Young people are natural poets, says the poet laureate of Illinois, the gracious and generous Gwendolyn Brooks. They see things and hear and understand things that are lost to weary, jaded adults. For proof, every year she invites all grade school and high school students in the state to enter her Poet Laureate contest. Recently she gave $50 each to 35 young poets. Here is a sampling of her 1993 winners.
MY MOTHER’S DEATH
At my mother’s funeral
people were crying
My grandma cried the most.
My mother was
a beautiful woman
with dark brown eyes
and black and brown hair.
My mother didn’t take no stuff.
And she knew
how to fight.
My mother died
at the age of
thirty-three.
She was a young woman.
My Grandmother
has us now.
Just what
my mother wanted.
– Jessica Patterson, Age 11. Grade 5.
Edward Jenner School, Chicago.
ERROR IN SOCIETY
Is there any justice for our people?
Segregated we stand
and divided we fall.
Unfairly and unequally treated
in a country not our own.
Unable to go back
to where our ancesters are from.
They don’t want us there either.
Where do we belong?
Where is our home?
– Angela Morehead, Age 18, Grade 12.
Morgan Park High School, Chicago
WHEN I WOKE UP THIS MORNING
When I woke up this morning
with a frown on my face,
I thought it was
just another day.
But my mother
helped me to see
that it was blessed
to wake up and see
another day
To be able to come
to school and learn
a new lesson
and return
home
each day.
– John Yates III, Age 11, Grade 5.
Edward Jenner School, Chicago
LIFE SHORT, BULLET FAST
It’s a shame
how Dantrell Davis got killed
While he was going to school
trying to learn his skills.
A seven-year old boy
Couldn’t live to see his next toy.
– Derrick Stumps, Age 11, Grade 5.
Duke Ellington School, Chicago
GHETTO LIFE
His skin blends with the night
as he raises his gun to fire.
Sparks light the air
Just long enough to see the
victim’s dark terror-filled face.
The cry of unsuspecting prey
fills silent space.
Next, the sirens pound
against my eardrums.
”Why!” a weeping mother
wonders.
Gun shots ringing out,
Voices bellowing.
Another ambulance coming,
to clear the drenched,
scarlet pavement;
My heart cries at the thought
of each sound.
Will it ever stop?
Each sound reveals
An unavoidable conclusion
As another Brother lies in the dirt.
– Larissa Jones, Age 17. Grade 12.
Morgan Park High School, Chicago.
WRITER’S BLOCK
The time has come again.
Words are a mirage in the desert.
A dustbowl clouds my mind.
Images are as scarce as water.
Creating a poem is slower
than a camel’s crawl.
My thoughts are dry,
dry as the molten sand.
– Dominick Storelli, Age 17. Senior.
Rolling Meadows High School, Rolling Meadows.
MY DINOSAUR DREAMS
When I close my eyes
I can see fields of dinosaurs.
Then when I open my eyes again
the dinosaurs have disappeared.
So I close my eyes once more
so that I can see
the wonderful creatures
of long long ago.
– Lauren James, Age 7, Grade 2
John Atgeld School, Chicago
W.E.B.
W.E.B., the Journalist,
the Historian,
the Sociologist, the Philosopher.
You have shown the world
what you can do.
To love work, to love people,
to love play.
To be able to look back at your life
and be proud
There were things to be done
and you did them.
For you death was a privilege,
not a punishment.
The only possible death
is to have life
and not use it wisely.
What you have left
must be carried on.
I must continue.
– Peter Johnson, Age 14. Freshman.
Hales Franciscan High School, Chicago.
MY FISH
My fish swims and he sleeps.
He rolls over.
And I feed him a lot.
And his name is Jovan.
And he is fat.
He swims by his castle.
And he likes his friends.
– JaJuan McDonald, Age 6. Grade 1.
Edward Jenner School, Chicago.
THE EAGLE KNOWS
The eagle knows
just where to go
to find supper
for the young.
The eagle can hear
screeching cries
from her baby.
Is it a predator
or just a scared eaglet?
The eagle knows
what each screech means
and hurries back
to feed her kin.
– Ezquiel Escamilla, Age 16. Grade
10, Benito Juarez High School, Chicago.
TROUBLED
She came to me
in great despair and confusion,
there were so many questions
to be answered.
She asked, What is religion?
What does it mean to love?
Why is there war?
Why is my Christmas
always so depressing?
I don’t know what’s going on.
We took a stroll, in it we conversed.
This was all for her own good.
We walked back and forth,
I spoke of my past life
and she spoke of hers,
some questions were answered
and some
remained unanswered
It was concluded
that her downfall will soon rise
and there will be nothing
to worry about
at least
until the next one arrives.
