First Grade Music Class – Is there Poetry Here?

A class of first graders sway and rock.

Beating rhythm sticks to a sweet children’s-tune,

while a happy cartoon raccoon bops from beat to beat.

Using the Prometheus-unbound board.

We learn about music together;

Knocking out together the rhythmic bones of music.

I-teacher joyfully shows out: bobbing, swaying, smiling, watching.

Showing each child how to enjoy, especially the boys.

“This is how it is done. You can do this too. It’s fun.

C’mon it’s a joy. Do this with me kids.”

You are under my care: watch, learn, act, enjoy, bloom.

You are safe in my classroom.

Skinny Latino girl with a yellow bow in her long hair.

Look at her sway and speak to herself, hitting her sticks.

She smiles, with happiness, enjoying within herself and with her class.

A tune so happy and carefree I-teacher feels young.

Little Latino girl, hair style from 25 years ago, or from the South.

Long, long hair, lovingly combed and curled here and there.

A bright yellow ribbon adorning her luxuriant hair.

Her mother, her grandmother love this girl and make her beautiful for school.

They style her hair in a traditional way, not realizing the differences.

I-teacher spot it, smiles, she is loved, tenderly so.

And those who love her, make her pretty in a style from decades ago.

My dear sweet child, lovingly sent to school.

by a mother and grandmother who work in town.

Will you be safe from the hate?

The hate that spreads like exploded napalm.

Will the fire of racism come for you?

Please learn to dance and to love, not to fear and hide.

Stay in my class my sweet child, under my protection.

No one will take you while you are in my realm and vision.

Once I-teacher overheard one Latino middle-schooler say to another,

“Ice is going to take you away bro.” A prophetic tease.

Some truth, some meanness, some fear.

I’m searching for the poetry here.

I see the singing, swaying, stick-tapping girl.

Learning musical rhythm joyfully.

Her out-dated hair style topped with a shining yellow bouncing bow.

Such a cute, happy gift to the world – a heart with a glow.

And the haters, the thugs, their strengthening apparatus’.

Mug like professional wrestlers to the cameras.

Promising to remove this child and others.

Today, under my care and protection

My innocent children learn about music and rhythm,

While, out there, hate mobilizes against them.

Save Mankind

Man seeks a savior

He goes about it using it vigor

He is aware of the rigor

Man looks at the environment

He figures the movement

He ensures it will last all moments

But:

Man discovers he’s wrong

He thinks of the way out through his song

He works out his strong

Man searches for riches

He goes all out for the fishes

He thinks that they will meet his very wishes

But:

Man is dissatisfied

He is worried he is not gratified

He believes his agenda will be clarified.

Man goes after wellness

He seeks to work its happiness

He feels that’s his essence

But:

Man realizes he’s in a vicious circle

He devises the way-out of the ridicule

He’s certain his IQ would bring the driving vehicle

Man seeks a life companion

He searches in passion

He’s sure this won’t take him to oblivion

But:

Man is failing over a time-a hundredth

He sees himself being swallowed up by the earth

He makes his priority death

This time…

Man seeks his kind

He engages with a tough find

He succeeds on the note: “Save Mankind”

God

Maybe some people. Just weren’t meant. To know God. All the years.     All gone to waste.    The centuries spent searching.      The

fireball fights.      The blood spilling onto the crimson tiles.     Is this a

meaningless fight?       We fight for love, we fight against God.      Perhaps this

is what we were meant to do.      Not worship Him.    Fear him.  

 How can a horrible earth not be born from a monster?     Is beauty a trap?  

 Meant to pacify the tormentor? You know what they say.  A person in

jail who never realizes they are in jail.    Will stay in jail forever.   Was it so easy?

We can’t be all alone in this universe.     They recite love as proof of God.    

  But is love a curse or a blessing?   Happiness?       One of those

things they give, like rations?         All the curses disguised as gifts? To

keep you from ever wanting to leave?  But then why do people want?

