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UNDER MY HEAD IS FIRE: Poems from students at an HAC-funded middle school
Downtown - by
In downtown the air is as painful as a kick in the butt. The road is as green as dew. I keep my hands in my shoes. I try to make myself fat. I try to imagine moving through a heaving crowd of rabbits without touching a single flea.
In downtown strange feet are below. Under my head is fire.
A kid sings into a hole in a tree, his feet nearly missing me as I pass by. This is nighttime, but in daytime the seats and cabs are smaller. Two infants sit on great whales by the dull teeth of fish, as if they feel pain. A baby yells out that she is selling candied sand apples on a stick. A crowd of drunken birds swells out of a doghouse and crashes into the hard pillow of clouds above. The smell of dog poop. Tape, tape, tape.
Books, like mine, thrown against the cold. We leave downtown on a purple day. We ride the carpets through fire. We leave the tears that surround Hong Kong. We leave the brick people and haylike, crying grass of American streets.
People speed by. Dogs fly and fall by. And I am yelling very softly, but not softly enough for Carlos, who is dozing off on the toilet to listen. "I smell you, land. I smell you downtown."
The firelog stacks and mudyards recede on the water. Goodbye, happy people. Goodbye, happy, happy people.
Art - by Christy B.
Four plain pictures
circles and lines,
Newspaper clippings, photo
The Kitchen - by Marisela V.
the whole family
a bird family
parents, Pedro, Marisela
young little girl
"Pass the bread"
dirty dishes washed
suddenly it's silent
only birds singing
The Poem is Calling - by Kala B.
The poem is calling
The poem lies
Only people know what they feel like.
If only people could follow
The Baby Tree - by Ambereen A.
I moved to a
Colors in My Mind - by Brittany K.
In my mind I see
Versas Me Gusta - by Guadalupe R.
en la puerta de mi casa
pajarito coloradito aletea
suspiro sobre suspiro
mi madre es una rosa
The Night - by Katie G.
It's quiet outside. It's only me. The wind is blowing and it's sweeping my hair with it; it looks like a flag on a windy day trying to escape from the pole. I can hear the trees shuffling with the wind, the grasses rubbing against one another, and the crickets chirping. If you look up from all of this you can see a sheet of dark blue with tiny glittering stars spread out. Then, if you mix all of this together, it is like a slow song, and it makes you want to sleep.
Writing Like Jazz - by Michael N.
The Mirror- by Omar G.
I look in the mirror,
All you have to do is look.
Ode to My Neighborhood - by Edward G.
The tin cans in my neighborhood look really bad in the ditches. Many of them are beer cans. I see men picking them up from trash cans and anywhere else they see them. Maybe they need them for money. I just hope I don't ever need to do that. Graffiti on the walls of stores. I hear people yelling and laughing because they are drunk. I smell the beer that people leave outside. I see gangsters messing with drug dealers. I feel that this is all going to come to an end soon, because they are buying the old houses in my neighborhood and building big, new houses, in my neighborhood.
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