Fantastic Poems

2011-05-11T01:24:00.001-07:00

The Sandcastle

2011-04-10T01:11:00.000-07:00

One must have the mind of a sandcastle

by a blue sea on the rough sand.

A child is playing on the sand.

You might find something strange

in the sand. Incredible.

The thing could be a shark.

Most of all, sharks

need water to breathe.

It’s funny to be a castle

in the sand because

the water rushes at you

and pulls you back to sea.

In Allison’s Head

2011-04-10T01:09:00.000-07:00

There is a dream of playing
tag on the
playground
And a horse bunny
that hops and gallops
in underpants.
There is a morning
of playing Barbies
with her sister.
There is a mysterious machine.
and a plan to be happy.

My Goddess

2011-04-10T01:08:00.001-07:00

My name is Destiny.
I’m in charge of lava.
I shout it when I’m
mad. I’m queen of
lava mountains. I have
lava. Everything I own
is made of lava.
Lava comes out from my
fingers. My hair is red,
and all I wear is lava.
Pink. Someone touches me,
they will turn into stone
and burn.

Flower Painting

2011-04-10T01:07:00.000-07:00

Just outside the frame a
lady is putting makeup on,
a man is fixing his tie, a
car is waiting outside.
The flowers wait and wait
and wait to be watered. They
worry that the lady and the
man won’t come back till midnight.
The clock strikes midnight,
they hear the door rattling,
the couple steps in. They
don’t notice the flowers.
Days pass then weeks
and the flowers have
not been watered since
Friday May 2nd, the flowers are sad.
Sunday May 26th the petals
from the flowers start to fall.
The flowers feel sick, some of
them are sad, some friends died.
Monday June 1st the flowers
are brown. The lady comes in,
she sees the flowers, in go
the flowers into the stinky
smelly trash can.
It was the end
of the flowers. They
no longer sit in the red
vase on the living room table.

Spring

2011-04-10T01:05:00.001-07:00

The buds
of pansies
blossom
in the
muddy field
on a spring
mountain, as a butterfly
arcs
over a
blossoming rainbow
The spring breeze
picks up
dark clouds roll
in
A fawn
runs
for cover
A thin
mist begins to
rise
Water beats down on the
forest.

My Magic Box

2011-04-10T01:04:00.001-07:00

I would put into the box
friendship bracelets, red roses,
a bit of my friend’s hair.
I would also put my favorite
pictures, and sand from
the beach in Mexico.
I would put all that in a shiny
gold box with shooting stars
on it. I would also put my doll
that I got for my birthday.
I would put in a dolphin
and my baby brother, too.

Child of the First Daughter and the Last Son

2011-04-10T01:03:00.001-07:00

ITS) Celebrates Kids–in their own Words

My Bee

My bee’s stinger is a sharp pencil that writes stories about stinging.
Her black stripes make the night come.
Her buzz calls other insects to her when she’s bored.
My bee’s legs are lollipops that steal nectar from flowers.
Her fur is fuzzy fire to keep her warm in winter.
At night she dreams she is a great, red robin who eats worms.
Her snowy wings help her fly through the sky.
by Allissa, 1st grade
Photo by LadyDragonflyCC via Flickr

This poem is featured as part of the 2011 A Poem A Day campaign, a National Poetry Month celebration by WITS that features a different poem by a WITS student every day during April. Click on the logo to the left to learn more.

April 8, 2011 – 8:30 am Categories: animal, national poetry month, nature, poem a day, poetry, writing | Comments (1)

What Words Can Be

Words can be sour
like a pickle or
sweet like sugar.
Words can roar
like a motor or
vanish like magic.
Words can be warm
like a mitten or
hot like the sun.
Words can be memorable
like the friend your
heart once had.
by Hana, 3rd grade

This poem is featured as part of the 2011 A Poem A Day campaign, a National Poetry Month celebration by WITS that features a different poem by a WITS student every day during April. Click on the logo to learn more.

April 7, 2011 – 8:30 am Categories: poem a day, poetry, writers in the schools, writing | Post a comment Tagged national poetry month |

Green

What is Green?
Is it the fresh cut grass or the lime in your tea?
Does it feel like the powder when you put your makeup on?
Green is life.
Looking at the bright green field makes you root for your team.
The celery in
your hand.
The green water.
Listen.
Wait.
Splash!
Seeing an island as the green kingdom where
Green trees with leaves blow
silently in the
wind.
Money crackling in your hand. You’re on top of the world.
This is green.
by Ananda, 5th grade
Photo By Kit Keat via Flickr

This poem is featured as part of the 2011 A Poem A Day campaign, a National Poetry Month celebration by WITS that features a different poem by a WITS student every day during April. Click on the logo to the left to learn more.

