Thursday, October 20, 2016

National Day on Writing Celebration: Haiku and Cake

On Thursday, October 20, 2016, we celebrated the National Day on Writing with our annual Haiku and Cake party. Below are some selections of the haiku we received.

What are you writing?
A haiku. For English? Yes.
Sounds fun. Yeah we get cake too.

Math is glorious.
With food, it's even better!
Math + Cake? Pure joy!
(By Mrs. Margraff)

I play on defense.
Defensive link to be clear.
Football is my life.

Skill and passion in soccer
Makes the player great

Rebellious bolts
Blades of lightning cleave the sky
Cleaving right from wrong

Buffalo Chicken
Wings are very very delicious to eat
They were a good treat.

Chemistry is hard.
Why do they even teach it?
Do you think I"ll pass?

Haikus are awesome
But they don't always make sense

I just came from math
We had to do trig problems
Please give me some cake

Be your Kanye best
Put your skills to Kanyes test
Beat the Kanye rest

Billions of bright lights
Shine against a dark canvase
In the clear night sky

Haiku is starting.
Haiku is nearly finished.
Haiku is complete.

Friday, October 14, 2016

"You Sit Down to Write" by Smurph

You sit down to write
And there is a sloth about your neck.
The words flow like marbles, dropping individually to the paper, dammed back
By the droop of your eyelids
And the tremors in your hands.
The face of the clock is blurring
But you know it isn’t late enough
So you push the heavy creature aside
And you keep writing.

You sit down to write
And there are moths fluttering in your chest
Making a home inside your ribs
Lifting, everything becoming that much lighter
And the words float out of you
Like each is a single gossamer insect
Seeking the light.

You sit down to write
And there’s a dragon clawing at your throat.
You can feel its breath sting your eyes
And the words roar out of your pen
Burning the page
Then extinguished by the tears that quickly follow.
It escapes from you in bursts of heat
And bloody anger
And it flies away
Leaving behind the taste of ash in your throat
And the promise of return.

You sit down to write
And there is something inside you
Deeper than the moths.
If you turn your head quickly enough
You can see feathers
And hear the beat of fragile wings.
This is the most valuable creature
And the only one
That will not fly away.

Treasure it.

Friday, October 7, 2016

"When I Write" by Kelly Shepherd

When I write, I am a bird
I am free, I let go
I let myself fly
The wind whipping in my ears
My hair flapping around like wings
My thoughts scramble across the
Vast expanse that is my mind

When I write, I am a character in a book
I’m your average girl fighting dragons
I’m an astronaut discovering a new planet
I have no limitations
I can be who I want to be

When I write, I am alone
I’m surrounded by no living human
I’m immersed in a world no one knows
It is mine
And mine alone

When I write, I am a social warrior
I feel the pain
I see the injustices
I fight for what is right
With only a paper and a pen

When I write, I am a tape recorder
Recalling memories,
Playing them back,
Sharing my wealth

When I write, I am a sprinter.
As my hand races across the page,
The timer is ticking,
But my breathing is calm
And my heart is pounding joyously

When I write,
I am a bird
I am a character
I am alone
I am a social warrior
I am a tape recorder
I am a sprinter

No matter where I am,
Exploring an island,
Driving along the coast,
Or sitting in my room,
Eating chips on my bed,
I am always on an adventure as I write

When I write,
I fly above the clouds
When I write,
I’m living within someone else,
Telling their stories
Or I am myself,
Finally being myself.

When I write, I am myself,
I let every emotion
Seep out of my pen and onto the page,
I am honest,
Really, truly honest.
I admit my every emotion.
I laugh,
I cry

When I feel like I am stuck, motionless,
I write.
When I feel like I just need to cry,
I write.
When literally everything in the world annoys me,
I write
Whenever I am feeling too much,
Whenever I am feeling too little,
I write.

Writing is my therapy.
Always turning,
My mind keeps running,
Never shutting down.

Writing is my therapy.
It calms me
It catches me when I am falling.

