National Poetry Month

KUT is partnering with Kealing Middle School, Austin Bat Cave writing center, and Fulmore Middle School to celebrate National Poetry Month. This April, we’re airing poems written by Austin creative writing students.

In Flight

Apr 21, 2017

Read by Carrie Fountain

My dreams soar above the clouds

Bubbles of hope

And happiness

Flying with the birds

Close to the sun.

Although I may not fly,

My dreams can.

And I think about them

Being where I cannot be

As I sit at a desk,

In a chair,

Anchored to the ground.

But soon I will be up there with my dreams

In flight,

Wheeling through the air

Next to my fantasies.

The Coated Feeling of My Mouth Is

Apr 21, 2017

Read by Rabbi Neil Blumofe

The coated feeling of my mouth is

bitter and rancorous

Because I shout my first world

problems into the arms of depression where there’s nothing but being alone.

My mother’s feet are gashed

and burnt

while I count

up my dollars alongside my tears.

I’m not worth the

patronizing feeling

of harmonious conversation

painfully aware of my stutters and sputters

I’m nobody, who are you?

Journey to Freedom

Apr 18, 2017

Darkness and fear spread everywhere

Covering up the moonlight.

The crickets did not chirp their happy song,

And the frogs no longer croaked in joy.

Hope and optimism nowhere to be found.

A small boat tumbled through the powerful waves

Forcing a way to safety

Immigrants fighting for their lives

Constantly trying to reason the unimaginable

Knowing they were making the right life-risking decision

All hope of a free life seemed simply impossible

Until the bright orange torch burned through the midnight sky

Words

Apr 18, 2017

Sometimes

Life isn’t fair

It was proven to me

He didn’t deserve it

No,

None of them did

And me,

I was saved

By words

A Forgotten Home

Apr 18, 2017

Read by Zell Miller III

We came to a stop,

the door opened

and a thick air filled the car

and creeped into my lungs.

I cough and sniffle,

dirt covers my face.

as we walk down the streets

of red, orange, blue and green houses,

mix matched tall and short, big and small 

made of twig, cement or bricks.

Fruit stands, carts selling make-up,

tacos and aguas frescas

line the block

and barefooted children run everywhere

asking for food or money.

I can feel the warmth in every step I take

to get to my grandma’s house.

I hear “bien” and “còmo estas,”

a language that almost sounds foreign now

and I realize: I’ve missed this place, my home. 

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