Tidbits

- some of my  favorite poems by other  writers:

 

 

what else is there

to a ghost story?

 

simply our fear

 

                              that we won’t die

 

entirely

 

 

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.

PENCILS

The rooms in a pencil

are narrow

but elephants      castles and

watermelons

fit in

 

In a pencil

noisy words yell for attention

and quiet words wait their turn

 

How did they slip

into such a tight place?

Who

gives them their

lunch?

 

From a broken pencil

an unbroken poem will come!

There is a long story living

in the shortest pencil

 

Every word in your

pencil

is fearless      ready to walk

the blue tightrope lines

Ready

to teeter  and smile

down      Ready to come right out

and show you

thinking!

 

Barbara Esbensen, A Jar of Tiny Stars,

Bernice E. Cullinan, Editor

(Honesdale, PA, Wordsong. Boyds Mills Press. 1996) 71

 

SHOPPING SPREES

 

My mother told us to put

the things we needed on the grocery list

hanging by the phone.

Words like

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.

I wrote

courage – a new nose – bigger breasts.

 

At 16 and spiritual,

I wrote

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.

I wrote

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

standing mid-aisle

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,

time.

 

Susan Goyette, The True Names of Birds (London,ON: Brick Book, 1998), 52-53

And another...

THE SEARCH

 

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 SilversteinWhere the Sidewalk Ends  (New York, Harper &Row,  Publishers, 1974) 166

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