(Dedicated to Raquel
whereever she is.)
– Juan Romo, Age 18. Grade 12,
Benito Juarez High School, Chicago.
THE FLOWERS RISE ONCE AGAIN
The flowers are beautiful
and blooming and growing.
They are coming out
of the green grass,
spreading their petals.
The sun is hitting them.
Then it rains on top of them
and they grow and grow,
until the sun goes away
and they lean over and die.
Then the seed of the same flowers
grows once again
and waits and waits
until the sun rises.
– Evelyn Rivera, Age 13. Grade 7.
District One Middle School, Chicago.
A LITTLE GIRL
A little girl danced
down the warm sands
of a creamy beach
littered with shells.
A giggle escaped
at the water’s tickling
and she gathered
a peary pink shell,
glossy from the waves’ caress.
Abandoned by the waves,
a distorted fish lay.
As she crept to acquire a better look,
a dark shadow kicked
and the corpse shattered
as it pierced the air.
The shadow’s snicker
broke the silence
and hit by a wave of discomfort
was the tiny girl,
A dull ache deep in her heart;
sadness.
A tear kissed her cheek
as she stood motionless.
The pink shell escaped
her hand’s grasp and dropped on the sand below.
– Heejung Kim, Age 14. Grade 8.
Kenwood Academy, Chicago.
PAINTING YOUR IMAGINATION
I stared at my book
of Monet’s drawings.
Dashes of pink, purple, orange
green and yellow
streaked across the paper.
Nothing.
Then my mind began to wander.
I fell asleep and I dreamed
of the picture.
”Welcome,” whispered Tiger Lily,
to the art of your imagination.”
I stood dumbfounded.
All the plants began to talk at once.
Each in its own way.
”Crackle,” said a tree, ”Whoosh,”
answered a colony of geraniums.
I couldn’t understand
in the sense of language
yet I somehow understood
deep down inside
Then, just as I was beginning
to feel the sense of safeness
inside my own imagination,
the wind rushed
by hushing the flowers
by whispering ”shhhhh.”
Then I looked up and I looked
at the painting once more.
Something. Something was different.
The one boring picture
was now alive.
And somewhere buried deep
in my sub-conscious mind
I thought I heard a Tiger Lily
whisper ”Good bye.
Come back again soon.”
– Jessica Carleton, Age 10. Grade 4.
Willowbrook School, Glenview
CHEMICAL KISS
She shoots up beneath her toes
where no one will see the bruises,
checks for any excess
clinging to her nose hairs
or sticking
to the rims of her nostrils.
She hold her eyes halfway open,
never wears false eyelashes.
She rubs vaseline over her lips,
runs her fingers through hair
that falls in clumps to the floor.
She’s a beautiful junkie.
– Jyl Fehrenkamp, Age 17. Grade 12.
Lyons Township High School, La Grange.
THE STARES OF THE BEASTS
The stares of the beasts
burn holes through her.
She looks over the edge of insanity
on to the faces of envy.
Still she walks in silence
devouring the hate
In her mind she devises
peevish schemes
to compensate
for the loss of her innocence.
Beasts continue
to suck the life from her body
She dares
to look the creature in its eyes
and it hides in shame.
Shame for the evils it has inflicted.
– Awilds Lynn Avitia, Age 18. Grade 12.
Bowen High School, Chicago.
MY NEIGHBORHOOD
In my neighborhood
having the right clothes
is just as important as
living through
the next day.
On this block
we play ball
and talk about each other.
We roll down the street
like a posse of
Black cowboys
We all love each other
but we won’t say it.
– Evan Moore, Age 14, Grade 8.
St. Dorothy, Chicago.
SCARED
You’ve got to be scared
Both ways
To know what I mean and
Where I’ve been scared.
Beating on the door
from the outside-
Scared when they let you in.
You are scared.
You want to get out
But
When you get out
You want to get in.
– Travette McCullom, Age 11. Grade 6.
Washington Irving School, Chicago.
THE OTHER WINNING POETS
Jill Baty, 11, Park Ridge
Elena Goldstein, 17, Park Ridge
Monica Hencinski, 7, Darien
Andrea Jones, 16, Chicago
Ashley McGrew, 8, Chicago
Megan McHugh, 11, Park Ridge
Elizabeth Meyers, 18, Lincolnshire
Andrea Miller, 11, Chicago
Jordan Miller, 8, Wilmette
Jim Potsch, 18, La Grange
Michael Puljung, 16, La Grange
Shanell Stampley, 6, Chicago
Juan C. Trevino, 18, Chicago
Nwadonobi Ude, 15, Chicago
Joseph Walker, 9, Chicago
Kawana Wilson, 12, Chicago
