William Padgett’s Class Poetry
9th Grade:
Holy visions in the diner steam
City hums like a blown sax—
riffing wild through midnight cutaways,
diggin’ deep in the catacomb streets,
checked cats flee for the jive of the ride.
Daddio hit the streets, without no map.
ghosts of the Dharma roll with the fog—
beat prophets, high on the cosmic flip,
horn solos made the truth, mad as it be.
Down in the subterranean groove,
where the ink-stained hipsters wail,
words crash like cymbals—crash! splash!—
while the squares snooze in neon prisons.
Holy visions in the diner steam,
a bent prophet sips black gold,
preaching soft to the alley rats,
tuning in to the cosmic hum.
Dig it—this life, a gas, a flash,
a mad riff cut too soon,
but the night, man, the night still sings—
a howlin’ hymn for the way-gone few.
Harry C.
The vitamin village
My favorite place is the vitamin village,
it is like a wasteland
where people can finally cool it
after being stuck in their caves all day.
Where you might hesr a subtle “Dummy up”
or a “Dad, daddy-o”
Some people might argue it is a Dullsville,
I say they just don’t fully dig it.
You might see a cat,
a beatkel, a hipster, or a child with its handcuffs.
You might even see a kookie blow the jets
and watch them throw knuckles to the creep,
Or maybe some muscle cats
swinging like sixteen
and wailing
Or you might see,
A chick get presented a tourniquet
and become a chicken
But, always turn up the stereo when you hear me say,
“The vitamin village is my favorite place!”
Lillian M.
Prevailing against American writing
Cady, I’m prevailing against American writing
Bailing an act so great it’s worth dying
Questioning the status quo to what we call in our conformity
God, might I say I feel like a sorority. Walkin’ in a whole hen house catch this chick in a
dope blouse
Diggin’ in the ground, planting the seeds of cultural vanguard
Kickin’ to defeat the institutionalized American pro bard
We define this generation with our barks and howl
A ticking time bomb that needs to shut this place down
Aw baby it’s okay please don’t frown
We’re gonna “knuckles to the creep” these old gens out of town
Starting with the Bay area, we’re gonna dig this time like it’s malaria
Embracing the themes of jazz with lots of pezzaz, what a task(s)
Speaking original though so serious, I feel so shakeperious
Who’s this cheap creek sis, you’re part of the past
Believe me, you couldn’t last with the words on your tongue, you must dummy up. Be an
angle and fill this tummy up, cuz we’re saving you from this materialism baby. Keep
pouring Mr. Juiceman and I’ll be the key to getting out of your prison in this wasteland
lady.
Careful though I might face the squareville peep cady, you’ll have
bail me a new one maybe, but then we can go on a datey, baby.
Rocco H.
Reject the Same
Our Stand by Gibson Skloss
I hear them talking, calling for change,
Raising their voices, trying to settle their rage.
We are the youth, and we must do what’s right.
Tired of all the lies, we are ready to make our fight.
Tired of all the rules keeping us down,
We make these beats to shake the town.
They tell us to dummy up, we won’t take it no more.
We stand tall, silence the cheap creeps.
We paint the streets with our touch,
Creating a scene that will not go unnoticed.
From every country, our message is clear,
We are cultural rebels, helping everyone who will listen.
We reject the same, break through with our own tone,
Our goals of creating a pathway for people, still going strong.
Together we stand, breaking the standard,
United through music, ready to rebuild.
With every step we take, we rewrite the rules,
Empowering everyone we can.
Through our words, our message is clear,
Our revolution of culture is approaching soon.
Gibson S.
Free time, what a thrill
In school halls,
echoes of locker slams,
homework forgotten,
classes, kinda rotten.
bells ring, off to break,
friends gossip, plans make,
Laughs echo, stories spill,
Free time, what a thrill.
Test no longer loom,
pencils up, minds no longer filled,
lunchline, chatter loud,
surrounded by the usual crowd.
