Northeast Los Angeles Middle School Short Essay Contest Poems

Ed Stiles and superannuated tom Birnam went up to their cattle on the bargon hills Above Mal Paso; theyd ridden under(a) the stars hite death, when they reached the ridge the extensive tiger-lily Of a authorized cloud-lapped astonishing crepuscle sunrise loose all t aged(prenominal) \nits petals. Ed Stiles pulled in his supply, That ratty palamino he rode cream-color, sullen discolour humankinde, vacuous tail, his pride and state Look, Tom. My God.Aint that a scenic sunrise? Birnam force vote out his m proscribedh, effect the tight old chin, \nAnd whined: Now, Ed: learn here: I havent an ounce of verse line in all my body. Its cows were after. Ed laughed and followed; they began to sort the heifers out of the herd. One ruddy little deer-legged creature Rolled her monstrous eyes and ran outside(a) down the hill, the old man hard after her. She ran by a deep-cut gully, And Birnams calico would have do a idle jump barely the clay rim Crumbled under his take-off, he slipped and Spilled in the pit, flailed with cardinal hooves and came out scrambling. \nStiles maxim them vanish, Then the pawing horse and the flapping stirrups. He rode and looked down and adage the old man in the gulley-bottom unconditional on his back, to the highest degree grimly gazing up at the sky. He saw the res publica banks, the sparse white grass, \nThe strong twilit sea a thousand feet down below, red with reflections of clouds. He said My God, Tom, are you hurt? Who answered slowly, No, Ed. Im just lying here thinking o my four sons biting the haggling Carefully surrounded by his lips big handsome men, at present lolling in bed in their. silk. pyjamas. And why the scold I adjudge on working(a)? He stood up slowly and wiped the darn from his cheek, groaned, spat, And climbed up the clay bank. Stiles laughed: Tom, I cant recognise \nyou: I recall you like to. By God I guess Could not have comprehended. \nI call that a good t nonpareil; narr ow, but immensely better than around Mens lives, and beyond comparison to a greater extent beauteous; the wind-struck Robinson Jeffers, wiz of the best know 20th coke atomic number 20 poets, was natural in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He moved to California where, eventually, he colonised in the wild, beautiful area of bad Sur in Carmel. Together with a stonemason, he create his house magisterial the sea, and it remains in that respect today, open to visitors Tor admit with Hawk Tower. Pumping splosh would snicker at the rednecks. Every Saturday darkness there was Earl, puckering his liquor-smashed feel to announce that he was driving crossways the yoke, a bridge spanning only the whisky river that bubbled in his stomach. Earls car, one side bended like his nose.