33 weeks, 5 days, 4:58 PM

Oh! I am the most pregnant I have ever been! The boys were born at 33 weeks and 5 days, O at 4:50 and H and 4:57.

Weird!

unknown

Fleas
Adam
Had 'em

Happy Poetry Month!

Todd

A Haiku

Todd no like poem month.
Boys crying in big boy beds.
Must agree with Dad.

Jack Prelutsky

As Soon as Fred Gets Out of Bed

As soon as Fred gets out of bed,

his underwear goes on his head.

His mother laughs, "Don't put it there,

a head's no place for underwear!"

But near his ears, above his brains,

is where Fred's underwear remains.

At night when Fred goes back to bed,

he deftly plucks it off his head.

His mother switches off the light

and softly croons, "Good night! Good night!"

And then, for reasons no one knows,

Fred's underwear goes on his toes.

Anderson Cooper

I know, it's not a poem, or a poet. But I just loved this quote from Anderson's blog this morning!

"By the way, I know what you’re thinking: How can he write about the weather when the government has declared a public health crisis? To that I say, look, I know you’re afraid that we’re all going to die from Pig Flu. And, let’s face it, we probably are.

But all you can really do at this point is be prudent about traveling, be alert to symptoms you may be exhibiting and go to the doctor if you feel like you may be ill.

So, in the meantime, enjoy the nice weather. Otherwise you’re just letting the pigs win."

Maya Angelou

Another Silverstein

Messy Room

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine?
Oh, dear,I knew it looked familiar!

A little tidbit

My cuties singin' at breakfast a few weeks ago:

Owen REEEEALLY wanted to sing "EIEIO."

Elaine Magliaro

Giraffe

Giraffe is very tall—
but has a voice so small
you never hear him
bark or roar,
sneeze or snore,
screech or howl,
grunt or growl,
caterwaul…
or ever say a word at all.

Perhaps because his head’s so high,
his sounds get lost up in the sky.

Debora Greger

The Poetry of Bad Weather

Someone had propped a skateboard
by the door of the classroom,
to make quick his escape, come the bell.

For it was February in Florida,
the air of instruction thick with tanning butter.
Why, my students wondered,

did the great dead poets all live north of us?
Was there nothing to do all winter there
but pine for better weather?

Had we a window, the class could keep an eye
on the clock and yet watch the wild plum
nod with the absent grace of the young.

We could study the showy scatter of petals.
We could, for want of a better word, call it “snowy.”
The room filled with stillness, flake by flake.

Only the dull roar of air forced to spend its life indoors
could be heard. Not even the songbird
of a cell phone chirped. Go home,

I wanted to tell the horse on the page.
You know the way, even in snow
gone blue with cold.

Jane Kenyon

Biscuit

The dog has cleaned his bowl
and his reward is a biscuit,
which I put in his mouth
like a priest offering the host.

I can't bear that trusting face!
He asks for bread, expects
bread, and I in my power
might have given him a stone.

Kay Ryan

Hide and Seek
It’s hard not
to jump out
instead of
waiting to be
found. It’s
hard to be
alone so long
and then hear
someone come
around. It’s
like some form
of skin’s developed
in the air
that, rather
than have torn,
you tear.

Edward Lear

Limerick
There was a Young Lady whose chin,
Resembled the point of a pin;
So she had it made sharp,
And purchased a harp,
And played several tunes with her chin.

Liam Wilkinson

THE LUNATIC
I’m in a strange mood tonight.

I aim for the moon and laugh

as the elastic snaps behind me,

collapsing the whole contraption

until I look like the lunatic,

tangled in the chaos of the death

of a mechanical butterfly.

Robert Graves

Edna St. Vincent Millay

Love Is Not All
Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

Jack Kerouac

Haiku
Birds singing
in the dark
—Rainy dawn.

