These are a collection of poems that I wrote for my Creative Writing class in 2014. By Michael Robert Lado
The boy runs through the wet alley,
The darkness concealed his thin gait body.
As he creeps through the night;
Wet and soggy soles move through the puddles.
He shivers in the cool air; as the distant sounds
Of police sirens ring his ears.
He peaks across an empty street,
From the edge of the alley,
It is his last dash to freedom
away from his current world.
Walking in the shadows at first he makes a break for it.
for freedom and a new life.
He runs past the last of the city’s buildings
old flickering lights shimmering in the night.
He breaks clear of the last part of the city running.
Leaving the city far behind he runs.
Runs; with wet waterlogged shoes carrying him;
Towards an ever increasing country picture he has in his mind.
He knows where he’s going; guided by an invisible map in his head.
He runs losing track of how far he came and of the night’s time.
He runs until his energy is expended in the early morning.
Dawn breaks as he arrives in a little country town. He smiles; he made it.
Its home; that he foolishly left years ago.
But now he’s back away from the pain and past life.
He walks to a small house in a quiet street and fishes out an old key he still had.
He sees a familiar face staring out the window; shock.
But then a relieved wide smile.
The door opened; a welcome home.
And an escape from darkness to safety.
No Snow Day
It’s 7:30 AM as I arrive.
The lots have not been plowed
And the sidewalks are a sheet of glass.
Snow coats the roads and sits on the lots in mountains.
I struggle to find a parking place among the chaos.
When I finally park,
Getting out of my car,
I slip and fall.
Not once or twice
But I fall thrice.
On the mirror of ice that is on the lot.
I curse myself and my school for not canceling.
Even a delay would have sufficed.
But neither happened and here I am,
with wet, damp clothes
And a body aching.
School is on whether I like it or not.
I close my book, and take my pen in hand.
I’ve done all I could for the test is at hand.
The teacher announces that fateful time has come,
To take the exam,
That could mean the end.
The end of my grade or
The success of the class
It all hangs in the balance.
I took copious notes and read every page.
like a Greek philosopher I covered,
every possible angle and edge,
the teacher assigned so surely I can pass.
I reviewed weeks before.
Studying every line and note
Reread every page of information,
And crammed for this exam.
I get my test and with one look I gasp,
I studied for the wrong test in this class.
They say there is no place like home.
I like to think that is true; from my point of view.
At the end of the day when I’m tired of class
I always have a place to go,
A warm bed to crash in.
It is this I call home,
Where I can call for help,
Or get a home cooked meal,
Anytime of the week.
It is these little things,
That make home to me.
A safe place,
Where there is no other,
Place like home.