Poetry For Our Children

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
Had a wife and couldn't keep her;
He put her in a pumpkin shell
& there he kept her very well.

Growing


Author: Anonymous


I'm leaving now to slay the foe -
Fight the battles, high and low.
I'm leaving mother, hear me go!
Please wish me luck today.

I've grown my wings, I want to fly,
Seize my victories where they lie.
I'm going, mom, but please don't cry -
Just let me find my way.

I want to see and touch and hear,
Though there are dangers, there are fears.
I'll smile my smiles and dry my tears -
Please let me speak my say.

I'm off to find my worked, my dreams,
Carve my niche, sew my seams,
Remember, as I sail my streams -
I'll love you all the way.

There is no peace....
by Pamela Prentiss-Harrison


 


The night falls gentle upon the earth


but hard within the heart of a terror-filled child.


There is no peace this night


but a sentry-like awareness of


every noise, every movement


within the house.


 


A silent prayer is taken upon the wings


of the mourning dove


who waters the ground below with its tears


watching puddles form where each drop lands


forming a new ocean of sorrow.


There is no peace this night.


 


The tender child draws itself


into a tiny ball as if to disappear


... footsteps are heard in the hall


"please no" is whispered, "please go" is prayed


as the doorknob quietly turns.


There is no peace this night.


 


The dove soars higher, shaking sobs within its breast


penetrating clouds, gliding on wind


seeking its source


looking for the Light


knowing there will be no peace this night.


 


The shadow falls across


clenched fists, tousled curls,


drawn up limbs, eyes squeezed shut


against the scene about to unfold


scarcely breathing, knowing


there is no peace this night.


 


Feverishly winging toward


the rainbow of light and celestial destination,


the dove contracts and gasps with the pain


of its little charges' spirit


and delivers the message


To the being of Light & Beauty


who swoops down to grasp the hand of the child


and deliver its pain to another dimension


to be stored until the child is stronger


and able to face the reality of evil on the earth.


 


The angel cradles her charge,


gently rocking, while tears stream down her face...


mixing with the silent tears of the child.


The dove quietly sings its grievous song of mourning


for the lost innocence of this precious tot.


There is no peace this night.


 

Lewis Carroll


'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


El Jabberwocky
Adolfo de Alba


Era la asarvesperia y los flexilimosos toves
giroscopiaban taledrando en el vade;
debilmiseros estaban los borogoves;
bramatchisilban los verdilechos parde.



¡Cuidado con el Jabberwocky, hijo mío!
¡Cuídate de las mandíbulas que muerden.
de las garras que apresan!
Cuídate del pájaro Rapiña y del altanero Halcón.



Empuñó él su tajante espada,
y contempló a su terrible enemigo largo rato.
Se puso a la sombra del árbol tumtum
y duró un rato cavilando.



Luego, de un brinco, púsose presto,
y la mala bestia, con ojos fulgurantes
llegó resoplando por el sombrío bosque,
y al acercarse aullaba.



¡Uno, dos! ¡Uno, dos! Sin cesar
la filosa espada daba tajos.
Muerto lo dejó, y, cortándole la cabeza,
de allí se alejó presto.



--¿Mataste al fin a la mala bestia, al tremando Jabberwocky?
¡Ven a mis brazos, niño querido!
¡Hermoso día! ¡Hurra! ¡Hurra!
--gritaba con alegría.


Era la asarvesperia y los flexilimosos toves
giroscopiaban taledrando en el vade;
debilmiseros estaban los borogoves;
bramatchisilban los verdilechos parde.



Le Jaseroque

Il brilgue: les tôves lubricilleux
Se gyrent en vrillant dans le guave,
Enmîmés sont les gougebosqueux,
Et le mômerade horsgrave.

Garde-toi du Jaseroque, mon fils!
La gueule qui mord; la griffe qui prend!
Garde-toi de l'oiseau Jube, évite
Le frumieux Band-à-prend.

Son glaive vorpal en mail il va-
T-à la recherche du fauve manscant;
Puis arriveé à l'arbre Té-Té,
Il y reste, réfléchissant.

Pendant qu'il pense, tout uffusé
Le Jaseroque, à l'oeil flambant,
Vient siblant par le bois tullegeais,
Et burbule en venant.

Un deux, un deux, par le milieu,
Le glaive vorpal fait pat-à-pan!
La bête défaite, avec sa tête,
Il rentre gallomphant.