April 6, 2011 – 8:30 am Categories: art, national poetry month, nature, poem a day, writers in the schools | Post a comment Tagged color poem, national poetry month |

Child of the First Daughter and the Last Son

I am from the pink ribbons,
the hot delicious coffee.
I am from the back deck.
I am from the purple roses,
the beautiful blue lake.
I am from the traditional everyday home-cooked meals
and the stubbornness that runs in my blood.
My parents are the first daughter and the last son
So I am from the respect your elders and don’t talk to strangers.
Still, I am from a less than pious family.
I am from the blue waters and spicy shrimp and greens —–
I am from Casper the ghost and winter —o.k.
Summer trips to the beach.

I am from the black long box containing childhood pictures of my family and good memories.

Green

2011-04-10T01:02:00.001-07:00

What Words Can Be

2011-04-10T01:01:00.001-07:00

Words can be sour
like a pickle or
sweet like sugar.

Words can roar
like a motor or
vanish like magic.

Words can be warm
like a mitten or
hot like the sun.

Words can be memorable
like the friend your
heart once had.

My Bee

2011-04-10T01:00:00.000-07:00

Our Mother's at a Meeting

2010-06-29T04:38:00.001-07:00

Our mother's at a meeting
for some big, important deal,
and couldn't be at home tonight
to cook the evening meal.

She left some short directions
for my sister just to follow.
Instead my sister cooked up things
impossible to swallow.

Like Brussels sprouts in vinegar
and jellybeans in mustard,
an onion-pickle pudding
and a lemon-radish custard.

She burned a stick of butter
'til the house was filled with smoke,
then fried a pound of pepper
with a half an artichoke.

She put a whole banana
in the blender with a steak,
then mixed it up with tunafish
and baked it in a cake.

She stirred some chocolate ice cream
with garbanzo beans and bacon.
A single bite was all it took
to leave me feeling shaken.

We should have ordered pizza
but we didn't know, alas,
my sister is the only kid
who flunked her cooking class.

Don't Ever Ask a Centipede

2010-06-29T04:37:00.001-07:00

Don't ever ask a centipede
to play a game of soccer.
Remember, he has 50 pairs
of sneakers in his locker.

He dribbles 50 soccer balls
with 50 pairs of shoes,
and kicks them all concurrently.
He doesn't often lose.

He's such a fierce competitor
that, if you ever meet,
at first you'll see his hundred legs
and then you'll see defeat.

On New Year's Day

2010-06-29T04:36:00.001-07:00

On New Year's Day a year ago,
I started off the year
by making resolutions
that were probably severe.

I said I'd save my money,
as this seemed so very wise.
I vowed I would improve my health.
I swore I'd exercise.

I stated I would do my homework
every single day.
I'd brush my teeth religiously
to ward off tooth decay.

I'd eat my fruits and vegetables
and keep my bedroom clean.
I'd treat my sister kindly
though she's often very mean.

My resolutions lasted me
about a half a day.
I promised I would keep them
but I broke them anyway.

So now I'm fat and penniless.
My homework's overdue.
My sister's mad. My teeth are bad.
My room is messy too.

And yet I think I may have found
the best of all solutions,
and this year I've resolved
to not make ANY resolutions.

My Birthday's On St. Patrick's Day

2010-06-29T04:34:00.002-07:00

My birthday's on St. Patrick's day.
I wore no green at all,
and got a pinch from every kid
who passed me in the hall.
You get "a pinch to grow an inch"
whenever birthdays fall.
I guess they must have worked
because I'm thirty-nine feet tall.

April Fool's Day

2010-06-29T04:34:00.001-07:00

Mackenzie put a whoopie cushion
on the teacher's chair.
Makayla told the teacher
that a bug was in her hair.

Alyssa brought an apple
with a purple gummy worm
and gave it to the teacher
just to see if she would squirm.

Elijah left a piece of plastic
dog doo on the floor,
and Vincent put some plastic vomit
in the teacher's drawer.

Amanda put a goldfish
in the teacher's drinking glass.
These April Fool's Day pranks
are ones that you could use in class.

Before you go and try them, though,
there's something I should mention:
The teacher wasn't fooling
when she put us in detention.

