First Snow (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

The snow

began here

this morning and all day

continued, its white 

rhetoric everywhere

calling us back to why, how,

whence  such beauty and what

the meaning; such

an oracular fever! flowing

past windows, an energy it seemed

would never ebb, never settle

less than lovely! and only now,

deep into night,

it has finally ended.

The silence

is immense,

and the heavens still hold

a million candles; nowhere

the familiar things:

stars, the moon,

the darkness we expect

and nightly turn from. Trees

glitter like castles

of ribbons, the broad fields

smolder with light, a passing

creekbed lies

heaped with shining hills;

and though the questions

that have assailed us all day

remain--not a single

answer has been found--

walking out now

into the silence and the light

under the trees,

and through the fields,

feels like one.

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

 

 

Praying (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

It doesn't have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try

to make them elaborate, this isn't

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

The Loon (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

 Not quite four a.m., when the rapture of being alive

strikes me from sleep, and I rise

from the comfortable bed and go

to another room, where my books are lined up

in their neat and colorful rows. How

magical they are! I choose one

and open it. Soon

I have wandered in over the waves of the words

 to the temple of thought.

                                            And then I hear

outside, over the actual waves, the small,

perfect voice of the loon. He is also awake,

and with his heavy head uplifted he calls out

to the fading moon, to the pink flush

swelling in the east that, soon,

will become the long, reasonable day.

                                                           Inside the house

it is still dark, except for the pool of lamploght

in which I am sitting.

                                    I do not close the book.

Neither, for a long while, do I read. on.

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

When Death Comes (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

When death comes

like the hungry bear in autumn,

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;

when death comes

like the measle-pox;

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,

tending, as all music does, toward silence,

 

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth.

When its over, I want to say: all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When its over, I don't want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,

or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

Wild Geese (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

    love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

Mindful (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

Every day

    I see or hear

        something

            that more or less

kills me

    with delight,

        that leaves me

            like a needle

in the haystack

    of light,

        It is what I was born for--

            to look, to listen,

to lose myself

    inside this soft world--

        to instruct myself

            over and over

in joy,

    and acclamation.

        Nor am I talking 

            about the exceptinal,

 

the fearful, the dreadful,

    the very extravagant--

        but of the ordinary,

            the common, the very drab,

 

the daily presentations.

    Oh, good scholar,

        I say to myself,

            how can you help

 

but grow wise

    with such teachings

        as these--

            the untrimmable light

 

of the world,     

    the ocean's shine,

        the prayers that are made

            out of grass?

 

 

 

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

 

Poppies (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

The poppies send up their

orange flares; swaying

in the wind, their congregations

are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin

and lacy leaves.

There isn't a place

in this world that doesn't

sooner or later drown

in the indigos of darkness,

but now, for a while,

the roughage

shines like a miracle

as it floats above everything

with its yellow hair.

Of course nothing stops the cold,

black, curved blade

from looking forward--

of course

loss is the great lesson.

But also I say this: that light

is an invitation

to happiness,

and that happiness,

when it's done right,

is a kind of holiness,

palpable and redemptive.

Inside the bright fields,

touched by their rough and spongy gold,.

I am washed and washed

in the river

of earthly delight--

and what are you going to do--

what can you do

about it--

deep, blue night?

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

Goldenrod (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

On roadsides,

    in fall fields,

        in rumpy bunches,

            saffron and orange and pale gold,

in little towers,

    soft as mash,

        sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers,

            full of bees and yellow beads and perfect flowerlets

and orange butterflies.

    I don't suppose

        much notice comes of it, except for honey,

            and how it heartens the heart with its

blank blaze.

    I don't suppose anything loves it except, perhaps,

        the rocky voids

            filled by its dumb dazzle.

For myself,

    I was just passing by, when the wind flared

       and the blossoms rustled,

            and the glittering pandemonium

leaned on me.

    I was just minding my own business

        when I found myself on their straw hillsides,

            citron and butter-colored,

and was happy, and why not?

    Are not the difficult labors of our lives

        full of dark hours?

