Obama is the water to the
flower of hope
Obama is the smile on the
little girl’s face
Obama is the heart beat to our favorite song that plays
over and over again
Obama is the boy’s
light at night when he was lost
Obama is the strength
that the single Mom has deep
in her heart
Obama is our hope
our love.

– Ricoya Cathey

International Studies Academy
Poem of the Month: January 2009

For Chad Sweeney

The little mute girl was looking for her
Voice, in a drop of water.
Standing patiently, on the other side,
The dog grants the snow
A loaf of bread on his shoulders.
He said: The way is long,
But what you have,
Is this wave, snatched by the seagulls.
By the way, did you know that
A watermelon can heal in fifty ways?
The child was only listening,
Writing her own questions,
Clenching and opening one small hand.
You think I am speaking in riddles,
But the world only means itself.
There is nothing to throw away.
A proud voice later speaks:
I give to Chad a tulip
To thank him for teaching me
How to see.
To thank him for teaching me
How to build.

– Indiana Pehlivanova

From the anthology “Tell the World,” published by HarperCollins
Poem of the Month: December 2008

Today is my future.
With knowledge and education,
I care more about my future success, about my family’s future.
My heart now has a list of things that must be completed.
I have my head up staring at my destiny that is so close
yet just out of reach.
I see my career that will put bread on my family’s table,
more friends that will guide me through life,
And I will write poems about the whole adventure.
now all I have to do is make my destiny, as I see it, come true!
That’s what must happen, because I can’t live in poverty anymore.
That’s why I can’t wait until tomorrow because,
Today is my future!

– Marisol Rodriguez, 13

From the anthology “Tell the World,” published by HarperCollins
Poem of the Month: November 2008

First, you have to open your mouth
so you can let out a song
that will make the birds jealous enough
to crack the sky.

Make the song so beautiful
angels cry.

Sing ’til church bells ring,
Sing from the heart.
Sing, baby, sing.

– Dannesha Nash, 12

From the anthology “Tell the World,” published by HarperCollins
Poem of the Month: October 2008

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.