If You Give a Mouse a Motorcycle

2010-06-29T04:33:00.000-07:00

If you give a mouse a motorcycle,
don't be too surprised
if he starts behaving strangely
once he knows he's motorized.

He may act a bit bizarrely.
He may dress a little weird.
He might buy a leather jacket
and then grow a honkin' beard.

When he straps a helmet on his head
and boots upon his feet,
then you'll see him pop a wheelie
and go racing down the street.

Pretty soon he'll find he's fond
of doing motorcycle tricks.
He'll be jumping over cars and trucks
and buses just for kicks.

He'll start working at the circus
where he'll take away your breath
as he rides with other rodents
in the flaming cage of death.

When he accidentally crashes
he'll have no more fun and games;
just the screech of twisting metal
as his bike explodes in flames.

And without his motorcycle
he'll be fired from his job.
He'll become depressed and lonely
and a sad and smelly slob.

And the only way to save him
from this misery and pain
is to buy another motorbike
so he can start again.

So remember this advice:
Don't even trust him with your keys.
If you need to give a mouse a gift,
it's best to stick with cheese.

Poems

2010-06-29T04:32:00.000-07:00

the greatest Americans
have not been born yet
they are waiting patiently
for the past to die
please give blood
those crumbled tablets
were to share a story
with a burning Bush
where is that voice from nowhere to remind us
that the holy ground we walk on, purified by native blood has rooted trees
whose fallen leaves now colour code a sacred list of demands?
who among us can give translation of autumn's hues to morning news?
the anchor man
thrown overboard
has simply rooted us in history's repeating cycle
a nation in its Saturn years that won't acknowledge karma
where is that voice from nowhere, the ones your prophets spoke of?
there are voices from fear
disconnected from their diaphragms
dangling from coffee covered teeth
that spill into our laps
and scorch our privates
there are voices from the sides of necks
some already noosed
dangling participles
pronouns running for sentence serving life in corner offices
and ghetto corners
their voices are the same:
dead to themselves numb to the possibility of truth
existing beyond that which can be palmed into your hand, period.
there are voices of elders
which seem to do no more
than damn us to our childish ways for in many households wisdom no longer
comes with age
so where is that voice from nowhere?
that burning bush?
that passing dove?
for i hear generals calling for ammunition presidents calling for arms and
women calling for help
where is that voice from nowhere?
that god of abraham?
can he be heard over the gunfire
the wizz of passing missiles
the crash of buildings
the cries of children
the crack of bones
the shriek of sirens
or is that his mighty voice?
your angry god craving the sacrifice of generation's sons degenerate
your holy books
written in red ink
on burning sands
your prayers between rounds do no more than fasten the fate of your children
to the hammered truth of your trigger
a truth that mushrooms
it's darkened cloud
over the rest of us
so that we too bear witness to the short lived fate
of a civilization that worships a male god
your weapons are phallic
all of them
that dummie that sits
on your lap is no longer
a worthwhile spectacle
his shrunken pale face
leaves little room for imagination
we have spotted your moving lips and have pinned the voice to it's proper source
it is a source of madness
a source of hunger for power
a source of weakness
a source of evil
we have exited your coliseum and are encircling your box office demanding
our families back
our cultures back
our rituals back
our gods back
so that we may return them to their proper source
the source of life
the source of creation
our mother's womb
the great goddess
we will cut through
the barbed wire hangers
and chastity belts
we will climb in and
incubate our spirits
through the winter
we will wait through
the degenerate course
of your repeated history
we will wait
for the past
to die

