There’s a First Time for Everythang

This week the 8th graders of Taft read Tim Seibles’s amazing simile explosion “First Kiss.” This poem shows not just the power of a simile, but how it can serve the poem with energy and not just weigh it down. I asked the students to write poems using similes to describe a first time.

Mrs. Taylor
8th Grade, 1st Period

First Detention
Jacob B.

The room was dark
with little light seeping through
like the stars in the galaxy.
Shame filled the room of
five students
Just to add salt, lemon, alcohol,
and lime to the wounds,
the assistant principal sat there with
a smirk. She smirked so loudly,
it wasn’t even a lecture. It was a
beating, given by a five-time world champion.
The door then opened like the gates to heaven
and in an angelic chorus, I heard “You may leave now.”

First Fight
Gigi W.

for fists

It was a thunderstorm,
loud, scary,
and something I hated.

Like a knight in dented armor
I was there.
Ready for anything.
My mind was a blank,
ripped canvas,
and I swear that if I
were a second slower
I would have gone down with the

His fists were bigger than
like the Earth and the moon,
and my canvas wasn’t blank
anymore but stained red.

Red with anger or blood
or perhaps a crimson of both.
I wish I had done more
than a couple of punches
because they both deserved
so much more.

But as he pulled me away
and we started sprinting
away from the kid,
I burned the canvas
and started to cry.

First Homerun

I remember my first homerun.
It was 8-ball at Gompers Park.
Our team was down by a whole lot.
I came up to bat.
The first pitch was thrown.
I swung the bat trying to make contact,
and connected with the ball and sent it flying.
I ran like my butt was on fire down to
first base.
I could see the coach telling me to
go to second.
When I got to second, the ball was
still gone.
So I ran all the way to homeplate.
I was more excited than a kid at Toys R Us.
My team was cheering and I was on
Cloud 9.
Nothing could stop me.

Mrs. Dollear
8th Grade, 3rd Period

Note: Third period was interrupted by a fire in the cafeteria, so we only had enough time when we came back to write one simile, which actually ended up being better than I thought. Here’s more than three of them.

Anthony C.

My first kiss was like a day of rain during a drought.

Sebastian M.

My first funeral was like a
party I wasn’t invited to.

Giorgia C.

My first time staying at the hospital for
a couple days was like having a
doctor live at a hotel with me.

Ellie K.

My first kiss was like a lion eating my face.

Devin C.

My first funeral was like an unexpected bike
ride in the middle of a frozen lake.

Anthony R.

1st rollercoaster was like a
1st punch thrown
1st death dream
1st hyperventilating

Mrs. Taylor
8th Grade, 6th Period

First Day of School

For Brain

That building
opened its doors to me
like a box, like a
fun land, like a haunted house,

like a monster trying to eat
to fill up his tummy
the click of the doors –

that school excited like –
I mean, it was the scariest
time of my life
with the painful memories,
I swear.

Forgetting my Homework
Edina H.

Palms sweating
I frantically search through my backpack.
Snatching up folders, notebooks,

for that one sheet of paper
It wasn’t there
And everything shut down.

I hear a crash in the distance
and I feel like I’m free falling
through pitch black.

My mind goes blank
the gears stop turning, whirring
and all I can think of
is how?

First Piano Lesson
Bryanna R.

For Music

My fingers felt the cold white keys,
who held a breath-taking purpose.
For I was only 7 when I knew,
I had a strong passion for music.

When I played the first note,
the sound flowed out of the
into the air as crisp
as a fall morning

the music flowed through me,
as if replacing the blood in my veins
the songs became my air
and I will never forget it.

I knew what true love was,
a crazy sensation, never empty
and something
that could never be forgotten,
like my first piano lesson.

Mrs. Taylor
8th Grade, 7th Period

Going to Church
Nathan M.

I walk in. Through the big wooden door.
Huh, this isn’t the toy store.
I see a man in long white robes.
White like newly laid snow.
I cower behind my mom like
someone retreating behind a wall.
I see a little pool of water
in what looks like a bird fountain.
“Where are the birds?” I think to myself.
I see no other kids there. Only old
people like a retirement home. I
sit down and listen to the Robed
Man. He speaks of a man called God
and how he is so great. I listen, and
listen and listen until. Snore. I’m out cold
like a sleeping baby.
I wake up and I scratch my eyes.
I tug at my mom’s jacket. “Can we go
now?” I look up and see a stranger.
My mind goes blank, and lifeless like when
someone dies. I’m lost.



“Writing poetry makes me feel like I can see myself, like I can see my reflection, but not in a mirror, in the world. I write and I know I can be reflected.”
-Oscar S.

“Writing poetry makes me feel free.”
-Buenda D.

“Writing poetry is like your best friend.”
-Jessica M.