Monday, November 24, 2025

A Country Boy in Winter (Monday Poem)

 by Sarah Orne Jewett
 
 
 
The wind may blow the snow about,
For all I care, says Jack,
And I don’t mind how cold it grows,
For then the ice won’t crack.
Old folks may shiver all day long,
But I shall never freeze;
What cares a jolly boy like me
For winter days like these?
 
Far down the long snow-covered hills
It is such fun to coast,
So clear the road! the fastest sled
There is in school I boast.
The paint is pretty well worn off,
But then I take the lead;
A dandy sled’s a loiterer,
And I go in for speed.
 
When I go home at supper-time,
Ki! but my cheeks are red!
They burn and sting like anything;
I’m cross until I’m fed.
You ought to see the biscuit go,
I am so hungry then;
And old Aunt Polly says that boys
Eat twice as much as men.
 
There’s always something I can do
To pass the time away;
The dark comes quick in winter-time—
A short and stormy day
And when I give my mind to it,
It’s just as father says,
I almost do a man’s work now,
And help him many ways.
 
I shall be glad when I grow up
And get all through with school,
I’ll show them by-and-by that I
Was not meant for a fool.
I’ll take the crops off this old farm,
I’ll do the best I can.
A jolly boy like me won’t be
A dolt when he’s a man.
 
I like to hear the old horse neigh
Just as I come in sight,
The oxen poke me with their horns
To get their hay at night.
Somehow the creatures seem like friends,
And like to see me come.
Some fellows talk about New York,
But I shall stay at home.
 
 
Public domain 
 

Monday, November 17, 2025

Yellow Butter (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Ann Hoberman
 
 
Yellow butter purple jelly red jam black bread
 
Spread it thick 
Say it quick
 
Yellow butter purple jelly red jam black bread
 
Spread it thicker
Say it quicker
 
Yellow butter purple jelly red jam black bread
 
 Now repeat it
While you eat it
 
Yellow butter purple jelly red jam black bread
 
Don't talk
With your mouth full!
 
 
from Forget-Me-Nots: Poems to Learn by Heart 
Selected by Mary Ann Hoberman
Little, Brown & Co, 2012 
 

Monday, November 10, 2025

Tsegihi (Monday Poem)

by N. Scott Momaday
 
 
House made of dawn,
House made of evening light,
House made of dark cloud,
House made of male rain,
House made of dark mist,
House made of female rain,
House made of pollen,
House made of grasshoppers,
Dark cloud is at the door.
The trail out of its dark cloud.
The zigzag lightning stands high upon it.
Male deity!
Your offering I make.
I have prepared a smoke for you.
Restore my feet for me.
Restore my legs for me.
Restore my body for me.
Restore my mind for me.
Restore my voice for me.
This very day take out your spell for me.
Your spell moves from me.
You have taken it away for me;
Far off it has gone.
Happily I recover.
Happily my interior becomes cool.
Happily I go forth.
My interior feeling cool, may I walk.
No longer sore, may I walk.
Impervious to pain, may I walk.
With lively feelings may I walk.
As it used to be long ago, may I walk.
Happily may I walk.
Happily, with abundant dark clouds, may I walk. 
Happily, with abundant showers, may I walk.
Happily, with abundant plants, may I walk.
Happily may I walk.
Being as it used to be long ago, may I walk.
May it be beautiful before me,
May it be beautiful behind me,
May it be beautiful below me,
May it be beautiful above me,
May it be beautiful all around me.
In beauty it is finished.
 
 
Exerpt of the Navajo Night Chant song, 
from House Made of Dawn by N. Scott Momaday
HarperCollins, 1999 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

Monday, November 3, 2025

It's Raining in Honolulu (Monday Poem)

 by Joy Harjo
 
 
There is a small mist at the brow of the mountain,
each leaf of flower, of taro, tree and bush shivers with ecstasy.
And the rain songs of all the flowering ones who have called for the rain
can be found there, flourishing beneath the currents of singing.
Rain opens us, like flowers, or earth that has been thirsty for more than a season.
We stop all of our talking, quit thinking, or blowing sax to drink the mystery.
We listen to the breathing beneath our breathing.
This is how the rain became rain, how we became human.
The wetness saturates everything, including the perpetrators of the second overthrow.
We will plant songs where there were curses.
 
 
from How We Became Human: New and Selected Poems 1975-2001
by Joy Harjo
W. W. Norton and Company 2002