The Silent Struggle

Written by: Kalen Lewis

Where do the shadows collect on your face?
Under the eyes,
Hidden in your cheeks.
Where does the darkness battle with the light?
When you can't sleep,
In the dead of the night.
Where can I find your unconscious soul?
Buried in my heart,
A big black hole.

Written September 19, 2015
To those battling with PTSD.

Sonnet 106

William Shakespeare

When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see desciptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of food, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have expressed
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
     For we, which now behold these present days,
     Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

When There is a Disaster

Written by: Kalen Lewis 

Can you taste the iron in your mouth?
The fatal blow is pouring out.
Can you feel it running down your nose?
The volcano's plasma, a steady flow.
Can you feel the explosions dance in your head?
Alive one minute and the next almost dead.
Can you even tell what's going on?
The thread has been cut; the light is gone.

June 15, 2015

~

At first, this poem was inspired by the sensation of a bloody nose I had. About half-way through writing it however, I started thinking about the events of 9/11 and the lives that were tragically lost. I started to imagine the confusion the victims must have been feeling and the pain they must have gone through.
And so... I wrote.

In Memory of the Victims from the Events of September 11, 2001.

The Grove

Written by: Kalen Lewis
7/19/15

As I drove,
Through the grove,
The smell of dill weed,
Filled my nose.

The strange sensations,
Of high-speed winds,
They made my face tingle,
And forget my sins.

The sun was setting,
The golden hour was here,
So I took out my ponytail,
And let down my hair.

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

Author Unknown

Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush.
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there, I did not die.

~

Rest In Peace, Kyle.

The Airplanes

Written By: Kalen Lewis

I see the airplane lights above,
Where do they come from?
They fly so high on this warm night,
Where do they go?
The blinking lights are white and red,
Who is the crew?
Their paths are always east and west,
Who are the passengers?
I'm sure they carry letters to lovers,
What do they say?
Or gifts tied in ribbon,
What's inside?
These planes, they are a mystery,
How far do they travel?
That I would like to know some day,
Where could they carry me?

Written by: Kalen Lewis

White is the color of paper,

Before it meets the pen.

Blue is the color of music,

A soulful tune back then.

Yellow is the color of paint,

On the canvas-on the shelf.

Red is the color of fire,

A beautiful art in itself.

~

I've had a little trouble with titling pieces lately. I can't seem to find that perfect title that fits the poem. So, please excuse the lack of title for now.

The Pine Tree

Written by: Kalen Lewis

The pine tree's bark,
Is heavy with sound.
The roots spring up,
Rising from the ground.
The fungus grows there,
But it droops down.
The pine tree's bark,
Is heavy with sound.

Ants and beetles,
Birds and squirrels.
Dwellers of the great pine,
It's own little world.
The needles do not poke them,
The bark does not scratch.
How I wish that I were them,
On their humble path.

The black cat watches,
Her tail ever flicking.
Those yellow eyes are steady,
Never are they blinking.
She watches for the birds at night,
And toys with the beetles.
Her cold gaze never wavers,
Until the squirrels come chasing.

~

Yes, I know. The last bit doesn't match the rhyming scheme that the rest of the third stanza has. But "chasing" seemed like the right word.
As usual... I hope you enjoyed!

-Kalen

Esperanza's Poem

"I want to be
like the waves on the sea, 
like the clouds in the wind,
but I'm me.
One day I'll jump
out of my skin.
I'll shake the sky
like a hundred violins."

-Esperanza

Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street, "Born Bad", pages 73-74.

1853

            The ship rocked back and forth, twenty-two year old Clemenz Frederick and his seventeen year old cousin, Christian Frederick, had long gotten used to the choppy bumps caused by the Atlantic Ocean. Their extensive journey to the United States of America was soon coming to an end, signaled by one of the crew members, “Wake up schwein!” the man yelled in a loud, husky voice. Clemenz and Christian were roughly shaken awake from their bunk hammocks down below the ship.

“Schwein?” Christian yelled angrily. Clemenz hushed him quietly, warding off any problems a fight might bring.

“We must be here,” Clemenz said, putting on his patchwork pea jacket.

“Schließlich,” Christian said, exasperated. Clemenz couldn’t blame him for being frustrated, they’d been cooped up in the bottom of a ship far too long for comfort, “Tell me again what the plan is,” Christian said to Clemenz.

“We’re going to California, where we’ll buy a plot of land, mine for gold, then, we’ll be rich enough to do whatever we want.”

The chill of the March night swept over the German immigrants. They carried their light sacks containing what little possessions they had over the narrow wooden plank used as a bridge from the ship to the docks. Clemenz and Christian stretched their wobbly legs, adjusting to the still land. They saw a little sign that announced, ‘Welcome to New York’. Clemenz couldn’t repress the smile tugging at his lips. He and Christian were half way through their journey. To California, they would hitchhike with hopes of catching rides with friendly folks.

“Are you the land master?” Clemenz’ asked politely to a man he was directed to after arriving at their destination. The tall, burly man turned to examine thin Clemenz.

“John,” he said, extending his hand.

