Dancing with Poetry

Poetry is the best way to describe dancing.
Zachoia Cooper loves both.

Pas de Deux

When she jumps, he lifts--

His and her muscles straining.

Together, they pose

A swan on a pedestal

For a moment, she flies

Falling Leaves

I was there—
When leaves of gold

Golden leaves, I mean
Hung, mysterious, in between
Not on the tree, in sky, on ground
But in the air, twirling round
I was there!

I was there

Gawking at the leaves

That hit my windshield.

I think they were searching for the field

Of corn on the side of the road

(Tis the perfect winter abode.)

I was there!

Zachoia has a new book coming soon!









If you are between the ages of 13 -18,

(or know someone who likes to write stories)

I would like to post your story here.

Send me an email. I'd love to read your story!

New Hampshire March

New Hampshire March

by

Zachoia Cooper

(age 17)

Here am I in all my barrenness—

I am only an outline 

Of hills and rocks and wires of branches

I have no heavy snow to majestically hush the atmosphere

Nor am I clothed in versicolored leaves

My thawing-cold lakes and muddy, rutted roads are not ready for summer’s tourists.

Here am I in all my barrenness—

Pools of water traced with ice hold down broken, taupe plants

My rivers reflect back camouflaged branches and sky—

Bare, Brown over Low, Gray.

Here am I in all my barrenness—

Melting snow trickles down granite roadside walls. 

My ground holds no flowery surprises

Only uncovered flat, brown grass 

(It mixes old, dirty spots of green here and there.)

Scanty tree’s gloom is broken only by the occasional dark evergreen

Or exposed lichens on branches.

Here am I in all my barrenness—

The tree-gaps reveal all my secrets:

Red mill buildings distorted into brown by lack of sunlight.

Yellow construction parking lots.

Squat and faded warehouses.

There you are in all you barrenness

No sun, or snow, or leaves.

I look

At beautiful New Hampshire.

(original and unedited)

If you are between the ages of 13 -18,

(or know someone who likes to write stories)

I would like to post your story here.

Send me an email. I'd love to read your story!

Epitaphs

Poetry is found everywhere. 

It shows the emotions of the heart. 

No where is more keenly felt than at death.  

Here are two very poignant poems, 

written by 

Zachoia Cooper 

(age 17)

Home

Do I miss the silvery oak 

Or the flower’s efflorescence?

The river’s spry flowing

The quartz’s soft glowing?

No. 

Because the moment I woke

In heaven, I saw the quintessence

Of beauty: knowing 

my Savior when I saw his face.

Do I miss the swaying stars, 

The radiance of the sun

At precisely noon,

The curved, sharp white moon?

No.

Adorned with nail-shaped scars

Jesus Christ, God’s risen Son

Who’ll return to earth soon,

Lights heaven with his grace.

And you. 

Do I miss you? The many days

We’d laugh and talk and feel

The specialness of a bond

That always held strong?

No.

Though paused, in many ways

Our state of friendship is ideal

We'll share heaven's celestial song.

Our true home is this place.

Baby

A Short Life Still Leaves 

Enduring Mourning

(Assignment for Lesson # 20 - Poetry Lessons, Epitaphs)


If you are between the ages of 13 -18,

(or know someone who likes to write stories)

I would like to post your story here.

Send me an email. I'd love to read your story!

Kindness

Kindness

by 

Zachoia Cooper

(age 16)

Be nice to someone
said Ma.
You never know when they
might NEED it,
and I'm thinking of a new friend
won't do you any harm.

Said I,
What'll I get 
from going out fo my way
to make someone else's day?
I've got my own to make.

Well,
said Ma,

If you find that anywhere in the Bible,

I’ll pay you a million bucks.

Until then, just you remember
it does say to love your neighbor as yourself.
If that isn't for your good,
then God's a liar
(which He ain't.)

Bye Ma,
I said.

I’m gonta be late.

I ran out the door to the park.

My buddies and I threw the ball for some time.

Whenever I saw that dazzling white sphere
flying through the air towards me.
I caught it right where it was supposed to be
in my mitt.

Eating out of a big bag of Sour Patches

Little boy comes sauntering over,
sitting on the fence
swinging his legs
"Whatcha doing?
Can I play?"

“Go away, squirt,”

says Jake, drawing his thick, black eyebrows 

down 

in a frown.

“Yeah,” says Max, then presses his usually smiling lips 

down 

in a frown.
Sebastian just gives a glare with those intense bright blue eyes
looks down
in a frown.

Frowning’s the thing to do; I join.

Well,

I think,

I’ve got my own day to make.

