In celebration of the Giants winning the World Series, here’s a poem by student Geoffrey Simpson, Jr., giantswhich he read at home plate at AT&T Park this past May for WritersCorps’s annual Write Like a Giant event. Go Giants!

Welcome to AT&T Park that rings pacific bells
Representation of SF on the tops of bills
A stadium that seems so surreal
There are illusions of dancing seals
But it’s no game unless
You’re knocking the stitchings out of the balls of success
The number one pastime used on the road for riches
That was brought to the stands and out the park like a 600-foot distance
Wearing New Era hats to be part of the team
From the concrete streets to the suburbs we all want the American Dream
The only thing to steal is bases
And we learn the basics before tying our cleat laces
So get outta your seat and reach like the seventh inning
For the teeth grinding blood sweat and tears of the cloud nine ending
A gun shooting T-shirts of love out
But we stay to see these Giants, see what San Francisco dug out

– Geoffrey Simpson, Jr., age 16

Poem of the Month: November 2010

Your name is like a car that appears in a sideshow.
Your name is like someone’s favorite song.
Your name is like a cover fresh out of the dryer
on a cold day. Your name is like feeling
the adrenaline while on a roller-coaster, like
a two time loser’s second chance at life. Your name
is like a repetitive poem and the energizer bunny that
gets stuck in my head and keeps going and going and going.

– D’Mario Webb

From the 2009 WritersCorps postcard anthology “Swap Meet” at Ida. B. Wells High School

Poem of the Month: August 2010

Pluck an eyelash and make a wish
Play in my head with sweet strings
Take away the tears
Ahlen Violin
Play me a lullaby
As I sleep in those Arabian nights
Paint me a picture of sound to dream in
Persian Violet Violin
Give thanks to your parents that made you
Father pearl
Mother silk
The sunshine’s on you
Making us all color-blind
As we watch the light bouncing off
Your delicate design
Won’t you play me a lullaby
Save me from the quiet Arabian nights
Paint me a picture to dream in
My true love — Persian Violet Violin

– Arrgitu Osman, age 17

From the 2010 WritersCorps anthology “Paint Me a Picture to Dream In” at Ida. B. Wells High School

Poem of the Month: July 2010

I will send to my mother
a behaved daughter
that will always make her happy
so she doesn’t need to be mad anymore.

I will send to my stepfather
a money tree
that will always grow money
so he doesn’t need to work for anyone.

I will send to my two little sisters
a forever childhood
that will never end
so they don’t need to worry about anything.

– Elaine Pau, age 15
From the WritersCorps book “Paper Dreams” at International Studies Academy

Poem of the Month: December 2009

You say we free
Then why you stuck in one area
Can’t go outside your boundaries ’cause
Brothas wanna bury you
For reasons uncertain
Young brothas dyin’ so rapidly now
It’s like damn we lost him too
And you say we free
Talkin’ about you got freedom of speech
Stayin’ in one part of town can’t expand
Your brain, the sky
Impossible to reach
That hopeless feelin’, thinkin’ the only thing you can
Do right is sleep
And you say we free
Trapped in a concrete jungle
Where everybody wants to be a lion
Feelin’ there’s no sense in climbin’
To the top because brothas on the streets
Are like crabs in a bucket
Always pulling you down
And you say we free
Then why we cheat our brains
It’s hard to be creative with the cells that remain
Minds trapped in chains inside a cage
Screamin’ for freedom
But blunt smoke and alcohol are the only things
You feed ’em
(Talkin’ ’bout food for thought)
And you say we free
Livin’ on the edge waitin’ to get pushed
Black on black crime is reachin’ an all-time high
In the record books
It’s hard to focus on the path ahead
When you always have to give your shoulder an overload
And you say we free
Lack of self-motivation keepin’ brothas
In altercation lack of destination
Leads to no demonstration
For our youth so they think entertainment
Is the only thing you can do
And if we free
Why we livin’ with no sense of reality
Young brothas dyin’ fast ’cause they want
Respect like your majesty
And you say we free
But in all actuality we still
Livin’ in slavery minus the visual chains
Now society holds us captive with
Visuals to the brain it’s a shame
How jingles make people go insane
Dismantle their frame
And you tellin’ me we free
Most people speak love but don’t
Live love and love for each
Other will take the shackles off
Our feet
Now ask yourself
Are you
Free?

– Eric Foster

This poem is featured in the exhibition This Place Called Poetry.