poetry_3ksn2y – Page 8 – "2:25 PM" – Poems from Lexington High School Class of 2018

Michael H // THE PLASTIC SPOON

The curve of the shallow bowl edge.
The smoothness of the handle’s end.

The plastic material
Which allows you to see through clearly.

The spoon is truly a wonderful tool.
Without it,
How would you eat soup or cereal?
With a fork or knife,
That would be a struggle.

The glaring reflection
That comes off with the light,
Shines in your eye
As you look down on the spoon.

They may only be used for a small number of foods
But they excel at what they do.
While a plastic spoon may not be very complicated
It is definitely very convenient.

Chloe Hofland // FINGERTIPS

The world sitting comfortably at my fingertips
Full control
Power slips out of my lips
No cares, no worries, emptied my soul
They did not stay home long
They slipped away
My world no longer a sweet song,
Rather a word no one wanted to say

I held on tight
Strings accentuated by frey
I couldn’t win the fight
I had to accept this was ok.

It did not come easy,
But with time I learned to adapt
At points without my power, I felt uneasy
I felt so vulnerable, a present that had been unwrapped
Change was necessary,
To become a better me,
It may have been scary,
I was closed off for so long, I finally found the key.

Johnny Cowdrick // FROSTY AIR

Winter is a white time placed in between warmth

Cold ice under your boots
Cold air bitting your face

Pine trees snow covered
January sun reflecting off of the snow blinding you

The frigid spruce
The clinking and clanking of bells

Winter holds the darkest day of the year
And always good wishes

Candy cane breath
The peppermint bliss

Ho, Ho, Ho, the cheerful stretch of year

Aidan K // MY SECOND HOME

The longer i have been away, the more unaccomplished I feel
The feeling of the sun, glistening off the reflective turf

To my second home
The bike ride is never easy
Twenty minutes, pushing up and down hills
Peddling, I wonder, when I arrive, will I be able to play on the fields?
Will there be people to play with?
So many questions involving one joyous idea,
To see the beautiful fields and to feel goals

Arriving at my second home today,
A few of my questions are answered:
Yes the fields are open
Yes my friends are there to play
The chance to shoot on a goal.
As I prepare myself,
My chest swells
My heart thumps
My eyes focus
I b-r-e-a-t-h-e in deeply and smile,
as the ball curls, gently, into the upper netting
of the goal.
A task
so seemingly easy: kick the ball into the gaping space
Little goals in life require hard work

At my second home
What I do is never predefined
I can do whatever my heart pleases.
Work, or mess around
Either way I’m satisfied
Relish the moment

In my second home, I’m working
In my second home, I’m living
In my second home,
I am accomplished.

Anya G. // I MET AN ALIEN ONCE

When I was young,
I had dreams of,
Aliens that sung,
In the stars above.

I thought of the black sky,
The bright suns,
Endless, to the human eye.

I swear I met an alien that one time,
When the sky was full of stars,
It was sublime,
But now he’s behind bars.

My grandad told me to never tell,
But he saw an alien too,
And said it was hell.

Now I lie awake,
Gazing towards Mars,
Wondering if the alien was fake,
And dreaming of life beyond the stars.

Elizabeth Enright // MOBIUS GREEN

The leper, deep in sorrow.
At moon rise, in the barley field,
He devours a child.
—Jeong-Ju Seo, trans. Heejung Sim

I am the slow-steady flow
Of water draining
Around you. Pooling
Around ankles
Listless
When stopped.

My fishbowl lenses
Curve the world,
Suspend my eyes in
Clear light so
You can’t see me.

I pour my tea
Amber down my throat
As though the solute-world
Would crystallize.

I have a terrifying character
It slips from my ears
Or drips from my lips.
I will not repent.

I spin in off-kilter worlds.
Retrograde rotation
Of me around the sun.
Pinpricks in shoulders,
Dull unease.
I drown in air.

In mobius-strip dreams
I punch patterns in
Bound brown rice paper
Stretched in looping reams.

I know green emotion
Moss haze in swimming pool,
Tendril swamp.

I know the death drive
And the leper too:

I have silos inside
I store sorghum dusk-crimson,
I need to survive. Even if
I need to eat the child,
I will not repent.

Maya Lurie // YOUR POETRY

I can’t tell you what it should be
But I think I have an idea
Of the things my eyes see
Upon hearing your words of poetry.

It’s a dense forest.
You’ve lost your way
But the strong smell of pine trees
Gives you an escape
Back to familiarity.

The rough, grainy feel
Of dusty red bricks.
From the clay on this earth
That forms both past
And future abodes.

The deep blue of the blackberries
That you eat in summer
Like the midnight sky
Staining purple On your rose tinted lips.

It’s the campfires you built.
The logs and birch bark turning black
As fire consumes them
And the flames jump skyward
To disappear into smoke.

Like a memory in our minds —
Of your poetry.