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Written by High School Students
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Tuesday, 24 July 2007 |
The Poetry Corner presents four poems selected to be included in “Surveyors of Worlds,” the anthology for the 14th Annual Santa Cruz County High School Poetry Competition. The competition was judged by Neli Moody, Robert Sward and Beth Vieira, and conducted by Poetry Santa Cruz.
Ms. Kait
My mom wouldn’t let me eat
corn dogs.
Ms. Kait did.
Her house smelled
like old cigarette smoke, fried food, and cat piss,
It was a safe place.
I never understood why she cried.
She had sugar cereal and video games;
I wouldn’t have cried.
At her funeral,
her sons, Jimmy
and Chris, wept and hugged.
When I went to their house.
Jimmy was making corn dogs,
Chris was watching.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“We’re bringing her back,” replied Jimmy.
—Dylan Vandenberg, Georgiana Bruce Kirby Preparatory School, Honorable Mention
Michael
He has the loudest laugh
at the elementary school plays.
He’s a fanatic gardener who won’t let you
leave his house without
handfuls of lemons.
He’s the one with all the anti-Semitic jokes
at his family’s Hanukkah dinner.
He’s a surfer with a dozen boards,
who’s taught everyone to surf.
He’s a thinning man with blue lips,
and bones showing through his skin.
He’s two months from his 54th birthday.
He’s only five days away from his funeral.
—Adriana Canepa, Georgiana Bruce Kirby Preparatory School
Theft
The history of theft
starts in the corner
with kisses.
—Luis Garcia, Vista School
Poetry Reading
It’s like church. Some barely literate visionary stands in front of a room crowded with listeners and gushes nostalgic witticisms as the front row silently winces. “Ode to an Elbow” doesn’t quite spark the enthusiasm he would have hoped for. Trapped in the back between a pair of grandmothers dozing in their wheelchairs, I plan my escape. I could duck behind the couple with the crying child and crawl towards the fire exit. I could dash past the podium and out to the street, leaving strollers and folding chairs toppled in the aisles behind me, stopping only to thumb my nose at the speaker’s latest sonnet. But in the end, I simply slink towards the exit, avoiding the poet’s pleading gaze and fighting the urge to puncture my eardrums with my pencil.
—Victor Minden, Georgiana Bruce Kirby Preparatory School
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