260 Childhood poems

Once upon a time, There was a beautiful shark. She combed her long, blonde hair, And it made the halibut bark. It made the chicken oink, And the whale to run for Congress. A man should never obstruct The course of material progress. Yet a lamb cannot but weep When the kiddies come home from college. For they have forgotten to keep The agreement they made to acknowledge The woodpecker’s right to peck, And the maple’s to be pecked at. Let’s have a little respect For Rubber Duck with a doctorate. That provocative way of standing! All elbows and bangles And hips just like a coat hanger And ankles at right angles! I like The shape of the pouring soy milk, The sound of the splitting log. But Egret finds it regrettable that her Sister is dating a dog. Don’t listen to ’em, kid! And don’t listen to their questions. This corporation’s been ruined by Well-meaning false confessions. And the world is fast a-melting, Though I would have it slow. And I don’t think it’s helping: The way these animals go Straight from hatchery to quackery, And, if only to amuse, I’ll throw my hat in with Mike Thataway in Black patent leather shoes. Maybe I’m just like my mother. She’s never satisfied. Maybe I’m just like my father: Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. Maybe I’m just like my cat: Licking invisible balls. Perhaps you’ll reflect upon that, Next time you’re screening your calls. And all the solvent and the solute, They were walking hand in hand. This the Indian poets were the First to understand. The ancient Indian poets Had their heads screwed on straight. Fixed on the body’s affluence And the effluents that escape. And the influence they enjoyed? Close-focus hocus-pocus. And every gezunte moyd In a juvenile honey locust Will prefer their Hindi distichs To the Indiana Hoosiers. We’re gonna be there from Spit Christmas All the way to Mucus New Year’s. But for now I draw the curtain And settle into Lent. Last person to go to Harvard Without knowing what that meant.

Music lives inside my legs. It’s coming out when I talk. I’m going to send my valentines to people you don’t even know. Oatmeal cookies make my throat gallop. Grown-ups keep their feet on the ground when they swing. I hate that. Look at those 2 o’s with a smash in the middle— that spells good-bye. Don’t ever say “purpose” again, let’s throw the word out. Don’t talk big to me. I’m carrying my box of faces. If I want to change faces I will. Yesterday faded but tomorrow’s in boldface . When I grow up my old names will live in the house where we live now. I’ll come and visit them. Only one of my eyes is tired. The other eye and my body aren’t. Is it true all metal was liquid first? Does that mean if we bought our car earlier they could have served it in a cup? There’s a stopper in my arm that’s not going to let me grow any bigger. I’ll be like this always, small. And I will be deep water too. Wait. Just wait. How deep is the river? Would it cover the tallest man with his hands in the air? Your head is a souvenir. When you were in New York I could see you in real life walking in my mind. I’ll invite a bee to live in your shoe. What if you found your shoe full of honey? What if the clock said 6:92 instead of 6:30? Would you be scared? My tongue is the car wash for the spoon. Can noodles swim? My toes are dictionaries. Do you need any words? From now on I’ll only drink white milk on January 26. What does minus mean? I never want to minus you. Just think—no one has ever seen inside this peanut before! It is hard being a person. I do and don’t love you— isn't that happiness?

Child one with the sun in trackless fields of yellow grass and thistle, scent of humid heavy air and the wing music of bees and flies. Child, slender nakedness to itself unknown, true colour of the light dispersed invisibly or glowing around the black hulls of distant thunderheads, around the grasshopper’s countenance, solemn, vigilant and wise. Green apples, poured full of density, of crispness, float unmoved under leaves on the slope. Brown fallen apples nest in secret whorls of grass. The apple tree: alone in so much space. And below in the woods by the water a sweet dead branch cracks lightly in the shadow in the wind. But here is an old track through the grass head-high to a child: who made it? They must have passed and passed by this one tree, by the abandoned, tireless car where rabbits peer out, and the circle of black embers, cans, springs, skeletons of furniture. They too passed here many times on their way from the street’s end to the oaks that screen the river. There the sun is nesting now, night rises with pale flutterings of white wings from roots of plants and the black water.

Directions Let some one hold the book, and ask one of the questions. The answers being all numbered, the girl or boy who is questioned chooses a number, and the person who holds the book reads the answer to which that number belongs, aloud. For instance: Question. What is your character? Answer. I choose No. 3 Questioner reads aloud: No. 3. Gentle tempered, sweet and kind, To no angry word inclined. What Will Be Your Destiny? FORTY-THREE ANSWERS 1. Just as you think you’ve gained great wealth, Something will make you lose your health. 2. Your hair will be white in a single night, From having an unexpected fright. 3.You will enjoy a sweet old age, So kind and pure, so long and sage. 4.You will fall down at eighty-four, And break a dozen ribs or more. 5. You will finish your days with God for your friend: Who would not be glad of so blissful an end? 6. You will be ever absorbed in books, And never give a thought to looks. 7.In peace and plenty you will lie, And in the arms of friendship die. 8. You will have cause for many tears, To cloud the beauty of your years. 9. Ah, is it so? when you are old, you will be very poor, I’m told. 10. In the night-time you will weep, And your painful vigils keep. 11.Nothing dreadful, nothing sad, Comes to you; for this I’m glad. 12. You always will have an excellent table, And full of horses will keep your stable. 13. The Sibyl says you’ll die in Rome, Which for a time will be your home. 14. Your plenty and peace Will never cease. 15. You will suddenly die in the crowded street, If the age of a hundred years you meet. 16.You will ride in your carriage-and-four, And be very kind to the suffering poor. 17. Never murmur, never care, You will be a millionare. 18.Sick at heart, and sick at head, You will wish that you were dead. 19. As the might of God you see, Religious you will ever be. 20. To California you will go To get the shining gold, you know. 21. Brightest pleasures you will see, And happiness your portion be. 22.Love will gild your joyous life, Free from pain and care and strife. 23. Don’t despond, and do not care, You will be a nabob’s heir. 24. To California you will be sent, But will return as poor as you went. 25.A missionary you will be, Far o’er the billows of the sea. 26. It is your destiny to rule, And you will keep a village school. 27.Ball and parties you will find Alone are suited to your mind. 28. Through the vista of the years I see you mourning and in tears. 29.A country life at length you’ll lead, Rejoicing in your ambling steed. 30. Fair in the wild and prairied west, Your tired frame at length you’ll rest. 31.A public singer’s place you’ll take, And a sensation you will make. 32. You’ll only love your native home, From which you will not care to roam. 33.A great pianist, you will gain Bright laurels from the admiring train. 34.A kitchen garden you will keep, And sell fresh vegetables cheap. 35. To higher virtues you will rise, Until you’re ready for the skies. 36. To the city’s crowded street You’ll direct your willing feet. 37.In digging in a worn-out field You’ll see a box,

