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Hour 2 “Where I’m From”

Posted by murphydl on September 17, 2015

English 12 students recently wrote “Where I’m From” poems using George Ella Lyon’s “Where I’m From” as their model. When finished, each student chose his/her best lines and took turns reading them aloud, thereby creating class poems.

I’m from the go-getters

and the all-nighters.

From going fishing to pasture parties.

Where the smell of grease,

dust, and oil make your

nose stand up.

I’m from the smell of sweet barbeque

to the taste of Grandma’s cookies.

I am from a big city to a small town.

I am from a wood burning stove in the bitter winters.

I come from where

work never stops.

We are all different, but we all

live at the same place.

The smell of the alfalfa on the cutting.

I’m from the memories of

Grandpa teaching me how to farm

the land like many generations have

before me.

I’m from the country roads

and the outdoors, from tops

of oak trees to the luscious green grasses.

I’m from an old dirt road where

the wildlife runs to sitting in a deer stand

on a chilly morning.

I’m from the land of Seaworld,

with its varied marine life.

Things such as juicy steaks, pastas so smooth and

creamy that each touch to your mouth melts,

chicken so tender and fine

that it has its very own layers.

I’m from the smell of an old

1688 combine manual and

harvest chicken sandwich

dinner. Falling asleep in

every piece of machinery

riding with my grandpa,

pulling the unloading auger

lever myself.

To practical jokes Dad likes to play

from bike wrecks to workouts.

I am from the place where “Shit Happens”

if something did not go as planned.

I am from the woods

the big cottonwood

whose cotton is fluffy and white

falling like snow in July

reminds me of a snowy winter day.

I’m from the cinnamon candle burning

to brownies baking in the oven.

My family is like a puzzle, all of us are put together

and it makes a BIG beautiful picture that

will never be split apart.

I am from Mom’s smile as I

walk in the door, or her glare

depending on what I did that day.

From the wild Friday

and Saturday nights

that our parents shouldn’t

know about.

I am from wheat fields and sunflowers

that are planted in the spring

and harvested in the summer.

I’m from the warm smell of vanilla and homemade

chocolate chip cookies.

Like a nail holds a house

together my family is

sharp and strong, hard headed

and bent easily.

From the army stories my

father tells of how he

earns the Purple Heart medal.

From saying hi to people I won’t remember

and goodbye to people I won’t forget.

I’m from the vibrations

of a guitar.

I’m from screaming cicadas

and lightning bugs in the back yard.

I’m from the fireplace,

the smoke rolling out of the chimney.

Among the sea of demons,

there are three of the devil’s angels.

I’m from where there are

family dinners and movie

nights. I’m from where there is laughing and

really being a family.

I come from the ghost of a sister and

an always there when you need her mother.

I am not from being a kid stuck on video games;

where I am from we go outside and go

fishing or a pickup football game in the back yard.

I am from the Rubik’s cube that is my family,

the dysfunctional care between one another.

I am from the complexity and

frustration that is our shared love.

In my closet there is

a guitar whose strings

snap frequently like

my family; they both sound

good until someone snaps.


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