Best Gift

Speaking of favorite gifts, my college roommate Cheryl Ann came to visit recently and brought her dog Lexie to see our dog Abby, who just happen to be sisters. Their mother was our dog Katie who died in 2007.  One of the pups is pictured here with Laura, circa 2000. "Lexie is the best gift anybody's ever given me," Cheryl told me on that visit, which made us both cry. Abby, who had been sick for several months, passed away the next day. 

Little Tree

This little tree was planted not long after we moved into our home. The neighbors had planted a wild dogwood they found in the woods in the corner of their front yard near our driveway. I thought it would look nice and balanced to have a dogwood tree in our yard on the other side of the driveway. So Rick and the kids planted our little tree for me on Mother’s Day, 1995, give or take a year. It wasn’t long before the neighbors’ dogwood up and died. Soon afterwards, ours withered and turned brown, too. Rather than dig it up, we just clipped its tiny trunk and mowed over it. Sounds cruel, doesn’t it? But honestly, we hadn’t even had time to become attached to it. Some days, weeks, maybe even months later - I don’t remember how much time passed, or who discovered it - a green shoot sprouted out of the seemingly dead roots of the little tree. “A true miracle!” we declared. and the rest is history, family history. The little tree is like a member of our family, complete with its own stories. I love it. It’s one of my favorite gifts ever.

Hopefully my last project of Grad School

I ♥ Sugar Free Allstars. They gave me permission to use this cute song in the book trailer I am making for my multicultural literature class.

Poem Flow

Here is a poem I received earlier this week via Poem Flow, a new free, mobile application. Enjoy!

Envoy

Robert Louis Stevenson

Go, little book, and wish to all

Flowers in the garden, meat in the hall,

A bin of wine, a spice of wit,

A house with lawns enclosing it,

A living river by the door,

A nightingale in the sycamore!

This week's Poetry Friday Roundup is over at Teaching Books.

I want to give a shout out to all who attended the Poetry Pep Rally at Ferndale this week. Here's a link to the handout for my presentation.

New Poetry Friday Schedule

I was very excited to find with very little difficulty the new Poetry Friday Schedule, not that I ever have time to post anymore, what with the Web Development Class I'm taking and summer reading on the horizon; but maybe, just maybe, one day I will find a minute. It's over at http://readingyear.blogspot.com/

How did it get to be Friday already? This week's poem, Spelling Bomb, by Joyce Sidman, is about a kid who did not win the spelling bee. Reading it took me back to 6th grade. Here goes...

Spelling Bomb

to my mother

I can't believe I lost.
I know I disappointed you.
Do you really think I don't care?
I know how important it is to win.

I know I disappointed you;
I saw it in your face when I misspelled.
I know how important it is to win;
I studied hours and hours.

I saw it in your face when I misspelled.
I saw you turn away from me.
Even though I study hour and hours,
I never seem to be your champion....




The rest of this poem and others written in the voices of kids, parents, teachers, pets and one of my favs, the school custodian are in the book This is Just to Say; Poems of Apology and Forgiveness by Joyce Sidman. Illustrator, Pamela Zagarenski and Sidman make a dream team, don't you think? (See my post from last week!)



p.s. Do you know what type of poem Spelling Bomb is? Hint: It's the author's favorite. The answer is in the book. I'll send you a prize if you get the answer right!

p.s.s. Mary Ann over at (Great Kid Books) has the rest of the poetry roundup.


Lisa

It's Poetry Friday! Here is an excerpt from "Winter" out of Red Sings from Treetops; a year in colors, a magically, beautiful book by Joyce Sidman Illustrated by Pamela Zagarenski.


In the winter woods,
Gray and Brown
hold hands.
Their brilliant sisters -
Red, Orange, and Yellow -
have all gone home.
Gray and Brown sway shyly,
the only beauties left.

It's hard to believe Laura's 13!

I think she had a good birthday.

She had presents...





Dinner with the family...





games...





tap, tap





Girls, girls, you're both pretty!





That's better...





Now let Kelley play.




to be continued...

Happy New Year and Happy Poetry Friday!

The new year's first dream -
I see my village
and wake to a chilly tear

This and other works by Issa can be found in a lovely little biography of the great Chinese haiku poet, Cool Melons - Turn to Frogs! The Life and Poems of Issa; Story and Haiku Translations by Matthew Gollub, Illustrations by Kazuko G. Stone.




