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- 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?


 Aileen Fisher 


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

are narrow

but elephants      castles and


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?


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.

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,



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



And another...



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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