Poetry
Where I Call Home
by Jade Hage
Pacific Grove, deemed by some as the “Last Hometown,”
Where I can wander through downtown,
Running into everyone I know.
Pacific Grove, where all of the students can
Fondly recall elementary school music class with
Ms. Sanfort;
And where every student has had the experience
Of Mr. Bell as their principal, and Ms. Anton’s
Riveting exploration through world history.
Pacific Grove, where the innate rivalry between
The Otters and the Falcons can be noticed even
At the high school;
And where Breaker pride is thick in the air on
Every spirit day, and at every athletic event.
Pacific Grove, where the sweet aroma of kettle
Corn wafts through the brisk April air at the
lively Good Old Days celebration;
Where the Feast of Lanterns and its Royal Court
Are the highlight of the fog-blanketed summers;
And where each kindergartener marches through
Town dressed as a proud monarch butterfly in the
Lively Butterfly Parade.
Pacific Grove, the sweetest little town, where I call
Home.
Jade Hage is a member of the PGHS Young Writers Club which submits its best poetry during the school year to grace the pages of Cedar Street Times. We thank all the students as we use Jade’s poem for our retrospective.
Raising the flag
by Ashley Cameron
February 19, 1945
The day of invasion…
Staring at the battleships swarming the harbor of Iwo Jima,
Overcome by fear,
He tries to get her out of his mind - but fails!
Intricate tunnels underground, enable an “element of surprise”
Volcanic ash fills his lungs, making matters worse.
Pictures of her flash through his mind, refusing to dissolve.
His vision obscured,
His defenses weakened,
He refuses to give up.
Flamethrowers shoot death into the air while grenades fly like metal birds -
The atmosphere - a blur of confusion.
He watches as countless lives wither into crimson pools,
Into dust and smoke.
Ghosts advance slowly, risking what the day will eclipse.
His breathing deepens.
His heart pounds through his chest.
The image of her remains,
Not in his mind,
Amidst the confusion of death, and blood, and artillery,
But in his pounding heart,
As he fears not death,
But life without her.
Compelled by this love, he drifts forward with remaining troops,
The sinews of their hearts woven together
To create a force strong enough to vanquish this enemy,
To bring down the Rising Sun,
To watch it set behind the hills of Mt. Suribachi
On February 23, 1945.
He never wanted to let her go.
The tears he cried,
While watching his comrades stab his country’s flag into the soil
Of the mountaintop -
A star-spangled banner,
Standing proud above the sunset -
Were tears of hope,
For the daughter he left behind
On this triumphant day.
Ellen
She walks with the rest
The same, yet different.
She stands out alone
Smaller, but so much bigger.
She lags behind while
Trying harder than anyone to keep up.
She holds a special place in my heart as in the
Hearts of so many others
Irreplaceable, she is so perfect
In her own unique way.
Some may talk about her or
Laugh or point at her.
*Does it care? Does she care?
Once they know her,
She becomes a precious jewel in
Their lives.
Amidst change and hardship
She remains the same,
Dependable and strong.
*Italicized line taken from Robinson Jeffers’ poem Carmel Point
Ellen
By Julia Sweigart
She walks with the rest The same, yet different. She stands out alone Smaller, but so much bigger. She lags behind while Trying harder than anyone to keep up. She holds a special place in my heart as in the Hearts of so many others Irreplaceable, she is so perfect In her own unique way. Some may talk about her or Laugh or point at her. *Does it care? Does she care? Once they know her, She becomes a precious jewel in Their lives. Amidst change and hardship She remains the same, Dependable and strong.
Coins
By Molly Speacht
He died on my mother’s birthday, a few weeks before Christmas. We were in a hospital when we found out about his death; not the one who would be soon placing a white sheet over my grandfather’s body, but the one my mom’s friend worked at. I was young, seven or eight, and I can only remember certain things: the loud cries of my mother and the touch of her sweater as I wrapped my arms around her back. The moment seemed frozen in time, and I tried to remember everything; from my first memories of his creased fingers to the last time I held his hand.
I only saw my grandfather only a few times a year. He didn’t like to travel like my grandmother because he might miss a key football game. But when I did see him, I looked forward to hearing the sound of him rummaging in his pockets for something. After a brief period of clanging coins, my grandpa would present me with a penny, a nickel, a dime, and a quarter. I could always count on this gift, this money that would buy a piece of gum or a sticker at the ice-cream shop down the street.
The last time I saw him he couldn’t put his hands in his pockets. My family and I were in Sacramento for Thanksgiving when we got the call that he had gotten into a car accident. I didn’t understand why we had to leave so quickly. I wanted pumpkin pie and mashed potatoes. My mom and I left that day. It was the first time we had ever been separated from my father on Thanksgiving.