As-tu tué le Jaseroque?
Viens à mon coeur, fils rayonnais!
O jour frabbejeais! Calleau! Callai!
Il cortule dans sa joie.

Il brilgue: les tôves lubricilleux
Se gyrent en vrillant dans le guave,
Enmîmés sont les gougebosqueux,
Et le mômerade horsgrave.


Der Jammerwoch

Es brillig war. Die schlichte Toven
Wirrten und wimmelten in Waben;
Und aller-mümsige Burggoven
Die mohmen Räth' ausgraben

Bewahre doc vor Jammerwoch!
Die Zähne knirschen, Krallen kratzen!
Bewahr' vor Jubjub--Vogel, vor
Frumiösen Banderschnätzchen!

Er griff sein vorpals Schwertchen zu,
Er suchte lang das manscham' Ding;
Dann, stehend unten Tumtum Baum,
Er an-zu-denken-fing.

Als stand er tief in Andacht auf,
Des Jammerwochen's Augen-feuer
Durch tulgen Wald mit wiffek kam
Ein burbelnd uhgeheuer!

Eins, Zwei! Eins, Zwei! Und durch und durch
Sein vorpals Schwert zerschnifer-schnück,
Da blieb es todt! Er, Kopf in Hand,
Geläumfig zog zurück.

Und schlugst Du ja den Jammerwoch?
Umarme mich, mien B&oumlhm' sches Kind!
O Freuden-Tag! O Halloo-Schlag!
Er chortelt froh-gesinnt.

Es brillig war, &c.

To Every Parent


There are little eyes upon you,
And they are watching night and day;
There are little ears that quickly take
In every word you say;
There are little hands all eager to do
Everything you do,
And a little child who's dreaming of
The day he'll be like you.

You're the little child's idol,
You're the wisest of the wise,
In his little mind about you,
No suspicions ever rise;
He believes in you devoutly,
Holds all you say and do;
He will say and do in your way when
He's grown up to be like you.

There's a wide eyed little child who
Believes you're always right,
And his ears are always open and he
Watches day and night;
You are setting an example
Everyday in all you do
For the little child who's waiting
To grow up to be like you.

Solomon Daniel Kamara
Butchery of the Innocent Child


And tomorrow the cock will crow
But then the blood will start to flow.
A six year old girl, with tear-filled eyes
Pleading with captors who were never nice
As they with a broken beer bottle began to cut
Her tender young hand, for what she knew not
"Papa! Wuna sorry for me! Nor cut me han!!"


"Father! Have mercy on me! Don't cut my hand!!


But the cruel butchers now smelling blood
With an evil grin and smiles so broad
Stepped on her neck to stifle her screams
And soon her blood flowed like a stream.
Her mother five feet away being gang-raped
Her thirteen year old sister being gang-raped
"Me han! Me han! Den don cut me han!"


"My hand! My hand! They have cut my hand!"


Oh! Dear reader! Alas! This is not fiction.
It happened, is happening, stinking diction.
Sierra Leone! Every time I sit down to write
I cry! I feeeeel your pain! I know your plight.
I cry freedom! I pray for genuine peace and freedom
No more killings! Rapings! We want peace and freedom
Help! Help! Help! Help poor Sierra Leone!


In her heyday her university shaped Africa
Her diamonds enriched the Western world
She provided a stable environment for her people
But now you leave her to suffer and die!!
"Land that we love our Sierra Leone!!"

How Doth the Little Crocodile
From Lewis Carroll


How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail;
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaw!



 

An Eight Year Old's God
 


two weeks after devastating news
and the evening following the burial of despair
i was sitting on a tire strung from rope
at my great-aunt's while
every survivor sat inside the house in a circle of solidarity
mourning and grieving
i sat swinging in solitude on a cold October day
Father Manapello came walking down the hill and
knelt by my side breaking the monotony of my creaking swing
'Tiffany, do you understand what has happened? '
in the innocence of an eight year old
and the anger of a too young, too broken soul
i stared into the devoted father's eyes and whispered
'god killed my mommy and daddy'

Tiffany Etter

Childhood - The 21st Century
 

How advanced they are, these children of the future,
Like small adults, within their tiny frames,
They grow up in a fast 'speed driven' culture,
Where 'learning pressures' change their kind of games,
Where is their childhood, in all this hurly burly,
Where is their pure untainted view of things,
Why do they have to grow so old, so early,
And lose the joy that only childhood brings.

