Triple Serving of Haiku

You might think that mixing poetry and math would make people head for the hills, but everyday folks admit to liking the ancient Haiku format.   I’ve watched friends engage in epic Haiku battles on Facebook  - lobbing verse back and forth for days.  

I find it’s hard to limit myself to just one Haiku, so I’ll share a couple extra poems today:  the first two were written by my oldest son (I try to make sure their own poems, as well as poetry written by other kids, make it into the lunchbox once in a while!).  He wrote the first during a school retreat along the Cheapeake Bay, the second he composed just for kicks.  The last Haiku is a nod to Thanksgiving being around the corner. 

The wind’s cold fingers

brush the surface of the Bay.
Ripples lick the shore.

              - ML, age 11

Pimple on my nose.
No matter how I wash it
it won't go away.

             - ML, (written at age 9)

[Wild Turkey]

wild turkey’s snow tracks

their arrows point us one way
they go the other

Michael J. Rosen, The Cuckoo’s Haiku

An Odd One

Silly lunchbox poems are a welcome treat on rainy days when outdoor recess has to be cancelled.  A Thanksgiving limerick should do trick this time of year.  Chances are, by the end of the day, all the 4th graders will be chanting it together on the bus.

An Odd One

There once was a finicky ocelot

Who all the year round was cross a lot
      Except at Thanksgiving
      When he enjoyed living
For he liked to eat cranberry sauce a lot.

                Eve Merriam, Lots of Limericks

Art Class

Take heart, kiddos!  Teachers and parents don’t know everything do they?!  The world has plenty to teach those who are willing to look, listen and learn.  I tuck X.J. Kennedy's poem, 'Art Class', into a lunchbox when a member of my family feels their creativity is being squashed by "someone who doesn't know how to draw a tree."

Art Class

Ms. Beecher said I don’t know how

                To make a lifelike tree.
Well, all I did was look and draw
                How branches looked to me.

I know what you’re supposed to do –
                You make a Y, and sitting
On both its arms another two
                Y’s.  Make them go on splitting.
 

I went and looked up at a bough

               With bark like scraped black leather,
And neither does a tree know how
                To fit a tree together. 

                X. J. Kennedy, Poetry Speaks to Children

Dreams

I have a very personal connection with this poem.  A hand-written copy of it was taped to my desk-blotter all through my teen years.  It’s one of the few poems I can recite from memory.   I can’t help but wonder what poems will sustain my kids someday…

Dreams

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly. 

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

                Langston Hughes, Knock at a Star (Selected by X. J. Kennedy) 

Campfire

Our backyard patio has a small wood burning fire-pit.  Fall is peak season for using it because the evenings are cool and dark comes early.  My husband loves tending the fire, watching the flames, and listening to the logs pop.  For the kiddos it’s 99% about the s’mores.   For me?  Read on…

Campfire

Warm front.  Cold back.

                I turn around.

Warm back.  Cold front.
                I turn around.

I lean against Mom,

my head on her shoulder.
                Warm all over.

                Christine O’Connell George, Toasting Marshmallows

Halfway Down

We are *HUGE* A.A. Milne fans in my family – each generation has worn out its own copies of Winnie-The-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner .  The joyous tales only get better as my boys grasp his clever use of language and witty sense of humor.   Less known by children today seem to be A.A. Milne’s works of poetry.  I find his poems to be both silly and wise, earning heavy rotation in the lunchbox …

Halfway Down

Halfway down the stairs

Is a stair
Where I sit.
There isn’t any
Other stair
Quite like
It.
I’m not at the bottom,
I’m not at the top;
So this is the stair
Where
I always
Stop.

Halfway up the stairs

Isn’t up,
And isn’t down.
It isn’t in the nursery,
It isn’t in the town.
And all sorts of funny thoughts
Run round my head:
“It isn’t really
Anywhere!
It’s somewhere else
Instead!”

-          A.A. Milne, When We Were Very Young

Wild Goose

"Silly goose" has been a playful phrase in my family since my own childhood.  As I bundle up against the November chill, perhaps it's time to rethink my choice of expressions.

Wild Goose

He climbs the wind above

    green clouds of pine,

Honking to hail the

    gathering migration.

And, arching towards the

    south, pulls to align

His flight into the great

    spearhead formation.

He’ll find a bayou land of

    hidden pools,

And bask amid lush fern

    and water lily

Far from the frozen world

    of earth-bound fools

Who, shivering, maintain

    that geese are silly.

Written by Curtis Heath, Leaf by Leaf (Selected by Barbara Rogasky)

Seattle Morning

This summer my family traveled to the Pacific Northwest.  It was the first time any of us had ever visisted that part of the country, and we were excited to see its evergreen sights.  For most folks living on the East Coast, all we ever hear about Seattle is how rainy it is.  Turns out, August in Seattle isn't particularly wet, and our rain gear went unused.  Now that November has arrived and we're facing a soggy season of our own, my mind can't help drifting back west... 

P.S.  This poem was a family favorite even before our trip...we like to debate the sentiments of the ending.


Seattle Morning

In the pouring

teeming rain

a deluge

pounding down

sounding

as if

it will

never

come to an

end again

a man

crouches

on the pavement

clutching a

bright yellow umbrella

in one hand

bending over

his

SEATTLE TIMES

intently

reading

today’s

weather

report.

-  Lee Bennett Hopkins,  My America

October Saturday

About four times each autumn, my family experiences a day like the one in Bobbi Katz's 'October Saturday.'  I understand that for some people a yard full of fallen leaves is just one more hassle in our already busy lives.  Though my back aches in the evening, I privately look forward to the Saturdays where we're all out in the yard raking (and jumping in!) together.  Much nicer than pulling weeds in July, don't you think?

October Saturday

All the leaves have turned to cornflakes.

It looks as if some giant’s baby brother
had tipped the box
and scattered them upon our lawn –
millions and millions of cornflakes –
crunching, crunching, under our feet.
When the wind blows,
they rattle against each other,
nervously chattering.

We rake them into piles –
Dad and I.
Piles and piles of cornflakes!
A breakfast for a whole family of giants!
We do not talk much as we rake –
a word here –
a word there.

The leaves are never silent.

Inside the house my mother is packing

short sleeved shirts and faded bathing suits –
rubber clogs and flippers –
in a box marked SUMMER.

We are raking.
Dad and I.
Raking, raking.
The sky is blue, then orange, then gray.
My arms are tired.
I am dreaming of the box marked SUMMER.


- Bobbi Katz, The Place My Words Are Looking For (Selected by Paul B. Janeczko)

Sweet Tooth

There are so many Halloween poems to choose from, but I selected this one because it reminds me of my favorite October "recipe."  Just toss some candy corn with a few peanuts and you have a salty-sweet fall treat!

Sweet Tooth

A handful
of loose teeth rattle
in my pocket,
triangles of orange
and yellow
bitten off just so,
nip by nip
to the white tip.

Oh, candy corn,
why do you appear
only once a year?

- Candace Pearson, Halloween Howls (Selected by Lee Bennett Hopkins)