My Poems

 

Rachel Chevat, 2009

Pink skies,

butterflies in my eyes,

who knows what's going around,

I'm just walking around,

how to be found, do you know,

what the mirror's really seeing,

in between a human being,

when we're chasing birds,

who's the one that's really fleeing, and

when it rains why do we take,

umbrellas and coats,

I like the way my hair is afterwards,

I guess the way it floats,

And everything is wow, I can't explain it,

I can't contain it, ain't no way to refrain it,

And it's amazing what life can do for you,

a little sun and shine,

can always cure your feeling blue,

Feathers on my skin,

but my bones are like stone,

feeling that I'm gonna fly,

just gotta knock down traffic cones, do you know,

what the mirror's really seeing,

in between a human being,

when we're chasing birds,

who's the one that's really fleeing, and,

when it rains, I go outdoors,

jump in the puddles when it pours,

I like the way it makes me feel,

I guess that shining thrill.

And everything's so, wow I can't explain it,

I can't contain it, no way to refrain it,

And it's amazing what life can do for you,

a little sun and shine,

can always cure you feeling blue.

And with every other side,

and with every mouth open wide,

we try to hide, but,

gut out of our hearts,

the dreams and things that keep us from

not falling apart, and do you know,

Everything is so, wow I can't explain it,

I can't retain it, ain't no way to refrain it,

And it's amazing what life can do for you,

a little sun and shine,

can always cure you feeling blue, yeah.

 

Butterflies inside and outside, flying and, there are green trees and there's cake, and, I remember- I remember summer, and it's close. I remember the sweet smell of it's breath, and what I waited for-and how it made the gray skies and hot weather feel like my heart- and how this year, every gray sky is gonna be beautiful, every rain drop is gonna be a happy tear, and my smile's gonna be fresh like the leaves, new and shiny, living, and how it's time to get somewhere other than bones feeling like stone, it's gonna lift off the doubts and run into life. I'm alive. Because my bones did feel like stones, after I was brave last year. And bravery is supposed to get you to that smile you see when you close your eyes, but who knew bravery can also lead to brusing on months you spend, seemingly so devoted, when you realize with a white sky after the rain, and the birds chirping- that smile has been there all along, waiting for you, and you have to kiss your own smile, and I'm alive. And you realize what you thought you were devoted to, was like styrafoam covering a window, scenery drawn on it with a marker. Then you have taken so much in, that you bang your head against it, and you think it's glass yet, you expect yourself to shatter, not the glass- and that's when you see the window's been open the whole time. And you've found bravery, but it's a little to hurried in this situation, but now you know it's there, and now you know you have to get it out before it hurries away. And the lie spilled out like oatmeal from a tipped pan onto the grass on a hot day. But you don't realize it until you actually jump out that window. And how you've always been ready, but something inside of you hurried away with that gutted moment. Summer's coming, though. And I can find my smile, and I will start now. And I'm alive-but my poem's not finished yet.

 

What I was thinking about started in my voice, and my heart seemed to know, but my head couldn't figure out what the ink on my page, flowing along with my fingers, was saying. And I kept writing, and I thought of summer and I looked out the window and, summer is so close. So my memories were speaking in these little lines I was writing, flipping around in the wind, and melting onto my hands and heart and page like ice cream. And it's breathing now.

 

Rachel Chevat, 2009; The Growing Pond

 

     I'll tell you that pond was magic,

               with it's dark sweet waters-

          we run in with

                         sunscreen showing on our ankles, and,

                              dare each other to

                                   dip our heads in where it's deep,

                                        we look down,

               thighs look yellow under water-

                         our feet can't been seen,

          our family,

                    they built this house up here-

                              and we build sand castles,

               we take yellow and pink pails and,

         try to catch fish and tadpoles- our smiles shining,

                                   and when the sun licks sky burnt orange,

                         there's so much day left ahead.

     Now we think

               the water's too cold-

          we lay on our towels in

                         the grass, and

                  wait for an orange sky.

     And I'll tell you that pond was magic,

                              is magic, but,

                         the tadpoles are hard to find,

               we've grown legs,

                               have our own eyes-

                           our eyes can be cold towards

                                             each other-

                              I have hope that someday

                                   we'll step into the pond, and

                                                  find the children in our hearts,

                                             cuz we'll always love-

                                                                 each other, but still,

                                        I look at my hands, I realize,

                                                            we aren't

                                                            tadpoles

                                                            anymore.

 

It's about growing up and looking at memories, and how you can stand in your memories and be such a changed person. There are always gonna be more happy moments, but how can it be the same as it was like that little child?

 

I just got into this moment and started writing it, and then I looked around and realized a lot, and it came in this way that was bittersweet, like a smile biting it's tongue..

 

Rachel Chevat, 2009; Glowstick

I look at my reflection-

    with red eyes, but

     they’re not leaking

        anymore.