            And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far,

that is far better than these light-filled bodies?

    All day

        on their airy backbones

            they toss in the wind,

they bend as thought it was natural and godly to bend,

    they rise in a stiff sweetness,

        in the pure peace of giving

            one's gold away.

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

        

Some Questions You Might Ask (Monday Poem,)

by Mary Oliver

 

 

Is the soul solid, like iron?

Or is it tender and breakable, like

the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?

Who has it, and who doesn't?

I keep looking around me.

The face of the moose is as sad

as the face of Jesus.

The swan opens her white wings slowly.

In the fall, the black bear carries leaves into the darkness.

One question leads to another.

Does it have a shape? Like an iceberg?

Like the eye of a hummingbird?

Does it have one lung, like the snake and the scallop?

Why should I have it, and not the anteater

who loves her children?

Why should I have it, and not the camel?

Come to think of it, what about the maple trees?

What about the blue iris?

What about all the little stones, sitting alone in the moonlight?

What about roses, and lemons, and their shining leaves?

What about the grass?

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

Carrying the Snake to the Garden (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

In the cellar

was the smallest snake

I have ever seen.

It coiled itself

in a corner

and watched me

with eyes

like two little stars

set into coal,

and a tail

that quivered.

One step

of my foot

and it fled

like a running shoelace,

but a scoop of the wrist

and I had it

in my hand.

I was sorry

for the fear,

so I hurried

upstairs and out the kitchen door

to the warm grass

and the sunlight

and the garden.

It turned and turned

in my hand

but when I put it down

it didn't move.

I thought

it was going to flow

up my leg

and into my pocket.

I thought, for a moment,

as it lifted its face,

it was going to sing.

And then it was gone.

 by Mary Oliver

It doesn't have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try

to make them elaborate, this isn't

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

Wild Geese (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

    love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting---

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

 

 

 

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017 

Backyard (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

I had no time to haul out all

the dead stuff so it hung, limp

or dry, wherever the wind swung it

over or down or across. All summer

it stayed that way, untrimmed, and

thickened. The paths grew

damp and uncomfortable and mossy until

nobody could get through but a mouse or a 

shadow. Blackberries, ferns, leaves, litter

totally without direction management

supervision. The birds loved it.

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

Fireflies (Monday Poem)

by Mary Oliver

 

 

At Blackwater

fireflies

are not even a dime a dozen--

they are free,

 

and each floats and turns

among the branches of the oaks

and the swamp azaleas

looking for another

 

as, who doesn't?

Oh, blessings

on the intimacy

inside fruition,

 

be it foxes

or the fireflies

or the dampness inside the petals

of a thousand flowers.

 

Though Eden is lost

its loveliness

remains in the heart

and the imagination;

 

he would take her

in a boat

over the dark water;

she would take him

 

to an island she knows

where the blue flag grows wild

and the grass is deep,

where the birds

 

perch together,

feather to feather,

on the bough.

And the fireflies,

 

blinking their little lights,

hurry toward one another.

And the world continues,

God willing.

 

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

 

Passing the Unworked Field (Monday Poem)

 by Mary Oliver

Queen Anne's lace

    is hardly 

        prized but

all the same it isn't

    idle look

                how it

    stands straight on it

thin stems how it

    scrubs its white faces

        with the

rags of the sun how it

            makes all the 

                loveliness

                    it can.

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

Three Things to Remember (Monday Poem)

by Mary Oliver

 

 

As long as you're dancing, you can

    break the rules.

Sometimes breaking the rules is just

    extending the rules.

 

Sometimes there are no rules.

 

 

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017 

I Go Down to the Shore (Monday Poem)

by Mary Oliver

 

 

I go down to the shore in the morning

and depending on the hour the waves

are rolling in or moving out,

and I say, oh, I am miserable,

what shall---

what should I do? And the sea says

in its lovely voice:

Excuse me, I have work to do.

 

 

 

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017 

Loneliness (Monday Poem)

by Mary Oliver

I too have known loneliness.

I too have known what it is to feel

    misunderstood,

    rejected, and suddenly

not at all beautiful.

