From my forthcoming book A Step-by-Step Guide to Writing Fiction for Young Adults. E & E Publishing.
After I visited George Ella Lyon’s website at http://www.georgeellalyon.com/
, I got inspired and couldn’t resist trying another “I Am From . . .” poem.
When I think of Main Street, where I grew up, I inevitably remember the front porch swing, games at twilight, and the smell of orange blossoms. Was the moon bigger in those days, or am I imagining it? I know I’m not imagining that chow dog or the back fence it made me climb. And if I close my eyes, I can almost hear the William Tell Overture as it introduced the Lone Ranger. That sound was loud and clear, for all radios on Main Street were tuned to the same station.
I walked down Main Street the other evening at twilight, slowly . . . slowly . . . looking at the cracks in the sidewalk, wondering if any of those watermelon seeds sprouted, watching for the evening star. Here is the result of my few moments of nostalgia:
I am from Main Street,
from Kick the Can and Mother May I?
and Mrs. Loring’s terrible chow dog
with the purple tongue.
I am from back fences and hollyhocks,
from orange trees that blossomed
in the spring,
and sent their fragrance
to float on the cool night air.
I am from a porch swing
and the sounds of the Lone Ranger
and Captain Midnight,
and the taste of cold watermelon
with black seeds that were
good for spitting.
I am from sack lunches,
and the five and dime,
and banana splits
with three kinds of ice cream
and whipped cream and a cherry on top.
I am from time passing,
and starry nights
and the moon shining so bright
over Main Street
that it put sparkles in my hair . . .
or so he said.