March 18, 2010 § Leave a comment
I’ve been volunteering for sometime with a writing organization. I work with middle school kids, leading creative writing workshops. The thing I learned about middle school age is that when it comes to writing, they love poetry. It’s like something happens as we get older and the poet is taught right out of them, but at 11, 12 and 13, they are still poets. And damn fine ones. I’m not a teacher, although the age group had forced me to be more of a teacher, but if I’m teaching them something it is to believe in themselves. My goal is that each and everyone of them leaves believing that they are writers. As a gift to them I put all of their poems into little packets and then using their names I wrote each one of them a poem. There are three things that I have done in all the poems. 1) the first letter in each sentence spells out their name, 2) I have at least one “big” word that they will have to look up if they want to know what it means 3) all the poems are about writing, about them being writers. I think my biggest criticism from the kids will be: “It isn’t realistic, how can a tree dance? or It doesn’t make sense.” I look forward to my critics. Here are a few:
The Color Scheme of Rainbows
Rainbows show primary colors
Observed by average eyes
But it takes a keen spark of
Insight to catch the colors in between
Naturally, Robin’s eyes never miss a scheme.
Sanguine in every gesture
Off to the next adventure
Picking time like crisp fall apples
Her place is where she stands,
In the middle of the road or mountaintop, she sings
Arias of her young life, and her golden future.
Catching Life Like a Butterfly
So much time to grow
Another day passed
Many let these moments go
Allowing the seasons to fade
Never capturing the beauty
That life is offering, but not Samantha,
Her hands are like a butterfly catcher holding
A world, the whole world, in the cradle of her palms.
A New Story is Like a Freshly Planted Tree
Fresh from the dark warm soil,
After the sun’s rays, a young
Tree, a sapling, grows towards the stars.
Under the clouds it dances with the breeze to
Make friends with the birds and the sky, she is an
Aerialist somersaulting on the great horizon.
A Blessing for Mary’s Writing
May letters, like the brightest marigolds,
Arrange themselves like fragrant language,
Replete with stories, tales and poetry:
Your poetry, your words, your tales, your voice.