I look at the

    shine on my wrist-

     wrapped around, fitting

        so nicely.

I look to the past-

    ten minutes ago-

I look at the room-

    where I am now-

I hear footsteps-

    who knows what’s coming.

She gave it to me

    so casually.

And I didn’t know.

    That’d I’d be

     jamming speakers

        into my ears and

          want to

          run onto

    nighttime concrete

    streetlight tinted

    streets while the

                sign was red.

I looked to the shine on my

    wrist and

         realized-

Break it’s back in

     your palms and

watch it glow.

     You gotta crack it and

break it for it to

    glow, but,

     it’ll never break.

     You gotta crack and

break a glowstick

    for it to glow,

but it never breaks.

         And outside,

        nighttime,

             that’s when it really shows.

 

Those days where you're thinking you forgot to hang on, and you want to break something since you feel like you're breaking, but you look at yourself, and you are holding on, because you're holding something that can be so small, but can make such a huge impact as you stand up again, and you glow.

 

It was late at night on one of those days. I felt like my heart was a storm as it loudly put the words on the paper, and it came out beautifully, with the flowers after the rain trailed from my eyes to my hands.

 

 

 

 

My Poems

 

Rachel Chevat, 2009

 

Pink Skies,

 

butterflies

 

wild in

 

my eyes, and

 

saving lives with

 

sponge cake

 

happiness comes

 

with big smiles-

 

and summertimes tears

 

fade into sweet,

 

vibrant memories,

 

summer's coming,

 

I should get some

 

flip flops that

 

won't give me

 

blisters,

 

pink flip flops

 

with butterflies,

 

wild in my eyes, and

 

My poem's not finished yet. Butterflies inside and outside, flying and, there are green trees and there's cake, and, I remember- I remember summer, and it's close. I remember the sweet smell of it's breath, and what I waited for-and how it made the gray skies and hot weather feel like my heart- and how this year, every gray sky is gonna be beautiful, every rain drop is gonna be a happy tear, and my smile's gonna be fresh like the leaves, new and shiny, living, and how it's time to get somewhere other than bones feeling like stone, it's gonna lift off the doubts and run into life. I'm alive. Because my bones did feel like stones, after I was brave last year. And bravery is supposed to get you to that smile you see when you close your eyes, but who knew bravery can also lead to brusing on months you spend, seemingly so devoted, when you realize with a white sky after the rain, and the birds chirping- that smile has been there all along, waiting for you, and you have to kiss your own smile, and I'm alive. And you realize what you thought you were devoted to, was like styrafoam covering a window, scenery drawn on it with a marker. Then you have taken so much in, that you bang your head against it, and you think it's glass yet, you expect yourself to shatter, not the glass- and that's when you see the window's been open the whole time. And you've found bravery, but it's a little to hurried in this situation, but now you know it's there, and now you know you have to get it out before it hurries away. And the lie spilled out like oatmeal from a tipped pan onto the grass on a hot day. But you don't realize it until you actually jump out that window. And how you've always been ready, but something inside of you hurried away with that gutted moment. Summer's coming, though. And I can find my smile, and I will start now. And I'm alive-but my poem's not finished yet.

 

What I was thinking about started in my voice, and my heart seemed to know, but my head couldn't figure out what the ink on my page, flowing along with my fingers, was saying. And I kept writing, and I thought of summer and I looked out the window and, summer is so close. So my memories were speaking in these little lines I was writing, flipping around in the wind, and melting onto my hands and heart and page like ice cream. But now that I've written so much about the poem, I realize, I want to change it. A lot. I don't wanna change it's personality, but I feel like it doesn't know itself yet. Like I don't know it yet. It's hiding, in a way. But it's gonna spill out and glow and, bang on the floor like a bag of marbles, and leak out like syrup right from it's mouth and- it needs to breathe more. It's gonna breathe more.

 

 

 

Rachel Chevat, 2009

 

I see a bird

 

 

               in the building colored like

 

 

          a gray sky on a block with

 

 

                         no trees, and-

 

 

           I see it's

 

 

                    flying down the hallway with

 

 

               torn and shiny wings

 

 

                         look like a rainbow after storm, it's

 

 

                    going towards

 

 

                              closet door with,

 

 

                         rusty pipes, but,

 

 

                                   this bird opens the door, and

 

                                                                      flies outside.

 

Like, when you're in a room and you don't know where you're going, or how to get out, and you open that door and you realize where it's

                                                                                            

Rachel Chevat, 2009; Glowstick

I look at my reflection-

    with red eyes, but

     they’re not leaking

        anymore.

I look at the

    shine on my wrist-

     wrapped around, fitting

        so nicely.

I look to the past-

    ten minutes ago-

I look at the room-

    where I am now-

I hear footsteps-

    who knows what’s coming.

