MY STORY
Kate is a junior at Redwood High School. She enjoys swimming, reading, baking, and photography. She has also begun to find a passion for activism and has worked with local groups to run clothing drives and help educate others.
PORTFOLIO OF WORK
DEAR UNCLE
Dear Uncle,
You and I argue over pineapple on pizza
We take sides, debate, and then agree to disagree
After all,
I am your favorite niece
Dear Uncle,
I haven’t seen you in a while
You are sequestered away in Vegas
Where red elephants stomp in echo chambers
Dear Uncle,
The last time I saw you I was younger, more naive
Afraid to get up and leave
As you started shouting, rolling up your sleeves
But, at the end of the day, I let you believe what you believe
Because I thought Trump would leave
Like I said, I was naive
Dear Uncle,
You say you aren’t really that political
That everyone should stop being so critical
But, dear uncle, what you fail to understand is that for me, the political is the personal
I am a woman in a world dominated by men
I am a rainbow in a world that sees only in black and white
The political is the personal
Dear Uncle,
You say you vote in your own self-interest,
to protect your “economic security”
As any
“logical person” would do
And I say that if your “economic security” manifests itself in a vote for Trump
Then you are not the person I thought you were
Dear Uncle,
I’ve got a lot on my plate
But I still find time to watch the presidential debates
To listen to the hearings and see Ms. Barrett
Examine all the open doors before her
And scoff
She click clacks her way through then SLAM!
No one else can have what she had, her opportunities
She doesn’t care about anyone else
Dear Uncle,
I have tried to tell you
Using facts and
logic
But your echo chamber has made you blind
To the things you once held dear
Dear Uncle,
On November 3rd you and I will cease to understand each other
Because you can’t understand that politics is personal
Because I don’t know how to explain that you should care about other people.
Uncle,
We both know what we know
THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE HOME
Look over the endless sea
Relish in the power that thrums through the earth
When the wave crashes on the shore
Inhale when the spray drifts over you
Let the salty air stay with you
Let that air find a home; a piece of the ocean coursing through your veins
Now go to the highest mountain, amongst the spindly trees
You’ll still see the ocean, a solid steady presence
The cyclical tides an assurance
Of continuity and a place within
But now this fresh, bright air
This moment
You inhale
exhale
A piece of the mountain; sturdy and strong in your heart
Onwards, through the city, with friends by your side
Their laughter and joy
Nestling deep inside
Seeing the mountain and ocean
Recognizing your other homes
A piece of your friends will always be there
Do not make home a place
But rather
A sensation
There are no directions to home
Because home can be found everywhere
In the belly laugh of a friend
In the mysterious cool breeze
And in the powerful, grounding force of the ocean
To find home, one need only look inside
GIRAFFE
The gift had been sitting there,
Leaning against the wall, the paper tearing at the corners
By the time Christmas rolled around, I’d forgotten it was there
I walked in the door, heels clicking on the wooden floor.
Through the entryway into the living room
There, mocking me, was the wrapping paper monstrosity
My step-dad nodded at me to unwrap it and I began to tear at the paper.
A polished wood sculpture appeared, with black spots inlaid.
4 thin legs, knobby and long
At last, I jumped up and knocked the wrapping off the head
And stared
At the Giraffe sculpture that appeared.
Suddenly I was 7 again,
Being distracted by the call of “giraffe” and a point off into the distance
Only to turn and see my stepdad and the dog, most of the way down the street
“Hey!”
Indignation exploding
I tore after them, my stubby legs moving as fast as they could
Loud laughter filled the air as I ran down my stepdad, who was hindered by the dog
Who wasn’t at all interested in running and was much more interested in the scents by the curb.
Then I’m back in the present and laughing again
Full bodied, raucous laughter
Tears in my eyes
Finally, a contented smile settles upon my face and I decide that this is the best gift
I’ve gotten in a while
Now the sculpture sits in the corner and watches over me.
WHAT IS A "GOOD POEM"
I define a “good” poem to be one that expresses emotion and uses literary devices to assist in that. I also really enjoy poems that have multiple layers of meaning.