(*roughly in order, newest at the top*)


You Need to Know Portland if You're Going to Miss the Summer
Proof of the Truth
I'm Not Really Here
Collage Poem
The Night
Two of Me
Mr. Teeny's Fun Parade
Summer in the City
Serpents and Dreams
Roses Are Red
Little Lights
Hangman's Folly or Heaven's Gate
Ink Well
The Folded Crane
At the Fair
Feathers and Ice
AHMMFN Revision
Untitled Waka/Tanka Poem
Untitled Sonnet
Hope That Prays
Collage Poem (school version)
Ode to CK
King of the Jungle
Death is Only My Metaphor
Pretty in Pink
Death of the Luna Crewmates
Who Were You?
Autumn Afternoon
The Goddess


You Need to Know Portland if You’re Going to Miss the Summer
For Junior IB English
March 16, 2003

Morning rises, the day reprises, what is it about the summer
that makes you sigh, feelin’ high and a perpetual hummer?
Something in my soul mourning the toll marking the start of fall
Draws in July, wondering why summer has to end at all.

Sun’s hot face delicately traced into the metal of the slide;
Withering grass hard as glass, yellow-brown and dried;
Absorbed right smack into the rubber black of sagging swings,
And sawdust shielded, precious shade yielded, sole solace from solar sting.

Ice cream man jingle, the sensuous tingle of breeze on sweaty skin.
Baby blue skies to match my eyes with clouds on the wind.
Time just a clock, meaningless tick-tock; the syllables

Popsicles, clouds, butterflies, crowds, and the smell of cut grass and dirt.
The girl in the pool, just stayin’ cool, the boy being chided for losing his shirt.
Bikes abandoned to trees, intriguing the bees, receiving shade’s embrace.
Dandelion seeds, modern tumbleweeds rolling slowly over third base.

The rays of light, blinding white are filtered into the MAX.
Roomy and placid, time just passing, ambling down the tracks.
Nowhere to go.
Nowhere to be.
Nothing to do.
Nothing to see.
And the sun moves.
By little.
By little.

Long cool shadows turning sallow in the streets of South East
And playing in the park, till it gets dark and I can hardly see.
The sprinklers come on, wetting the lawn and dewy sweet grass of Mount Scott.
The wind on your face
	Where nothing’s a race;
		Tomorrow’s a promise
			Today and afterthought.



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