Speaking of tears, here's another ancient Chinese poem that I love (it makes me cry)...

My loving mother, thread in hand,
Mended the coat I have on now,
Stitch by stitch, just before I left home,
Thinking that I might be gone a long time.
How can a blade of young grass
Ever repay the warmth of the spring sun?

Untitled poem by Meng Jia from the Tang Dynasty (618-907 A.D.)

And finally, speaking of mothers...

To Mother

by Louisa May Alcott

I hope that soon, dear mother,
you and I may be
In the quiet room my fancy
Has so often made for thee,-

The pleasant, sunny chamber,
The cushioned easy-chair,
The book laid for your reading,
The vase of flowers fair;

The desk beside the window
Where the sun shines warm and bright:
And there in ease and quiet
The promised book you write;

While I sit close beside you,
Content at last to see
That you can rest, dear mother,
And I can cherish thee.


Did anyone see the PBS Masterpiece Series about Louisa May Alcott last week? It was very good, based on a new biography about Alcott, but that's a post for another day!

The rest of the Poetry Friday Roundup is over at A Year of Reading.

Cheers!

L

I found this sweet little poem by Oliver Herford in last week's Poetry Friday roundup. I loved it so much I had to share it here! The rest of the roundup is at Susan Writes. Merry Christmas!

I Heard a Bird Sing--

I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December
A magical thing
And sweet to remember.

‘We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September,’
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.


Bird graphic courtesty of Penniwig's.

Hanukkah began Friday at sundown. Here is a poem in honor of the Jewish Festival of Lights. The rest of the Poetry Friday lineup can be found at Random Noodling.

Blessed is the Match

by Hannah Senesh

Blessed is the match consumed
in kindling flame.
Blessed is the flame that burns
in the secret fastness of the heart.

Read the rest of the poem and learn more about Hannah Senesh here.

Poetry Friday Schedule

Here is the Poetry Friday schedule for the next few weeks:

11/27 Becky (Becky's Book Reviews)
12/4 Elaine (Wild Rose Reader)
12/11 Diane (Random Noodling)
12/18 Susan (Susan Writes)
12/25 Kate (Book Aunt)
1/1 Mary Lee (A Year of Reading)
1/8 Tricia (Miss Rumphius Effect)
1/15 Mary Ann (Great Kid Books)
1/22 Liz (Liz in Ink)
1/29 Anastasia (Picture Book of the Day)
2/5 Olgy (Children Come First)
2/12 Lee (I'm Here. I'm Queer. What the hell do I read?)
2/19 Irene (IreneLatham.com)
2/26 Jone (Check It Out)

I've been looking for this one:

Introduction to Poetry

Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

Read the rest of the poem here.

The Poetry Roundup this week is over at The Drift Record. I found this Thanksgiving Blessing among the posts at Carol's Corner. It certainly was a blessing and it gave me food for thought. I am as thankful for it as I am the food I am about to start cooking! I felt like the words were written especially for me. This is why I love Poetry Friday. There are treasures out there just waiting to be found. Happy Thanksgiving, enjoy!

A THANKSGIVING BLESSING


May we be aware not of the things we lack,
but of all that we have.


May we feel not the absence of those we love,
but the presence of those who love us.


May we see not just the harshness of our world,
but the gentleness of its mystery.


May we know not the cold of despair,
but the warmth of hope rising.


May we speak not of our hurts and losses,
but of our healings and blessings.


May we be with each other not in the shadows of the past,
but in the light of the present.


May we bring to our table not judgment, resentment, or anger,
but acceptance, compassion, and forgiveness.


May we remember to feed our spirit by living out of thankfulness.

Anonymous

I'm back from New York City. It's good to be home. It's Poetry Friday, so here I will share a little piece of my time in the city by posting a poem that I had the privilege of hearing the author, Dave Johnson, read during the Poetry In The Branches Institute at Poets House last week. The rest of the Poetry Friday roundup can be found at GottaBook. Head on over, read, and post!