Clemenz introduced himself and his cousin and expressed his wishes to purchase a plot of land in the mining region. Clemenz then presented his currency. The large man laughed roughly, “This ain’t enough scraps to buy any land around here.”

“What do you mean?” Christian asked incredulously.

“This ain’t no German land, boy. This is the States, nothin’ here comes cheap.”

Clemenz’ stomach dropped, if they couldn’t buy land, then how would they succeed with their goal?

“I got some jobs for hire,” John said, scratching his unshaved face, “You interested?”

Clemenz didn’t know what else to do, so he and Christian signed on as his helping hands. Clemenz figured that if they earned enough money, then they could buy their own land to mine.

It was grueling work, but John kept them fed, which was better than what situation their neighboring miners were under. Clemenz took to hiking away from the ripped dirt, to forest edged fields at the end of the work days. Christian scolded him often, but a discovery made Clemenz return to the fields daily. It was a woman. Her name was Broken Wing—this was her name translated from the Apache language into English—because she had an intense desire to leave her Apache life behind. The elders of her tribe thought it was unnatural that Wing had such curiosity for the American life. In their view, she was broken. A broken wing unable to fly. As a result, Broken Wing was not allowed to be equals with the other Apache people, she was forced to live her life in solitude, separate from her tribe until she renounced her curiosity.

When Clemenz first encountered her, she was doing just as he was doing. Hiking away from where she was oppressed. They had stood frozen, staring at each other. He had been warned of traps and scalping’s, she had been warned of ferocious, violent white men. Their two kinds were not friends.

“You English?” the woman bravely spoke first.

“N-no,” Clemenz stuttered, his face pale, “I am German.”

“You talk English,” she observed.

“Yes,” he said, “I learned fluent English before coming to America with a boy.”

Their first meeting did not last long, but it was not the last time they spoke. “Who boy?” she asked in her broken English.

“Christian,” Clemenz said, no longer tense when he was around her, “He’s my cousin. His mother didn’t have the funds to support him, so when she knew I would be immigrating, my dear old aunt begged me to take him with me.” Clemenz’ German accent became thicker as he thought of the country he left behind.

“You sad?”

Clemenz didn’t want to admit it, “I suppose.”

“Come,” the Native American woman said, grabbing Clemenz’ hand, “I show you something.”

            Broken Wing led him through a thicket of trees and vines to a field of sunflowers. One grassy strip ran down the middle. “It’s beautiful,” said Clemenz, “As you are,” he picked one of the flowers and gave it to her. Their faces were flushed, they went home with pleasant thoughts. 

Six months had passed before Clemenz came clean to Christian about his relationship with the Apache woman, “What do you mean you met an Apache woman? There aren’t any Apache’s around here.”

“No,” said Clemenz, “she was rejected from her tribe for being too interested in white people.”

“This is ridiculous,” Christian fumed, “Why must I be the voice of reason? You can’t be friends with an Apache woman.”

“I’m not just friends with her.”

“What?”

“I’m going to marry her, Christian.”

“Oh mien Gott. Oh mien Gott Clemenz. Nein!  You can’t!”

“Yes,” Clemenz said quietly, and then left.

Christian would not speak to Clemenz after that. He did not even attend his private wedding in the Sunflower field. Broken Wing changed her name back to Wing, she gained an independency that was unbroken. She and Clemenz removed themselves from the gold mines and raised cattle. They had to be discreet with their life, or else the Fredericks would lose customers. Their children had to learn to keep their heritage a secret. Clemenz tried to regain contact with Christian, but he would not reply to the letters or money sent to him. Clemenz and Wing grew old in the country of California.

~

Based on rumors of a true story in my ancestry, I wrote this short story for my American Literature class.

The Bridges

Written by: Kalen Lewis 

The bridges always leave you guessing,
Crossing over, intersecting.
Your travel map gives you a clue,
The worn out paper, faded blue.
The marching hike upon the hill,
Your soles cannot bear to be still.
A path that leads you to your fate,
The bridges opt you for mistake.

Cobblestone leaves quiet echos,
It's material stripped bare.
Decades old of active travelers,
Their traces leaving wear and tear.
The bridges stand, without question,
No trembling, beneath your feet.
The firm, shallow handrails hold,
For lovers there to meet.

~

For Korrin, who's always dreamt of travel. 

Night Sounds

Written by: Kalen Lewis 

I listen to the cicadas sing,
The crickets musical number.
I hear a stray dog barking mad,
Without fear or surrender.
I hear the sound of a buzzing light,
And of my whirling fan.
I listen to the wind-moved trees,
Each leaf in a dance.

~

This poem is a list of sounds I hear lying in my bed with my window open at 11 PM on April 12, 2015 in the rural area of Sulphur Springs, Texas.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Written by: Robert Frost
 

Whose woods these are I think I know.   

His house is in the village though;   

He will not see me stopping here   

To watch his woods fill up with snow.   

My little horse must think it queer   

To stop without a farmhouse near   

Between the woods and frozen lake   

The darkest evening of the year.   

He gives his harness bells a shake   

To ask if there is some mistake.   

The only other sound’s the sweep   

Of easy wind and downy flake.   

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,   

But I have promises to keep,   

And miles to go before I sleep,   

And miles to go before I sleep.