Our childhood was filled with thoughts of joy and gladness,
We lived our lives, oblivious to the world
And all it's hardships, wars, it's grief and sadness,
We stood, waiting for our lives to be unfurled.
We had time to grow, and gain an understanding,
Of each new phase, each change along the way,
As we grew slowly, our senses all expanding,
So with clarity, we slowly changed our play.

We had a framework on which to build and flourish,
Slow and steady, this was no rushed affair,
Taking each step, then step by step to nourish,
Our childhood, so finally adulthood we would share.
What will become, of these 'New Century' learners,
I doubt if they, a dreamy childhood see,
Will they then tell to all those bright discerners
Of their own, how they remembered their childhood to be.

Ernestine Northover

COME PLAY WITH ME

sweetgrass wafting autumn harvest
sighs with love divine, unspoken
candle light observing darkness
holds a world expectantly...

here in dark of dawns prebirth
comes a whooshing whooshing...
angel wings still flutter softly
'round the hearts of mortal man

birthing pains in nut shell open
releasing seeds to fertile Earth
even ice melts in the furnace
of the river rushing forth

time stands still but only shortly
or long if one is standing still
what clings us to a backward motion
releases as we boldly step

into the shoes of our own making
flowers need but once to bloom
in this garden of human faces
is delight of wonder...meant

hoards of angels' singing voices
praise the passing, evening light
praise the birthing day to be
unclung to old miseries
"here," -- they gently touch my shoulders
first my left and then my right
"wings invisible will fly now
to the love that's pulling you."

all love is a pulling, tugging
to what calls a heart to play
see us here all tugging, pulling
one big clam shell open, closing

will you come & play?
 

 
Wind 


 
Oh great and mighty spirit,
Where has the music gone?
Once the wind sang.
Now it howls.
What happened to the music?

It's gone.
Where is it?
I must know.
I have to find it.
But how?

Where do I start?
Why should I start?
Should I find
    the music that
    fills the air?
That runs through
    the trees,
And sails the waves,
That touches the soul.

Of course I should.
It shall change the world.
The world will rejoice.
And so will I.



(editor's note: Jennifer Holliday is an 11 year old from New Mexico)

Warning to Children

Children, if you dare to think
Of the greatness, rareness, muchness
Fewness of this precious only
Endless world in which you say
You live, you think of things like this:
Blocks of slate enclosing dappled
Red and green, enclosing tawny
Yellow nets, enclosing white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where a neat brown paper parcel
Tempts you to untie the string.
In the parcel a small island,
On the island a large tree,
On the tree a husky fruit.
Strip the husk and pare the rind off:
In the kernel you will see
Blocks of slate enclosed by dappled
Red and green, enclosed by tawny
Yellow nets, enclosed by white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where the same brown paper parcel -
Children, leave the string alone!
For who dares undo the parcel
Finds himself at once inside it,
On the island, in the fruit,
Blocks of slate about his head,
Finds himself enclosed by dappled
Green and red, enclosed by yellow
Tawny nets, enclosed by black
And white acres of dominoes,
With the same brown paper parcel
Still untied upon his knee.
And, if he then should dare to think
Of the fewness, muchness, rareness,
Greatness of this endless only
Precious world in which he says
he lives - he then unties the string.

Robert Graves

The Child in Me
By May Riley Smith
1842-1927


She follows me about my House of Life
(This happy little ghost of my dead Youth!)
She has no part in Time's relentless strife
She keeps her old simplicity and truth --
And laughs at grim Mortality,
This deathless Child that stays with me --
(This happy little ghost of my dead Youth!)

My House of Life is weather-stained with years --
(O Child in Me, I wonder why you stay.)
Its windows are bedimmed with rain of tears,
The walls have lost their rose, its thatch is gray.
One after one its guests depart,
So dull a host is my old heart.
(O Child in Me, I wonder why you stay!)

For jealous Age, whose face I would forget,
Pulls the bright flowers you bring me from my hair
And powders it with snow; and yet -- and yet
I love your dancing feet and jocund air.
I have no taste for caps of lace
To tie about my faded face --
I love to wear your flowers in my hair.

O Child in Me, leave not my House of Clay
Until we pass together through the Door,
When lights are out, and Life has gone away
And we depart to come again no more.
We comrades who have travelled far
Will hail the Twilight and the Star,
And smiling, pass together through the Door!

