1

My fascination with poetry started in 5th grade when I had to

memorize a Robert Frost poem and orally present it in front of the class. As
I chanted, Two roads diverged into a yellow wood, I felt an internal
connection to something just beyond my reach. After my flawless
regurgitation of The Road Not Taken, I begged my Dad to buy me Robert
Frosts book of poetry-- I assume I was given something akin to Robert
Frosts greatest hits. I would not really know, I never read it. Sometimes I
would glance through it, willing myself to return to that feeling of being
connected to something beyond myself. But being 10, I was not in the
position to be an active participant in my own being, instead I found myself
more inclined to run around with my friends and beg my parents for a dog,
while the Robert Frost poem made home in my closet.
As I got older, the nagging persisted within me. But nothing came of it
until sophomore year of college when I attended a literature class. We read
a paltry book of poems (later I would find it was a wide variety intended to
quench the smallest of thirst). One day we were assigned In Memoriam of
Mae Noblitt by AR Ammons. I read it and was floored. Suddenly I was that
small girl standing in front of her 5th grade classroom passionately reciting
and that has made all the difference. That feeling was back, the spark was
lit, and this time I was able to hold the new pulsing passion within the palm
of my hands and understand its meaning: I needed poetry.
I signed up for a Studies in Poetry class that upcoming spring. This
time the textbook, a thick volume spanning more than a thousand pages,
was enough to leave me speechless. In one book and one class I was
introduced to a world that did not feel as foreign as I had perceived. Until
then, I had typically adhered to the idea that poetry was boring. I was
wrong. I think if anything I feared the complexity of it. For a semester I
learned by reading the poems assigned and others that sparked my interest
as I flipped through the pages. I found that I loved poems for how they
made me feel, how they quelled the inner flame within me that had been lit
the previous term.
Eventually, I made it to Writing for Poetry. I needed to challenge
myself beyond just reading. What does it mean to write a poem? Im still not
sure. I know it involves sharing parts of myself. It involves being clever, but
also critical. Of balancing the uncertainty with confidence. Much more. The
definition of poetry. The meaning of poetry. I do not know if there are
answers for me yet, but I found that searching for these meanings was
beyond my capabilities merely a few months ago. Poetry is a lifelong
journey, something not to be overcome or understood, but to live and
interact with daily.
I need poetry. And I want it too. I have only scratched the surface.
Within my book of poems, there are only thirty poems, but I know I have
much more ahead of me. They have been divided into rough themes: family,
introspection, pure randomness (exercises, most likely), as well as love and
friendship. Their meanings range from nothing to everything. I am a person

2
who is inspired by reality, by my own truth and experiences, but that does
not bar my mind from taking a step ahead.
In the moment, my poetry is personal. Who knows what form it will
take in the upcoming yearswhat topics will fall into my lap or run around
my head. I hope to continue journeying down the road that allows me to
pursue poetry, to enjoy it and revel within it. As for my written poems, I will
be honest in my selfishness: they are for me. But I share them so you can
know parts of me that only I have recently discovered. Poetry is a journey, a
selfish journey that is shared to evoke understanding and connection. At
least for me thats my truth. And that has made all the difference.
- Alex Baker

Table of Contents
I......................................................................................................................................3
Carole King*..................................................................................................................4
Aaron*...........................................................................................................................5
Ranches of the Sun*.....................................................................................................6
+ =1*......................................................................................................................7
Our Family Tree............................................................................................................8
Smoothed Over Sharp Edges.......................................................................................9
Sanctuary....................................................................................................................10
II..................................................................................................................................11
Anniversary.................................................................................................................12
Self Eulogy*.................................................................................................................13
This time last year*.....................................................................................................14
This time this year*.....................................................................................................15
This time next year*....................................................................................................16
Never Forget*.............................................................................................................17
III.................................................................................................................................18
Musings.......................................................................................................................19
Fallacy*........................................................................................................................20
Chronicles*..................................................................................................................21
Mothers Guilt.............................................................................................................22
we feels more inclusive*..........................................................................................23
Lost*............................................................................................................................24
IV..................................................................................................................................25
You*.............................................................................................................................26
Incandescence*...........................................................................................................27
Intimacy.......................................................................................................................29
BFF*............................................................................................................................30
Limerence...................................................................................................................31
V...................................................................................................................................32

Note: Those poems accompanied by the * symbol are exercises.

