Good Books

GOOD BOOKS, GOOD TIMES!

by
Lee Bennett Hopkins

Good books.
Good times.
Good stories.
Good rhymes.
Good beginnings.
Good ends.
Good people.
Good friends.
Good fiction.
Good facts
Good adventures.
Good acts.
Good stories.
Good rhymes.
Good books
Good times!
© l985 by Lee Bennett Hopkins. Used by permission of Curtis Brown,

Ltd.

Alan Katz visiting Highland Elementary

Alan Katz will be here at
Highland Elementary on Thursday!!!

101 Donations by
Alan Katz

If you have prosperity,
it’s nice to give to charity.
A cent,
a buck,
a ten,a mil.
Give what you can,
give what you will.

If those who have
help those who’ve not,
then those who’ve not
will have a lot.
And if the ones who had then lack,
the ones who got
can give some back.

From POEMS I WROTE WHEN NO ONE WAS LOOKING (Fall 2012, McElderry
Books)
© Alan Katz. All rights reserved.

Alan Katz's website...A Silly Dilly Man!

Where is Springtime?

CATERPILLAR

by Ann Whitford Paul


Chapter One


Caterpillar creeps,
searching for a secluded twig
where her drama
can unfold.


Chapter Two


Caterpillar spins a cocoon—
its snug study
to better imagine
wings and flight.


Chapter Three

Caterpillar is gone.
A new character—
Moth—flutters about
the sunlit page.

© 2011 Ann Whitford Paul. All rights reserved.

When the Teacher Isn't Looking by Kenn Nesbitt

When the teacher's back is turned,
we never screamand shout.
Never do we drop our books
and try to freak her out.

No one throws a pencil
at the ceiling of the class.
No one tries to hit the fire alarm
and break the glass.

We don't cough in unison
and loudly clear our throats.
No one's shooting paper wads
or passing little notes.

She must think we're so polite.
We  never make a peep.
Really, though, it's just because
we all go right to sleep.

K. Nesbitt

Art + Music = Poetry

Art Space

by Susan Marie Swanson




When my brother writes stories late at night
under his blankets with a light,
he hides an entire stadium
under there—
hotdogs for sale,
baseballs slammed through the air—
and Mom doesn’t even care!


But the choir that I sing in
takes a lot of space.
It takes time to get us organized,
everyone in place.
Once we’re all where we belong
we put the words and notes
of our song
where they belong, too.
It’s tricky to do.
But when the piano starts to play,
we tell trouble to fly away.
Our voices are so strong,
they sweep away worry and gloom.
We fill the whole room!


©2011 Susan Marie Swanson. All rights reserved.

Can I just say how much I love that Susan Marie Swanson mixed poetry
with art and music in Art Space, thus hitting the trifecta for me?
Yes, it's my blog, so I can say it! Of course, the fact that it's
about so much more - siblings, imagination, baseball, and stadiums
under the bedsheets just to name a little - is what truly makes it so
wonderful....

Susan's poetry sings... and if you follow the link here and click
"Closer Look" you can hear her poem Trouble Fly sung by a children's
choir in a piece composed by Patricia McKernon Runkle. And you can by
the sheet music, too. How cool is that? Just like last time, when she
shared her poem Wonders, I remain a huge fan and am so happy to have
Susan here as part of 30 Poets/30 Days.
(from Gregory K's post about poetry)

A Stick

A Stick Is an Excellent Thing

by Marilyn Singer

A stick is an excellent thing.
If you find the perfect one,
it’s a scepter for a king.
A stick is an excellent thing.
It’s a magic wand. It’s yours to fling,
to strum a fence, to draw the sun.
A stick is an excellent thing
if you find the perfect one.

From A STICK IS AN EXCELLENT THING: Poems Celebrating Everyday Play,
written by Marilyn Singer, illustrated by LeUyen Pham

This poem reminds me of this fabulous book from our library:

Siguan by Joseph Bruchac

Siguan

by  Joseph Bruchac

I play my flute

and the small birds answer,

their wings fill the sky

like bright colored leaves.

I play my flute

and the lakes and rivers

open their eyes

after their long sleep.

I play my flute

and the earth casts off

her white blanket,

clothes herself in green.

I play my flute

and the southern wind,

its breath soft as the fawn,

comes dancing again.

I play my flute

and the children laugh

for they know my song

and remember my name.

I am Siguan,

I am Spring.