“The Drought”
By Gary Soto- from The Norton
Anthology of Modern Poetry- 2nd Edition
1978
The clouds shouldered a path up
the mountains
East of Ocampo, and then descended,
Scraping their bellies gray on the cracked shingles of slate.
They entered the valley, and
passed the roads that went
Trackless, the houses blown open, their cellars creaking
And lined with the bottles that held their breath for years.
They passed the fields where
the trees dried thin as hat racks
And the plow’s tooth bit the earth for what endured.
But what continued were the wind that plucked the birds spineless
And the young who left with a
few seeds in each pocket,
Their belts tightened on the fifth notch of hunger-
Under the sky that deafened from listening
for rain.
“The Flood” by
Bryan Still
Inspired by “The Drought” by Gary Soto
Dark clouds closed in over
Raleigh, and an omen of a storm lurked,
As the land was swallowed in absolute darkness.
The rain had begun to flow hard, relentlessly.
Streets were caught in the
waves of endless rain,
Houses were flooded, sewers overflowed,
Cats took refuge on the tops of floating doors.
More clouds assembled, as if
preparing for a second wave.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, an ominous feeling gripped the city.
Plants shivered, for they knew the torrents of rain would end their lives.
The city was in unheard of
peril. Fear wrenched the townspeople’s hearts
With every flash of light, and with every splash of water.
Endless screams and cries of help awaited the departure of the clouds.
From
“The Elements of San Joaquin”
By Gary Soto- from The Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry- 2nd Edition
1977
Wind [2]
When you got up this morning
the sun
Blazed an hour in the sky,
A lizard hid
Under the curled leaves of manzanita
And winked its dark lids.
Later, the sky grayed,
And the cold wind you breathed
Was moving under your skin and already far
From the small hives of your lungs.
Rain
When autumn rains flatten
sycamore leaves,
The tiny volcanos of dirt
Ants raised around their holes,
I should be out of work.
My silverware and stacks of
plates will go unused
Like the old, my two good slacks
Will smother under a growth of lint
And smell of the old dust
That rises
When the closet door opens or closes.
The skin of my belly will
tighten like a belt
And there
will be no reason for pockets.
”Wind and Rain” by
Bryan Still
Inspired by “Elements of San Joaquin” by Gary Soto
When I wake up on a boat under
the Caribbean sky,
I stand and feast upon the paradise around me.
But what I enjoy the most about
the serenity is
The gentle breeze that never ceases to keep me cool.
The wind in the Caribbean is never cold, for it
Never bites your face or causes
discomfort.
This wind is unlike any other, a cool, refreshing
Breeze that makes waves that rock me to sleep.
The rain, on the other hand, is
a different story.
Sometimes the rain comes in twenty-second sprinkles
Or downpours in droplets the size of small golf balls,
But it rarely rains all night
long, and the rain is always revitalizing.
But one thing is certain with rain in the Caribbean,
It leaves
behind a beautiful rainbow.
“Saturday At The Canal”
By Gary Soto- from The Norton Anthology
of Modern Poetry- 2nd Edition
I was hoping to
be happy by seventeen.
School was a sharp check mark in the roll book,
An obnoxious tuba playing at noon because our team
Was going to win at night. The teachers were
Too close to dying to understand. The hallways
Stank of poor grades and unwashed hair. Thus,
A friend and I sat watching the water on Saturday,
Neither of us talking much, just warming ourselves
By hurling large rocks at the dusty ground
And feeling awful because San Francisco was a postcard
On a bedroom wall. We wanted to go there,
Hitchhike under the last migrating birds
And be with people who knew more than three chords
On a guitar. We didn't drink or smoke,
But our hair was shoulder length, wild when
The wind picked up and the shadows of
This loneliness gripped loose dirt. By bus or car,
By the sway of train over a long bridge,
We wanted to get out. The years froze
As we sat on the bank. Our eyes followed the water,
White-tipped but dark underneath, racing out of town.
"Friday at Cary" By Bryan Still
Inspired by “Saturday At the Canal” by Gary Soto
I was hoping to be happy by
seventeen.
School was a roll call, seven classes, and lunch.
Our bands were not heard playing,
For our chances of winning the game were slim.
The teachers were too young and enthusiastic to understand.
The hallways were rich with good grades and students slow to get to class.
A friend and I were talking by the computers,
Absorbed in the conversation- we were supposed to be working.
I felt confident because college and scholarships were in my pocket.
I wanted to go there; to college,
Where new freedoms awaited, like the breaking of chains.
I wouldn’t break their trust, or the law.
My hair was gelled, gently rustling with every movement
Yet unaffected by cold, smiting winds
That bite your face on frosty, winter days.
I wanted to leave high school,
To skip those long, toiling years of work and preparations.
I wanted to
get to college, my adulthood: my freedom.