I.
Its not writers block
I swear. Its a creativity stall.
A cold shoulder to the imagination,
a distrust of the abilities.
Everything I write is stupid.

Carole King
When Carole King released Tapestry in 71
Gramma Felt the Earth Move Way Over Yonder;
So Far Away was the emptiness that had not yet begun
That Will You Love Me Tomorrow? was not yet a question to ponder.
Gramma wore through three records before
Grandpa realized (You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural
Woman was just a title, not Gramma being forward,
And that Where You Lead was her true call.
Carole King released Tapestry with pure luck,
Gramma had thirty years left of Beautiful cognition
Before Its Too Late like a dilapidated old truck
that had lost its ability to turn the ignition.
However even when her memory was all but dead,
Gramma would still sing through the house Youve Got A Friend.

Aaron
We are family without the blood,
we owe each other nothing.
When we were younger,
I carelessly locked the door to his mothers bedroom.
Once discovered she turned to face the criminal-(Adults assume it is always the one who it was not) her son.
While I was ushered to the backyard with the other kids
he stayed inside, politely perched on the couch
I watched through the window, my hero my best friend protecting me
from the punishment I deserved but he received.
He emerged from the house, unscathed, untouched, a shrug was my only
answer.
From there I knew that he owes me nothing I owe him nothing instead
we are family without the blood so we owe each other everything.

Ranches of the Sun

When I was younger it was the only drive I knew by heart.
Get on Highway 1, southbound.
Take the Freedom Blvd exit, turn left, pass Aptos High where
my Dad and Uncle went to high school.
Speed down freedom, slowing down before the curve to make a left
onto McDonald. Look to the right, youll see the house that always seemed
to
have something newsunflowers, goats, chopped up wood.
Yield, look left to make sure no cars are coming, make the next left onto Cox
Rd.
Wonder how the yellow house grows so many sunflowers each summer.
Watch for deer. Make a right onto Ranchitos Del Sol.
(Maybe once there was a ranch up this road, a ranch of the sun. Now its
just my grandparents house at the end of the road, sitting on the hill
looking out the valley.)
Drive to the end of the road, three speed bumps. One last turn up their
driveway.
Home.

+ =1
For me,
when half and half is spilled on the floor it looks the same.
I cannot stare long enough to decipher which half is half.
I cannot attribute parts of it to what I perceive to be right.
Right in that
I do not ask the half and half to be whole milk or cream
because I need it as both
or else my whipped cream is not much more than lackluster milk.
For me,
I know that
we are intertwined by memories and growing up,
so I hold her as my equal,
we are one in the same. If we spilled on the floor, who could really tell us
apart,
glide us across the floor and separate us. No amount of force
separates that unconditional loyalty.
Blacks see her lighter skin
so shes not equal.
Whites see her darker skin
so shes not equal.
For me,
because she is half and half
that is what makes her whole.

Our Family Tree

The house across the valley is a mystery to our family.
Nestled in a bed of trees directly across from us
the house stays silent, its windows shining each evening
in the last glow of the sun.
We are sure their view is stunning
but never once have their shades been drawn open.
Why? us children ask.
We can only wonder the adults murmur.
Gramma asks us what we even want to know.
We want to know why they dont open their blinds.
We want to know who they are.
We want to know what they see.
We beg and beg to go find the house,
to discover who lives in hiding.
Knock knock,
what are you afraid of?
Knock knock,
you have a beautiful view behind your windows,
why dont you see it?
Sometimes when Grandpa takes naps and Gramma wanders,
we coax her to join us on the porch and watch the house.
Maybe, Gramma, if we squint hard enough it will change.
Sometimes Gramma doesnt answer.
Sometimes there are days when we have to remind Gramma our names.
Grandpa says he does not want to know.
Why? us children ask.
I only want to wonder
Knock knock,
what are you afraid of?
Knock knock,
you have a beautiful life,
why dont you see it?
Silence in the valley.
Why? Gramma asks.
I want to know if they are hiding from the world or hiding the world from
them.
But Im lying. The truth is