Busses wait, engines start,
homework bound, friends apart,
chill vibes, tunes play,
easy end, to the school day.
Homework will wait, delay
do it another day,
lazy feels just right,
day and night, day and night.
Noah B.
Hip young cost be dammed
City growing, coming up around the seems
New people, old culture fitting in between
Want build traffic progress
New hospitals museums houses
Better things coming
Old and new merge
Have not have want
Sky is the limits
Patience is the limits
Popular afar, social media
Got be there, gotta see
I luv you so much
Could be me
Hip young cost be dammed
People all around
Attracts all the kinds
Even the oldies and the newbies
Austin, Texas the place to be
Who wouldn’t wanna see the capital
Or even see the actual capital
Blake B.
I sit in the alleyway hanging my head
When it’s just you and the flickering neon lights
nothing to think about other than the muscle-cats crawling throughout the night.
I make a quick right to my pad, sensing the orbs around me
I meet this wise guy who’s off the wall talking about “Hey, have you seen my ball?”
Before I can answer, he puts a hot iron to my face.
With the fuzz in the corner of my eye I can tell this ain’t about to be a gas.
So instinctively doing so, I beat it and get away with no scurry
But as soon as I make it, the bar someone says ” What’s the hurry?
I look at this chick in her new quilt thinking, “what does she know about the beatnik
life?”
Feeling bugged, I brush her away only to know that she wasn’t leaving today.
I ask the bartender for a glass of juice only to find that I had 2 dollars to my name!
I ask the chick, do you have any bread to spare?
She blows her jets and acts like I wasn’t even there.
So I look to the cube to my right, who’s a juicehead that doesn’t know wrong from right,
he offers me a dollar or two to get us both a large charge,
but I look at him and frankly I don’t think he can handle the recharge.
So with a heavy heart I go to wasteland with all the cheap creeps,
wondering how my life went to the bottom so deep.
As I sit in the alleyway hanging my head, I think of all the hootenanny I went to instead
of working on myself as a kid.
Hopefully when it’s all said and done I’ll be remembered as the one who had fun.
William B.
Time goes fast like a race
On the road where we play,
Jazz music is fun
it brightens the day.
Kids hang out having fun
Chillin together everyone
Boys having lots of fun
Drinking soda and
going around.
In this city
Time goes fast like a race
With bikes going
Thoughts are fun.
Hanging with friends
feeling so fun.
Let the music play.
In the night air we’re free today.
Laugh and thats what its about.
In this world we’ll scream and yell.
So let bright lights show us the ride.
As we ride through the night come.
Mason D.
Every beat I hear I take a step
The cities loud, the streets are bright
I’m dancing around the streets at night.
The cars fast and the people stare,
But I don’t care.
Every beat I hear I take a step
But the music is not for the rest.
People can’t hear what I hear.
They don’t seem to rest
They’re all done up fancy, dressed.
No one seems to stop
They live their life with no bop.
But I do I live my life to music and music is all
Then people start to stop and troll
Will anyone join in and hop?
I don’t think they will so I will go on my own
Listening to my music and no one at all.
Suddenly I hear stomping and clapping
Music to my ears
The people care, the people care
They can hear my music it is for all to share.
Brynn L.
A highway full of backed up cars and temporary, perplexing confusion
For many, the highway is open and free to cruise.
Moving at speeds that get you to where you need to be without disruption.
A smooth ride of travel, words and flowing ideas that make up the schedule to complete
understanding.
No hold ups or traffic jams, confusion or word blocks in sight
The idea of cars lined up in rush hour traffic
The confusion for these is only a distant notion.
For others, the highway is jam packed,
The cars, the words, seem stuck and jammed.
Delaying the thoughts, schedules and ideas.
The very same that are there to enhance and improve the journey.
Dyslexics see a highway full of backed up cars and temporary, perplexing confusion.