She gave it to me

    so casually.

And I didn’t know.

    That’d I’d be

     jamming speakers

        into my ears and

          want to

          run onto

    nighttime concrete

    streetlight tinted

    streets while the

                sign was red.

I looked to the shine on my

    wrist and

         realized-

Break it’s back in

     your palms and

watch it glow.

     You gotta crack it and

break it for it to

    glow, but,

     it’ll never break.

     You gotta crack and

break a glowstick

    for it to glow,

but it never breaks.

         And outside,

        nighttime,

             that’s when it really shows.

 

 

 

 

Rachel Chevat, 2009; The Growing Pond

 

     I'll tell you that pond was magic,

               with it's dark sweet waters-

          we run in with

                         sunscreen showing on our ankles, and,

                              dare each other to

                                   dip our heads in where it's deep,

                                        we look down,

               thighs look yellow under water-

                         our feet can't been seen,

          our family,

                    they built this house up here-

                              and we build sand castles,

               we take yellow and pink pails and,

         try to catch fish and tadpoles- our smiles shining,

                                   and when the sun licks sky burnt orange,

                         there's so much day left ahead.

     Now we think

               the water's too cold-

          we lay on our towels in

                         the grass, and

                  wait for an orange sky.

     And I'll tell you that pond was magic,

                              is magic, but,

                         the tadpoles are hard to find,

               we've grown legs,

                               have our own eyes-

                           our eyes can be cold towards

                                             each other-

                              I have hope that someday

                                   we'll step into the pond, and

                                                  find the children in our hearts,

                                             cuz we'll always love-

                                                                 each other, but still,

                                        I look at my hands, I realize,

                                                            we aren't

                                                            tadpoles

                                                            anymore.

 

Rachel Chevat, 2009; The Lady Outside With The Shorts And The Hoodie

 

Springtime's got me

               wearing shorts and-

         the short shorts that show

                         most of your thighs

                   cuz the heat's got me

                              squinting and sweating-

                         sunglasses making my

                              nose red,

               and the metal sliding

                                   to it's tip.

     Somehow the past still

                         has me in a big

                              white hoodie

                 from last fall,

             to the first time

               I went outside with

               my lips a line-

               What,

               Was,

               I,

               Thinking,

     when I let them leave me-

                                    with nothing but a hoodie.

 

I kind of looked outside and saw a lady walk by with super short-shorts and a big hoodie on, and sunglasses, too. And I let these emotions slide into my pen and this poem came.

 

Rachel Chevat, 2009

I don't

want to

write a

poem about

the poem

we read

in class

today.

 

Rachel Chevat, 2009

That man told me to

                 smell his fingers

     with that

               thick gray nail

          on a too-hot

                           capris

                              spring morning

                   walking home from

                         sticky icies with

                    a friend.

                         That man was

                 holding an

         I don't wanna know

                         paper bag

               but I did know

          what he was holding     

                         with a

                              long smile like

               too much New Years

                                   champagne.

                         I walked away

          from a man on

                              drugs

               two blocks away from

                         the movie theatre

                   today.

     I walked away like

          a lady holding a

                         designer bag

               walking to her place

                              in Manhattan

          in the late evening.

                         I shivered all

                the way

                         I walked-

                              that man

          and when I looked back,

               turning the

                         corner,

     he wasn't behind me-

                              and my heart

                         leaned on some lights-

               that man-

                         what was he really

                              asking me?

 

So I was walking down the street on a weekend morning after hanging out with a friend, and I had just finished a really good icie. So I'm listening to a song on my iPod when a man I walk past says something that I don't hear. I take one of the speakers out of my ears. He's a little closer to me. He has a thick, gray fingernail. He has this smile on his face, and this paper bag in his other hand. I'm pretty sure he's high. "Smell my finger," he says. I let out this "Wah?" and keep walking. I'm walking away kind of fast, kind of tense. I don't even realize it until I've walked another block. I keep going, and then I turn and look behind me. The man's not there. It made me think and wonder a lot.

 

It was kind of late, and I was curled up in a chair with a piece of paper. It was the same day that the thing with the man happened. I just started writing.

 

 

 

Rachel Chevat, 2009

 

Someone's breath is like

 

               a cherry

 

          in the morning,

 

               on your cheek,

 

               on your legs,

 

               knees resting on hard tiles,

 

          and you  nip the corner of your lips,

 

               while moving your head with your eyes,

 

     so to listen to the eyes

 

                         of who's speaking,

 

                         feeling the gentle as summer grass bottom of your shoe,

 

          wondering if that breath's

 

          really morning cherry breath,

 

     or hey, what about

 

                         The man sleeping on creased streets-

 

                              he smells that breath, too?

 

                         Hey, wait-

                             

                                   A poem.