FC: Poetry Portfolio | Honora Jones 1st-2nd period
1: Table of Contents | Language Arts...............1 Self Respect..................2 Where I'm From.............3 My Mother's Kitchen.......4
2: Oh, how I love the flow of the words, The adjectives, the imagery. Literature is long, Vocab is short. Greek Roots test postponed? Mrs. Glenn are the best! Hey! Check your grammar.
3: Sometimes I believe in myself, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I’ll take a chance for myself, sometimes I won’t. Depending on if the breeze goes my way, I might even have something to say. It really just depends on how life is treating me. I’m not your everyday teen. And I ain't mainstream. But I am estranged, And, for all intensive purposes, deranged. I’m not trying to hide. My worth is not determined by how I look or act on the outside. No matter what life may throw at me, I will always be me and only me.
4: Where I'm From
5: I am from Ipods and Iphones, from Coke and Nutella. I am from the house on the hill, chain-link fences and barking dogs. I am from the honeysuckles feeding monarch caterpillars, the pollen brought in during the hot spring months. I am from watching tv together and procrastination, from Sherri and Chuck and Larsen. I am from the many holiday gatherings and long hours on the couch. From “don’t talk to strangers” and “pet the kitty, pet the whole kitty.” I am from no praise, no cult, and no gathering, though that does not exclude me to attend. I'm descend from Ireland, soda bread and drisheen. From the crafty grandmother who took silver wear from the restaurant table, the two generations of divorce, and the halls of the art school my mom went to. I am from the photo albums and boxes of pictures in the downstairs closet, telling the stories of a loud, large, and loving family. I am from dog-eared novels and school pictures hung over the fireplace I am from a great family, great ancestry, happy people, fond memories, and love.
6: My Mother's Kitchen
7: In my mother’s kitchen At 244 Blazing Ridge Way, The cats all sit around on an old wooden table That is always covered in newspaper, letters, groceries, and, strangely, a lava lamp. In the middle of the room, sits the aged oven, Hungrily awaiting the next meal needing to be cooked. On the sink, there resides two bamboo plants. One so tall it needs to be tucked behind the clock hanging an hour behind. And in the corner sits the trash can, seemingly always full. I swear, it smells like something died in there. My grandmother thinks so too. She reminds me every time she goes in there. And that’s in my mother’s kitchen, At 244 Blazing Ridge Way.