Written by Bianca Medina, proud AmeriCorps member serving on the Entergy Louisiana, New Schools for Baton Rouge team at Broadmoor Middle School.
Last Friday’s blog post was all about how Corps Members use poetry to teach their students about sentence structure. This week I’d like to highlight the brilliant work of some of our creative CMs here at CYBR. Check out these lyrical miracles!
by Tavidee Hoskins
I found traces of heaven shuffling across scuffed linoleum
in the belly of the southern boot – Louisiana, were the sun shines brazen
and humidity hugs you like a lost lover fighting to get that feeling back.
See, he was God's splitting image; he told me his maw maw always said,
“boy you look just like your daddy.” Divinity,
in lazy collared maroon and navy blue robes.
Breakfast still crusted on the corners of his mouth.
Popeye's and hot fries leave red stains on his fingertips,
that burn fingerprints on every heart he touches. He's so southern.
So bounce music, so jiggin’, so bust that on the black top at recess.
In his mind, Boosie went to jail to forgive his sins and Kevin gates parted the Mississippi.
Pardon his clinched fist, his inflated chest, his stalwart stare at adversity.
He is a creator by nature so he's spent his short eleven years of life
molding the mortar of his broken home with bare knuckles.
He has so much fight in him but nobody told him what to fight for.
No one's taught him how to plug the leaks when the caulking cracks and the sky cries constant.
How to hold his little sister when she awakes shaken by a nightmare;
how to say goodbye through tempered glass when visitation is over.
His innocence was auctioned off before he was with comfortable not knowing.
Before he had the comfort of closed eyes, closed ears,
and hums to drown out the shrill screech of poverty.
The clacking of cold steel friction,
the sight of slumping silhouettes whispering last words,
the visceral whistle of a melting pot boiling over with bravado.
This is his home, his kingdom, his prison and pasture.
He wants to be a basketball player when he grows up but I know that's not enough.
Life will already make him jump through hoops anyway;
He’s more suited to be an astronaut.
I'll teach him to use his fist to fight off gravity;
to fight through the soft hue of refracting sun rays.
He once told me he thought the stars were just pieces of the sun spread across the sky
because it breaks apart every night, and come back together every morning.
No one can tell me a mind so beautiful is unworthy because it can't understand fractions,
or make a subject and verb agreement;
Because these minds hold galaxies in their synapses,
Make mother earth blush with their blood stains.
They are creators; they are loyal to those loyal to them.
They've taught me more than I could teach them.
by Bianca A. Medina
offices for posts.
wooden planks have jobs too, ya know?
except that their cubicles have to be taller.
they make stamps--
stamp amps on letters with depth not breadth;
depths not breaths.
depths for amps to stamp out
loud ink paisley on eyes and hands.
they are the Private Transportation System
by Dallas Khamiss
I see a dark Spanish man in his mid-thirties. His curly hair is coal-black and bobs shyly along the sides of his round face. He is wearing a fire-red silk shirt, buttoned only half-way to expose the hair of his upper abdomen and chest. His top is loosely tucked into a pair of cream linen pants. No belt. No shoes. He is sitting on a forgotten log--perhaps once the dock piling of a busy port--at an equally forgotten beach. A guitar rests in his lap. The sun is setting, and a golden-red tide of light paces carefully across the sky towards this lonely musician. A mellow breeze runs through his hair, a listless churning of sand about his brazen feet. He swirls his fingers in the fading sunlight and begins a faint hum before strumming the first note.
His silver rings glisten like small moons in the dying day and cast a bare-boned glow on the granulated earth below him. Tones peel from his guitar like angry vapor eager to condense on the ears of night. And as the ocean tucks away the sun, as the sky's vault is finally opened, notes blast from his guitar like comets and paint the sky in a symphony of white light. Constellations forge from the marriage of finger and string, guiding the forlorn journey of any lost or lonely sailor, any poor merchant or starving fisherman. With these notes, the Spaniard resurrects the grave and stirs the soul of any buried civilization, and it is with these notes that he dances with death.
The melodic eddy of his strumming awakens tired ghosts, infusing in them a new life. They swarm about his brazen feet with the beat of a single moth bewitched by light and rob him from the earth. The Spaniard rides atop the abdomen of this mothy beast, carrying his tune in the wind of its forewings and tossing stars to the sky for guidance.The beast cruises in salty mist until the Spaniard tires, until all musical stars fall from the ether and sink to the ocean's depths, until the force of their fall awakes the Sun for another day.
A Spanish woman appears in the distance. Hair as black as night and smoldering green eyes the color of a deserted island, the soft red of the sun contrasting the cold of her gaze. Her smile curves softly as the dark blue ripples in her dress are swept up by the salty breeze and her bare, tanned feet move in the sand towards the Spaniard. The music draws her in. Her hips sway back and forth like waves in a current, and her fingers curl up above her head, her neck dropping back to gaze at the sun slowly rising above the horizon. The stars offer a final wink at her jet black hair, and the music sweeps through each strand. She reaches out toward his brazen, calloused hands.
A waltz begins.