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Best Poems From
YEN CRESS
(3/9/43)
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9.
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At the Midway
A sow bug ambled cheerfully
Along a country trail.
He felt quite safe and debonair
Inside his coat of mail.
He saw a country fair nearby.
Such music! Oh, what fun!
Some games and rides might make his day,
So he began to run.
He rolled into a little ball
To cross a rut with ease.
But when he reached the other side,
A wonder made him freeze.
With coat of armor just like his-
(And ears and tail beside) -
What was this splendid creature that
Our little friend espied?
A GIANT sow bug, to be sure,
So tall, so long, so wide!
The sow bug smiled, and climbed aboard
The Armadillo Ride.
Yen Cress
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10.
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Black April
In Remembrance of 4/30/75
From inland mountains to the salt-soaked shore,
From China's border to the southern plains,
The earth lies drenched in sweat and bloody gore,
And tears keep falling like the summer rains.
Where is the peace we offered to restore?
What have we done, and who has paid the price?
Two million bodies live and breathe no more,
And corpses rot in graves near fields of rice.
A father weeps; his only son is dead.
Small children cry; their mothers cannot come.
A boy is blinded; old rags swathe his head.
Young widows beg the mercy of Quan Am.
The Viet Cong's unconquered force descends
And settles on fair Saigon like a pall.
Her doom is sealed; her hope of freedom ends.
In Vietnam, this spring is called The Fall.
It's time to go. We push the clamor back,
Ignoring shrieks from those we leave behind.
We slam the gates against their frenzed attack
And flee the press of desperate humankind.
We did our best; our best did not suffice.
We look around at all we've lost, once more.
We head for home and grimly sacrifice
Another country to the god of war.
Yen Cress
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11.
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Early Date
She rises bright as sunrise floods
Her Grandma's garden tangle
To meet her friends out near the walk
Where fuschia blossoms dangle.
She peeks around the corner with
A shy anticipation,
And San Francisco's pigeons hear
Her gentle invitation.
'Come here and eat, sweet things, ' she coos,
And they accept, unscorning,
The crumbs dropped from her little hands-
A banquet in the morning.
Yen Cress
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12.
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Final Communication
The rising sun displaces eastward night,
Dispensing cool, sweet shadows by its light,
Then bit by bit the molten gold of day
Grows, glowing, gleaming, sending hence the gray
Of dawn, this Monday in the month of May.
Why then this heavy burden, heart of mine?
And why these cataracts of living brine?
The day, the spring, warm everyone but me,
While veils of grief forbid my eyes to see,
And shrouds engulf me so I cannot flee.
And then the zenith comes, a hot-bright peak.
No shadow stretches, long and slim and sleek,
But crowds my feet in huddled grotesque form.
My secret, dismal clouds defy the warm
Designs of day, an unseen, private storm.
At length the light begins to fade and pass
Like morning glories wilting in the grass,
Each sunlight-tendril curling up its toes
To die while shrinking in the daylight's close.
Upon his grave, I lay a single rose.
Yen Cress
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