Red Cheeks

Posted June 12, 2007 & filed under Notebook.


My mom’s cheeks get red when she falls in Love.
She fell in love with my dad when she first saw him.
This is how it happened:
First my dad saw another man bothering her,
So my dad went over there and said, “Stop bothering her!”
My mom said thank you and her cheeks got red.
My dad’s did too, and he told my mom,
“I will pick you up tomorrow between 5:00 pm and 6:30.”

by Paola, 3rd grade
(painting by Adrian Wallet, via flickr)

Peace

Posted June 11, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

Sounds like people talking nicely, no bad words

Tastes like fresh fruit from a field
or cookies at the Gonzalez’s

and a cool drink when you are outside in the hot summer

Smells like roses when they first bloom in my garden
Feels like the soft smooth fur of my cat Tiger,

and that fuzzy feeling you get when you love someone special

Looks like a field where a war once was
but has more flowers
and happiness
than any other field.

by Madison, 2nd grade
Painting by Jordana Klein

Summer Camp for Young Writers

Posted June 7, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

The WITS Summer Camp programs begin on Monday, June 11. The camp, co-sponsored by Rice University, has been named the “Best Summer Program for Kids” by the Houston Press. The central campus at Annunciation Orthodox School is nearly full. There are still spaces available for children in grades K-5 on the north Houston campus, located at Aldine Academy. For more information, click here.

Hello my name is

Posted June 6, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

student-bio-001.png

My name is Majeoxy.
1. I love my family because they love me.
2. I live in the South.
3. When I grow up, I want to be a nurse, cheerleader, teacher, singer, news reporter.

980221jz.jpg

Aunt Ida’s House

Posted June 5, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

04.jpgI always like going to Aunt Ida’s house in the springtime, the zydeco music blasting from the living room, smells of the barbecue and German chocolate cake coming from the kitchen and the slapping of dominoes on the card table…grandma using her two fingers to eat her famous mustard greens while reminiscing about the old days when things were pure….

by Melissa, 8th grade

Sisters

Posted June 4, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

I sit thinking

Thinking if I respect myself

If my temple is truly sacred

If I am filled with the strength of my ancestors

If I am a real woman, a woman of old

If I am the voice of my lost sisters

I sit thinking.

“My Thoughts,” by Ardella Williams, Southwestern High School, Detroit, published in Digging Up, Vol. 7

Check out the great story about our sister program, InsideOut, in this great article from the Detroit Free Press which concludes with a quote from Peter Markus:

“Every student in America — not only in Detroit — needs the kind of exposure to poetics that the InsideOut writers bring to the schools we currently serve. The imagination needs to be fed and fostered, or else it’ll simply dry up and fade away. If you ask a kid to dream, he’ll dream.”
kira-detroit-insideout.jpg

A Poem for James Turrell

Posted May 28, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

On the Other Side

I walked into a tunnel of blue
light and on the other side I
saw a world where mothers
hold babies, where muscle
men fall down, where ships
fly, where men take care of
men, where there is a castle,
where cats cry out loud, where
women have wings, where
birds sing, where there is a
heaven.

by Ali, 4th grade
(written at the Museum of Fine Arts Houston)


My Colored Days

Posted May 24, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

I.
On a royal blue day I feel like I am king. I wear a long velvet robe and sit on a throne under the stars.

II.
Green, oh, Green! Green days make me want to sleep on a bed of seaweed and hop from lily pad to lily pad.

III.
Brown is gooey. It’s like the inside of my grandmother’s cookies, fresh-baked from the oven.

IV.
On a white day my mind is blank as a piece of paper. I keep daydreaming about the clouds outside the classroom window.

V.
Neon pink is the color of my aunt’s nail polish. She puts it on every Saturday afternoon before her boyfriend picks her up.

VI.
Yellow is the color of butternut squash, sunflowers, and an old person’s teeth.

VII.
I’m bleeding. Red is plopping and splattering onto the floor below me.

VIII.
On a black day I frown and scowl at everyone I meet. My heart is full of tears that drip, drip, drip.

IX.
Orange makes me think of the boiling, sweaty sun that rises in the big, desert sky.

X.
Gray days make me want to curl up in bed and sleep. They make me feel like a black and white picture that’s been smudged or a thick sheet of ashes after a fire.

by Lulu, 4th grade

(based on the children’s book My Many Colored Days by Dr. Seuss)many-colored-days-cover.jpg

The Winds

Posted May 22, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

The winds
Are the many boyfriends you’ve had.
They come breezing through
Your path, blowing you away.
They are different each time.
Light and snappy
Or
Heavy and lingering.
They come and go,
But not as you please.

