Monday, September 28, 2026

Boats (Monday Poem)

by Alberto Blanco
 
 
1
A poem is a boat built of wood
and made by your own hands:
it's fragile, it's small,
but it can carry you as far
as the wind wants.
 
A poem is a boat built of wood
to drift with the flow,
until you come to a  remote island
and decide to live there
forever.
 
 
2
A poem is a paper boat
made of your own words:
everything in your life fits
in the spaces formed by its folds
and its colors.
 
A poem is a paper boat
to set sailing across 
the lake of your days
and the nighttime pond
of your fondest dreams.
 
 
3
A boy is a small boat made of wood:
and his oars are his hands,
the sails, his mind.
 
A girl is a small boat made of paper;
her shape is half a star
and her reflection the other part.
 
 
4
Life is a boat built of wood
sheltered by a dream. . . 
but it's the water, too, where it floats,
and wind that sweeps it along,
and imagination that propels it.
 
Life is a paper boat. . . 
but it's also a sad garden
and scarred crystals in a small lake
that reflect our globe
with all its shadows.
 
 
 
translated by Judith Infante
 
1
Un poema es un barco de madera
hecho con tus proprias manos:
es fragil, es pequeno,
pero te puede llevar tan lejos
como quiera el viento.
 
Un poema es un barco de madera
para viajar poco a poco,
y llegar hasta una isla lejana
y quedarte a vivir en ella
para siempre.
 
2
Un poema es un barco de papel
hecho con tus proprios palabras:
todo tu vida cabe en el hueco
que dejan sus pliegues,
y sus colores.
 
Un poema es un barco de papel
para echarlo a navegar
en el estanque de tus dias
y en la alberca nocturna
de tus mejores suenos.
 
3
Un nino es un barquito de madera:
sus remos son sus manos,
sus velas, su cabeza.
 
Una nina es un barquito de papel:
su forma es la mitad de una estrella
y su reflejo es la otra mitad.
 
4
La vida es un barco de madera
a la deriva de un sueno . . . 
pero es tambien el agua donde flota
y el viento que lo mueve
y la imaginacion que lo provoca.
 
La vida es un barco de papel . . .
pero es tambien el jardin triste
y los cristales manchados del esanque
donde se refleja el mundo
con sus respectivas sombras.
 
 
from The Tree is Older Than You Are:
A Bilingual Gathering of Poems and Stories
from Mexico with Paintings by Mexican Artists
selected by Naomi Shihab Nye
Simon & Schuster, 1995  

Monday, September 21, 2026

My Private Holiday (Monday Poem)

by Sharon M Draper
 
 
When I was little
I used to want a Children's Day
    like Mother's Day
    or Father's Day
 
But my mother said
    that every day
    was Children's Day.
I didn't believe her.
 
Then I wanted a Wife's Day
    but my husband said
    that every day
    was Wife's Day.
I really didn't believe him.
 
Besides, he said,
    I get Valentine's Day
    and my birthday
    and Christmas too --
and have you seen my keys?
 
So I decided that a holiday should exist
just for me.
 
Because I'm worth it --
 
and Christmas
and Valentine's Day
and Sweetest Day
and Labor Day
and Arbor Day (when is that anyway?)
are just not enough.
 
I need a day
that lets me sleep
six hours past the alarm --
but when I wake up
    rested and refreshed
the glow and the promise of the morning remains
    because I like morning.
 
When I wake the house will be spotless
the kids will be brilliant
and all the bills will be paid.
 
A check will be in the mailbox
made out to me.
Maybe Publishers'Clearing House
    without the cameras.
 
I'll eat all I want
    rich French vanilla ice cream
    thick sugar-covered sweet rolls
    white chocolate macadamia nut cookies
And still lose ten pounds
 
In my backyard will be an ocean --
    with miles of clean, quiet beach --
    because I like the beach.
 
I'll walk along my beach
    and breathe in the freshness
    of my private holiday
        write poetry
        bask in the sunshine
        and eat jelly beans
 
My own celebration
of silence and joy. 
 
 
from Buttered Bones
Collected poetry by Sharon M Draper
1997  
 

Monday, September 14, 2026

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  
 

Monday, September 7, 2026

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  

 

 

 

Monday, August 31, 2026

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 

Monday, August 24, 2026

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  

 

 

 

Monday, August 17, 2026

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