The Miss Rumphius Monday Poetry Stretch this week was to write a poem around a prefix. This is a second version of my poem. I'm still not happy with the rhythm, but it's getting there. As always, suggestions are welcome and appreciated.
Un
willing
to hurt Mom again
I decide to lie—
Allergies caused
my red swollen eyes.
Un
true
every promise
every I love you—
the devoted father
I thought I knew.
Un
fair
the way you left
without good-bye
without a hug
without telling me—
why.
Un
forgiven
you abandoned me
you broke Mom’s heart
you tore our family—
tree apart.
Un
certain
what to say
what to do—
Please come home
Dad,
I still love you.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
POETRY FRIDAY: Splitting an Order
Ted Kooser is one of my all time favorite poets. His poems capture everyday life and remind us of what's really important. This poem arrived in my email earlier this week, and I thought you might enjoy it as much as I did. It comes from his Valentines collection.
Splitting an Order
Ted Kooser
I like to watch an old man cutting a sandwich in half,
maybe an ordinary cold roast beef on whole wheat bread,
no pickles or onion, keeping his shaky hands steady
by placing his forearms firm on the edge of the table
and using both hands, the left to hold the sandwich in place,
and the right to cut it surely, corner to corner,
Read the rest of the poem here.
Splitting an Order
Ted Kooser
I like to watch an old man cutting a sandwich in half,
maybe an ordinary cold roast beef on whole wheat bread,
no pickles or onion, keeping his shaky hands steady
by placing his forearms firm on the edge of the table
and using both hands, the left to hold the sandwich in place,
and the right to cut it surely, corner to corner,
Read the rest of the poem here.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Poetry Friday: Inspired to Write
Kids love riddles and so do I. Spot the Plot written by J Patrick Lewis and illustrated by Lynn Munsinger is a collection of 13 riddle poems that every reading/language arts teacher should own. It is fantastic for teaching plot!
The recommended age group is K-4, but I never pay attention to that sort of thing. A good book works for all ages. I teach grades 6-8 . My students love humor, and they love figuring out puzzles so I knew Spot the Plot would be a hit.
On Monday, I read the first poem that begins with:
The sky shook,
the wind tossed
me in the air.
Toto-ly lost.
That’s all it took, and my 7th. graders to stretched their hands in the air hoping to be the one chosen to solve the riddle.
The bell rang before I could read anymore. Middle school kids have many important things on their minds so I thought they’d forget all about the riddles. No chance. Tuesday came, and they wanted to hear more “plot riddles.” Not one of them knew what “plot” meant before I introduced the poems
A great book inspires writers, and my middle school writers were certainly inspired. On Thursday, they came to class with their own plot riddle poems (and it wasn't even an assignment)! See if you can guess the stories.
Awaiting a kiss,
from her Prince Charming,
her three fairy friends
were trying to be alarming.
Cursed in a coma,
she had to await,
her true love’s kiss
for her to awake.
After this was done,
there was lots of laughter,
the new princess and prince,
lived Happily Ever After.
-Cara
A girl with locks of gold
was in a hungry mood.
Despite what she was told,
she went to find some food.
Then she smelled something yummy
which came from inside a home.
Food soon filled her tummy
and throughout the home she roamed.
A bed she found
and took a rest.
Then she heard a sound
and discovered she’s a guest.
Sitting downstairs
were three bears
waiting in chairs.
OH! WHAT A SCARE!
-Ryan
They know what plot means now thanks to Spot the Plot.
Tricia wrote a wonderful review and shared some of the poems from the Spot the Plot on her blog, The Miss Rumphius Effect. Be sure to check it out here.
The recommended age group is K-4, but I never pay attention to that sort of thing. A good book works for all ages. I teach grades 6-8 . My students love humor, and they love figuring out puzzles so I knew Spot the Plot would be a hit.
On Monday, I read the first poem that begins with:
The sky shook,
the wind tossed
me in the air.
Toto-ly lost.
That’s all it took, and my 7th. graders to stretched their hands in the air hoping to be the one chosen to solve the riddle.