Schooling Nature Poem by Japan Pathak


Hey! All you butterflies!
You ought to carry schoolbags on your backs!
And you should not fly freely here and there, this way and that!
Hey! You beautiful rivers and streams!
Do not meander, but flow straight!
And do not make a noise either: flow quietly!
Likewise all you fishes!
Do not swim any which way you please.
Swim in straight lines,
As they do in swimming championships!
Hey! All you colourful flowers!
Wear the same colour, uniform and dress,
As they do in school!

Poems against the School


I dreamed I stood at the gate to hell,
And watched the sculptors there,
The clay they used was children's souls,
And they shaped it without care.
All were teachers, the tools they used,
Were shouting and verbal abuse,
And all of those teachers subjected those souls,
To ignorance and misuse.
Day after day the teachers toiled,
With a brutal and practised touch,
While all of the little souls' parents thought,
Their children were learning so much.
And as the souls were tortured,
In hell's burning, hungry fires,
Some became angry and violent,
And developed perverted desires.
Most became sad and then sadder,
Some shrivelled and died in pain,
While others grew up to be sculptors,
Their spirits to regain.
And I wondered, while I was dreaming,
Why others could not see,
That damage caused by teachers,
Affects society …
And why we have this system,
Of teaching tender souls,
That children have to go to hell,
In order to reach goals …
A system born in days of yore,
Made from philosophies,
Of men - who hated children,
And thought babies couldn't see …
A system from, "Utopia,"
And Mann and Jean Rousseau,
Where children, while still babes in arms,
Off to school must go.
I dreamed that I walked into hell,
And took my children out,
And when I woke found they taught me,
What learning is about.
Think back and you'll remember,
Your children taught you too,
In days before they went to school,
When they were taught by you.


Copyright School Mania - Adele Carrall - 2000

The Tree In The Winter

by Wag

My father seems so strong.
Not big or huge.
Just stable and strong.

He seems to be anchored
His roots run deep.
Drawing no attention to himself.

He is like a tree in the winter
Often overlooked
Standing strong
Quietly anchored
Always silent

Yet deeply communicating
There is no uncertainty
Really no reason to notice.
Unless you are observant of reality.

If you are looking for color and drama
The tree in the winter is not even seen.
How unfortunate
It contributes so much to go unnoticed.
I'm glad I took the time to see the tree,
so much like my father.

Missing Grandma

by Tara

I have a grandma . . .
who hugs, kisses, smiles and says, "My, how you've grown" whenever she sees
me.
but not anymore . . .

I have a grandma . . .
who plays in the creek at deer camp and helps me catch Cray fish without
going eeewww.
but not anymore . . .

I have a grandma . . .
who can teach me how to play solitaire three different ways and not snitch
if I cheat.
but not anymore . . .

I have a grandma . . .
who tells the most wonderful stories, snorts when she laughs, and has a
joke with four punch lines.
but not anymore . . .

I have a grandma . . .
who comes to my tea parties, plays dress up and always lets me be the
queen.
but not anymore . . .

I have a grandma . . .
who drives a sporty purple car, very fast just to make me and my sister
laugh out loud.
but not anymore . . .

I have a grandma . . .
who has Alzheimer's disease, doesn't know my name or even say, "My how
you've grown" when she sees me
but she's not my grandma . . .

I want her to let my grandma come out to play.

A Cookie and a Kiss



Author Unknown


A house should have a cookie jar
For when it's half past three
And children hurry home from school
As hungry as can be,


There's nothing quite so splendid
In filling children up
As spicy, fluffy ginger cakes
And sweet milk in a cup.


A house should have a mother
Waiting with a hug
No matter what the boy brings home
A puppy or a bug.

Bedtime
By Kate Cox Goddard


Sometimes when I get into bed,
And cannot go to sleep,
And after all my prayers are said,
And I have counted sheep,
I call to Mother, and I say:
"A drink of water, please."
She knows that I'm not thirsty,
and only want to tease.
And so I laugh when she comes in
And opens wide the door,
She knows I only want to kiss
And hug her just once more.




Bedtime
Author Unknown


Five minutes, five minutes more, please!
Let me stay five minutes more!
Can't I just finish the castle
I'm building on the floor?
Can't I just finish this beadchain
It's almost finished, look!
Can't I just finish this game, please?