by Lisa, 10th grade

Untitled Poem by Timothy

Posted May 20, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

You’re dangerous
and
perfect
all in one

GET REAL

You know
big things
about
the beautiful world.

by Timothy, 7th grade

Poetry by Blanca

Posted May 18, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

Poetry — it is something special, something that lets me know I’m safe. When I start to write poems, I think of something warm, soft, and cuddly. I think of things I can say to let other people know that they are also safe. But there is something very weird about poetry and me, because when I write poems I feel like I also have to hide them inside something, like inside a rock. If I were to hide poems inside rocks there would be mountains of poems. And if anybody were to want to read any of my beautiful poems, they would have to peel the rocks as if they were bananas. I would pick rocks to hide my poems inside because it would be like gold inside mountains.

by Blanca, 8th grade
8037_rocks_with_mountain_smither_michael-nz.jpg

The Babysitter

Posted May 17, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

One day I was babysitting my little cousins, Jahlil, Naigwan, Zayna and Elija. My uncles and aunts had gone to a movie. They didn’t want to take their children, so I had to baby-sit them which at first I didn’t think was a very good idea. It was going to be a long evening for me.

My little cousin Elija started to cry seconds after they left. I gave him his bottle of milk. My cousin, Naigwan, wasn’t doing anything but playing with his dumb wrestling toys. My cousin Zayna started to cry because Naigwan threw a toy at her. I gave Naigwan ‘time-out’ for 30 minutes as if she cared.

All of a sudden something hit my head like a rock. My baby brother had thrown his bottle at my head and started to jump up and down, crying.

“Oh brother,” I said as I picked up the bottle. I took him in my arms, sat on the couch and rocked him to sleep. Then they all started jumping on me until they fell asleep. I put them in the bedroom and turned on the television to relax for a minute. I flipped the channel to the Apollo Show.

When my aunt and uncle arrived, all the babies were asleep. They were impressed and gave me 40 crisped dollars! I went to the shopping mall the next day. I guess it was worth babysitting my bad little cousins. I told them, any time!

by Kristina, 4th grade

Apartment 310

Posted May 16, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

I’m from the sopa de arroz, caldo de arroz, y
atole de arroz
smells coming from
the kitchen.
I’m from “You’re it” and “No, you are!” outside.
I’m from the buzzing bugs attracted to flowers, babies
crying in sync, and big books in disarray.
I’m from my grouchy,
old-fashioned, grumpy granny and
my irresponsible, regretful, marked-up
Mom.
I’m from “Don’t do this” and “Don’t do that”
most of the day. “You did this wrong!
You never do anything right!”
I’m from the one-bedroom apartment packed
with five people’s noise that seems to penetrate
your mind . . . .

by Fabiola, 11th grade

There is a Man

Posted May 15, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

There is a man walking in the rain
Looking in every building he passes
Hoping to belong somewhere
But being kicked out of every place he goes
And where he is accepted
He is abused
Not in a nasty way
But the way he shouldn’t be
As the man walks he says to himself
“I’m a waste”
And he wishes for the day when he can be accepted
Though it never comes
But as he stumbles and falls
Someone comes to his rescue
A man in bright clothes and shining in radiance
The sad man falls into his hands weak and brittle
Because of how he has been tortured
And he breathes his final breaths
Falling into a deep sleep
Then the bright shiny man whispers into his ear
“It’s okay, welcome home”.

by DeMarcus, 5th grade

Another Poem for Mom

Posted May 12, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

Tanka

The flowers bloom.
Mist departs from the growing tree.
Ice softens into cool water.
The sun arrives like an orb of light
As the branches grow, piercing the day.

The trees grow from saplings.
The leaves redden like blood.
Loud sounds come slowly
As the trees sing their mournful song
When the wounds get deeper and deeper.

The small constellations
Darkening by the second
Are not looked at very much.
It isn’t the stars themselves
But the spaces in between them.

by Krucial, 4th grade

The Flame of Fire

Posted May 11, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

a blessing for Mom

May you hold the flame of fire in your hand
So that you shall stay strong.
When someone has gotten you upset
Just look at the flame of fire.
It will help you look at it differently.
When the world turns its back,
Just turn your back.
You are strong enough to take the pressure.
You will grow stronger
Because of the flame of fire
I have given you.
The flame is not only in your hand.
The flame of fire is also in your heart.
I love you, Mom.

by Amber, 7th grade

Great Gramamá

Posted May 10, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

I dream with open
eyes of my Gramamá
at night and evening.
I feel she is hugging
me. It seems she is gone.
She is and I see her
night and day in
the mirror
where she brushed
her hair and put
makeup on. I like
the way she did that.
Her bed still
smells like vinegar.
I like that smell,
so pretty. I’ll always
love her.

by Ivette, 4th grade