The bell rang before I could read anymore. Middle school kids have many important things on their minds so I thought they’d forget all about the riddles. No chance. Tuesday came, and they wanted to hear more “plot riddles.” Not one of them knew what “plot” meant before I introduced the poems
A great book inspires writers, and my middle school writers were certainly inspired. On Thursday, they came to class with their own plot riddle poems (and it wasn't even an assignment)! See if you can guess the stories.
Awaiting a kiss,
from her Prince Charming,
her three fairy friends
were trying to be alarming.
Cursed in a coma,
she had to await,
her true love’s kiss
for her to awake.
After this was done,
there was lots of laughter,
the new princess and prince,
lived Happily Ever After.
-Cara
A girl with locks of gold
was in a hungry mood.
Despite what she was told,
she went to find some food.
Then she smelled something yummy
which came from inside a home.
Food soon filled her tummy
and throughout the home she roamed.
A bed she found
and took a rest.
Then she heard a sound
and discovered she’s a guest.
Sitting downstairs
were three bears
waiting in chairs.
OH! WHAT A SCARE!
-Ryan
They know what plot means now thanks to Spot the Plot.
Tricia wrote a wonderful review and shared some of the poems from the Spot the Plot on her blog, The Miss Rumphius Effect. Be sure to check it out here.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Wondering
Recently, I realized my mother has never told me much about what I was like as a baby. The only thing she ever told me was that my father would put me in the closet when I cried until I eventually fell asleep. The other night on the phone, I asked her to tell me more, but it's been over fifty years and many babies came after me. She said she really couldn't remember anything. Funny how after all this time, I just now started wondering about it.
Today, I wrote this in my journal. Is it the start of a poem or just random thoughts? I'm not sure. Whatever it is, it still needs work. Suggestions and comments are welcome and appreciated. : )
Wondering
My mother never talks about
what I was like as a baby.
Anytime I ask she says
I don’t remember.
The only story she tells
is how when I was little
my father used to put me
in a dark closet until
I cried myself to sleep.
She says he hated hearing
me cry but when I ask her
why—
she just says
I don’t remember.
My father wouldn’t
have to worry now
(If he were around)
I NEVER cry
anymore.
I wonder
if it's because
somewhere deep down
inside—
I
remember.
Today, I wrote this in my journal. Is it the start of a poem or just random thoughts? I'm not sure. Whatever it is, it still needs work. Suggestions and comments are welcome and appreciated. : )
Wondering
My mother never talks about
what I was like as a baby.
Anytime I ask she says
I don’t remember.
The only story she tells
is how when I was little
my father used to put me
in a dark closet until
I cried myself to sleep.
She says he hated hearing
me cry but when I ask her
why—
she just says
I don’t remember.
My father wouldn’t
have to worry now
(If he were around)
I NEVER cry
anymore.
I wonder
if it's because
somewhere deep down
inside—
I
remember.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Poetry Friday: Trooper
Earlier this month, our local news reported on a pit bull found in a D.C. city dumpster, apparently a victim of dog fighting. She was taped inside a plastic trash bag and discarded.
I haven't been able to stop thinking about her and what a horrific existence she must have had. My heart aches to know that there are many animals abused everyday. I can't understand how someone could put an animal through so much pain.
I needed to do something, so I sent a donation in her honor to a fund for abused animals. That just didn't seem like enough so as I thought about what to share this week for Poetry Friday, I decided to share her story. She fought so hard to survive, the police officer who rescued her named her Trooper.
I couldn't get the lines to indent the way I wanted them to so I hope it still makes sense.
for Trooper
You weren’t willing
to die that day—
when they taped
your bruised and battered
body inside a plastic bag
and tossed you
into a city dumpster.
You weren’t willing
to die that day—
when you bravely chewed
your way through the darkness—
a hole just big enough
to be seen
your face layered
with blood and flies
barely alive—
You weren’t willing
to die that day
when your savior
freed your tortured limbs
too weak to stand alone
too strong to give up
You weren’t willing
to die that day—
neglected, abused
forced to be a fighter
but still
somehow
willing
to forgive—
You can see a picture of Trooper and read more about her progress here.
I haven't been able to stop thinking about her and what a horrific existence she must have had. My heart aches to know that there are many animals abused everyday. I can't understand how someone could put an animal through so much pain.
