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.

Winter Night

 Written By: Kalen Lewis

The winter's silent cold hold's still,

The secrets whispered through the snow.

The moons shining sliver high,

The foggy breath a gentle flow.

~

I looked up to the sky to find the snow quietly falling, sticking to my eyelashes. There was a beautiful silence that seemed to ring through the night. I felt as though the winter was sharing a deep secret with me, whispering in my ear. My breath was visible, mingling with the sliver of the moon.

~

So I wanted to share my inspiration for this short poem and story. When I was twelve years old, I visited relatives in Idaho for Christmas. The morning before we left for home in Texas, we had breakfast in a well known diner called Bucky's in a little town called Cambridge. We got a booth seat at a window. Across the street there were small trees with light colored leaves in front of an old brick museum. As I was eating my pancakes, I looked out that window, it was dim outside and little snowflakes were falling! Snow is so rare in Texas, that it just made my day. Even to this day I still think of that little moment of excitement every winter and every time I visit Idaho, and it still excites and inspires me.
About five months ago, my cousin bought and remodeled Bucky's, it unfortunately wasn't finished last time I was there but I'm excited to see the results of her hard work next summer when I visit again.

The Facile Poet

facile 
[fas-il or, esp. British, -ahyl]

adjective

1. moving, acting, working, proceeding, etc., with ease, sometimes with superficiality:

"facile fingers; a facile mind."

2. easily done, performed, used, etc.:

"a facile victory; a facile method."

3. easy or unconstrained, as manners or persons.

4. affable, agreeable, or complaisant; easily influenced:

"a facile temperament; facile people."

  

poet

[poh-it]

noun

1. a person who composes poetry

2. a person who has the gift of poetic thought, imagination, and creation, together with eloquence of expression. 




http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/facile
http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/poet?s=t 

The Charge of the Light Brigade

By: Alfred, Lord Tennyson

1

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

   Rode the six hundred.

“Forward the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!” he said.

Into the valley of Death

    Rode the six hundred.

2

“Forward, the Light Brigade!”

Was there a man dismayed?

Not though the soldier knew

    Someone had blundered.

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die.

Into the valley of Death

    Rode the six hundred.

3

Cannon to the right of them,

Cannon to the left of them,

Cannon in front of them

    Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of hell

    Rode the six hundred.

4

Flashed all their sabers bare,

Flashed as they turned in air

Sab’ring the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

    All the world wondered,

Plunged in the battery smoke

Right through the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the saber stroke

    Shattered and sundered.

Then they rode back, but not,

    Not the six hundred.

5

Cannon to the right of them,

Cannon to the left of them,

Cannon behind them

    Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came through the jaws of Death,

Back from the mouth of hell,

All that was left of them,

    Left of six hundred.

6

When can their glory fade?

O the wild charge they made!

    All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made!

Honor the Light Brigade,

    Noble six hundred!

~

In honor of Veteran's day. So thankful for the lives that were sacrificed for our Freedom, but even more thankful for Jesus and his sacrifice on the cross for our ultimate and eternal freedom.

Lochinvar

Written By: Sir Walter Scott

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West;
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none;
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was a knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone;
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,
'Mong bridesmen and kinsmen, and brothers and all.
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),
"Oh! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied.
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up:
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,-
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered "'Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur!
They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forster, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee;
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Colors of the Sky

Written by: Kalen Lewis

Purple and blue,

Yellow and white,

Sometimes a pink,
I see in the sky.

Rare are the colors,

Of black and green.

Storms of anger,

Those colors bring.

Grey also comes,

To remind us of rain,

And the stars that cry,

Onto the terrain.

Orange and red,

Are the colors anew.

So do not fret,

Jesus still loves you.