 To leave?

Lilies

In the car, flying on cruise control,

on this desolate stretch between anything,

everything a dizzy blur, the rush,

the rush, a violence to the senses,

a glimpse of swift efflorescence,

I know each petal is there,

placed as it should be, precariously

riding the hump of the ditch between

vast expanses of alfalfa and asphalt,

these daylily hobos, fast, vivid saffron,

tangled with flushed morning glories,

violet clover, pale blue chicory,

the eyes of tow-headed children,

and elegant, white Queen Anne’s lace –

when you break a stem, there’s

a sharp, unexpected scent of wild carrot.

In this fugacious instant,

somehow I know, I know these lilies

want my adoration, calling me,

stamens vibrating in long throats,

quite willing to share their joy.

Why don’t I turn around,

turn off the motor and

listen for just a little while,

their troupe crooning hue at the sky?

I’ll lie alongside them in soft

wheatgrass, and together we’ll  

bide the gentler sounds of night.

Which destinations shall I neglect,

vague acquaintances or these dear chums?

When I think of them, alone, untended,

I want to acquiesce, relinquish

any passion to a high shelf

for someone much younger to find.

I can’t help this weird, bygone empathy,

doting, hoary around the fringes:

when the rain comes, cold and rigid,

will I fret over these blossoms,

lips pursed, pouting for lack of sun?

When the apprehension of winter comes,

inevitably comes in frost then ice,

will I mourn these lilies,

will I feel their dread,

will I rush to my beloved?

In the Snow

I regret neglecting

The egrets last summer

Mindlessly oblivious to

White against emerald

Viridian chartreuse

Stepping shyly in the marsh

And just yesterday

Snowing and snowing

I wish I’d spent

An afternoon peering

Through the window

(Debussy in my ears no

A Chopin Mazurka)

Blue-gray atmosphere

Obscurity on the horizon

A sky brimming with

Falling singularities more

Crystals than space between

I knew this beauty

Was infinitely transient

Considerably more pertinent

Than fabricating drudgery

My bloated memoranda

Tell me tell me

(I do not insist

A modest desire

A desperation nevertheless)

There must be a place

Where I might see

Egrets taking flight

In the snow

Mark Young has a new book, Some Unrecorded Voyages of Vasco da Gama, which is a collection of both text & visual geographies, a number of which have appeared in Synchronized Chaos. It’s available from Lulu. The URL is https://www.lulu.com/shop/mark-young/some-unrecorded-voyages-of-vasco-da-gama/paperback/product-e748z2j.html?page=1&pageSize=4

Bird Light Day Night,

-from,

The New Springtime Journals, Prose Poems and Pictures 

(for Tara)

Rya, R-eee-ya, R-iii-ya, goes the bird and it’s night when that occurred and the bird is unseen. There are soft lights in the real reality indoors. Love and friendship also, plus literature,- stacks of books. Papers and pens. 

Before, it was morning, and the sun ascended and the earth was warm if a little damp. Reading quickly through Rimbaud’s life and times. The diviner listened to, said a bird would fly overhead. A slightly larger than normal bird. This happened. And there was a large tree and winding paths, hills that went quietly up and then standing on the summit one could see far and far,- distant buildings and more hills,- trees. I watched the thawed and therefore flowing river, and the closer I went the louder and more wonderful it was. Morning, afternoon, dusk, and night. These things and the things within them. Airplanes and clouds in the sky. Spring. The new springtime. The springtime poems from springtime journals. Messages. Letters. Many words. 

