Poetry+180

Liz Gainer 7th //Ronald Koertge * // with a hormone imbalance manifested by corpulence, a yodel of a voice or ears big as kidneys. ** has thrown himself in front of our hero in order to receive the bullet or blow meant for that perfect face and body. ** the sidekick alone. He would not stand for it. Gabby or Pat, Pancho or Andy remind us of a part of ourselves, ** the part that is painfully eager to please, always wants a hug and never gets enough. ** to the organ music and watch the best of ourselves lowered into the ground while the rest stood up there, tears pouring off that enormous nose. **
 * Sidekicks **
 * They were never handsome and often came
 * But each was brave. More than once a sidekick
 * Thankfully, heroes never die in movies and leave
 * the dependent part that can never grow up,
 * Who could sit in a darkened theatre, listen

I really like this poem. I think it says a lot about how life really is. The side kick does just as much, or more work than the super hero. But they don’t get the credit. They often take the blows for the super hero because the super hero is perfect and doesn’t want to ruin their perfectness. I think the side kick should get more credit. Infact, I think the side kick should leave the super hero and become their own hero. But what is really comes down to is this, no one is perfect, but we all try. Some try harder than others but don’t get credit for it. And the ones who don’t really try get all the credit. Normal people deserve just as much credit as anyone else does. = = =The Summer I Was Sixteen=

//Geraldine Connolly//
The turquoise pool rose up to meet us, its slide a silver afterthought down which we plunged, screaming, into a mirage of bubbles. We did not exist beyond the gaze of a boy. Shaking water off our limbs, we lifted up from ladder rungs across the fern-cool lip of rim. Afternoon. Oiled and sated, we sunbathed, rose and paraded the concrete, danced to the low beat of "Duke of Earl". Past cherry colas, hot-dogs, Dreamsicles, we came to the counter where bees staggered into root beer cups and drowned. We gobbled cotton candy torches, sweet as furtive kisses, shared on benches beneath summer shadows. Cherry. Elm. Sycamore. We spread our chenille blankets across grass, pressed radios to our ears, mouthing the old words, then loosened thin bikini straps and rubbed baby oil with iodine across sunburned shoulders, tossing a glance through the chain link at an improbable world.

This poem makes me really miss the summer. I love the summer it is my favorite season. It reminds me of the excitement of being sixteen and naïve. All the good old days when you could just chill with your friends and relax. Ive always wanted to know of a secret water hole or something like that where me and all my friends could go. Life is so good when you’re a teenager and I don’t think you realize it until you grow up. =The Blue Bowl=

//Jane Kenyon//
Like primitives we buried the cat with his bowl. Bare-handed we scraped sand and gravel back into the hole. They fell with a hiss and thud on his side, on his long red fur, the white feathers between his toes, and his long, not to say aquiline, nose. We stood and brushed each other off. There are sorrows keener than these. Silent the rest of the day, we worked, ate, stared, and slept. It stormed all night; now it clears, and a robin burbles from a dripping bush like the neighbor who means well but always says the wrong thing. Wow, this poem depresses me. It reminds me of all the pets that ive had to bury in my life time. The most recent was my dog missy, she was 10 years old and so adorable. But she got sick and we had to put her down. It was so hard to bury her and to say goodbye to her. Im hoping that there is such a place as dog heaven. Its really hard for me to lose a pet because I get so attached to them and I always end up crying and missing them so much. =The Distances=

//Henry Rago//
This house, pitched now The dark wide stretch Of plains and ocean To these hills over The night-filled river, Billows with night, Swells with the rooms Of sleeping children, pulls Slowly from this bed, Slowly returns, pulls and holds, Is held where we Lock all distances! Ah, how the distances Spiral from that Secrecy: Room, Rooms, roof Spun to the huge Midnight, and into The rings and rings of stars. The distance. What a mysterious place. You never know whats in the distance because it is unreachable. By the time you get to the distance you once saw, there will be another distance left in front of you. Taunting you, daring you to try to reach it. But you never will. There will always be distance for you to wonder about. =Radio=

//Laurel Blossom//
No radio in car No radio on board No radio Already stolen Absolutely no radio! Radio broken Alarm is set To go off No radio No money No radio no valuables No radio or valuables in car or trunk No radio Stolen 3X No radio Empty trunk Empty glove compartment Honest In car Nothing of value No radio No nuthin (no kidding) Radio Broken Nothing Left! Radio Gone Note Hole in Dashboard Warning! Radio Will Not Play When Removed Security Code Required Would you keep Anything valuable In this wreck? No valuables In this van Please do not Break-in Unnecessarily Thank you For your kind Consideration Nothing of value in car No radio No tapes No telephone I hate when people steal. It is so rude. This poem reminds me of my friend who got her car broken into. They took her raido and everything out of her car. It was a very sad site to see. Without a radio in your car, your rides will be rather boring and uninteresting.