Well, Son, I Ll Tell You

Mother to Son BY LANGSTON HUGHES Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor— Bare. But all the time I’se been a-climbin’ on, And reachin’ landin’s, And turnin’ corners, And sometimes goin’ in the dark Where there ain’t been no light. So boy, don’t you turn back. Don’t you set down on the steps’ Cause you finds it’s kinder hard. Don’t you fall now— For I’se still goin’, honey, I’se still climbin’, And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

The Rose That Grew From Concrete By Tupac

Did you hear about the rose that grew from a crack in the concrete? Proving nature's law is wrong it learned to walk without having feet. Funny it seems, but by keeping its dreams, it learned to breathe fresh air. Long live the rose that grew from concrete when no one else ever cared. This Is Just To Say William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast

Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold Annabel Lee BY EDGAR ALLAN POE It was many and many a year ago, Went envying her and me— In a kingdom by the sea, Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, That a maiden there lived whom you may know In this kingdom by the sea) By the name of Annabel Lee; That the wind came out of the cloud by night, And this maiden she lived with no other Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. thought Than to love and be loved by me. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we— I was a child and she was a child, Of many far wiser than we— In this kingdom by the sea, And neither the angels in Heaven above But we loved with a love that was more than Nor the demons down under the sea love— Can ever dissever my soul from the soul I and my Annabel Lee— Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven Coveted her and me. For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams And this was the reason that, long ago, Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; In this kingdom by the sea, And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling eyes My beautiful Annabel Lee; Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; So that her highborn kinsmen came And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side And bore her away from me, Of my darling—my darling—my life and my To shut her up in a sepulchre bride, In this kingdom by the sea. In her sepulchre there by the sea— In her tomb by the sounding sea. The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, Nothing Gold Can Stay Robert Frost Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold, Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.

Abandoned Farmhouse BY TED KOOSER He was a big man, says the size of his shoes on a pile of broken dishes by the house; a tall man too, says the length of the bed in an upstairs room; and a good, God-fearing man, says the Bible with a broken back on the floor below the window, dusty with sun; but not a man for farming, say the fields cluttered with boulders and the leaky barn.

A woman lived with him, says the bedroom wall papered with lilacs and the kitchen shelves covered with oilcloth, and they had a child, says the sandbox made from a tractor tire. Money was scarce, say the jars of plum preserves and canned tomatoes sealed in the cellar hole. And the winters cold, say the rags in the window frames. It was lonely here, says the narrow country road.

Something went wrong, says the empty house in the weed-choked yard. Stones in the fields say he was not a farmer; the still-sealed jars in the cellar say she left in a nervous haste. And the child? Its toys are strewn in the yard like branches after a storm—a rubber cow, a rusty tractor with a broken plow, a doll in overalls. Something went wrong, they say. Hoods by Paul B. Janeczko

In blak leather jackets, watching Spider work the wire coat hanger into Mrs. Koops car, they remind me of crows huddled around a road kill. Startled, They looked up, then back as Spider, who nodded once, setting them free toward me. I bounded away, used a parking meter to whip me around the corner past Janelli's meter the darkened Pine Street Grille, and the steamed windows of Sudsy's Modern Laundromat. I climbed-two at a time- the granite steps of the Free Public Library and pushed back thick wooden doors as the pursuing pack stopped- sinners at the door of a church.

From the corner table of the reference room I watched them pacing, head turning every time the door opened, pacing, until Spider arrived to draw them away. I waited, fingering hearts, initials carved into the table, grinning as I heard myself telling Raymond of my death-defying escape. Street Painting Ann Turner I watched him a long time and this is how he did it: Stand in front of the wall like it’s a bad dream. Make faces. Jam your hat down. Pull it off. Pop your fingers—walk around the block and come back, start up like you surprised the wall’s still there. Then sigh. Take out your paints. Doodle around with them, stirring and humming. Dip a brush in, stare at it, take a rush forward and dab-dab-dab at the wall. Soon’s you know, you got faces and bodies and trees like they were locked up in that old brush and all you had to do was stare at it. to get a picture. Every Cat Has a Story by Naomi Shihab Nye The yellow one from the bakery smelled like a cream puff- she followed us home. We buried our faces in her sweet fur.

One cat hid her head while I practiced violin. But she came out for piano. At night she played sonatas on my quilt.

One cat built a secret nest in my socks.

One sat in the window staring up the street all day while we were at school.

One cat loved the radio dial

One cat almost smiled.

Spring Storm By Jim Wayne Miller

He comes gusting out of the house, the screen door a thunderclap behind him.

He moves like a black cloud over the lawn and---stops.

A hand in his mind grabs a purple crayon of anger and messes the clean sky.

He sits on the steps, his eye drawing a mustache on the face in the tree.

As his weather clears, his rage dripping away, wisecracks and wonderment spring up like dandelions.