Poetry Slam
	Students in the Craft of Poetry Class, taught by Mrs. Beth Knapp, spent the semester in the study and practice of poetry. Part of the semester focused on student-written poems, incorporating features and styles from various readings. Click on each title below to read the poem. A selection of poems was also presented at assembly on Friday, January 14.

	What is Poetry? - Juan Angel
	It starts just like a normal day, when you’ll never know the ending You don’t want it, but you do, so you squirm from the bed to the beginning You stop at the hand in red, thinking twice before proceeding Focused and determined you cross this road of words, hand on your hips fiddling You look left, right, and then left again it hits you when you thought you were precautious The driver thought the light was green, but you saw another color Sitting on the ground dazed, it’s now a painful bother What seemed to be a breeze of words has got your life relating You pick your things up and you’re glad the car is a fictitious image fading Brushing off what never happened, but still concussed by the prior sentence Imagination can take over when you think you’re really there When your mind is flying through the traffic, sailing to find the meaning in an open sea Was it red, was it green, or was it simply poetry?

	Happy Holidays Children - Jeff Hale
	It's Christmas time, and Santa is here. Does anyone else think it's the creepiest time of the year? Children are told that he sneaks into houses And there are songs sung about him kissing our father's spouses We leave out milk and cookies for the fat man with the beard And what's with the naughty and nice list? That is so weird. Then we are forced to sit on his thigh Yet the tradition continues, this sick and twisted lie.

	Help Me Al Roker - Scott Melby
	I’ve got three tempests raging in my mind. The only problem is that they’re changing all the time. I say the first is the most important, but she’s nowhere to be found. I’m in the middle of it all, surely about to drown. I fell in love with the first’s moral compass. But the forces inside her were as confusing as a platypus. She anchored me for almost three whole years. An age full of laughter and of tears. I fear and long for the way she worked inside me. The way she reduced me but also made me mighty. I sent her a letter to which she responded, “I’m busy.” Her waves of emotions made me dizzy. My feelings for the second sprung like a wildfire. From origins unknown but she was truly my desire. For three whole months everything was completely fine. But I ended it for reasons hard to define. I thought I needed things in her that weren’t on the horizon. Things I realized I didn’t need until I had wizened. I hid from the consequences in the jungles of the Dominican Republic. When asked about my actions I was quick to change the topic. The third one started as a quest. One to put my game to a test. But then I found she’s actually quite the catch. It doesn’t hurt when others say, “you’re the perfect match.” Once again I found myself with everything I could ask for. But that still left places to explore. Places I then had to find. If I ever want to leave the other two behind. I have a problem with always wanting more. But I certainly can’t add another and extend my list to four. My thoughts get shuffled like cards in a game of poker. I need someone who can make predictions, please help me Al Roker.

	Nature Poem - Brendan Cobb
	Winding and turning around curves Headlights brighten, a slam of brakes, An animal halts and bolts off. Durive by curiousity, the man follows. Ducking through trees and shrubbery, Coming to an opening, a clearing. The animal looks back, and moves Onward. He trails the animal, Deeper and deeper into the woods. He forgets about his troubles, His worries as he focuses On the hunt. Instinct takes over. The tie loosens, the blazer crumples, The beard grows, as he sheds His urban skin and returns to his roots. The amber leaves fall, stripping the Maple tree of its vibrance. The wind Howls through the forest, guiding The hunter to his prey. The animal Dances through the woods, evading The man who instinctively follows. He hears the leaves rustle; he lunges out to Capture his prey -but- the animal is gone, He is alone. Left to fend for himself in Nature. Left to find himself in Nature.

	Ultimate Fate - Matt Conaghan
	Sitting here, body pinned to the street. Some people see fingers, some people see feet. I can’t wake from the nightmares, Since they’ve gained new life. And my conscience can’t remove the stains Left by the blood from my own knife. Stuck inside a war that we have sought. A war, which desperate men have fought. Eyes wrought, bloodshot, noose taut Fully engrossed, caught Up in the cause in which we thought to… No, ought to Make amends. And in my mind I see my ultimate fate A place Revelations* guards with a pearly gate. But unfortunately, St. Peter can’t decide If my actions were just, or just genocide. *Revelations - Revelations 21:21 discusses the twelve gates and the twelve pearls

	It’s the matter that’s at hand - Chris Kearns
	Months of the concealed rage of a man masquerading about in the forced smile of a brother mistreated by another is best unleashed in a torrent of words. The gracious gift of intellect alone would indicate that this indignation is not that of a beast, but of a man. Hatred is the only force, tonight, guiding my hand. This is what’s the matter. It’s the matter that’s a hand. Hear the unholy atrocity, which leaves my brain no command. About 12 years ago the universe got lucky. Not regarding a woman but a brother more or less (more fun and less love) seemed to happen by in Kindergarten. Simple as it seemed, I think I quickly knocked on wood and said, “Well be buds forever. You can mark my words.” My mental math seemed almost perfect afterwards. The years made us inseparable. Wicked hand shakes and untellable tales were the mortar that would keep us going through our childhood. We were about the same guy it seemed. Together so much having no need for “bye” was a common occurrence nobody asked, “Why, man?” And in my divorces darkest hours it seemed he was the one to man the lighthouse, which found my ladder out. No words I could ever speak would suffice to let him know. Couldn’t buy a gift great enough to express gratitude. He grabbed my hand and said, “Don’t worry bout it, brother.” Time cooled a bout between the parents and life went on as it would. But time like termites rotted away the hardwood foundation of our friendship. Blame overexposure or man- ic psychosis, but something changed. A strange shadow came about and was misdiagnosed as typical tiffs. Odd inflections on words heard only by his closest friend. Even our hand shakes lacked the luster of years passed by. The shadow was not that of a cloud passing by but rather of a furious hurricane which would soon cast my raft upon the crooked crags of life. My trembling hand shook with bitter rage at first followed by unman- agable grief and loss at the news of betrayal. No words of any lost ancient language contain the power of the emotion I speak about. No proper preparation for what I heard about. Just good-bye. The crush of knowing that words are just words and what I woulda considered my best man had just crushed our friendship in the palm of his hand.

	True Life: I’m a Poet - Tim Dorn
	A needle is hard to find in a haystack Unless you have a metal detector You forgot the key to your house Better use the back door Poetry is not math There is no one answer The unruly one is challenging The teacher views him as a cancer But he dances to his own music Poetry is the only dancer