Monday's Poem: Oops!

Oops!

Dripped, dropped, downed.

My ice cream's on the ground.

My toesies dare

To taste the fare. 

Dripped, dropped, downed.
                          Anne Knowles

Monday's Poem: My Face

My Face

My face is very different

Some people laugh at me

You may laugh

You may point

But I love me.

I've had my different face

Since I was one day old

You may laugh

You may point

But I love me.

I wish you wouldn't laugh

I wish you wouldn't point

I'm just like you

I'm me all through

And I love me.

                                   Anne Knowles

Monday's Poem: The Really Me

The Really Me

My mommies love me

inside out.

They love me

outside in.

They really love--

I know they love--

the really me I am.

They love the me

I'm figuring out,

the me that cries

and sometimes shouts.

They really, really,

really love

ME

ME

the me I am,

the really me I am.

                                    Anne Knowles

Monday's Poem: April Fool

April Fool

I love eating green beans

and taking a nap,

picking up toys

and taking a bath.

Me, me, me, mine

are words I don't like.

I'm two years old now--

a peaceful, wee tyke.

                               Anne Knowles

Monday's Poem: Shadow Words

Shadow Words

When day is done and dark arrives 

to spread through all your light,

it's only me surrounding you

to hold you in the night.

I'll always be your close-by friend;

I'll always stay with you.

I'll be in back or by your side

or right in front of you.

And when you wonder who you are

and feel all sad inside,

remember I am just like you,

created by the light.

                                  Anne Knowles

Monday's Poem: Two Trees

Two Trees

For Elwood

Outside my window

two trees touch,

like holding hands.

When wind is still

and the trees are still,

they don't even whisper

a single, soft word

to each other.

When the wind blows

and combs their words

through my hair,

I laugh at their jokes.

                         Anne Knowles

Monday's Poem: Snowdrifts

Snowdrifts

You'd think a child had set these snowdrifts down,

They come with such a simple march down the mountain,

Lined in rows as if the child had played

Toy soldiers with the snow and left behind,

When evening came, the armies at attention.

It was a storm that caused it, not a child,

And the snow had come all in a jumble.

Who could know there would be such a pattern

As these rows of snow the morning after?

                                                            Anne Knowles