10
I just want to know what they think of
the house across the valley.

Smoothed Over Sharp Edges

For Gramma
storm on sunday
so we raced to the shoreline,
searching for our little treasures-sore necks and gritty toes fuel us to
scan the shore for little rainbow glints
standing out among thick soupy sand;
sand and jewels that at were once uncut,
shattered into the ocean where eventually
they found us
somewhere across the world appearing as
something new and whole in itself.

11

Sanctuary
Mae Mae and I countdown from thirty.
She is three so she sits on my lap and copies me,
eager for us to get to one! ready or not here we come!
We discover Addie and Nikki crouched behind Aunties
flower beds in the garden that is anticipating spring.
New buds have begun to rise out of the weeded dirt,
us cousins welcome them by laughing
when Mae Mae and I act surprised to find our sisters in the same spot as
last time.
Intertwining hands, throwing the little one on the curve of my hip, we peer
around the expanse, searching for clues of older boys with better hiding
spots.
Two loops along the fence give us no luck,
finally Ry pops out from behind a wheelbarrow.
We explode with laughter, poking fun at him
for being twelve and still able to fit underneath.
Together we comb through hidden places, searching for our final
player, Spence, who is all legs and festering puberty.
As we search, I am content in my sanctuary, for
my little saviors pull me away from my responsibilities,
my anxieties, and remind me thatThere he is! Addie cries,
arm pointing at Spence, who is perched on the shed.
He turns, grinning with triumph, a silhouette for only
a moment before he descends to meet us gathered in the garden.
Another round begins, Mae Mae and I countdown from thirty.

12

II.
Everything I write is stupid
but I have to say it.
Because I am always inundated with words
they bubble up within me and choke me until I scream them
or they pummel my brain
until I fight them off by
throwing them onto the page.
That does not mean it is good,
It just means its there.

13

Anniversary
On the day of the anniversary
I celebrated alone.
I went to urgent care to get an abscess drained,
and I felt (a new kind of) disgusting.
I couldnt even appreciate the blood & the pus
on the table in the wadded napkins,
staining a scalpel.
Riding my bike home it hit me
when I saw the house
and remembered;
The tainted night hovers,
dark and murky;
heavy breathing
It sneaks up on me and reminds me that it was there,
that it happened.
The front door kept sticking
and my arm was sore
so I sat on the porch
and sobbed
because you can drain an abscess
but you cannot call someone a survivor unless they have survived.

14

Self Eulogy
I know when I am going to die.
It will be before my mother, because
the end is on the horizon.
While my younger brother gains thick muscles and neck cricking height,
my body lies wistful far behind him, for
I know when I am going to die
For art class I drew a self-portrait that immortalized me lying in bed
surrounded by tubes and medicine waiting to breathe into my lungs.
The end is on the horizon.
Every visit to the hospital could be the last so that
while brother has girlfriends and blissful naivety to his death,
I know when I am going to die.
I bought a motorcycle to claim my own demise because
I figure Ill look pretty badass pretending I could die that way. For,
the end is on the horizon
Others spend their lives gazing at the vast space between here and the
horizon,
yet, I do not get to gaze
I know when I am going to die
for I am on the horizon.

15

This time last year

Friday April 25
Once you ask for help you usually get itonce I needed him he was there.
Last night while I ate a whole pint of ice cream I told him 2 secrets. First
secret is harsh. I can only do what I can to get through it. I read the official
report today and it shook meall I can do and all I need is to discover my
truth. Second secret Im wounded and lonely and I know that he will hold
my heart but he wont take care of it. My great love is coming. And I feel
like he is closer than I understand until then I think I will enjoy my
freedom.

