Monthly Archives: April 2014

Until next year….

Hope you discovered new poetry and poets this month.  Happy 2014 Poetry Month

THE POEMS I LIKE BEST

The poems I like best
wear classic black
with vintage accessories
and smell like a new book,
the spine just cracked.

The chitchat overheard on a city bus
or nonsense
volleyed between toddlers
on swings at the park.

My favorite poems
squeeze your hand
on a crowded street and say:
Look.

The poems I like best
wear blue jeans
and smell
like the tack room of a barn:
worn leather and horse.

The varied verses
of a mockingbird’s tune
or syllables between brothers
scratching scruffy chins
under the hood of a truck.

My favorite poems
hold a wooden spoon of words
and whisper:
Taste.

by Tracie Vaughn Zimmer

Janeczko, Paul B.. A foot in the mouth: poems to speak, sing, and shout. Somerville, Mass.: Candlewick Press, 2009. Print.

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A Little Spooky

GHOST HOUSES

Already tearing down some of the old houses.
Couldn’t be that much power in the whole world.
They were too solid, too while.
Soon there would be no Grandmama’s house.
Driving through Shorter…
Remembering the red dusty days sitting on the porch.
Watching it all go by.
No more porches now.
too many ghosts.
No more Shorter.

by Angela Johnson

Johnson, Angela. The other side: Shorter pieces. New York: Orchard Books, 1998. Print.

 

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A little Edgar Allen to spice up your Monday

TO MY MOTHER

Because, I feel that, in the heavens above,
The angels, whispering to one another,
Can find, among their burning terms of love,
None so devoted as that of “Mother,”
Therefore by that dear name I long to have called you–
You who are more than mother unto me,
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you,
In setting my Virginia’s spirit free.
My mother–my own mother, who died early,
Was but the mother of myself; but you
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
And thus are dearer than the mother I Knew
By that infinity with which my wide
Was dearer to my soul than is soul-life.

by Edgar Allen Poe

Poe, Edgar Allan. Complete poems. New York: Gramercy Books ;, 1992. Print.

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Because I work in a School

This is why parents and teachers are skeptical when kids are being good.

CHILDREN WHEN THEY’RE VERY SWEET

Children, when they’re very sweet,
Only bite and scratch and kick
A very little. Just enough
to show their parents they’re not sick.

After all if children should
(By some horrible mistake)
Be entirely good all day
Every parent’s heart would ache.

“Our little monsters must be ill:
There must too well behaved!
Call the doctor! Do it quick!
Maybe they can still be saved!

…Wait! They’re looking better now.
Johnny just kicked Billy’s shine!
Betty just bit Teddy’s ear!
Jane just stuck me with a pin!

There! The little dears are fit
As sharks and crocodiles, you’ll find.
No need for the doctor now:
Get a stick and make them mind!”

by John Ciardi

Ciardi, John, and Edward Gorey. The man who sang the sillies; poems. Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1961. Print.

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All Sizes Big and Small

Happy Friday!

SIZES

If you were as big as a giant flea,
How much would have to grow to be
The size of the tiniest head-to-tail
Very most midgety baby whale?

I mean to say–and it’s no surprise–
Whatever you do about your size,
There’s always something a size or two
Very much bigger or smaller than you.

I mean to say what’s big of some
Is mall of others. Now get along home.
And whether you stay or wander far,
But just the size of whatever you are.

by John Ciardi

Ciardi, John, and Edward Gorey. The man who sang the sillies; poems. Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1961. Print.

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Two for One Today

BOOKS TO THE CEILING

Books to the ceiling, books to the sky.
My piles of books are a mile high.
How I love them!
How I need them!
I’ll have a long beard by the time I read them.

by Arnold Lobel

 

PEOPLE

Some people talk and talk
and never say a thing.
Some people look at you
and birds begin to sing.

Some people laugh and laugh
and yet you want to cry.
Some people touch your hand
and music fills the sky.

by Charlotte Zolotow

 

poems taken from
Wolman, Bernice. Taking turns: poetry to share. New York: Atheneum ;, 1992. Print.

 

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A Poem About Books…what’s not to love

WHO HATH A BOOK

Who hath a book
Hath friends at hand,
And gold and gear
At his command;
And rich estates,
If he but look,
Are held by him
Who hath a book.

Who hath a book
Hath but to read
And he may be
A king indeed.
His kingdom is
His inglenook–
All this is his
Who hath a book.

By Wilbur D. Nesbit

taken from
Wolman, Bernice. Taking turns: poetry to share. New York: Atheneum ;, 1992. Print.

 

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