I am from an olive green electric skillet,
from Philly cheese steaks and Taylor’s Pork Roll.
I am from a concrete patio
from Philly cheese steaks and Taylor’s Pork Roll.
I am from a concrete patio
(cracked, uneven, where puddles sit long after a rain).
I am from the yellow bells switch bush in the front yard
and the gigantic oak out back reaching up to the high voltage tower.
I am from youngest to oldest at Christmas, and practical jokes,
from Mary and Mike, Jeremiah, Joseph, and Roseanna.
I am from playing it by ear and giving away the last nickel in your pocket,
from go ask your mother and ain’t that a kick in the head,
from the pretty Sunday bonnet with a little lace upon it.
I am from ashes smudged on foreheads, ruler-wielding nuns,
and genuflecting at the Stations of the Cross.
I am from Philadelphia and the boardwalk at the Jersey shore,
from soft pretzels and salt water taffy.
From Kathleen behind the counter at Burger King, serving it your way;
Colleen roasting in the backyard, spreading mayonnaise on her arms;
and Maureen dressed like Wendy, pointing cars to the drive-through.
I am from the rattling murmur of my father’s last breaths,
and from the sea life mosaic in the pediatric ward where mother took hers.
I am from the overstuffed photo album –
cracked green and held together by a rubber band –
tucked away in the top of the linen closet.
-- Michael McIntyre
Dacula, 2008
I am from the yellow bells switch bush in the front yard
and the gigantic oak out back reaching up to the high voltage tower.
I am from youngest to oldest at Christmas, and practical jokes,
from Mary and Mike, Jeremiah, Joseph, and Roseanna.
I am from playing it by ear and giving away the last nickel in your pocket,
from go ask your mother and ain’t that a kick in the head,
from the pretty Sunday bonnet with a little lace upon it.
I am from ashes smudged on foreheads, ruler-wielding nuns,
and genuflecting at the Stations of the Cross.
I am from Philadelphia and the boardwalk at the Jersey shore,
from soft pretzels and salt water taffy.
From Kathleen behind the counter at Burger King, serving it your way;
Colleen roasting in the backyard, spreading mayonnaise on her arms;
and Maureen dressed like Wendy, pointing cars to the drive-through.
I am from the rattling murmur of my father’s last breaths,
and from the sea life mosaic in the pediatric ward where mother took hers.
I am from the overstuffed photo album –
cracked green and held together by a rubber band –
tucked away in the top of the linen closet.
-- Michael McIntyre
Dacula, 2008
Every year when I teach poetry to the seventh graders, I introduce them to the wonderful poem "Where I'm From" by George Ella Lyon. I then share with them my own rendition of this style of lyric poem. Then -- using a template for them to follow -- I challenge them to compose a "Where I'm From" poem of their own.
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