A ring. I had lost a ring. Looked for it for weeks. Then I let it go for a while. When this night arrived I sat in silence and it came to me…the ring is on a bookshelf. I didn’t know exactly where but that was the message. From spirit or from the higher self or internal knowledge or something. I got up. Turned on lights. Stood before the shelf. Saw a small box. Opened it. There was a picture of Jesus Christ and a small medallion also, and some jewellery. There, amidst all that, was the missing ring. I put it on my finger. I had tried it on at a carnival once, the night fairgrounds of electric eclectic wondrous lights, vendors, music, scents wafting through the nocturne. Distant firecrackers of the firmament. Metropolis of summer. Scenes. Life. Streets. Cars. People. So many people moving about. The vendor: ‘It fits well.’ Me: ‘Yes.’ Memory. The beloved. Brown eyes and dimples, slight blonde streaks in her dark brown hair. Lovely. She doesn’t wear earrings but has been of late,- this year. She is pretty. Naturally pretty. A good soul. Wise. Strong. Honest. Reliable. From the South. Virginia. 

We look around at the carnival night. Before and after ride buses, trains, and in a car. Fine. Summer evening. Make memories. Hold hands. Talk. You know how it goes. Everyone has a story as they say. 

Back to now: pears and strawberries. Literary biography. Dreams. Good dreams and some bad dreams. But far less bad dreams than before. Almost a whole day without writing prose poems. For reading. For finishing a book I was into. Carson McCullers. A biography. Hmm. Pastel green duvet. We share chocolate the brown haired one and I. A fan whirls. The fields are out there, to be walked in and through, tomorrow morning again. Birds. And window sills here. Silence. Glass. Fences. Cleaning things. Wondering about the future. Aruba. Planes. Places. Beaches. Pools. Short walks. Longer walks. What will be there? Pictures and poems from the parapets and by the promenades of life. hopefully. Take it easy. The world needs less ambitious people anyhow. There should be a district for daydreamers, a mountain for magic, an arena for artists, a shrine for seers, a beach for believers, an applause and clause for the apolitical, a placid pool for poets…

There is a story I wrote about a blue crocheted heart and a small metal heart was found while looking for that ring. A diviner said: ‘Someone out there can hear this message- a blue heart I am seeing. Strange. Hearts are usually red. But this is blue. That message is for someone in the collective…’

Later I’ll step outside. Maybe the night birds will be there somewhere in the distance. A-r-iy a. Ryiiia. That’s what they seem to say. Loquacious if anything. It’s spring. I guess they are taking to their friends. Everyone communicates in their own way. The birds sing those strange songs. The architect makes a rendering. The mechanic repairs the engine. The train conductor sounds a whistle. A teacher makes a rubric. The novelist, an outline first usually. The poet the poem. The mystic creates themselves a new, with God. 

——

The Hairdresser’s Daughter

My mother
Silver hearts in her ears
An apron over her black blouse
Shimmery pink gloss on her lips
With light blonde hair in waves behind her

Holds another’s life in her hands
Bleach on to long and it will never be the same
Flat iron too hot you’ll singe it right of
Cut it to short and that’s months of growth ahead
There are perils to a client and plenty of pitfalls for her hairdresser
Knowing all this I watch in awe
At the easy trust her client bestows
And the gracious elegance my mother receives it with
She is confident she’ll be happy with her hair
And my mother is confident she will make her happy
I am relieved that my job is much simpler.

Face scrubbed clean
Velcro sandals in place
Beaded play bracelet on my wrist
Hair down along my back held in place by butterfly berets
it swishes when I step

I am the sweeper
Although I have many duties as the hairdressers daughter
Fetching clean towels
Holding the mirror steady
My favorite job is getting to sweep
Dark hair recently shorn of, litters the floor
Broom in hand I shape it into a neat pile
Careful not to miss a single strand
This job is important, though discarded every piece carries weight
Each took months to grow and where painstakingly cut
Take it from the hairdressers daughter

Before we even step foot into work we prepare
My mom stands in front of the mirror making a perfect face even more perfect
I thoughtfully weigh out flower or butterfly clip
Butterfly
They have sparkles
And mom says we should try and look our best

At the salon the other stylists
Ashley
High ponytail
Christina
Black short bob
Gwen
Messy bun with a claw clip
Smile when they see me as they set up there stations
Waiting for the beautiful people to come in
Ready to make them even more so

