sandy,
all in a single day.

Plus pay for a fish pond
and a TV
right out of my very own allowance
(which was being saved for a race car track just like Kelly's)

All while wearing duct tape
over my belly button
because Kelly wanted to deflate me
like a balloon.

Serving the Governor
Laura Tracy Baisden

One night grandmother served dinner
to Governor Underwood
in the green tile dining room
of the Logan Masonic Lodge.
He sat at the table
reserved for dignitaries,
talking to the lodge master
shaking hands with local
republicans.

Of course Grandmother was a republican
just like her parents
and she was used to serving dinner
to politicians
who came to her mother's parlor
on Southern summer Sundays
discussing the union
with Sheriff Don Chaffin.

On the night she served the governor
dinner
he was a young man
with black hair and broad shoulders
who made all the Eastern Star women
sigh
and fan themselves
a little harder
while they waited on line
in the steaming kitchen
for plates to carry to the men.

Those women
jostling for position
moving and squirming
arranging it so they could be the one
carrying the Governor's plate.

But of course Mary Johnson,
whose husband was lodge master,
had the honor of serving
the most important meal;

and grandmother stood behind her
assured she could do this job
better.

And just when Mary
mounted the steps to the podium
she fell,
splattering the Governor's food
over the lace table linens
like blood and gore
from gun shot wounds.

And grandmother deftly stepped in
never missing her mark
and served the Governor
his cold roast beef
as had always been her right.

QUIET
Bob Miller, 2008

The quiet of the woods
Broken by the hum of insects
The cry of a jaybird
The rustle of leaves

A deer stands just off the trail
Watchful, smelling the breeze
Ready to flee if danger comes
Nervous but still

Danger comes with silent footsteps
Clad in the skins of past hunts
Moving like a shadow through the forest
Slipping from tree to tree

An arrow loosed from a taut string
The deer bolts, struck, thrashing
Only a few steps
The woods are quiet

WAKE UP!
Dolores Conley

Wake Up!
Dull white light coming in
You step out
Moist mist kisses the skin
Slow breeze ruffles the hair
The sun comes out
A day in Spring!

Wake Up!
Bright light coming in
You Step out
Sizzling hot heat warms up the skin
Black rolling clouds appear
Thunder! Lightening! Sun disappears
A breeze touches you
The sun pops out
A day in the Summer!

Wake Up!
Dim light coming in
You step out
Colors assault the senses
Cool air nips the nose
Shivers covers the body
A day in Autumn!

Wake Up!
Dark is all around
You Step out
The moon and stars light up the sky
Cold air surrounds you
The body hides behind heavy clothes
A day in Winter!

LOST
Bob Miller, 2008

I shot an arrow
It carried death and could not be recalled
I lost an opportunity
It will never come again
I spoke a word
I could not call it back
An arrow, an opportunity, a word
I controlled each
Where have they gone?