I am the son of Cuba
where the ships are floating in Cienfuegos Bay
and the people are working hard
to survive their misery.
I am the son of the spring.
I am the beginning of everything
that makes things alive.

I am the son of the lion.
I have the strength to face the problems in this life
without any fear because my father protects me.

I am the son of the water.
My purpose is to satisfy the thirst
of the people who eat sand and darkness.
Many people seek me but they don’t appreciate my favor.

I am the son of San Francisco
where South Van Ness crosses 24th Street,
where many people speak different languages.
I am the noise of the cars
and one old man selling ice cream,
and his voice sounds like a crow without hope.

I am history’s child,
the wind over the Island of Cuba.

– Dainiel Jimenez

From a WritersCorps publication at Mission High School, and from “Tell the World,” published by HarperCollins.

Poem of the Month: November 2007

The #30 bus on Stockton street
Stops suddenly
launches my sister and I forward
towards the crowded doors
we jump off the bus
dodging the elderly Chinese ladies
who walk slowly across the street
their backs hunched
hands burdened
with red plastic bags of fresh fish and ripe fruit

for an afternoon snack
I like to peel oranges
ripe flesh is easily torn away
the sticky sweet juice fills my mouth
clings to my fingers

my mother buys pineapple buns for lunch
they are plump and topped with a flaky golden crust
with only a slight resemblance to a pineapple’s skin
its crumbs fall into my lap as I eat

my sister and I run down the streets on Saturdays
on the way to dance class
mirrors echo us as we warm up at the barre
I suck in my tummy and stretch my legs
The chatter of girl giggles collapses
as we sink into the first position

I flail my arms like the fluttering of red fans
the way we leap up and hit the dusty floor
cracks like the snap of children’s firecrackers
striking the narrow sidewalks

real firecrackers burst through the sky
sparks flower into the night
what remains
wind pulls remnants of red paper
into the bakery’s doors

– Annie Yu, 18

From “Tell the World,” published by HarperCollins