I study the clients carefully as they walk in
What starts out as a half hearted braid shuffling in might leave as a blowout strutting out
Pin straight to a perm
The person entirely changed along with it
But it’s not just how they leave, but what takes place in the chair
That matters

Client #1 is indecisive
She has had practically every color and look under the sun yet still hasn’t found one to wear
longer than a month
Client #2 is old
She is going gray so she’s decided to dye it all silver. That’s aging in style she says
Client #3 is nervous
She has prom coming up and she wants to be perfect
Client #4 is ready
She is going for a promotion at work. She wants to look like a big business lady so maybe she’ll
feel like one

I blame it on the mirrors
You can’t stare at yourself like that for hours and not get to thinking
You can do that at a salon
think
You can count on the hairdresser to talk with if you need it
The hair sweeper to keep things clean
And that when you leave even if nothings been figured out
If nothing’s changed but the hair on your head
You’ll feel a little bit better

Ours Now

We saved the bedroom for last
We said it was because it was in the back of the house
Made sense to start in the entry
The living room
The kitchen
The bathroom
Everything but the bedroom
Anything but the bedroom
Until now
Because even now
With the rest of the house in dumpsters

I open the door
See the bed
And stop
Faded floral sheets tucked in
The white comforter smoothed out
It’s made, The beds made
That’s what’s different
It was never made before
Because she was always in it
I still expect her to be in it
It’s still expected that we
Shuffle in single file avoiding the cups of cold tea
Bunched up tissues balanced on stacks of magazines
Pushing aside odds and ends
To make a path, to the bed
Where she waits with her hand outstretched, spotted and knobbled
Her shock of white hair spread across the pillow like a halo
Drooping eyelids struggling to stay open
I can’t call her fragile
You can’t struggle for that long and be
fragile

She was buried two towns over
But that room
With the vanity now dusty
Crammed full of costume jewelry and expired cosmetics
Overflowing closet with now moth eaten wardrobe
Was her real mausoleum
It was sacrilege to even enter
But we did
We entered with trash bags and gloves and spray cleaner
All because a piece of paper said it was
Ours now
This house that I can only remember a handful of visits too

That the smell of cats and dust and age drove us out off
Was ours
Because it’s what she would have wanted

My little sister said it was haunted
I said it wasn’t
She hadn’t died here after all
She died in a bright white room that smelled of disinfectant
She died surrounded by family
That she couldn’t recognize anymore
But we cried for her anyways
I cried so hard she called me over
Voice slow and drifting
Why are you crying little girl
And that made me sob louder

When we sorted
The trash pile tripling the keep
We didn’t talk
Not when someone stared of in the distance
Or sat and cried
Because if we stopped every time
To feel the cool jade beads of a bracelet she always wore
Marvel at the birthday card we made and for some reason she still kept
Flip through the worn pages of the bible she preached
If we stopped every time the memories were too much to bear
We would never finish.

So we
Peeled away yellowed wallpaper
Pried of sunflower tiles
Pulled up the green carpet
A home turned into a gutted out house
And it was done
Except it wasn’t
Because now we would live here
No point having it sit there empty,
Right

I don’t know when it became our house
It wasn’t when we painted the walls grey
Or put in grey floors
And moved into our grey little house
I wondered if we would always be imposters
Who dared put food in the fridge
And their coats in the closet
Squatters
In a house waiting for its real owner to come back
Home

Lili Lang is 16 years old and lives in California, USA. Lili is a sugar addict who loves all things sweet and spends her time reading and plotting literary world domination. She has her head perpetually in the clouds and is a cat person at heart, or at least she would be if she wasn’t allergic. Lili is a CSSSA Alum and Writegirl Mentee. She is an LA Youth Poet Ambassador.  Her work has been previously published in Under The Madness Magazine and Girls Right The World.