Writing is my therapy

When I write,
I am a bird
I am a character
I am alone
I am a social warrior
I am a tape recorder
I am a sprinter,
But most importantly,
When I write I am myself.

Thursday, October 6, 2016

"Writing like a River" by Bill the Basil Plant

I am a flowing river.  I move forward regardless of destination, regardless of changes in the future.

This describes me both as a writer and as a person.  When a difficult point comes, much like a rock for a river, I flow around it finding the best path of movement.  I can explode with energy like rapids or I can be calm and mellow like a meandering stream.  

To me writing assignments are like a dam.  An impenetrable force that builds up pressure until a crack is found and the water rushes through.  I stress and stress about writing until I work myself into a position where I cannot think.  All I need is that crack to rupture and bring it all out.  Throughout my life writing has been about assignments and stress in crafting words.  

Like a fast moving river, my mind does not slow to wait for my finger to catch up.  This causes many missed opportunities that I might otherwise have had.  Too many times I  have had to return to a thought in order to achieve it but, like an eddie in a river, it is not the same exact thought.  Decisions about writing have been like people floating in a river.  I ponder the outcome for long periods of time, slowly going through the possibilities, and deciding whether it will sink or swim.  
Writing is a rock that will not budge.  I try to push it but I know that a slow and steady pace will erode the monumental task and make the entire thing a little easier.  Too many times have I tried to buckle down and write one thing or many things in one sitting.  Similarly to a river, it does not work.  

I do not write much outside of school and this is something I have not had a need for.  When I have wanted to write I have found that I do not know what to write about or I can not find the words to describe what I am thinking.  Too often writing is stressful and tiresome, I have found that writing for fun in or out class of class is methodical and stress relieving as I can release tension from my self.
Like a river, I do not mind other streams or people rather looking at my work.  I openly ask for help and any recommendations I can get.  I do mind the thought of my work being used without my permission.  Also, I accept that I am not a fabulous writer.

Like a river my work can change.  Sometimes it is slow and methodical stating facts and fact based commentary, and other times it is like a waterfall.  A waterfall is full of energy, much like my opinion based essays.  One thing is always true.  Water always flows downhill, however this can be changed with clever engineering like canals and Archimedes screws.  Similarly, I always default to an AEC style essay, but I can mend my style to create any type of writing.

Water is the essence of all living things.  Much like a river feeding an ecosystem, a writer feeds every subject.  Writing is needed for history, literature, science, and even math.  As a writer I write about anything I so choose if there is no prompt.  A river can flow anywhere and can become entrenched in old habits as it carves a path through the earth.  However, a river, like me as a writer, can break free from the old habits and create branching streams.  

I am not the best writer, and usually find it strenuous.  However, I always need to flow in a direction never faltering.  I am nothing without direction, much like how a river would turn into a placid lake.  I cannot write what I cannot think, and unfortunately my mind blanks far too much for my liking.  I do not doubt that there are others who are in my very same predicament.  However, I am trying to change how I write and why I write.  Thus I am a flowing river.

Friday, May 27, 2016

"That Little Smudge" by Kelly Shepherd

Oh I see a smudge
Let me just wipe my bright white sleeve across it
It's still there but yet it’s not
To anyone other than me,
all there would be to see is
a blackish tint replacing the smudge

but I see that tint
so I wash and I scrub
trying to remove any lasting color from that smudge

It wasn’t a large smudge,
maybe only the size of pinky nail
yet when I looked at the artwork that I had been given
the artwork that I wanted to change,
I saw the shadows of the smudge surrounding the entire room

I felt myself suffocating from that little smudge
I couldn’t stand it
The shadows were filled with such smoke
It had spread as quick as a disease around the room
Everywhere I turned, all I saw was that little smudge

That little smudge consumed my days
I wished to make it go away
So I tried just that
I tried to wipe it all away

but that didn’t help because all I saw was that tint
All I saw was the parts of the artwork smudged by
my bright white sleeve
soon that little black smudge wasn’t so little
and it wasn’t just one
The smudges grew and grew in number
until I no longer could see a piece of art