Our hired girl, she's 'Lizabuth Ann; An' she can cook best things to eat! She ist puts dough in our pie-pan, An' pours in somepin' 'at's good an' sweet; An' nen she salts it all on top With cinnamon; an' nen she'll stop An' stoop an' slide it, ist as slow, In th' old cook-stove, so's 'twon't slop An' git all spilled; nen bakes it, so It's custard-pie, first thing you know! An' nen she'll say, "Clear out o' my way! They's time fer work, an' time fer play! Take yer dough, an' run, child, run! Er I cain't git no cookin' done!" When our hired girl 'tends like she's mad, An' says folks got to walk the chalk When she's around, er wisht they had! I play out on our porch an' talk To Th' Raggedy Man 'at mows our lawn; An' he says, "Whew!" an' nen leans on His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes, An' sniffs all 'round an' says, "I swawn! Ef my old nose don't tell me lies, It 'pears like I smell custard-pies!" An' nen he'll say, "Clear out o' my way! They's time fer work, an' time fer play! Take yer dough, an' run, child, run! Er she cain't git no cookin' done!" Wunst our hired girl, when she Got the supper, an' we all et, An' it wuz night, an' Ma an' me An' Pa went wher' the "Social" met,— An' nen when we come home, an' see A light in the kitchen door, an' we Heerd a maccordeun, Pa says, "Lan'- O'-Gracious! who can her beau be?" An' I marched in, an' 'Lizabuth Ann Wuz parchin' corn fer The Raggedy Man! Better say, "Clear out o' the way! They's time fer work, an' time fer play! Take the hint, an' run, child, run! Er we cain't git no courtin' done!"

My route lassos the outskirts, the reclusive, the elderly, the rural— the poor who clan in their tarpaper islands, the old ginseng hunter Albert Harm, who strings the "crow's foot" to dry over his wood stove. Shy eyes of fenced-in horses follow me down the rutted dirt road. At dusk, I pedal past white birches, breathe the smoke of spring chimneys, my heart working uphill toward someone hungry for word from the world. I am Mercury, bearing news, my wings a single-speed maroon Schwinn bike. I sear my bright path through the twilight to the sick, the housebound, the lonely. Messages delivered, wire basket empty, I part the blue darkness toward supper, confident I've earned this day's appetite, stronger knowing I'll be needed tomorrow.

A child's a plaything for an hour; Its pretty tricks we try For that or for a longer space; Then tire, and lay it by. But I knew one, that to itself All seasons could controul; That would have mock'd the sense of pain Out of a grieved soul. Thou, straggler into loving arms, Young climber up of knees, When I forget thy thousand ways, Then life and all shall cease.

Pease porridge hot, Pease porridge cold, Pease porridge in the pot Nine days old.

I'm going to put Karen Prasse right here in front of you on this page so that you won't mistake her for something else, an example of precocity, for instance, a girl who knew that the sky (blue crayon) was above the earth (green crayon) and did not, as you had drawn it, come right down to the green on which your three bears stood. You can tell from her outfit that she is a Brownie. You can tell from her socks that she knows how to line things up, from her mouth that she may grow up mean or simply competent. Do not mistake her for an art critic: when she told you the first day of first grade that your drawing was "wrong," you stood your ground and told her to look out the window. Miss Voss told your mom you were going to be a good example of something, although you cannot tell from the way your socks sag, nor from your posture, far from Brownie-crisp. This is not about you for a change, but about mis-perception, of which Karen was an early example. Who knows? She may have meant to be helpful, though that is not always a virtue, and gets in the way of some art.

See with what simplicity This nymph begins her golden days! In the green grass she loves to lie, And there with her fair aspect tames The wilder flowers, and gives them names: But only with the roses plays; And them does tell What colour best becomes them, and what smell. Who can foretell for what high cause This Darling of the Gods was born! Yet this is she whose chaster laws The wanton Love shall one day fear, And, under her command severe, See his bow broke and ensigns torn. Happy, who can Appease this virtuous enemy of man! O, then let me in time compound, And parley with those conquering eyes; Ere they have tried their force to wound, Ere, with their glancing wheels, they drive In triumph over hearts that strive, And them that yield but more despise. Let me be laid, Where I may see thy glories from some shade. Meantime, whilst every verdant thing Itself does at thy beauty charm, Reform the errors of the spring; Make that the tulips may have share Of sweetness, seeing they are fair; And roses of their thorns disarm: But most procure That violets may a longer age endure. But, O young beauty of the woods, Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers, Gather the flowers, but spare the buds; Lest Flora angry at thy crime, To kill her infants in their prime, Do quickly make the example yours; And, ere we see, Nip in the blossom all our hopes and thee.