Posted November 20, 2012 & filed under Notebook.

crowded smiles rise to the occasion:

mouth watering stories     generations of grace

marshall, texas unravels sweet aroma

moist pecan pie    fresh   cultivated

trailblazing hands of Bessie Hopkins with love

her sweetest gift and first love—-

Mack C. Hopkins—one of the first

African-American Valedictorians from Wiley College

memory sends crisp crumbs

twirling along the edge of swiveling lips

warm sunlight penetrates windowpanes

sheds light on the main course

one plump golden smoked turkey

topped with cornbread stuffing

crunchy green bean casserole

rich cranberry sauce

dessert deserving of a Poet—

pristine peach pie drizzled in cool whip cream

juicy cherry pie

a satisfying jolt

to Mack Hopkins, named for this father

joins The Tuskegee Airmen and

our gathered hearts

weds man and mission for the

famed 301st  fighter squadron: 

the 332nd fighter group

joins Pauline Hopkins’ hand in marriage

exceptional bliss

blesses heaven with Bessie Hopkins,

Mack C. Hopkins, and Pauline Hopkins

on November, 16, 1996 at the

age of 79

We celebrate the men and women

linking our lives to innovate spirit

We celebrate their sacrifices

swift determination     psalm

We celebrate to preserve    punctuate

press on

We celebrate collectively

the weight

for Bessie Hopkins, Mack C. Hopkins, Pauline Hopkins, & Mack Hopkins

By WITS Writer Delicia Daniels


Posted November 12, 2012 & filed under Notebook.

I saw a Monarch butterfly. It was orange and black. It was cold so it traveled to Mexico where it was hot. The butterfly was sad because it did not have sugar water to drink. I gave it water, and it became my friend. We went to Texas together. I named her Sparkle. She did not have any friends but me, and I met her family; they are nice too. They live with me now. I take care of them, and on Fridays I get them more sugar water.

by Chaya, 2nd grade

Let the Trees

Posted November 18, 2010 & filed under Notebook.

Let the trees rise to the sky
where the blue birds fly.

Let the trees dance at night with
its leaves falling on the ground.

Let the trees see at night with the
stars shining.

Let the tall trees sing at night
with the wind blowing the leaves, singing
sh, sh, sh.

Let the trees have lots of leaves
with the leaves different
colors—green, yellow, red, orange,
blue, purple, or pink.

Let the trees have lots of branches
with leaves all over.

Let the trees grow
apples big and small.

Let the trees
grow taller and taller.

By Maria


Posted September 21, 2009 & filed under Notebook.

In my tree,
I grew up
with lots of other leaves.
I loved hearing
the whistle of the birds
and chatter of the squirrels.
Although when the other leaves
blew away
it meant growing up.
I waited every fall
until one fall it happened.
I landed next to my friend,
and I floated with her
the rest of my life.

By Josephine, 4th grade
[photo by Jack Hindmarsh via flickr]


Posted September 16, 2009 & filed under Notebook.


The fallen leaves make the orange path.
The orange path leads you to the fall.
The fall leads you to the happiness man.
That man takes you to the happiness of fall.
To use the orange, you touch it, and it becomes fall.
You taste it, it is orange!
You listen to it, you get the dream.

By Gan, 3rd grade
[photo by amymillerphotos via flickr]

Dusk of Little Autumn

Posted December 3, 2008 & filed under Notebook.

Autumn is a child dressed with long pants and wooden shoes. His hair is made of ripe leaves. His skin is hard like a tree’s bark and rough like dry grass. He is tall like a Christmas tree. His pants are orange like sunset, and his shirt is short. He wears a flowery jacket that his friend Spring gave to him.

In the afternoons little Autumn plays around the park and goes up and down in a swing. Leaves fly and he starts turning into different colors. Leaves stick on his clothes while they twirl with the breeze. Then Autumn plays soccer with other kids and the leaves stick on him because the wind blows hard. At dusk when the last leaf blows away from his body, Autumn lies on the grass until he disappears.

By Joanna, 4th grade
[photo by Burpythehippo via flickr]


Posted September 26, 2008 & filed under Notebook.

One might look at a tree, a plum tree or an oak, and think, “How boring trees are, just sitting about like they do. Let’s get a colorful flower instead.”

Really trees were once a civilized yet free and running people much like ourselves, but more lordly and graceful. Yet as the years passed trees grew older and creaky. Then we came, and trees had a perfectly good reason to clump together into forests and stay perfectly still. All except for their swaying branches, which cooled them on hot days. Still they hide from us, now covered with moss and brown from years of standing. All their fine jewelry has turned into leaves.

The trees are nothing like what they used to be, but some still retain their ghostly faces.

By MarySuna, 4th grade

Out the Door

Posted November 26, 2007 & filed under Notebook.


It’s two in the afternoon and my dad is passed out on the couch snoring like an old Chevy truck. I need to leave. As I walk out the door, I feel the breeze that fills the sky during this autumn day. The birds are all chirping; the smell of life is in the air. Colorful leaves slowly fall from the trees as that breeze passes. I get my fishing pole ready and start walking down the dry dirt road toward the lake.

By Kelley Elizando, age 16

The Tree Turning Red

Posted October 30, 2007 & filed under Notebook.


The kind of person I was is not the kind of person I am.
Just a body,
A potato sack of nards.
A tree turning red against a blue sky full of mourning,
Summer is dying and so is my heart.
Voices flutter like the birds,
So free and blinded as their broken wings fight against the impossible,

Sitting in a window is no way to live your life.
Sitting in a man is no way either.
Mother was sewing and pricked herself.
She didn’t forget to wince but she forgot to bleed.
She went to bed without talking and no food.
Bright white skin matching purple bags of restlessness awoke the next morning,
Only to find her children had been consumed by adulthood.

I sat feeling the summer kissed skin surrendering to the pink.
The pink soon darkened,
Slowly turning my skin red,
Then fell to white as winter sucked away summer from my mind and fall from my eyes.
Every night filling halls fat with loud voices,
Never talking,
Just yelling so that the truth could never enter their ears
Lies were slapping them blind,
Leaving them daft and retarded on the floor.

I went away from the tree turning red,
Never to see it again,
To experience its beauty,
Its hatred of the world around it dying,
Bending to the winter.
Back there,
I still hear the yelling.

by Tracy Jayne, 12th Grade

photo by flummoxed1 via flickr

The Leaf

Posted October 8, 2007 & filed under Notebook.

fall-leaves-by-smallchih-v-flickr.jpgI am in a tree.
I see kids.
Birds fly above me.
I fall down and land on an ant.
I hear a train from far away.
A girl picks me up,
then she throws me on the ground.
The people step on me a lot of times.

I am the leaf.

by Jasmine, 1st Grade
[photo by smallchih via flickr]