Merilyn Ruth Liddell
...writer of speculative fiction, poetry, essays and the occasional short story...
- some of my favorite poems by other writers:
I needed a poem today that inspired hope and wonder, and remembered this one I used to read with my Grade One students: ( Posted 2021.04.21)
How does it know,
this little seed, if it is to grow
to a flower or weed,
if it is to be
a vine or shoot,
or grow to a tree with a long deep root?
A seed is so small
Where do you suppose
it stores up all
of the things it knows?
A poem to frighten anyone whose desk is littered with to-do lists:
what else is there
to a ghost story?
simply our fear
that we won’t die
the light will still see us
we won’t be completely transparent
there will always be something
we have neglected to do
Catherine Hunter, Latent Heat (Winnipeg, MB, Nuage Editions, 1997) Ghost Stories - 5
I decided not to separate poetry into categories. The following is from an anthology of poems for children. I'm sure children of all ages will enjoy it. I hope it makes you wonder.
The rooms in a pencil
but elephants castles and
In a pencil
noisy words yell for attention
and quiet words wait their turn
How did they slip
into such a tight place?
gives them their
From a broken pencil
an unbroken poem will come!
There is a long story living
in the shortest pencil
Every word in your
is fearless ready to walk
the blue tightrope lines
to teeter and smile
down Ready to come right out
and show you
Barbara Esbensen, A Jar of Tiny Stars,
Bernice E. Cullinan, Editor
(Honesdale, PA, Wordsong. Boyds Mills Press. 1996) 71
My mother told us to put
the things we needed on the grocery list
hanging by the phone.
tampons – cream rinse – nail polish remover
would be written
in different colours
by different hands.
One sister dotted her i's with hearts,
the other would put happy faces in her o’s.
courage – a new nose – bigger breasts.
At 16 and spiritual,
nirvana – good karma – eternal wisdom.
And when I really got into it,
I didn’t write at all
figuring she knew
because I radiated things.
At 17, I was seeing a guy who sang
and played guitar.
a better voice – a Gibson 12 string – bigger breasts.
My younger sister wrote things back
give me a break – you wish – in your dreams
signs of profound admiration,
my being older and all.
At 19, I began to imagine my mother
trying to remember what karma was,
wondering if she should buy honey for my voice.
She was mid-divorce
so I wrote things she needed
a good laugh – a copy of The Female Eunuch – bubble bath
and time I wrote,
Susan Goyette, The True Names of Birds (London, ON: Brick Book, 1998), 52-53
I went to find the pot of gold
That's waiting where the rainbow ends.
I searched and searched and searched and searched
And searched and searched, and then—
There it was, deep in the grass,
Under an old and twisty bough.
It's mine, it's mine, it's mine at last....
What do I search for now?
Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends (New York, Harper &Row, Publishers, 1974) 166