I blamed the other precious pieces of art,
the pieces of art that I saw as perfect
When I should have been blaming the smoke
I didn’t use a fire extinguisher
I didn’t try to stop the fire from spreading the deadly fog
I just let it consume me because of
that little smudge that just wasn’t perfect

I guess that’s how it starts though
the cycle for perfection
is a finite as a hamster spinning in a wheel
you think “oh there’s just one thing I don’t like”
but then suddenly you notice every
Single tiny yet soul consuming imperfection
and you can’t take it

Eventually that one wipe
on that bright white sleeve
creates an even bigger mess
It blurs the colors together,
trying to hide the black smudge
yet now the beauty that was there
is now overshadowed by the
deadly smoke

Once a beautiful, original,
now a blur similar to all other pieces of art
I took that white sleeve and tried to erase
but there is no erasing this art
there is only replacing
beauty with smoke

Every wipe we feed the flame
the smoke grows and surrounds us until
it too hard to breathe because each breath remind us
that we are

The smoke whispers taunts and
vicious words that are sharp enough to kill,
words that float in and out
always there
keeping this unending cycle in motion

Without those words spoken by the deadly smoke,
the masterpiece might have stayed perfect
for the more we try to erase
and “perfect” our masterpieces,
the less perfect we become.

Thursday, May 26, 2016

"Little Girl" by Bianca Butters

As a little girl she would love to sing and dance
She’d play dress up and have pretend romance
She loved the stories such as the princess and the pea
But also adored the superheroes she’d want to be
She ran around with a tiara on her head
A cape around her neck, jumping off the bed
She doesn’t know what is about to come next
As she got ready for school, looking her best.
She held onto her Iron Man lunch box and wore her bluest dress too
Only to go to the bus stop to be made fun of before noon
She came home that day with tears streaming down
She cried, “mama they made me feel like a clown”
Her mother was too busy on the phone
Yelling out words a little girl should never know
The little girl was so lost and confused
How come her mama wasn’t listening to her sad news?
Soon she realized it was daddy on the other end
After a week he realized he made problems he couldn’t mend
He left his little girl who was having it tough
She grew to become bitter to what she thought was once love
Her father was meant to be the first man she adored
Now how is she going to find something worth so much more

Her happiness didn’t last
As the days flew past
The little girl who once loved to sing and dance
Put away all that along with the romance
Looking down on the world like it was nothing
She came to a realization that she wanted to be worth something
Now working on being the little girl to be proud of
She put away all her tiaras and superpowers
She tried her best in all subjects at school
Tried so hard not to make herself look like a fool
After all the years she had been unnoticed
She did her best to keep her focus
Nothing was going to bring her down at her peak
She wanted to be everything, everything but weak

Now the sad thing is that many of you girls can relate
You kept all this pain held up inside even to this very date
Well I just wanted to say that the strength in your eyes
Is bigger than any man can be likewise
And hear me out on this
 I didn’t intend to make it as a diss
I don’t mean to leave out sorrow for the guys
But you already know you’re worth when women are denied
All through life we long for affection
The feeling for someone to build a connection
The power of our hearts beat unsteadily
Only to find somebody that can be our remedy
To find the happiness we had once as a child
To have a significant other that will be able to reconcile
The hurt and the loss we had felt several times previously
All the moments where we weren’t taken seriously
We are not the little girls that I had told you of before
We will not stand it anymore
Our worth has not shrunk though
So I am here to recognize how much you’ve grown
In fact, you’re worth has exceeded over time
And my, oh my, how brightly you began to shine.

You probably shine even brighter now than from when you were that little girl.

Thursday, May 19, 2016

"The Poem" by BBB

I am a kid at hope,
I am talented, smart, well that is what they say

I work two jobs and go to school
I hang with friends and act like a fool

Little do they know the struggles I have faced
Running from family that I have disgraced

I work on my craft and continue to aspire
but I can barely get off the ground and can't go higher

I’m stuck in one place and can’t move on

Looks like my work isn't moving along