Monday, November 30, 2015

Monday's Poem: The Angry Child


This is the poem
that pitched a fit
with a NO, I WON'T,
and a line like a whine,
and a why? and a cry,
and a big, loud shout,
and a crossed-arm, angry pout.

This is the child
who didn't pitch a fit
with a NO, I WON'T,
and a line like a whine,
and a why? and a cry,
and a big, loud shout,
and a crossed-arm, angry pout.

this is the child
who read the poem instead
and right out loud
and its NO, I WON'T,
and its WHY? and its WAIL,
and its NOOO-OOO-OOO
and its crossed-arm, angry HUMPH!

What a wise, little child
who made the old ones smile
with an out-loud poem
that he read to them instead.
No time out;
No cross words;
and a "You can play a little while...

                           Anne Knowles

Monday, October 19, 2015

Monday's Poem: Feelings in the Sky


I like to read feelings in the sky:
in the raindrop tears,
in the lonely stars above,
in the dark, cloudy fears,
and the rainbow love;
in the changing-shape moon,
in the falling-star fun,
in the scary-thunder tune,
and the smiley-face sun.
I like to read feelings in the sky
and make up stories
and make up songs
and make up poems
that answer why.

                            Anne Knowles

Monday, October 12, 2015

Monday's Poem: Up in a Tree on a Windy Day


Up in the middle of a back-and-forth tree,
the wind rocks the tree,
and the wind rocks me.

The smiley-face sun is egg-yolk bright,
and a penny-golden butterfly
ziggy-zags by.

The clothesline flaps a pear-yellow sheet,
and meadowlarks tweet
from in-the-nest seats.

I'm up in a tree on a swaying, summer day,
in the primrose promise
of a fluttery, buttery day.

                                      Anne Knowles

Thursday, October 8, 2015

Monday's Poem: Gathering Words


I'm gathering everything
from everywhere I've been--
last week's slide,
last week's swing,
and the song
in the rocker
that grandma sings.

I'm gathering everything
from everywhere I've been--
inside school,
inside books,
inside words
from the people
in my neighborhood.

I'm writing everything
from everywhere I've been--
in my stories,
in my poems,
in the wonder
and the words
that gather up in me.

                         Anne Knowles

Monday, August 10, 2015

Monday's Poem: Family Stories


Some stories float in air
and slip in on the wind.
Listen to the words whispering.

Auntie's curtain fire
and the supper's startled surprise
and the cousin's screams
and then...
and then...
Uncle's mug of root beer
tossed just right
and just in time
and the cousins' claps
and the cousins' laughs
and the found
frightened cat.

Goblin spelling tests
in the one room school
that twisted Grandpa's
tummy in wicked knots
and then...
and then...
his times table
gobbled up and memorized
in one wizardly week.

Mama's first shiny dime
on her first day of school
that lost itself
and lost lunch, too
and tears and tears
and then...
and then...
a shared sandwich
and a new friend
who lived around the corner
and who grew up
to marry Uncle,
a brave man
who put out the curtain fire
with well-tossed
root beer.

Some stories float in air
and slip in on the wind.
Old stories.
Told stories.
Listen well and hold them.

                                Anne Knowles

Monday, May 11, 2015

Monday's Poem: Inside Outside Air

Inside Outside Air

Air is bouncing,
bouncing in air,
inside a bubble,
bouncing up there.

Air is floating,
floating in air,
inside a bubble,
floating up there.

Air is soaring,
soaring in air,
inside a bubble,
soaring up there.

Soapy, soapy bubbles,
cuddling inside air,
bouncing, floating, soaring,
in outside air up there.

                               Anne Knowles

Monday, May 4, 2015

Monday's Poem: A Book Comes Knocking

A Book Comes Knocking

Someone was knocking,
knock, knock on my door.
Then, in walked a book
and sat on the floor.

"Come join me," it said,
"and open me please."
I opened its pages.
Oh! What did I see?

Page after page,
but nothing was written,
not huff, not puff,
not mitten, or kitten.

Not Goldi, not locks,
not pokey pup paws,
not tailor, not duckling,
not Potter, or Oz.

"Write me a story,"
the book sadly said.
"Help fill me all up
with words from your head.

Start Over the hill,
or A long time ago.
Start Under the oak tree
or Up where there's snow."

So I told a story,
and each word that I said,
danced straight to the page
from inside of my head.

I finished with happily
ever and after,
and you should have heard
the book and its laughter.

                                   Anne Knowles