Pool

We sprawl, belly-down
next to the blue, frying.

Our pinkies touch, do not
touch. We are hipless,

titless, thin as the curled
rinds of tangerines littering

the stairs. Our pink-spangled
bikinis sag, loose as empty

burlap sacks. Our sun-whitened
hair spreads across the stones,

green as new corn, fragrant
as beach trash, as your mother's
stolen perfume.

I promised my two writing classes that I would pick the best poems from each and post them.

So here they are -- written as reverse poems of Mark Strand's The Dress.

English 1101 -- Freshman

Olakunle

I am Not Perfect After All

I stay awake in the dark valley
with the sun's warmth on my face,
my skin, naked as the flowing stream,
and I hear the voice of a bird
extending its wings across the face of the sun,
is this folly or a song,
escaping my ears with its white feathers
and as I step into my clothes, walking towards the light,
the bird finds me, so did its sweet voice and the message it speaks.
Although I woke up in the light, what I couldn't understand
is what I did or never did.

Writing 303 -- Juniors

Cherry

The Valley

Stand up on the vast valley and
reach out for the blazing sun, just at the tip of your fingers
Your body sings as the wind caresses your naked skin,
and you shall hear the lark singing its lonely tune,
sharing the depth of his kindness,
or the hummingbird, humming its low pitch songs,
telling you his glee, and his smile.
Cascading your thoughts with sprinkles of honey.
But once you put your mask back on, putting on a facade for the outside world,
the sun, the lark, and the hummingbird shall all be gone,
as you yet again walk the humdrum walk of everyday life
Wishing for the day to see the valley again.

Echo Park

The parking lot after
9 pm. The truck

pretending to be empty
on the front lawn.

The barred windows,
the small yellow walls,

the poodle-mix chained
to a hole. The black

barking, the florescent
buzz, the winged beetles,

flinging themselves
at the endless electric light.

Live Oak in Winter

diseased, you lean deeper, deeper
into our walls, drop dumb beetles

past our windows: slow smasher
of the soft dry porch held together

with glue and hand-made nails,
stuttering smearer of the paint mixed

in a milk-bucket, stupid sleepy fist,
stupid man, you tilt like a smacked

pinball machine, like an old drunk,
waiting for the loud yellow engine
to arrive from the sky and crush you

Golden Gate Park


I have lost a glove. We lie
on the grass; it is cold but

not damp. A loud blue
bird hops behind your

head. Something small
with fur is watching us,

bright twitch. Singing
men with long beards

surround us, then step
into the redwoods.

It gets colder. Geese
appear and disappear

in the clouds. You hold
my hand between your

two hands and rub.
The light dims like a pink

hood covering our faces.
On a distant hill, a marvelous
fork tunes itself in the sun.