16

This time this year

Saturday April 25
That great love is hovering over me. He is here and we are stagnant,
waiting for summer and wild eyes and crazy hearts. For now we are hourlong phone calls and sexual innuendoes. My 2 secrets are far behind me,
but they never leave. I have more now, and they stay with me. Share less
hurt less. I know he will hold my heart, but instead I see the blood on my
hands.

17

This time next year

Monday April 25
I dont know.

18

Never Forget
Middle school gym; dust, BO, pungent plastic finishings and weathered
wooden floors.
Puberty is rampant- toxic but mundane.
We hover somewhere between 11 and 12 years oldtogether in 6th grade.
My latest BFF and I do laps around the gym, grey listless PE uniforms flop
around us as we steady ourselves around the bends.
The current cutest boy ever lies on a mat doing pushups (which are so
attractive)
so I speed up my pace when passing him, planning on showing off my hairy
legs
and wheezing.

WHACK!

Knee give out, feet trip over themselves, arms failing try to grip onto
anything, full body contact with the ground.
I look at him sideways, laughing as my BFF peels me off the ground.
The world is ending, the world has ended, like it always does when youre
hovering somewhere between 11 & 12, between understanding and
assuming.

19

III.
It just means its there.
Sitting
Waiting
Follow it, find it
Catch it, mold it or steal it
Make it your own
Because once youve said it can be yours.
This is mine.

20

Musings
Live.
Love.
Words interchangeable by the laxity of a letter.
To L_ve is to breathe
To sigh
To connect
To feel infinite worth.
To L_ve is a breath
a sigh
a connection
finding infinite worth.
Fill in the blank

21

Fallacy
I follow him because he rides through the grotto.
The moment he is about the enter the holy space he looks over his shoulder
And I know to follow him,
up the streets
forgetting to count the minutes
he glints past cars, illuminates in the bright headlights.
I lose him somewhere between Mission and my thoughts
Head swiveling, I search for him on the cross streets
hoping I will see him going down a road.
Maybe if Im lucky descending from his bike and walking slowly into his
house,
Ill see him as he opens the door the light of home flooding over him
and hell look over his shoulder
and beckon me inside and Ill follow.

22

Chronicles
The best part: the parts that go un-recorded, that get lost in the happening
of things.
Can the greatest moments of your life be the ones that are forgotten?
Moments that are a
glimpse, a
split second
where you are free
and happy as the sun sets on a day youll probably forget,
yet it forms into a moment youll always remember.
The edges are fuzzy, but the view is clear. And then
its lost
forgotten,
swept away in the ever-allusive breeze.
The worst part: no one knows whether life is really just a bunch of moments
or if it is the days we grip to our memories,
to store them somewhere within our heart long after
we have forgotten why we put them there.

23

Mothers Guilt
She wished he had never been born,
that he stayed in the eternal paradise of her womb.
When brother became ill, mother was left to mourn
the son she lost when he slid down the flume.
The outside world is cruel to his brittle frame,
for Death and Father Time share rent of him.
Food refuses to nurture-- rather it maims;
If he crawled back in, she could resuscitate him.
Revive her son with her umbilical cord,
back in her womb where he thrives
she could erase the guilt and savor the reward
of saving her son from the inevitable that he dies.
She was the mother, who only wanted what was best,
a fragile baby bird who never left the nest.

24

we feels more inclusive

Yesterday was different.
The sun tempted our skin,
we sat outside and basked in the glow.
We were writers yesterday, pens gliding across paper.
Today is different.
We bundle up, covering our florid
skin that was once so tempted to breathe freely.
It is 4 oclock, in the winter it would be dark
and maybe snowing.
We are writers block today, stalled by the overcast skies.
For we are somewhere in between
spring and summer, why is winter making an appearance?
Tomorrow will be different.
And so will we.

25

Lost
Thunder storm rollin through the plains of Oklahoma.
Daddy has to cover the cows in the pasture,
so I teach sister letters, crayons markin the white space from the paper.
Momma leans against the linoleum counter,
drying her colds hands on a worn checkered dish towel.