Suheir Hammad

the missing
the way loss seeps
into neck hollows
and curls at temples
sits between front teeth
cavity
empty and waiting
for mourning to open
the way mourning stays
forever shadowing vision
shaping lives with memory
a drawer won't close
sleep elusive
smile illusive
the only real is grief
forever counting the days
minutes missing without knowing
so that one day you find yourself
showering tears
missing that love
like sugar
aches teeth

Nikki Giovanni

John Donne

Roald Dahl

The Pig
In England once there lived a big
And wonderfully clever pig.
To everybody it was plain
That Piggy had a massive brain.
He worked out sums inside his head,
There was no book he hadn't read.
He knew what made an airplane fly,
He knew how engines worked and why.
He knew all this, but in the end
One question drove him round the bend:
He simply couldn't puzzle out
What LIFE was really all about.
What was the reason for his birth?
Why was he placed upon this earth?
His giant brain went round and round.
Alas, no answer could be found.
Till suddenly one wondrous night.
All in a flash he saw the light.
He jumped up like a ballet dancer
And yelled, "By gum, I've got the answer!"
"They want my bacon slice by slice
"To sell at a tremendous price!
"They want my tender juicy chops
"To put in all the butcher's shops!
"They want my pork to make a roast
"And that's the part'll cost the most!
"They want my sausages in strings!
"They even want my chitterlings!
"The butcher's shop! The carving knife!
"That is the reason for my life!
"Such thoughts as these are not designed
To give a pig great piece of mind.
Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,
A pail of pigswill in his hand,
And piggy with a mighty roar,
Bashes the farmer to the floor…
Now comes the rather grizzly bit
So let's not make too much of it,
Except that you must understand
That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,
He ate him up from head to toe,
Chewing the pieces nice and slow.
It took an hour to reach the feet,
Because there was so much to eat,
And when he finished, Pig, of course,
Felt absolutely no remorse.
Slowly he scratched his brainy head
And with a little smile he said,
"I had a fairly powerful hunch
"That he might have me for his lunch.
"And so, because I feared the worst,
"I thought I'd better eat him first."

T.S. Eliot

Bustopher Jones: The Cat About Town
Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones--In fact, he's remarkably fat.
He doesn't haunt pubs--he has eight or nine clubs,
For he's the St. James's Street Cat!
He's the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street
In his coat of fastidious black:
No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers
Or such an impreccable back.
In the whole of St. James's the smartest of names is
The name of this Brummell of Cats;
And we're all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white spats!

William Shakespeare

Take, O take those Lips away

Take, O take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes, the break of day,
Lights that do mislead the morn!
But my kisses bring again,
Bring again;
Seals of love, but seal'd in vain,
Seal'd in vain!

Ray Shankman

Why Is This Night Different?
Why is this night different

now that we are older

and our children are with us

each one of us crosses the same desert

helping the stragglers

lifting the forlorn and lost

helping life into life

helplessness into healing hope

we are here together

hearing each story as if it were our own

committed to keeping the story alive

the journey going

countee cullen

For A Lady I Know

She even thinks that up in heaven
Her class lies late and snores

While poor black cherubs rise at seven
To do celestial chores.

The transformation of Owen

We went to the petting zoo on Saturday. Owen, as usual, was scared of feeding and petting the animals.
The day started like this:

Then he saw this cute little lamb....

And pretty soon, he was feeding pigs, goats, sheep, and even petting some!

Maybe he's over himself now. Drama queen.

Henry laughing at the monkeys:

basho

An old silent pond...
A frog jumps into the pond,
splash! Silence again.

FOR MAMERE!

william blake

THE TYGER (from Songs Of Experience)
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

good old emily dickenson

Heart, we will forget him,
You and I, tonight!
You must forget the warmth he gave,
I will forget the light.

When you have done pray tell me,
Then I, my thoughts, will dim.
Haste! ‘lest while you’re lagging
I may remember him!

shel silverstein

Boa Constrictor

Oh, I'm being eaten
By a boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
A boa constrictor,
I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,
And I don't like it--one bit.
Well, what do you know?
It's nibblin' my toe.
Oh, gee,It's up to my knee.
Oh my,It's up to my thigh.
Oh, fiddle,It's up to my middle.
Oh, heck,It's up to my neck.
Oh, dread,
It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff . . .

langston hughes

Dream Deferred

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--
And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

william carlos williams

ee cummings

April is Poetry Month. Each day in April, come read a poem that has meant something to me in one way or another, past and present.

Wordless Wednesday - Owen the Fashionista