Mulberry Tree

Mulberry Tree

Sometimes,

when I’m staring off into the distance,

I think about the mulberry tree.

It was never ours, but I ate off of it,

and I remember how sweet it was

and how the dark purple juice dripped down my face

when I finished eating my share.

It was in a small parking lot.

I’m not sure what it was for.

All I remember is that it was hanging over

a tall wooden fence.

My mom would open the roof of the car,

and my dad would hoist me up,

steadying me as I feasted.

I remember the last time I saw it.

It was possibly the day we moved out of New Jersey.

That day, it was raining hard.

I remember sitting on top of my mom’s car,

somewhat wet, although my dad 

had an umbrella over my head.

And I feasted on mulberries for the last time.

My memory is still hazy.

Since that happened eleven years ago.

But I still remember the juice dripping down my face,

and I remember that it tasted heavenly, although

I didn’t know we were moving away for good.

But I fed mulberries to my brother, too.

On top of the roof of my mom’s car.

Another poem about, well, I guess you'll have to find out

Believe, Trust, Listen, Hope: a reflection on Pep-Rally

I think,
that in order to succeed this year,
in order to actually get something other than 4th place,
we need to do something.
I think that that something is to collaborate.
Not just to have little cliques talking to each other
and having them all agree in the end that this is pointless.
We need everyone to step out of their normal selves
and we need everyone to actually do something.
In order to collaborate together and become a coherent group,
we need to believe in each other.
Trust each other, listen to each other.
It won't work unless we all do that.
I, like most I believe, am jealous of all the other grades
for actually acting like one grade.
Meaning, I am jealous that they can make circles,
while we can't even form half of one.
In order to believe in each other,
trust each other, listen to each other,
we need to stop talking to friends,
stop agreeing with all of the pessimists
stop acting like you're god and your people are fools.
We need to believe, trust, and listen
even if the idea sounds crazy,
even if you hate the idea.
Maybe, if you hate the idea, tell a co-chair.
Even if the idea is to go and set bombs in the library,
we still need to listen.
And by listening, I don't mean
draw pictures, listen to music,
shout out your own "creative" ideas.
The truth is that it makes it much worse.
I don't care whether you have a better chant,
or have a better theme.
Just listen, believe, trust.
Perhaps, one more way we could do that,
is to somehow create an environment
where one could forget who they are
besides the fact that they are the class of 2017.
If everyone would do that,
I think that our listening skills, our trust,
and most importantly, our belief in our people,
will grow. And hopefully abolish any bad thoughts
of what our grade is or will be.
Or at least, I hope.
Hope is another important part,
that belief and trust rely on.
If you don't hold on to your hope,
your belief and trust will disintegrate,
and the Phoenix will never rise.
So maybe, just maybe,
you all will look back at what we did,
even if you don't think it applies to you,
and see that believing, trusting, listening,
and most importantly, hoping,
will be the only way to succeed.

An On-the -Spot Poem. Please enjoy and please send your prayers to this teacher if you know who she is.

Sunglasses to mask the Sorrow

My teacher's father died. 

Last week she was absent,

probably attending his funeral.

I still can barely imagine that seen

without her full of energy and light.

Although when I saw her yesterday

she was all but that.

Her eyes were rimmed red,

and they were bloodshot.

I was afraid, so I tried to act normal.

Today when I saw her she was better.

Her eyes were still rimmed red,

but she had more cheer and spirit.

My mom and I came in to see her

and talk about my grades.

When we were about to leave,

my mom hugged my teacher,

and she said, "Thanks. I need it."

As we turned to say goodbye,

I noticed that my mom 

quickly wiped a tear out of her eye

and put on her sunglasses 

to mask her sorrow.

I remembered then that

my mother, too, had lost her father

at a young age.

I thought, she must know what it feels like.

My mom and I didn't talk the car ride back,

but now I know what she was thinking about.