Gary Soto

(1952 / Fresno, California)

Comments about Gary Soto

  • Mommy (9/4/2018 12:38:00 PM)

    My name is mommy but the gang calls me daddy and sometimes even uncle

    3 person liked.
    4 person did not like.
  • daddy (9/3/2018 1:08:00 PM)

    my name is daddy but the gang calls me mommy and sometimes even auntie

  • Stephen Fowler (5/22/2018 1:42:00 PM)

    Didn't you write one called oranges and another called baseball in april

  • Pheobe Fentress (5/17/2018 8:52:00 AM)

    Me and my friends Kaley and Kaydense made up a name Gary Soto who was our friend. One day we looked up Gary Soto to see if anything came up. We found you and started reading all your writing. It was great. You write with passion and I Love your poems.

  • ????! (5/9/2018 2:26:00 PM)


  • Francis M. Govern (5/8/2018 3:22:00 PM)

    Fresno sounds like a bad place to be. I'll never go there. Oh, and Spiderman dies in Infinity War

  • Ben Dover (5/2/2018 1:25:00 PM)


  • Braden (4/25/2018 2:54:00 PM)

    yo dudes gary soto is a BEAST

  • Leyla CTK (3/29/2018 10:51:00 AM)

    I love Ode to Mi Gato

  • Jane Roberts (3/28/2018 5:39:00 PM)

    Didn't you write a story called You Decide?

Best Poem of Gary Soto

A Red Palm

You're in this dream of cotton plants.
You raise a hoe, swing, and the first weeds
Fall with a sigh. You take another step,
Chop, and the sigh comes again,
Until you yourself are breathing that way
With each step, a sigh that will follow you into town.

That's hours later. The sun is a red blister
Coming up in your palm. Your back is strong,
Young, not yet the broken chair
In an abandoned school of dry spiders.
Dust settles on your forehead, dirt
Smiles under each fingernail.
You chop, step, and by the end of the first row,
You can buy one splendid ...

Read the full of A Red Palm

The Drought

The clouds shouldered a path up the mountains
East of Ocampo, and then descended,
Scraping their bellies gray on the cracked shingles of slate.

They entered the valley, and passed the roads that went
Trackless, the houses blown open, their cellars creaking
And lined with the bottles that held their breath for years.

They passed the fields where the trees dried thin as hat racks

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