Halfway Up the Wooden Hill
I’m from a family of hard workers
and always giving it my all
from doing what it takes
while never quitting
I’m from Great Gramps coming from Italy
to America to start a new life
I am from the house on the corner
from black shutters and white columns
I am from pine needles and cracked concrete
from the mangled magnolia and broken birch
I am from the swing set
and the monkey bars
which I have fallen from
only to get up to try again
I am from summers full of baseball
from winters of basketball
I am from long, losing seasons
eager for them to end
I am from standing alone on the mound
from shooting at the foul line
peering through tunnel vision
where cries of the fans won’t phase me
I am from wiffle ball home run derby
from the balls whistling through the air
as they crack off of the bat
I’m from hunting through the crawling ivy
for bombs beyond the cyclone fence
I am from climbing the slippery smooth magnolia
ever higher like a Capuchin
I am from skateboarding down hills,
a Bugatti Veyron speeding down the strip
I am from long, winding bike rides
through the neighborhood
still searching for my Garden of Eden
I am from being the engineer and Godzilla
of my very own Lego empires
I’m from night Hess Truck light shows
and from hiding from dad
when he got home from work
I am from “calm down time”
and from “up the wooden hill”
immediately flooded with sadness
when those words march over my eardrums
I’m from Mass on Sundays
from salted scrambled eggs
and the applause of bacon
frying on the stove
I’m from biscottis and pizzelles
from the air being filled with anise
and the never forgotten recipe
I’m from Maria and Joe III
from Natalie and Joe IV
I’m from pie presents and Pollyanna
and from Christmas music in October
I’m from blasting jazzy jams and hitting repeat
and from failed attempts to sing along
minus Natalie
I’m from needing music to live
always listening and longing to play
I am from the scales and chords
and “Somewhere Over the Rainbow”
From changing it up
and from the crash of the Sabian cymbals
against the maple wood
I am from piano lessons to drum lessons
from school lessons to life lessons
I’m from “do what you love”
letting nothing get in the way
Just inside
the little drawer of my dresser
sleeps Grampa’s big dollar coin
given to me
so I can carry it forever
throughout my journey
Up the wooden hill
"the wooden hill---is the staircase in my house or my life"
This poem is about:
Me
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: