Granny (Monday Poem)

by Sharon Draper

 

 

I remember my Granny's home cookin',

She'd hum, and she'd mix, and she'd stir.

She could make buttered bones taste delicious,

If that's all the makin's there were.

 

I remember my Granny's lap-naptimes,

Where dreams would lie wrapped her her arms.

She would sing of old pain and lost glory,

Of the long-ago days on the farms.

 

I remember my Granny's strong fingers,

As she brushed and she braided my hair.

My scalp and my brain would just tingle

As she wound her own memories there.

 

I remember my Granny's old washtub;

It was battered and made out of tin.

Warm bubbles made baths seem like magic,

And nighttime and dreams could begin.

 

I remember my Granny's soft blankets,

On a large, squeaky, four-poster bed.

The faint smell of mothballs and cedar,

And her warm breathing close to my head.

 

 

from Buttered Bones

Collected poetry by Sharon M Draper

1997  

 

San Francisco (Monday Poem)

 by Francisco X Alarcon

 

 

my name is

Francisco like

my grandfather

 

and like 

his grandfather's 

grandfather

 

I'm so happy

this city is

named after

 

Saint Francis--

the patron saint

of all animals

 

here everybody

knows how to

spell my name

 

 

 

 

yo me llamo 

Francisco

como mi abuelo

 

y como

el abuelo

de su abuelo

 

como me alegro

que esta ciudad

lleve el nombre

 

de San Francisco--

el santo patron

de los animales

 

aqui mi nombre

todos lo saben

escribir

 

 

from Forget-Me-Not: Poems to Learn by Heart

Selected by Mary Ann Hoberman

illustrated by Michael Emberley

Little, Brown and Company, 20012  

 

 

 

Today Was Not My Day at All (Monday Poem)

by Jack Prelutsky

 

 

Today was not my day at all,

today was not my day,

for everything went wrong today

in almost every way.

This morning I was menaced

by a troop of marching ants,

I brushed my teeth with shaving cream,

I split my brand new pants.

 

I smashed my only glasses,

and the key snapped in the lock,

the toaster didn't toast the toast,

then handed me a shock.

I walked into a door knob,

something squirmed inside my shoe,

I found an ugly beetle

at the bottom of my stew.

 

A bird I didn't recognize

flew down and pecked my nose,

a chimpanzee on roller skates

sped by and squashed my toes.

I wonder if I'm under

some unlucky sort of curse,

today's the twelfth, and Thursday ---

tomorrow may be worse.

 

 

from It's Raining Pigs & Noodles: poems by Jack Prelutsky

Illustrated by James Stevenson

Greenwillow, 2000 

Recipe for Writing an Autumn Poem (Monday Poem)

by Georgia Heard

 

 

 

One teaspoon wild geese.

One tablespoon red kite.

One cup wind song.

One pint trembling leaves.

One quart darkening sky.

One gallon north wind.

 

 

from Falling Down the Page: A Book of List Poems

Edited by Georgia Heard

2009 Roaring Brook Press  

 

 

 

Chocolate and Vanilla (Monday Poem)

by Sharon Draper 

 

 

Smooth vanilla ice cream,

Chocolate cake so sweet,

Delicious and enticing

for trembling lips to eat.

 

Soft vanilla pudding,

Rich chocolate pie,

A luscious combination,

Delight for tongue and eye.

 

Hot vanilla icing,

Cool chocolate cream,

Melted on each other,

A warm and sensuous dream.

 

 

 

from Buttered Bones: collected poetry 

by Sharon M. Draper 

1997 

 

Aunt Sue's Stories (Monday Poem)

 by Langston Hughes

 

 

Aunt Sue has a head full of stories.
Aunt Sue has a whole heart full of stories.
Summer nights on the front porch
Aunt Sue cuddles a brown-faced child to her bosom
And tells him stories.

Black slaves
Working in the hot sun,
And black slaves
Walking in the dewy night,
And black slaves
Singing sorrow songs on the banks of a mighty river
Mingle themselves softly
In the flow of old Aunt Sue’s voice,
Mingle themselves softly
In the dark shadows that cross and recross
Aunt Sue’s stories.

And the dark-faced child, listening,
Knows that Aunt Sue’s stories are real stories.
He knows that Aunt Sue
Never got her stories out of any book at all,
But that they came
Right out of her own life.

And the dark-faced child is quiet
Of a summer night
Listening to Aunt Sue’s stories.

 

from https://poetryoutloud.org 

 

This is Just to Say (Monday Poem)

 by William Carlos Williams

 

 

I have eaten 

the plums

that were in 

the icebox

 

and which

you were probably 

saving

for breakfast

 

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold.

 

 

from  A River of Words: 

The Story of William Carlos Williams

by Jen Bryant, illustrated by Melissa Sweet
Eerdmans, 2008