The sun is at just the wrong place,
all the sudden
it must be blinding me.

I can’t catch any of those balls any more.

The wind is howling so weird,

I keep thinking I’m hearing a little boy crying. 

But, no,

the park is long empty.

We’ve been playing for over two hours.

It’s getting dark,

We run to get our gear
and get home
before our moms anger

Even as I put the extra balls away,

I feel like quicksand inside, all the 

good feelings of the day

sucked away

as quickly as they arrived.

Until my hands hit the bottom.

There’s a big bag of 

Sour Patches: A treasure trove for a little squirt.

And 

a paper, 

a stick scene of baseball-throwing boys, 

a sentence in thick, red crayon:

i hope you hav fun.

Shame washes over me 
like the dark of a
sudden

sunset,

But this thought rises with it:

Love your neighbor as yourself,
for God ain't a liar.
Be nice to someone

cause kindness just made your day.

(Lesson #19 of the Poetry Lessons - Narrative Poem) 

If you are between the ages of 13 -18,

(or know someone who likes to write stories)

I would like to post your story here.

Send me an email. I'd love to read your story!

"Burning in the Blue Sky I "

Burning in the Blue Sky I

by

Zachoia Cooper 

Burning in the blue sky I

From the east, am westward bound

I keep journeying round the sky.

When clouds hide my burning eye

Beams will always hit the ground.

Burning in the blue sky I,

Every morn, the night defy

Every morning, I rebound.

I keep journey round the sky,

Finding a place to beautify

To hold the seeing eye spellbound.

Burning in the blue sky I

Cannot force, but I can try

To show God’s genius is profound

I keep journeying round the sky.

May my ray-beams glorify

The One who always may be found

Burning in the blue sky, I,

I keep journeying round the sky!

(assignment for lesson #18 - Villanelle)


If you are between the ages of 13 -18,

(or know someone who likes to write stories)

I would like to post your story here.

Send me an email. I'd love to read your story!

The Reason for Hunger

A sestina is specific style of poetry - using a set pattern of rhyming words.

(CLICK HERE) 

The Reason for Hunger

by

Zachoia Cooper

(age 16)

If people were never hungry,

People would never work.

Why would they bank, or haul

Loads of limber from place

To place, or  become an engineer?

Hunger is an equalizer; it compels all.

No matter where, in earth all

Labor to be elite. They are hungry

For success, yet they are never near

It. Always busy, never stopping work

Trying to get ahead, get to a better place

Wanting to be ready, stable over the long haul.

They want a house with stairs, a hall

Lined with bedrooms, a kitchen with all

The latest appliances so their place

Is complete and they will never be hungry

For more stuff. They continue to work

Convinced that their goal is attainable, near.

Do people want a souvenir

To take to heaven, to bring a haul

Of possessions to God? “My work

Accumulated this.” Says God, “All

Things are mine.  I made you hungry,

But not for you to bring items to this place.

“I’ve given each human a place

In their soul for Me. If they come near

To Me, I will too. I made them hungry

So their labor would bring a haul

Of glory to Me. How? All

Work from my images vaunts My work.

"My industry shows through their work.

I have put each person in the perfect place,

Whether they work with a computer, an awl

Or a phone, as a craftsman, or auctioneer.

Gain is knowledge of me, not an haul 

Of cash. That is why I made them hungry."

Tis the work of the appetite, when it is near

To place a worker outside his hall

And drive him to labor: for all are hungry.

(Proverbs 16:26)

If you are between the ages of 13 -18,

(or know someone who likes to write stories)

I would like to post your story here.

Send me an email. I'd love to read your story!

The Clock

Poetry is more than breaking sentences into short lines. This one includes many techniques - enjambment, consonance, assonance, rhyme, and rhythm. It's also a limerick - so much in just a few lines.

The Clock

by 

Zachoia Cooper

(age 16)

There once was a clock that said one

a.m. The new day just begun

will be a headache,

for I'm still awake

though yesterday has long been done.

If you are between the ages of 13 -18,

(or know someone who likes to write stories)

I would like to post your story here.

Send me an email. I'd love to read your story!

Riddle Poem

Riddle Poem

by 

Zachoia Cooper

(age 16)

Loosely dangling elastic loop

Deep, leather cradle

+

Black rock, hard, sleek

Aerodynamic

+

Old tin tub, small bull’s eye 

Across the yard

+

Pull, back, harder, pull

Longer, longer, longer, longer

CLANG

(Assignment for Poetry Lesson #13 - Free Verse)


If you are between the ages of 13 -18,

(or know someone who likes to write stories)

I would like to post your story here.

Send me an email. I'd love to read your story!