We drove to San Francisco and got on the first flight to Lansing, Michigan. I loved airports, and I wanted to go into to all of the gift shops and get candy and coloring books. My mom tugged my hand passed the sparkling windows painted with magazine covers and “I Love SF” memorabilia.
“I want a coloring book,” I planted my feet in front of the open door of a crowded bookstore.
“We have to catch our plane, we have to go,” the lids of her eyes were still red with lack of sleep and lack of dryness since we had left Sacramento, “We don’t have time.”
“But I’ll be bored on the plane.”
“Okay, but get one quickly, we don’t have long.” She tried to sound tender and understanding, like in some way I did understand the weight of what was happening, despite my attempts to hide it.
She was wrong. I didn’t understand. At my great-grandmother’s funeral, I brought my talking Barbie doll and laughed when plastic figure let out a recorded quip in the middle of the service. I never knew my great-grandmother nor did I truly understand why my grandmother’s eyes cried hot tears that dripped down her cheeks and neck. I didn’t know why she felt that way, or why anyone felt that way. Not until I arrived in Michigan.
The dirt encrusted snow crunched under my ill-equipped sneakers as we walked toward the automatic glass doors of the hospital. I shamefully have to admit I was thrilled to be in snowy Michigan, as I hoped to make the snowmen and angels I had watched other kids make in movies. The hospital was whiter inside than it was outside and the halls were long and intimidating. I didn’t see my grandfather for days. I watched as relative after relative entered the room while I played Mad-Libs and ate Hostess cupcakes. My mom said I would see him soon. But soon took forever.
I finally entered that forbidden room holding my mother’s hand. He didn’t look the way I remembered him. He didn’t have any pockets. He wasn’t even wearing jeans. A thin sheet covered him, tubes ran from his arms, and his bright eyes were closed. I didn’t know what to say; all I could do was approach his bed and grasp his wrinkled palms. The bumpy line on the television next to him made a sharp spike.
“He’s happy,” the nurse put her hand on my shoulder. “You made him happy.”
And just for a second, I thought I saw him smile.
After that I thought he was going to be fine. I thought in my elementary mind that I had saved him, that my small, chubby fingers healed all of his wounds.
That’s what I thought about in the hospital cafeteria the day we found out he didn’t make it. I toned out my mother’s sobs and thought about how I hadn’t saved him, how the nurse that day had somehow lied to me. But then I realized why I was confused, why I didn’t understand before. I didn’t really understand why my mom’s eyes were scarlet in the airport that day or why my relatives dabbed their eyes with white tissue paper and talked in hushed tones in the hospital waiting room whenever they thought I wasn’t looking or listening. I had never experienced this kind of tragedy before. But in that moment, in my mother’s arms, I finally understood.
The Song of the Orator
by Iyla Ollinger
He steps to the podium as a bird flies to the tallest limb of a tree
It is at that point that they both realize that the world is scattered in front of them
One sees thousands of people, himself beside the solemn Abe
The other sees the sun’s rays piercing the tree as it rises
He begins to speak with a deep commanding tone
She opens her beak and sings the sweetest song
They use sound to inspire others - to show them what life can be
Together, they share the language of new beginnings
I Don’t Believe in Valentine’s Day
by Amber Cochran
Valentine’s Day is overrated.
It’s a commercialized, Hallmark-invented holiday.
Chalky conversations hearts that say “hug me,”
Teddy bears, chocolates, and paper hearts.
I don’t think there needs to be a holiday
To show someone how much you love them.
I do believe in love,
But I don’t believe in Valentine’s Day.
House of Slaves
by Keairra Childress
Christians, Buddhists, Muslims, and Atheists Torn between the Torah, the Quran, and the New and Old Testament - Have we come so far to forget the Jews on the brink of genocide, Or the white man’s will of complete annihilation of the African people? We are not free. We are not liberty. But simply… A House of Slaves.
We prostrate ourselves before the altar of voiceless deities. I, a Descendant, stand trying to guess what my ancestors felt as they Stood on what was supposed to be the foundation of all beliefs, I had a conversation with their pain and convinced it to leave. Yet before it left it pleaded with me, To acknowledge all the Ancestral lives within me And pour out a libation to honor their return… From the House of Slaves.
While I explore this heritage I submit to the beat of the drum Allowing my spirit to be drawn into the orbit of their spirituality.
So while I search for a valuable understanding of yesterday, I see shaved heads and painted faces… Gas chambers and church burnings… Lynchings and trails of tears… Black faces standing tall and regal… Slave ships and mutilations… Distorted views and deafening cries… Chains and cages… Illiterate minds and ignorant souls… Condensed thoughts and whipped backs… Demoralized and dehumanized… Tied and bound… Neither hopes nor dreams… Only impassioned faces anticipating a lightening of their emotional load…