The Cremation of Sam McGee

2010-06-29T04:26:00.000-07:00

There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, Where the cotton blooms and blows. Why he left his home in the South to roam 'Round the Pole, God only knows. He was always cold, but the land of gold Seemed to hold him like a spell; Though he'd often say in his homely way That he'd "sooner live in hell".
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way Over the Dawson trail. Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold It stabbed like a driven nail. If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze Till sometimes we couldn't see; It wasn't much fun, but the only one To whimper was Sam McGee. And that very night, as we lay packed tight In our robes beneath the snow, And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead Were dancing heel and toe, He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess; And if I do, I'm asking that you Won't refuse my last request.
" Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; Then he says with a sort of moan: "It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold Till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread Of the icy grave that pains; So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, You'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, So I swore I would not fail; And we started on at the streak of dawn; But God! he looked ghastly pale. He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day Of his home in Tennessee; And before nightfall a corpse was all That was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, And I hurried, horror-driven, With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, Because of a promise given; It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains, But you promised true, and it's up to you To cremate those last remains.
" Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, And the trail has its own stern code. In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, In my heart how I cursed that load. In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, While the huskies, round in a ring, Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay Seemed to heavy and heavier grow; And on I went, though the dogs were spent And the grub was getting low; The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, But I swore I would not give in; And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, And it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, And a derelict there lay; It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice It was called the "Alice May". And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, And I looked at my frozen chum; Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "Is my cre-ma-tor-eum.
" Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, And I lit the boiler fire; Some coal I found that was lying around, And I heaped the fuel higher; The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- Such a blaze you seldom see; And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, And I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like To hear him sizzle so; And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, And the wind began to blow. It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled Down my cheeks, and I don't know why; And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak Went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear; But the stars came out and they danced about Ere again I ventured near; I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside. I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . Then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, In the heart of the furnace roar; And he wore a smile you could see a mile, And he said: "Please close that door. It's fine in here, but I greatly fear You'll let in the cold and storm -- Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, It's the first time I've been warm.
" There are strange things done in the midnight sun By the men who moil for gold; The Arctic trails have their secret tales That would make your blood run cold; The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge I cremated Sam McGee.

To the Man of the High North

2010-06-29T04:19:00.000-07:00

My rhymes are rough, and often in my rhyming I've drifted, silver-sailed, on seas of dream, Hearing afar the bells of Elfland chiming, Seeing the groves of Arcadie agleam.
I was the thrall of Beauty that rejoices From peak snow-diademed to regal star; Yet to mine aerie ever pierced the voices, The pregnant voices of the Things That Are.
The Here, the Now, the vast Forlorn around us; The gold-delirium, the ferine strife; The lusts that lure us on, the hates that hound us; Our red rags in the patch-work quilt of Life.
The nameless men who nameless rivers travel, And in strange valleys greet strange deaths alone; The grim, intrepid ones who would unravel The mysteries that shroud the Polar Zone.
These will I sing, and if one of you linger Over my pages in the Long, Long Night, And on some lone line lay a calloused finger, Saying: "It's human-true--it hits me right"; Then will I count this loving toil well spent; Then will I dream awhile--content, content.

friendship summary

2010-06-29T04:18:00.000-07:00

Friendship isn't always easily described. The Eskimos, they say, have a hundred different words for snow. Unfortunately, the English language isn't quite as innovative, though it has vast opportunities to differentiate meaning. Certainly, Love is one of those opportunities. And so, too, is Friendship.

Instead of different words, however, we're stuck with simple adjectives. Close friend. Best friend. Childhood friend. Intimate friend. Trusted friend. Beloved friend. But whether you use adjectives or different words, few could deny the nearly infinite meaning in such a simple word.

Friends are special people. We can't pick our family, and we're sorely limited in the number of them at any rate. Society and mores (and often our own conscience) dictate we select a single mate. But our friends can be as diverse and infinite as the adjectives we choose. Our friends, in a very real sense, reflect the choices we make in life.

Mothers Day Poems

2010-06-29T04:12:00.000-07:00

M - O - T - H - E - R
"M" is for the million things she gave me,
"O" means only that she's growing old,
"T" is for the tears she shed to save me,
"H" is for her heart of purest gold;
"E" is for her eyes, with love-light shining,
"R" means right, and right she'll always be,
Put them all together, they spell

Hi mom,

2010-06-29T04:11:00.002-07:00

I have sent you this poem for Mother's Day to say how much I love you. Hope you will like it!
I miss you
When we're not together.
I'm growing up so fast
See how big I've gotten
since you saw me last?
As I grow, I'll change a lot,
The years will fly right by.
You'll wonder how I grew so quick
when and where and why?
So save this card in a safe place,
And take it out each year.
The memories will come back of me,
When I was small and dear.

I Love You Mother

2010-06-29T04:11:00.001-07:00

I Love You Mother
You are so special and kind
And I love you so
You helped to build my mind
And I want you to know.
The thought of you by me
Just makes me smile.
We are so close
Forever and not just a while.
I appreciate you mother
And I love all your style.

Mommy I Love You

2010-06-29T04:10:00.001-07:00

Mommy, I love you
For all that you do.
I'll kiss you and hug you
'Cause you love me, too.
You feed me and need me
To teach you to play,
So smile 'cause I love you
On this Mother's Day.