Oh, mother earth,

    your comfort is great, your arms never withhold.

It has saved my life to know this.

Your rivers flowing, your roses opening in the morning.

Oh, motions of tenderness!

from Devotions: the Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Penguin, 2017

August Heat (Monday Poem)

 Anonymous

 

 

In August, when the days are hot,

I like to find a shady spot,

And hardly move a single bit --

And sit --

and sit --

and sit --

and sit!

 

 

 

from Sing a Song of Seasons: 

A Nature Poem for Each Day of the Year

Selected by Fiona Waters

illustrated by Frann Preston-Gannon

Candlewick Press, 2018 

 

The Sandpiper (Monday Poem)

 by Frances M. Frost

At the edge of the tide

He stops to wonder,

Races throught

The lace of thunder.

On toothpick legs

Swift and brittle,

He runs and pipes

And his voice is little.

But small or not,

He has the notion

To outshout 

The Atlantic Ocean.

from Sing a Song of Seasons: 

A Nature Poem for Each Day of the Year

Selected by Fiona Waters

illustrated by Frann Preston-Gannon

Candlewick Press, 2018

The Silver Road (Monday Poem)

by Hamish Hendry

 

 

Last night I saw a Silver Road

Go straight across the Sea;

And quick as I raced along the Shore,

That quick Road followed me.

It followed me all round the Bay,

Where small Waves danced in tune;

And at the end of the Silver Road

There hung a Silver Moon.

A large round Moon on a pale green Sky,

With a Pathway bright and broad;

Some night I shall bring that Silver Moon

Across that Silver Road!

from Sing a Song of Seasons: 

A Nature Poem for Each Day of the Year

Selected by Fiona Waters

illustrated by Frann Preston-Gannon

Candlewick Press, 2018

At the Seaside (Monday Poem)

 by Robert Louis Stevenson

When I was down beside the sea

A wooden spade they gave to me

To dig the sandy shore.

My holes were empty like a cup,

In every hole the sea came up,

Till it could come no more.

from Sing a Song of Seasons: 

A Nature Poem for Each Day of the Year

Selected by Fiona Waters

illustrated by Frann Preston-Gannon

Candlewick Press, 2018

A Dragonfly (Monday Poem)

 by Eleanor Farjeon

When the heat of the summer

Made drowsy the land,

A dragonfly came

And sat on my hand,

With its blue jointed body,

And wings like spun glass,

It lit on my fingers

As though they were grass.

 

 

 

from Sing a Song of Seasons: 

A Nature Poem for Each Day of the Year

Selected by Fiona Waters

illustrated by Frann Preston-Gannon

Candlewick Press, 2018 

Shadows (Monday Poem)

 by Judith Nicholls

Stand with your back

to the shining sun;

watch you shadow

dance and run.

Stand and face

the shining sun;

look ahead--

your shadow's gone!

from Sing a Song of Seasons: 

A Nature Poem for Each Day of the Year

Selected by Fiona Waters

illustrated by Frann Preston-Gannon

Candlewick Press, 2018

Some One (Monday Poem)

by Walter de la Mare

Some one came knocking 

At my wee small door;

Some one came knocking,

I'm sure -- sure -- sure;

I listened, I opened,

I looked to left and right,

But nought there was a-stirring

In the still dark night;

Only the busy beetle

Tap-tapping in the wall,

Only from the forest

The screech-owl's call,

Only the cricket whitling

While the dewdrops fall,

So I know not who came knocking,

At all, at all, at all.

 

 

from Sing a Song of Seasons: 

A Nature Poem for Each Day of the Year

Selected by Fiona Waters

illustrated by Frann Preston-Gannon

Candlewick Press, 2018 

Insect (Monday Poem

 by Tony Mitton

Inspect

an insect

and you'll see

how perfect

it can be.

 

Listen,

and hear 

the tiny song

it sings,

 

as bits of rainbow

glisten

on its wings.

