Homework...

Haha, most people who see this will probably faint in astonishment that I have actually posted something, or nobody will ever see it because people have probably stopped checking to see if I ever post anything. For one of my education classes we received a homework assignment to write a poem. The poem had to follow the format of a poem that the teacher read us in class. That poem follows, and then I will share my creation after that.

 Where I'm From

  by George Ella Lyon

I am from clothespins,

from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.

I am from the dirt under the back porch.

(Black, glistening,

it tasted like beets.)

I am from the forsythia bush

the Dutch elm

whose long-gone limbs I remember

as if they were my own.

I'm from fudge and eyeglasses,

from Imogene and Alafair.

I'm from the know-it-alls

and the pass-it-ons,

from Perk up! and Pipe down!

I'm from He restoreth my soul

with a cottonball lamb

and ten verses I can say myself.

I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch,

fried corn and strong coffee.

From the finger my grandfather lost

to the auger,

the eye my father shut to keep his sight.

Under my bed was a dress box

spilling old pictures,

a sift of lost faces

to drift beneath my dreams. 

 I am from those moments--

snapped before I budded --

leaf-fall from the family tree.

It is kind of a weird poem, and the teacher gave us a template to use to create our poems, which looked very strange. However, I did follow the format and I came up with a poem of my own.

Where I’m From

By Jaron Johnson

I am from wiffle ball,

from Legos and Disney.

I am from the trampoline without a cage.

(Frantic, bouncing,

it felt like flying.)

I am from the rosemary bushes,

the orange trees

fallen oranges sailing into neighbor’s yards.

I’m from the pioneers and perseverance,

from Gardell and Dianne.

I’m from the shop-til-you-drops

and the TV box brigade,

from Clean your room! and No you may not!

I’m from choose the right,

and enduring to the end.

I’m from Provo, from Vikings and Native Americans,

Indian tacos and sandbakkels.

From the Purple Heart my grandpa would

have received except for his honesty,

and the sleepwalking of Great-grandpa Cheever.

Bins placed upon bins, overflowing into shoeboxes,

memories stacked in a corner.

I am from ancestors past and generations to come,

A family spreading throughout eternity.

I actually enjoyed writing this poem a lot more than I thought I would when it was first assigned.