CHEATING

We got on the train together
at the end of the line.
Alone, we eyed each other.
At each stop more
and more people got on.
I looked at all of them.
Some of them handsome,
some pretty sharp
and hard, some
with soft features.
One or two were out
and out beautiful.
But each time
I would look back at you,
and you would catch me and wait
until one of us had to cut away.
This went on and on into Manhattan.
And as sweet and tempting
as all the new riders looked,
I couldn't stop watching you.
The more and more stops
we made together,
the more I knew, we were becoming attached.
By the time we made it to Chinatown we had a history
and I knew there was no turning back
I also knew, if I looked
at another, too long,
without coming back to you,
it would officially be, cheating,
and this, I could never do.
By the time we got to the West Village
we both were holding on
for the inevitable.
We're talking long beyond anticipation here.
I was sweating the way men will,
right before they give
all they've got,
because they know,
even the most animalistic,
that they are just before doing something
they can no longer control,
and no matter what
words slip out of them
they will not be enough
to explain what is happening.
At 51st street the doors
opened quickly
and with the rush
of the midtown crush hour,
you stared hard, like you too
were giving off
a sweat
-a teeth grinding, lip curling
way back inside the mouth so
the nose holes can swell
and flare to get the deepest
lung suck possible sweat-
that you too, were not fully, understanding.
And with a drop of your eyes
you grabbed the center pole and were shuffled
throught the doors.
You were gone and I was left with
my mouth in the shape
of an imperfect O.
I am telling this because
I wanted you to know.
The whole time we were together,
I was never cheating on you.
And as hard as it was to let you go,
I rode with you, way past,
my stop.

Dave Johnson

I'm not in Little Rock anymore. In fact, last night I was in the beautiful St. James Theatre on Broadway watching Finian's Rainbow. Rick and I enjoyed the show full of beautiful music, great dancing, and fabulously talented cast! Even the set was delightful! More photos from the show here: Broadway Photos | Broadway.com

I'm in New York City this weekend attending Poets House Poetry in the Branches National Institute. I'm learning how to build a good poetry collection and how to conduct exciting poetry programs in the library. If you don't know about Poets House, PLEASE go to their website (www.poetshouse.org) and click around. They have just moved into a beautiful new building in Lower Manhattan overlooking the Hudson River. Here is a poem I found in the stacks there today. The rest of the Poetry Friday roundup is over at Wild Rose Reader.

Human Heart by Gregory Orr

Human heart -
That tender engine
Love revs it;
Loss stalls it.
What can make it
Go Again?
The poem, the poem.

Jennie at Biblio Phile is hosting Poetry Friday today. http://www.jenrothschild.com/. Head on over and post a link. This week I am posting a traditional English ballad, Scarborough Fair, upon which the young adult novel, Impossible, the National Book Award Finalist by Nancy Werlin is based.

Be sure and visit the book's website for interesting history about the ballad and more information about the book.

http://us.penguingroup.com/static/packages/us/yreaders/impossible/history.html

and here's another website with some fun facts:

http://www.songfacts.com/detail.php?id=1175


Scarborough Fair

Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Remember me to one who lives there,
For once she was a true love of mine.

Have her make me a cambric shirt,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Without a seam or fine needle work,
And then she'll be a true love of mine.

Have her wash it in yonder dry well,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Where ne'er a drop of water e'er fell.
And then she'll be a true love of mine.

Have her find me an acre of land
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Between the sea and over the sand,
And then she'll be a true love of mine.

Plow the land with the horn of a lamb
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Then sow some seeds from north of the dam
And then she'll be a true love of mine.

If she tells me she can't, I'll reply
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Let me know that at least she will try
And then she'll be a true love of mine.

Love imposes impossible tasks,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Though not more than any heart asks
And I must know she's a true love of mine.

Dear, when thou has finished thy task,
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,
Come to me, my hand for to ask,
For thou then art a true love of mine.

From
Golden Encyclopedia of Folk Music
Hal Leonard Publishing Corp. Milwaukee, WI

The poetry roundup is over at Big A, little a. I'm in today with a poem shared earlier this week by a friend and colleague who recently celebrated her wedding anniversary, who had this poem read at her wedding. It is posted here in her honor, and in honor of my favorite newlyweds who are honeymooning in Maine, after one of the all-time best weddings ever; and in thanksgiving for my own sweet life partner!

To My Dear and Loving Husband

by Anne Bradstreet


If ever two were one, then surely we.
If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.
If ever wife was happy in a man,
Compare with me, ye women, if you can.
I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.
Thy love is such I can no way repay;
The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,
That when we live no more, we may live ever.


Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672) is generally considered the first American poet. Born around 1612 near Northampton, England, she married Simon

. . . MORE »