Dyslexics see jams.
Dyslexics feel road rage.
However, they fight the negative thoughts
In order to do the extra work it takes to succeed.
To spend the extra time.
To try to keep up.
In an effort to get to where they need to be,
To keep up with those who have quiet freeways.
They are stronger because their journey was more difficult.
They heal themselves with small breaks in the traffic and celebrate every success alongthe way.
Macon M
Mighty bird put his head down and blew the jets
The duck the duck said dummy up
The birdie birdie didn’t dig
The duck said can the lip!
The birdie birdie was such a murgatroid
The duck the duck thought what a money run that birdie birdie is
The birdie birdie thought I should just cool it
One day the duck the duck was being his beatnik self
The birdie birdie was grooving through the pond
The birdie birdie was eyeballing a doll
The duck the duck got nervous and faced the wall
The birdie birdie was doing his typical quail hunting
The duck the duck yelled, ¨ Oh you again, iron pile up you square!¨
The birdie birdie oh mighty bird put his head down and blew the jets
The duck the duck felt beat the next day, oh he felt the most beat ever
The birdie birdie wanted to try again, one last time!
The duck the duck saw birdie birdie at the corner of her eyes
The birdie birdie glances at the duck the duck and said, ¨ oh my shape in a drape you!¨
The duck the duck chuckles, ¨ you dig the dress?¨
Birdie Birdie says, ¨ Yes my mighty duck¨
The duck the duck chuckles and says,¨ would you wanna be an angel ?¨
Birdie birdie reaches his hands out and says, ¨ Lets go haul ass my chick!¨
Eleiyah M.
Creative Writing,
You can catch me in my ride
But the real ones Know i’m a Beatnik
I march to my own beat
I love to move my feet
Playing my Axe as I go
I could never be bugged
By the cats that love me
I never can the lip
You will always find me talking
Do you dig my way of life?
I’m the coolest hipster around
They always want to see me when i’m in town
My friends call my horn
And ask me what’s good
And I let them know that the beatnik is in the neighborhood
A mickey mouse on my wrist
I am just the coolest cat
Always having a wild time
You can catch me in my ride
Living the life of a Beatnik
Francie B.
Creative Writing,
The jazz is flowing and I’m just going
The Beat on the Street
Walking with swag, holding this bag
Having the vibe of a beatnik
in the night I feel a fright,
so I hit the streets and get the bread
he is acting so cool so I called him Daddy O
I ask him wanna George to change
He says no so I walk away
Hitting the moves down the street like a babe
breeze in my hair don’t care
I see a man holding a girl’s hand
They call me a Hipster but I’m a Mr
I walk away with a sway
in the night I feel a fright
but my horn rings so I just sing
The jazz is flowing and I’m just going
I later my friends and hit the beat
all alone in the street
A breeze brushes my feet
A Mazda feels my kinda vibe
so I tell him Hi
and the jazz never dies
Brooklyn G
Creative Writing,
Nothing is real, but it’s all real, dig?
The Street beat poem
The street is long. The street is wide. The street is there.
Jazz plays. Jazz moves. Jazz is sound.
Dig it, flip it, spin it, gone.
The coffee is black. The night is black. The thoughts are black.
Go, go, don’t stop, keep moving, don’t look, don’t think.
Neon hums. Neon buzzes. Neon is neon.
The cats are cool. The cats are fast. The cats are cats.
Crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy.
Light curves. Time curves. My brain curves. It curves.
Gone daddy gone, daddy o, gone gone gone.
The music is in the air. The air is in the music.
Nothing is real, but it’s all real, dig?
The beat is here. The beat is there. The beat is nowhere.
Smoke rises up, up, up, then not.
Everything is, then its not, then it is.
Snap fingers. Dont snap fingers.
Think. Do not think. Be. Do not be.
The car is in motion. The world is happening. I am not.
This is it. This is nothing. This is past.
Pace T.
