3 poems

by Michael Pratts

Michael Pratts is an 11th grade high school student at City Honors who’s been practicing poetry for 8 years. He was recognized in 2012 for his “Writing With Light” combination of photography and poetry, as well as in 2014, earning 2nd place in the WNY Drug Free New Year Poetry Contest. More recently, his poetry has shifted toward songwriting with his solo album in production, as well as his band The Public set to tour this spring around downtown Buffalo and summer along Main Street, Williamsville.

Urban Grass

The crimson settled as

Mutant deer and the aluminum grizzlies alike

Froze at the sight of the freight.

Holes in the chicken wire and no carrots.

It could be considered nothing short of an

Everyday occurrence.

And as seasonal slumber dropped its barbell,

The waste could cease

And give way to a gauged image

The stars brought down to whisper

Goodnight.

While this far from wicked woman,

Dethroned and natural,

Took to the open grass of this urban jungle,

The silos sat still.

Relief and Sigh

Having spent so many

Short moments in the fruit aisle

The faces began to appear

Mine began to loosen its grip

 

The healthiest of radicals

It must be the change

This unfamiliar expression

Meeting my dark wintry eyes

 

In the final moments

Before the bic severed the tangent

That would release me into peace

Planetary and content

 

She grabbed the rope

Even if it was to redden her

Knuckles bare and bitten

She stood finally there

 

How many wax wishes

Had melted before my fragile gaze

Before the scissors came

And cut out the yellow, purple

 

I suppose they went somewhere

Perhaps some larger ears

Condescendence

Never sounded dissonant as the correct.

To Please

It was her geometry

Or perhaps that it was soaked in white lines

Through the blinds

Who knew rocks were so full of life

 

With every good intention he would recycle the pink

Rediscovering every centimeter all over again

With the goal of finding three in-betweens

Pointed away from the stars that lit up the mud.

 

Lime was to be licked

A cold tip reaching the creek over the tongue

Time to be ticked

The slit never to open

 

For the exes and why’s had already stitched it closed.