Explore Poems: Being Oneself

If, even now, I am excited about it: every cow & horse,
every canoe on the surface of Pyramid Lake—…

Don’t. The past is overcrowded with the future 
closer than you think. You blink, that’s one 
eon; a yawn…

make
this world
a whole lot
brighter

when
I
grow up
I'll
be
a writer.
I'll
write about
some things
I know—

                    how to bunt
                    how to throw . . .

           ...

My sister found them.
 
Read them out loud.
She’s so proud,
 
she’s running to our parents
waving my poems in the air.
 
Doesn’t she know 
she’s waving my underwear?

Up till now,
the math of my life
has been pretty simple:
friends
plus family
plus sports.
What more
could I ask for, right?
But lately,
my outside has been changing
and my inside keeps telling me
more is on the way.
Trouble is,
I'm not sure
I'm ready.

Spinning through space for eons,
our earth—oceans, rivers, mountains,
glaciers, tigers, parrots, redwoods—
        evolving wonders.

And our vast array, generations
of humans—all shapes, colors, languages.

        Can I be the only me?

Our earth: so much beauty, hate,
     ...

I guess you could call me broken,
says one. I’m still lonely, says another,
but now I can name it with a song.

In my poem, says another,
I can forget I am forgotten. Now
I understand being misunderstood,

says another. And another says,
in a bold,...

He said I was different because I was dark. She said I was different because 
I wore a scarf. He said I was different because I had an accent. She said I was different because I couldn’t read. He said...

          Summer’s ending.

I sit on my desert rock, listen
          to the world’s hum.
                   Crows and ravens caw,
finches and sparrows chirp. A dog barks.

   ...

i look in the mirror, and all the chips i’ve eaten
this month have accumulated
like schoolwork at the bottom of my tummy,
my belly—a country i’m trying to love.
my mouth is a lover devoted to you, my belly, my belly
the birds will...

I come home,
feet about to bleed
from angry stomping.
“Boy!” says Mom.
“Quit making all that racket.”
But what does she expect
when, day after day,
haters sling words at me
like jagged stones
designed to split my skin?
I retreat to my room,
collapse on the bed,
count, “One. Two....

My body is
perfect and
imperfect and
black and
girl and
big and
thick hair and
short legs and
scraped knee and
healed scar and
heart beating and
hands that hold and
voice that bellows and
feet that dance and
arms that embrace and
my momma’s eyes and
my daddy’s smile and
my grandma’s hope and

my body...

They ignored the new boy,
snickering behind his back.

                                                    In silence, I stayed     safe.
   ...

One tiny tree frog
with big eyes
sings happily,
“Kokee! Kokee!”

His brother comes to bother.
Coquí doesn't push him.
Coquí doesn't bite him.
Coquí tells him,
“Kokee-Kee! Kokee-Kee!”

Two tiny tree frogs
with big eyes
sing happily,
“Kokee! Kokee!”

The first story I ever write
is a bright crayon picture
of a dancing tree, the branches
tossed by island wind.

I draw myself standing beside the tree,
with a colorful parrot soaring above me,
and a magical turtle clasped in my hand,
and two yellow wings...

I came to Panama planning to dig
the Eighth Wonder of the World,
but I was told that white men
should never be seen working
with shovels, so I took a police job,
and now I've been transferred
to the census.

I roam the jungle, counting laborers
who...

On an island of music
in a city of drumbeats
the drum dream girl
dreamed
 
of pounding tall conga drums
tapping small bongó drums
and boom boom booming
with long, loud sticks
on big, round, silvery
moon-bright timbales.
 
But everyone
on the island of music
in the city of drumbeats
believed that only...

Books are door-shaped
portals
carrying me
across oceans
and centuries,
helping me feel
less alone.

But my mother believes
that girls who read too much
are unladylike
and ugly,
so my father's books are locked
in a clear glass cabinet. I gaze
at enticing covers
and mysterious titles,
but I am rarely permitted
to touch
the enchantment
of...

It is appropriate that I sing
The song of the feet
 
The weight of the body
And what the body chooses to bear
Fall on me
 
I trampled the American wilderness
Forged frontier trails
Outran the mob in Tulsa
Got caught in Philadelphia
 
And am still unreparated
 
I soldiered on...

This is for the Pullman Porters who organized when people said
they couldn’t. And carried the Pittsburgh Courier and the Chicago
Defender to the Black Americans in the South so they would
know they were not alone. This is for the Pullman Porters...