I needed to do something, so I sent a donation in her honor to a fund for abused animals. That just didn't seem like enough so as I thought about what to share this week for Poetry Friday, I decided to share her story. She fought so hard to survive, the police officer who rescued her named her Trooper.
I couldn't get the lines to indent the way I wanted them to so I hope it still makes sense.
for Trooper
You weren’t willing
to die that day—
when they taped
your bruised and battered
body inside a plastic bag
and tossed you
into a city dumpster.
You weren’t willing
to die that day—
when you bravely chewed
your way through the darkness—
a hole just big enough
to be seen
your face layered
with blood and flies
barely alive—
You weren’t willing
to die that day
when your savior
freed your tortured limbs
too weak to stand alone
too strong to give up
You weren’t willing
to die that day—
neglected, abused
forced to be a fighter
but still
somehow
willing
to forgive—
You can see a picture of Trooper and read more about her progress here.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Poetry Friday: Last Year's Sneakers
Tricia's poetry stretch this week at The Miss Rumphius Effect was to write a poem about an article of clothing. Be sure to visit her site to read the great poems folks wrote in response to the challenge.
Like most kids, when my sons were younger, getting just the right sneakers was always high on their back to school shopping list. As soon as we got home from the store, off went the old sneakers, on with the new. The old sneakers abandoned and forgotten. This is my tribute to all the old sneakers still lying on some kid's bedroom floor.
Last Year’s Sneakers
Lie on the bedroom floor
their smooth white skin
now scuffed by time
their laces once neon tangerine
now thread-bare apricot
their soles once full of bounce
now worn and weary
Last year’s sneakers
lie on the bedroom floor
watching
their replacements
unboxed, laced up
and admired
Finally—
Last year’s sneakers
lie on the bedroom floor
retired
ready to rest
Like most kids, when my sons were younger, getting just the right sneakers was always high on their back to school shopping list. As soon as we got home from the store, off went the old sneakers, on with the new. The old sneakers abandoned and forgotten. This is my tribute to all the old sneakers still lying on some kid's bedroom floor.
Last Year’s Sneakers
Lie on the bedroom floor
their smooth white skin
now scuffed by time
their laces once neon tangerine
now thread-bare apricot
their soles once full of bounce
now worn and weary
Last year’s sneakers
lie on the bedroom floor
watching
their replacements
unboxed, laced up
and admired
Finally—
Last year’s sneakers
lie on the bedroom floor
retired
ready to rest
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Poetry Friday: Embarrassing Then, Funny Now
Yesterday, we got a post card in the mail announcing monthly bulk trash pick-up. As I thought about the items I might set out, a childhood experience came back to me.. I remembered the embarrassment and horror that my friends would find out our family secret, but now it's just plain funny. I couldn't get the formatting to work the way I wanted it to, but here's what I wrote in my journal:
Shopping
Tuesday nights after supper,
our family went shopping—
cruising rich neighborhoods
scanning garbage heaps like pirates
searching for trash night treasures.
There! Mom would squeal,
That vinyl chair is perfect!
We’d coast along the curb
so Dad could get a better look,
Yep! Looks ALMOST new!
In a breath,
he was out of the car,
our prize hoisted into the trunk
the lid battened down with rope—
we were ready to sail
Sometimes
(so embarrassing)
Dad knocked on the door requesting
permission to pick through
a pile full possibilities.
Dad could fix anything
worn out washers
broken bikes
toasters, TVs—
Our house a bounty
of other people’s
throw-aways—
I worried my friends
would spot
THEIRS!
And wished
just once—
We could shop
in a store
like they did.
Shopping
Tuesday nights after supper,
our family went shopping—
cruising rich neighborhoods
scanning garbage heaps like pirates
searching for trash night treasures.
There! Mom would squeal,
That vinyl chair is perfect!
We’d coast along the curb
so Dad could get a better look,
Yep! Looks ALMOST new!
In a breath,
he was out of the car,
our prize hoisted into the trunk
the lid battened down with rope—
we were ready to sail
Sometimes
(so embarrassing)
Dad knocked on the door requesting
permission to pick through
a pile full possibilities.
Dad could fix anything
worn out washers
broken bikes
toasters, TVs—
Our house a bounty
of other people’s
throw-aways—
I worried my friends
would spot
THEIRS!
And wished
just once—
We could shop
in a store
like they did.
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