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Tag Archives: poem about teenagers

If You Give A Boy A Car

Yes, oh yes,
I want to do enormous favors for you,
the kind involving cash, and inconvenience,
and driving long hours, all over the state,
preferably in the rainy dark, on deer-crowded
back roads, in complicated maneuvers
involving your car, your sister’s car,
a mechanic whose garage we can’t find
in the dark, and some guy named Lloyd
who we don’t even know,
but this day wasn’t a big enough mess
so we threw him in,
because you know for certain that
when everyone else says No,
You can ask for help from one person who
may well grumble or write a poem about it,
but will eventually pick up the keys and say
Yes.

About The Authors

The shy boy, who never speaks in class,
raises his hand now, when the subject matters.
How much violence, he wants to know, how
much gore can he include in his novel
of a science experiment gone horribly wrong?

Next to him, the girl doodling flowers
says she hasn’t started yet but
is thinking of a children’s story
about a pony, or possibly a unicorn.

Later, face shining, she stops me in the
crowded hallway to show me ten pages
of scribbled notebook paper.
She says, I’ve changed my mind.
Now, it’s a romance.

The New Boy

So many bells, he says.
Every day here is broken into
the same question in every class
and many strict blocks of time.
Tired but polite,
the new boy from Pakistan
answers again.
Your country is so very clean
it feels almost like a movie set
where everyone must adhere
to the bells, the script,
the tight shooting schedule.
He gathers his books.
It doesn’t always look real
he says, as another bell rings.

After All I’ve Done For You

Now, to the Good Mother List
of things I’ve done for you, I’ll add
last night, when I wanted
tea and toast in my pajamas. Instead
I drove to the city in rain and dark
for dinner with an old friend in a crowded restaurant—-
Not because I was anxious to see my friend or eat a $15 salad,
but for you and that question in your eyes
that wonders if I’ll be okay when you leave home.
Truth is, some days I’ll be content
playing my own music,
not cooking or tripping over your shoes,
watching Downton Abbey instead of James Bond.
And some days I’ll be bereft
mourning the lost country of childhood
we can never return to
an ache I can’t describe
which is just as well since you suspect
but don’t want to know
it exists.

Private Practice

These are rehearsals.
Before the curtain rises
on that show about empty nests,
practice solitude–
Ten minutes, an hour, a day
with no one asking
for money, food, rides.
Test the quality
of the air at midday,
at midnight.
Soft as the leaves on maple trees
when the wind dies down,
quiet as nights without crickets.

Graduation Gift

“Roofs are easier to fix than roads,”
says the historian in her dry, reedy voice
which explains covered bridges
and opens the possibility of
the perfect graduation gift.
Along with that Irish
Blessing
about roads rising to meet you,
knowing they will roll their eyes
at your choice,
after much consideration
The Perfect Gift
for setting out into the wide world
may be
an umbrella.

My Work In This World

My work in this world
wanders its cities in two bodies,
his, hers, once mine.
Bodies given, year by year,
all I knew of patience,
kindness, how a sense
of humor eases the rough patches.
But also captive witnesses to all
I knew of frustration, grief, anger.
Everything I had to offer
carried like a package inside their
own true selves.
And they go traveling
Half-formed and half-dressed
never bothering with a warm coat
determined not to shiver
and admit their mother was right.
They set off into this world that
will please and praise and batter them.
I chase them down the street,
waving mittens and advice, calling out,
Wait, there’s one more thing I forgot to tell you.

Spring Crop

I come to compliment you on
loading the dishwasher without being asked,
proud of my continued efforts in the field of
Positive Reinforcement,
only to wind up yelling at you
for putting your muddy boots on the couch.
But why take them off, you ask, mystified–
when I’m leaving any minute now?

These are the conversations
that will
soon
walk out the door with you
and I’ll wait,
a hopeful, nervous gardener
to see how what I planted mingles with
what grows wild in this soil.
Watered with praise and benign neglect
and exasperation, I wait to see if
the spring crop sprouts into kindness
or tolerance, skill at negotiation
or laziness
or just mud on all your furniture.

The Recently Learned Difference Between Haiku and Senryu

Senryu: According to Merriam-Webster, “a 3-line unrhymed Japanese poem structurally similar to haiku but treating human nature usually in an ironic or satiric vein.”

Haiku

Goodbye to brown hills,
trees who scrubbed the spring blue sky
bristled like hedgehogs.

**********************************

Senryu

There are things I’ll miss:
Burping contests at dinner
isn’t one of them.

Abandoned

Here in this school
of bullies, prom queens,
ordinary kids still dazed by life,
and tragedies, both true and
imagined by fourteen-year-old girls,
Abandoned is the saddest story.

Here in this school
where we struggle with
grades and prom night,
illiteracy, the big game,
pregnant teens and faculty evaluations
his head with his floppy clean hair
is filled with where to sleep tonight.

Here in this school
where bells tell us when to
switch from chemistry to symbolism in
Shakespeare, forty-one minutes
to pack it neatly into uninterested minds
behind his shy, scraggly smile
he is learning about existence in a vacuum.

Here in this school
homeless, but not aimless,
he studies hard the art of absence
practicing how to disappear.
He is barely visible by the time we
remember to teach him this:
Every Body gets a space in this world
and people to notice them in it.

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

The Sketchbook

MOSTLY MONTREAL, MOST OF THE TIME

Red Wolf Prompts

I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

typewriter rodeo

custom poems on vintage typewriters

A Poet in Time

One Poet's Writing Practice

Writing the Day

A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014

Invisible Horse

Living in the moment

leaf and twig

where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry