A Gloomy Sunday

Gloomy Sunday
setting itself against
death making it look retarded.
'Yes, I totally agree.'
Why does it rain so much?
It seems to go on and never stop.
Rain sucks! Why can't it be snow!
With snow you can at least make things in it.
Snow is worse, then we have to bundle all up.
So, then you can wear your new velcro boots.
But what if you don't have velcro boots?
Then run room, run home and grab a gun.
Yeah and shoot yourself with it.
Or shoot my neighboor's dog for barking too much.
Rain drops keep hitting my head
does the umbella have a hole?
The wind cuts into my soul,
with the poor dead worms on the wet pavement.
look at that guy he looks like a donkey.
Eww, look at his eye
How weird his eye was,
or how ugly his face looked.
His face looked really horrible!
Like the face of Susie when she wakes up in the morning.

This is my redo of one the poems the class came up with.

Grandma

Thank you for the gift of love,
now you're sharing it up above.
You had many things to say.
All in a caring way.
You always saw good in everyone,
No matter what they've done.
You were always the one we could all lean on.
Even though it must have felt like a ton.
You were always the strength of the family.
Now we must let you rest calmly.
As we say goodbye,
as tears roll down our eyes.
I know your place in heaven has a good view.
Because you're telling God,
I need to keep an eye on a few.
I know you will always be in our hearts and mind.
So Grandma,
I must go, but I'll never forget you're one of a kind.

by Augustine Perez

I found this to have great meaning because I just lost my grandmother this summer.

The Scene of the Fire

At first light the chequered autumn dawn
hesitates, a change, an unexpected void;
the leaves of the lime tree hang like rags,
walls still smoking, a homestead destroyed.

Kids arrive shouting from God knows where
clambering all over, looting, running wild.
But they fall quiet when the son appears,
equips himself with a long forked stick to wield

and poking among the still glowing timbers
fishes out a blackened and battered kettle
that, turning to them, he holds high in the air
as though to prove all existence is brittle

and to bring to their mind the loss of things,
how overnight the everyday, familiar to hand
becomes more fantastic than the death of kings.
And he was else. As if from a distant land.

by Alan Tucker