26

IV.
This is mine.
This poem where I take you on my self-journey
because I have never written poetry for someone else
I have only written it for myself
which may be why its bad
sad
happy
tonally confused.
Regardless, this is a poem (and all the others) is
for me so why are YOU the one reading it?
Maybe because poetry is for all of us.

27

You
The other day I saw someone who looked like you
and I thought; where did we go wrong?
because I miss you
and I think about you whenever I see someone who looks like you
and I think about you whenever I dont see someone who looks like you
Where did we go wrong?
But, ah,
Where did we go right?

28

Incandescence
Alone,
the thin red stick twirls light in his hands,
dancing and shaking in the empty space.
Leaning in the doorway she hovers before
she joins him, squatting on the porch, legs dangling over the edge.
With them the others arrival is not an interruption
Merely a self-continuation.
Energy pulls her towards him, they bump shoulders,
he reacts kinetically, swaying, he tosses the sparkler into the air,
it winds, the light catching up to the source before connecting to flesh.
Another stick appears, it meets the flame and ignites, blooming into
the heavy night it performs an ecstasy fueled rhythm.
You have to understand, they are neither soul mates nor lovers,
rather they are those beyond best friends,
that wild connection that charges into ones being and spreads like hot metal
crawling
through a mold within the body.
They are like the sparklers, the metaphor gripped in their hands, using the
blackness
as a means to be brighter, blinding, forcing them to see that it is there.

29

(untitled)
Let me in
let me in
let me into you heart.
Make our love unconditional; dont force me to make conditions.

30

Intimacy
Is it when
Tyler grabs my foot as he leaves
and wishes I heal?
It is when
Kevin and I stop talking and
look at each other in a gentle silence?
Was it that night
when Samantha and I sat on the frigid ground
while it snowed, and I cried as my hands burned in the air?
Is it when
Matt and I sit on opposite sides
of the couch and spill our secrets?
Is it when
Jackie and I text
love you kiss you miss you?
Was it when
Cole and I said goodbye
for the last time?
Is it when
Sam asked me to make him whole?
I held him
I love you, friend
and I meant it and he looked at me
like he was going to kiss me
but then he caved I love you too, friend.
Last night you came over;
for a few hours you were all mine in
our little space in this whole wide world.
Was that intimacy?
Or was it everything but?

31

BFF
We are three years of deep conversations
and empty beer cans.
We are perpetual inside jokes
and 4/21 traditions.
We are trio photos posted on Instagram
and endless group messages.
We are 4th meals in the kitchen
and brunch on Sunday morning.
We are unconditional supporters
and drinking game connoisseurs.
We are the people who have shaped each other,
who have been present in each others lives
far before we made our grand entrance.
We are the best friends who raise eyebrows
and think we are funnier than we are.

32

Limerence
One Missile, please
her favorite drink, pre-made in the morning in big
glass jugs where cream, simple syrup, and dark coffee combine
into an elixir to inspire stories and morning walks, or maybe even
initiate life-changing moments.
The Missile slides across the counter,
the glass sweating in the heat, ice clinking inside
beckoning. Her dress ripples in the slight breeze as she opens a journal,
pen appearing in her hand as though it has been connected to her all along.
Behind the counter he washes dishes, diligently avoiding her.
They look down together,
his hands circling saucers and espresso cups,
hers gliding across the white flat expanses of paper,
spewing out dreams and musings. Unconsciously,
they create a circle, divided by a thin wall that maybe she built-or maybe he built it toowith rocks stacked like moments.
Their eyes meet. She blushes,
fumbling with the pen to return to what she knows,
but he holds her, What are you writing about?
Behind him someone shakes a glass jug, dishes chime together in the sink,
the pen glides across the counter, tracing stories and morning walks and
the moments when life twisted, turned, and thrummed into the rock wall,
breaking it. She empties her glass,
This moment.

33

V.
Maybe because poetry is for all of us
we have to write it
read it
seek it
destroy it
blend into it
defy it
throw it out
Or just say it because it needs to be said
we need to be heard. Id like to be heard.
Sometimes I just dont know what to say to you.
Its not writers block.