Monday's Poem: The Angry Child

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.

Yes,

this is the child

who read the poem instead

and right out loud

with its WHAAA WHAAA WHAAA,

and its NO, I WON'T,

and its WHINEY WHINE WHINE

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;

YAY!
No cross words;

YAY!

and a "You can play a little while...

LONGER!

Smile.

                           Anne Knowles

Monday's Poem: Feelings in the Sky

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

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

Monday's Poem: Gathering Words

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's Poem: Family Stories

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

well-timed

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'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'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