Through The Eyes of a Child

Through The Eyes of a Child Quotable Poems (Advanced, Mandatory/Academic, Optional)

Together (in memory of my father) by John Hall Wheelock On the old garden-seat that fronts the grove His hands had planted, years gone by, At dusk I sat, remembering one I love -- We had sat there together often, he and I; And were together now, although no word was said -- I looked away into the quiet air, Knowing that if I did not turn my head I might still have him there.

Nuthatchby Kristen DierkingPublished 2013 What if a sleek, grey-feathered nuthatchflew from a tree and offered to perchon your left shoulder, accompany youon all your journeys? Nowhere fancy,just the brief everyday walks, from garageto house, from house to mailbox, fromthe store to your car in the parking lot.The slight pressure of small clawsclasping your skin, a flutter of wingsevery so often at the edge of vision.And what if he never asked you to beanything? Wouldn't that be so muchnicer than being alone? So much easierthan trying to think of something to say?

Morningby Krista Lukas The stillness, the radio's news,the scent of rain. My neighborbending to pick up his newspaperin its orange plastic bag, tossedon the step. The cars allheading this way or that,a fine spray beneath their wheels. Vaporrising from sidewalks, and the lightof the eastern sun, slanting long, as ifthere's all the time in the world.

Mockingbirdby Judith Harris I can hear him,now, even in darkness,a trickster under the moon,bristling his feathers,sounding as merryas a man whistling in a straw hat,or a squeaky gateto the playground, left ajaror the jingling of a star,having wandered too farfrom the pasture.

Who’s Rich?By Naomi Shihab Nye Who's rich?The boy with a book he hasn't read yetThe girl with a tower of books by her bed.She opens and opens and opens.Her life starts everywhere.Who's rich?Anyone befriended again and againby a well-loved book.This is a wealthwe never lose.

Wonder Through the Pagesby Karla Kuskin So I picked out a bookon my ownfrom the shelfand I started to readon my ownto myself.And nonsense and knowledgecame tumbling out,whispering mysteries,history's shout,the wisdom of wizards,the songs of the ages,all wonders of wanderingwonderful pages.

Raise your words not your voice. It is rain that grows flowers not thunder. -- Rumi 13th century Persian poet

Does anyone have a poem from yesterday they’d like to share?

Boarding Houseby Ted Kooser The blind man draws his curtains for the night and goes to bed, leaving a burning light above the bathroom mirror. Through the wall, he hears the deaf man walking down the hall in his squeaky shoes to see if there’s a light Under the blind man’s door, and all is right

Youngby Anne Sexton A thousand doors ago,when I was a lonely kidin a big house with fourgarages and it was summeras long as I could remember,I lay on the lawn at night,clover wrinkling over me,the wise stars bedding over me,my mother's window a funnelof yellow heat running out,my father's window, half shut,an eye where sleepers pass,and the boards of the housewere smooth and white as waxand probably a million leavessailed on their strange stalksas the crickets ticked togetherand I, in my brand new body,which was not a woman's yet,told the stars my questionsand thought God could really seethe heat and the painted light,elbows, knees, dreams, goodnight.

Dangerous pavements . . . But this year I face the ice with my father’s stick -- Seamus Heaney

Snow Dayby Billy Collins Today we woke up to a revolution of snow, its white flag waving over everything, the landscape vanished, not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness, and beyond these windows the government buildings smothered, schools and libraries buried, the post office lost under the noiseless drift, the paths of trains softly blocked, the world fallen under this falling. In a while, I will put on some boots and step out like someone walking in water, and the dog will porpoise through the drifts, and I will shake a laden branch sending a cold shower down on us both. But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house, a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow. I will make a pot of tea and listen to the plastic radio on the counter, as glad as anyone to hear the news that the Kiddie Corner School is closed, the Ding-Dong School, closed. the All Aboard Children’s School, closed, the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed, along with—some will be delighted to hear— the Toadstool School, the Little School, Little Sparrows Nursery School, Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed, and—clap your hands—the Peanuts Play School. So this is where the children hide all day, These are the nests where they letter and draw, where they put on their bright miniature jackets, all darting and climbing and sliding, all but the few girls whispering by the fence. And now I am listening hard in the grandiose silence of the snow, trying to hear what those three girls are plotting, what riot is afoot, which small queen is about to be brought down.

one limb at a time the falcon calls her fledglings nearer to flight -- by An’Ya

Through The Eyes of a Child