November 22, 2010

One Inch Tall

If you were only one inch tall, you’d ride a worm to school. The teardrop of a crying ant would be your swimming pool. A crumb of cake would be a feast And last you seven days at least, A flea would be a frightening beast If you were one inch tall. If you were only one inch tall, you’d walk beneath the door, And it would take about a month to get down to the store. A bit of fluff would be your bed, You’d swing upon a spider’s thread, And wear a thimble on your head If you were one inch tall. You’d surf across the kitchen sink upon a stick of gum. You couldn’t hug your mama, you’d just have to hug her thumb. You’d run from people’s feet in fright, To move a pen would take all night, (This poem took fourteen years to write– ‘Cause I’m just one inch tall). Silvie by Shel Silverstein
November 8, 2010

Thanksgiving Is a Moment to Remember

Thanksgiving is a moment to remember How little we can do to move the stars. All we are and have we must surrender, Nor is Earth less inscrutable than Mars. Knowing this, we know the need for friends Sharing both our pleasures and our pain, Giving, though it may not serve their ends, In joy the love that will our love sustain. Very much like water in a lake, In sum we serve as mirrors to the sky. No one alone can heaven’s picture take. Given friends, we know the reason why. Mommy Lorraine
October 25, 2010

Haunted House

There’s a house upon the hilltop We will not go inside For that is where the witches live, Where ghosts and goblins hide. Tonight they have their party, All the lights are burning bright, But oh we will not go inside The haunted house tonight. The demons there are whirling And the spirits swirl about. They sing their songs to Halloween. “Come join the fun,” they shout. But we do not want to go there So we run with all our might And oh we will not go inside The haunted house tonight. By Jack Prelutsky Silvie
October 11, 2010

Cloony The Clown

I’ll tell you the story of Cloony the Clown Who worked in a circus that came through town. His shoes were too big and his hat was too small, But he just wasn’t, just wasn’t funny at all. He had a trombone to play loud silly tunes, He had a green dog and a thousand balloons. He was floppy and sloppy and skinny and tall, But he just wasn’t, just wasn’t funny at all. And every time he did a trick, Everyone felt a little sick. And every time he told a joke, Folks sighed as if their hearts were broke. And every time he lost a shoe, Everyone looked awfully blue. And every time he stood on his head, Everyone screamed, “Go back to bed!” And every time he made a leap, Everybody fell asleep. And every time he ate his tie, Everyone began to cry. And Cloony could not make any money Simply because he was not funny. One day he said, “I’ll tell this town How it feels to be an unfunny clown.” And he told them all why he looked so sad, And he told them all why he felt so bad. He told of Pain and Rain and Cold, He told of Darkness in his soul, And after he finished his tale of woe, Did everyone cry? Oh no, no, no, They laughed until they shook the trees With “Hah-Hah-Hahs” and “Hee-Hee-Hees.” They laughed with howls and yowls and shrieks, They laughed all day, they laughed all week, They laughed until they had a fit, They laughed until their jackets split. The laughter spread for miles around To every city, every town, Over mountains, ‘cross the sea, From Saint Tropez to Mun San Nee. And soon the whole world rang with laughter, Lasting till forever after, While Cloony stood in the circus tent, With his head drooped low and his shoulders bent. And he said,”THAT IS NOT WHAT I MEANT – I’M FUNNY JUST BY ACCIDENT.” And while the world laughed outside. Cloony the Clown sat down and cried. by Shel Silverstein Lorraine
September 28, 2010

The Cry Of The Children

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers, And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows, The young flowers are blowing toward the west— But the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. Do you question the young children in their sorrow, Why their tears are falling so? The old man may weep for his tomorrow, Which is lost in Long Ago; The old tree is leafless in the forest, The old year is ending in the frost, The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, The old hope is hardest to be lost: But the young, young children, O my brothers, Do you ask them why they stand Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers, In our happy Fatherland? They look up with their pale and sunken faces, And their looks are sad to see, For the man’s hoary anguish draws and presses Down the cheeks of infancy; “Your old earth,” they say, “is very dreary; Our young feet,” they say, “are very weak! Few paces have we taken, yet are weary— Our grave-rest is very far to seek. Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children, For the outside earth is cold, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering, And the graves are for the old.” “True,” say the children, “it may happen That we die before our time. Little Alice died last year—her grave is shapen Like a snowball, in the rime. We looked into the pit prepared to take her: Was no room for any work in the close clay! From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her, Crying ‘Get up, little Alice! it is day.’ If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, With your ear down, little Alice never cries; Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her, For the smile has time for growing in her eyes: And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in The shroud by the kirk-chime. It is good when it happens,” say the children, “That we die before our time.” Alas, alas, the children! They are seeking Death in life, as best to have; They are binding up their hearts away from breaking, With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city, Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do; Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty, Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through! But they answer, “Are your cowslips of the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows, From your pleasures fair and fine! “For oh,” say the children, […]
August 23, 2010

Treehuggers

Children of the fragile forest gather around Where bird song seems to be the loudest sound A place called Summer, green as you could please A place where we all proudly hug the trees. Hug trees for the walnuts and sweet apples For the shade above small country chapels For giving squirrel and crow a place to live For the priceless gift of oxygen they give. Follow your feet across a woodland floor Beneath the tall and ancient sycamore Under redwood, under tall blue pine Come with me and form an endless line. Join the boy whose name is simply ME Take your turn and hug a mighty tree A wish we cast upon an August breeze A dream to cross the seven sacred seas. Release it now, just like a big balloon… A prayer to reach the mountains of the moon To citizens of Earth alas we say Go find yourself a tree to hug today! And if a grownup says Don’t be a fool! Or Is that what they’re teaching you in school Just find this poem and read this simple rhyme It’s cool to HUG a TREE from time to time! Children this is how the world can be Making Earth plan A and not plan B Wear Change! Share Change! Sing Change! Bring Change And start by hugging a tree! Lily
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