 

 

 

from Sing a Song of Seasons: 

A Nature Poem for Each Day of the Year

Selected by Fiona Waters

illustrated by Frann Preston-Gannon

Candlewick Press, 2018 

What Do You Suppose? (Monday Poem)

 Anonymous

 

 

What do you suppose?

A bee sat on my nose.

Then what do you think?

He gave me a wink

And said, "I beg your pardon,

I thought you were the garden."

 

 

 

from Sing a Song of Seasons: 

A Nature Poem for Each Day of the Year

Selected by Fiona Waters

illustrated by Frann PReston-Gannon

Candlewick Press, 2018 

The Clearing (Monday Poem)

by Martha Postlethwaite

Do not try to  serve

the whole world

or do anything grandiose.

Instead, create

a clearing

in the dense forest

of your life

and wait there

patiently,

until the song

that is yours alone to sing

falls into your open cupped hands

and you recognise and greet it.

Only then will you know

how to give yourself

to the world

so worthy of 

rescue.

from

https://www.mindfulnessassociation.net/words-of-wonder/clearing-martha-postlethwaite/

The End (Monday Poem)

by A. A. Milne

 

 

When I was One,

I had just begun.

 

When I was Two,

I was nearly new.

 

When I was Three,

I was hardly me.

 

When I was Four,

I was not much more.

 

When I was Five,

I was just alive.

 

But now I am Six, I'm as clever as clever.

So I think I'll be six now for ever and ever.

 

 

 

from Now We Are Six, 

by A. A. Milne

illustrated by Ernest H. Shepard

Dell, 1955

 

Looking Around, Believing (Monday Poem)

by Gary Soto

How strange that we can begin at any time.

With two feet we get down the street.

With a hand we undo the rose.

With an eye we lift up the peach tree

And hold it up to the wind -- white blossoms

At our feet. Like today, I started

In the yard with my daughter,

With my wife poking at a potted geranium,

And now I am walking down the street,

Amazed that the sun is only so hight,

Just over the roof, and a child

Is singing through a rolled newspaper

And a terrier is leaping like a flea

And at the bakery I pass, a palm

Like a suctioning starfish is pressed

To the window.  We're keeping busy --

This way, that way, we're making shadows

Where sunlight was, making words

Where there was only noise in the trees.

from A Fire in My Hands: A Book of Poems

by Gary Soto

Scholastic, 1990

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 doorknob,

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 and Noodles

by Jack Prelutsky

illustrated by James Stevenson

Greenwillow, 2000 

 

 

Adventure (Monday Poem)

by Eileen Spinelli

 

 

I had tea with a dragon

And lunch with a mouse.

I've lived in a seashell

Instead of a house

Once I even went diving

With dolphins and whales

From the deck of a ship with

Sun on her sails.

I danced in the forest,

Flew to the moon,

Soared across town

In a hot-air balloon.

Adventure is never as hard as it looks

You'll find it, like me ---

In the pages of books.

 

 

from Tea Party Today: Poems to Sip and Savor

by Eileen Spinelli, illustrated by Karen Dugan

Boyds Mills Press, 1999  

The Giver of Stars (Monday Poem)

 by Amy Lowell

 

 

Hold your soul open for my welcoming.  

Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me 

With its clear and rippled coolness,

That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest, 

Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory.

Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me,
That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire,
The life and joy of tongues of flame,
And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune,
I may rouse the blear-eyed world,
And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten.

from https://poets.org/poem/giver-stars

In the public domain 

Us Two (Monday Poem)

 by A. A. Milne

Wherever I am, there's always Pooh,

There's always Pooh and Me.

Whatever I do, he wants to do,

"Where are you going today?" asks Pooh:

"Well, that's very odd,'cos I was too.

Let's go together," says Pooh, says he.

"Let's go together," says, Pooh.

 

"What's twice eleven?" I said to Pooh.

("Twice what?" said Pooh to Me.) 

"I think it ought to be twenty-two."

"Just what I think myself," said Pooh.

"It wasn't an easy sum to do,

But that's what it is," said Pooh, said he.

"That's what it is," said Pooh.

 

"Let's look for dragons," I said to Pooh.

"Yes, let's," said Pooh to Me.

