Juste une petite poeme

Je ne sais pas qui je suis,

Et ca ne me plaisir aucun,

Et quand je m'ai vu dans ses yeux,

J'ai vu seulement la lune.

What If?

If we always dreamt,
and yet never slept,
would we still believe
that are lives are not over yet?

If we all climbed mountains
up high into the sky,
would we still have reasons
to sit in the corner and cry?

What if we never thought,
and all of life was one dream?
Would we become quite lost,
like small goldfish in a large stream?

What if life was never-ending,
a maze with no escape,
would we become deformed,
victims of a god's mistake?

Introduction to English

The instructor said,

Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you---
Then, it will be true.

*

But it is not that easy.

I am thirteen, white, born in Sacramento.

I often worry about problems that are not mine nor mine to solve.

I schooled myself when I was younger by reading a great many classics-

Heidi, Call of the Wild, A Little Princess…

I went to a small school in the town that I grew up in

Good old Redwood City.

Then I kept changing schools;

Woodland, Springer, Loyola, Covington

And then to Castilleja.

I am the only person in my class who is constantly changing,

Neither here nor there.

The small flight of stairs from the green door lead down into the parking lot,

Where I hop in my car and drive to my home,

Passing a buzzing place full of life-Castro Street

Ending up at my quiet house on Whisman Avenue,

Where I end up sitting at my crate and barrel desk,

Where I type this page for you.

*

In truth, it is not easy for me to know the answers

At thirteen, my age.

But I do know that true friends last a lifetime,

and so do most differences between people.

And though you may be my teacher,

and I do learn much from you,

you do as well from me.

Even though you are older, and wiser,

and a little less bound.

Realization

The mountain pierces through the tall cloud’s shimmer

Shattering their tranquility

stirring up the clouds and brewing a storm.

See the marvelous coats of white as they snake their way down the mountain,

embracing their enemy. They circle it,

ensnaring it with words whispered lightly on a freezing morning

sending tendrils of smoke to the sky

where they gather forming one thing:

perhaps a consciousness or thought that then falls down like dust upon the heads of sleeping children,

who wake to find themselves in a land of clouds.

Eclipse

This is the hour of silence,

a dream of days and nights linked together

like the soft hands of a mother and child.

The sky, soft, melting into the lakes of dawn, and

the relaxed lakes floating to mingle with the sky.

An ant turns over a small pebble, then scurries away,

leaving the rock alone, foreshadowed by the large hill in its wake;

blotted out against the sparkling night sky.

Now is the hour when the children sleep

and the moment between dawn and day,

where even the brave rooster doesn’t dare to

crow.

Speechless

*Dedicated to my seventh grade English teacher, Mrs. Ware*

There will be a wordless day

when we may all wash off the dust and grime that has found its home inside of our very minds.

It will be like the meadows after a fresh rain,

wet and joyous,

ready to host new life.

The mountains, tall and strong, dominating the landscape,

shall bow to us for once,

and the trees will all sway in our presence.

We all hold storms within our gates, and vast oceans in our minds.

Release them and the world will breathe a new breath of life.

Until then, we will be forced to sit and wait under the dusty surface that is

normality.