Coming Home

Graham Klebba

Honors Literature (Freshmen)

12/17/09

Coming Home

   

 

Coming home, after so long.

It felt like a dream, like it wasn't real.

Boarding the plane,

While the speakers overhead 

spoke of turbulence, departure, and arrival. 

Things I did not understand.

America, the Land of the Free.

Only an eight hour flight away.

With movies, games, and a comfy seat

 to keep me company.

I looked out the window

At the fields and villages, 

and knew I would miss it.

But not yet.

Now I miss it.

I knew I would be so happy here,

 in the "New World."

What I did not realize,

was that I was happier there,

in the "Old World."

Animal Poem

Graham Klebba

Honors Literature (Freshmen)

12/07/09

You jump gracefully

from rock to rock,

barely touching the ground.

Running uphill, fast.

Your soft pads,

slowly catching up with the heavy hoofbeats.

The mouth of the doomed deer froths.

He cannot keep it up much longer.

You keep running, your flanks and forelegs

Rippling with muscle.

You pounce!

The deer's flank is left with four

scored claw marks.

You pounce!

The deer wriths under your grip

Your head jerks forward,

snapping the neck of the helpless deer.

The puma cubs will eat well.

Paradox Poem

Graham Klebba

Honors Literature (Freshmen)

11/25/09

Freedom

Wars are fought,

Battles are lost,

Battles are won.

When the war is over

A new battle begins.

Freedom is promised,

It's there at first

It fades over time,

Slowly, slowly.

Those who fought 

 So their descendants

Could have freedom,

Were able to see it.

Their descendants,

Would never have it.

 Wars are fought,

Battles are lost,

Battles are won.

When the war is over

A new battle begins.

                    

Life is a Swamp

Life
is a Swamp

 

    Life is a swamp.
It is a bog with hidden paths, quicksand, and tar pits. When a human being is
thrown unwillingly into the harsh and unforgiving marsh, the foolish young child
automatically chooses the easiest path. When the selected trail leads to
unexpected pits and nests of foul, biting insects, the sudden realization that
this will not be easy, comes to the child. As he forces his way through the
quagmire, the once shallow waters become deeper, and rocks hide just below the
surface of murky, stagnant pools. Tendrils of unnamed, slimy weeds pull at sore
ankles as the young man wades through dark, filthy waters. Vines hang in his
path, forcing the traveler to either dodge them, or cut them down. The man
wandering the marsh must carry a long stick in front of him, and test every
step, before placing his full weight on the clump of weed and rotting wood. He
must be more careful now than ever in choosing his paths, because he is now in
the middle of the bog. Creeks and pools of brown water are deeper than they
appear, and the path that looks the most tempting will lead him astray. Lumps
of grass that look strong fall away and sink into the mud when he takes a step.
Slowly, so slowly, the paths becomes slightly easier to follow, and safer to
walk on. Most of the hard work is over now. The old man can see the end of the
unbearable bog through the trees and cat-tails. Finally, with creaking bones
and tired joints, the elder breaks through the line of trees, to come to a
better place. I do not know what that place is like, for I am still fighting my
way through the biting insects and unexpected pits.

 

Ode to Sticks

Graham Klebba

Honors Literature (Freshmen)

Ode To Sticks

Ode to Sticks

Such a simple thing. A branch.

Nothing less, but so much more.

More important to a child

than any primer or picture book.

When the boy holds it, he is more than a boy,

He is a knight, ready to slay any dragon

or free any princess.

But he is also a boy.

Wielding a stick, 

keeping cootie - ridden girls at bay.

Such a simple thing. A pole.

The vital supports for a tent in the woods.

Keeping up bedsheets, stolen away from home.

So easily cast away, unless you find a good one.

You hope to keep it forever,

Never to lose it.

You will keep it, and give it to your children, 

when they are young.

Yes, this one is perfect. 

You will keep it with you, always.

Until the bell for dinner rings, that is.

Then it is dropped so quickly, 

Left by the door.

The perfect stick.

Sonnet to Sonnets

Graham Klebba

Honors Literature (Freshmen)

12/06/09

Sonnet 1753

Sonnets are way too difficult to write.

There are by far just too many guidelines.

They should be illegal like a chicken fight.

If Iambic Pentameter aligns

Correctly with the predetermined rhyme,

Then what you have is a true piece of art.

But what this art really takes is time.

What this requires is a poet at heart.

This sonnet is really quite terrible.

As is so clear, I am not a writer.

My sonnets are simply not bearable.

I'll set this on fire with a lighter.

    If this was a contest, I would not have won. 

    This sonnet has no one at all outdone.

13 Ways to Look At...

Graham Klebba

Honors Literature (Freshmen)

13 Ways to Look at...

1

The inevitable storm

Unstoppable, unavoidable.

2

The Liberator

It frees nations

and overthrows tyrants.

3

The Destroyer

Raping, pillaging, burning.

It moves across the land,

Leaving nothing untouched.

4

Hatred. Pure unbridled rage.

Stopping at nothing,

Venting itself on the weak and helpless.

5

A new beginning.

Tearing down old rulers,

Setting up new ones.

6

A family feud.

In time, the cause is forgotten.

7

A holy war.

Sanctified, 

Not with God's grace,

But with blood.

8

Protecting a people

From an enemy 

Who had never threatened them

9

Destroying a people, 

Who never threatened anyone.

10

A quagmire.

So easily entered,

But impossible to leave.

11

The widow maker.

Families are left fatherless,

Motherless.

12

The driving force,

It brings rivals together, 

And pitches friends against each other.

13

The Liberator, Destroyer

The End, the Beginning.

Hatred. Rage. 

The many faces of War.