We crossed the river and found a few --

"Yes, those are dragons all right," said Pooh.

"As soon as I saw their beaks I knew.

That's what they are," said Pooh, said he.

"That's what they are," said Pooh.

 

"Let's frighten the dragons," I said to Pooh.

"That's right," said Pooh to Me.

"I'm not afraid," I said to Pooh,

And I held his paw and I shouted "Shoo!"

Silly old dragons!" -- and off they flew.

"I wasn't afraid," said Pooh, said he,

"I'm never afraid with you."

 

So wherever I am, there's always Pooh,

There's always Pooh and Me.

"What would I do?" I said to Pooh,

"If it wasn't for you," and Pooh said:  "True,

It isn't much fun for One, but Two

Can stick together," says Pooh, says he,

"That's how it is," says Pooh. 

 

 

 

 

from Now We Are Six

by A. A. Milne

illustrations by Ernest H. Shepard

Dell, 1955

The Trout (Monday Poem)

Southern Paiute song

translated by John Weslye Powell

 

 

In the blue water

The trout wags its tail

 

 

 

 

from Sing a Song of Seasons:

A Nature Poem for Each Day of the Year

selected by Fiona Waters

Candlewick Press, 2018 

Waiting at the Window (Monday Poem)

 by A. A. Milne

These are my two drops of rain

Waiting on the window-pane.

I am waiting here to see

Which the winning one will be.

Both of them have different names.

One is John and one is James.

All the best and all the worst

Comes from which of them is first.

James has just begun to ooze.

He's the one I want to lose.

John is waiting to begin.

He's the one I want to win.

James is going slowly on.

Something sort of sticks to John.

John is moving off at last.

James is going pretty fast.

John is rushing down the pane.

James is going slow again.

James has met a sort of smear.

John is getting very near.

Is he going fast enough?

(James has found a piece of fluff.)

John has hurried quickly by.

(James was talking to a fly.)

John is there, and John has won!

Look! I told you! Here's the sun!

 

 

 

from Now We Are Six

by A. A. Milne

illustrations by Ernest H. Shepard

Dell, 1955

 

 

 

Sneezles (Monday Poem)

 by A. A. Milne

Christopher Robin

Had wheezles

And sneezles,

They bundled him

Into

His bed.

They gave him what goes

With a cold in the nose,

And some more for a cold

In the head.

They wondered

If wheezles

Could turn 

Into measles,

If sneezles

Would turn

Into mumps;

They examined his chest

For a rash,

And the rest

Of his body for swellings and lumps.

They sent for some doctors

In sneezles

And wheezles

To tell them what ought

To be done.

All sorts and conditions

Of famous physicians

Came hurrying round

At a run.

They all made a note

Of the state of his throat,

They asked if he suffered from thirst;

They asked if the sneezles

Came after the wheezles,

Or if the first sneezle

Came first.

They said, "If you teazle

A sneezle,

Or wheezle,

A measle 

May easily grow.

But humor or pleazle

The wheezle

Or sneezle,

The measle 

Will certainly go."

They expounded the reazles

For sneezles

And wheezles,

The manner of measles

When new.

They said, "If he freezles

In draughts and in breezles,

Then PHTHEEZLES

May even ensue."

Christopher Robin

Got up in the morning,

The sneezles had vanished away.

And the look in his eye

Seemed to say to the sky,

"Now, how to annoy them today.?"

 

 

 

from Now We Are Six

by A. A. Milne

illustrations by Ernest H. Shepard

Dell, 1955

 

 

 

 

I Am Woman (Monday Poem)

by Helen Reddy

 

 

I am woman, hear me roar
In numbers too big to ignore
And I know too much to go back an' pretend
'Cause I've heard it all before
And I've been down there on the floor
No one's ever gonna keep me down again

 

Oh yes I am wise
But it's wisdom born of pain
Yes, I've paid the price
But look how much I gained
If I have to, I can do anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)
I am woman

 

You can bend but never break me
'Cause it only serves to make me
More determined to achieve my final goal
And I come back even stronger
Not a novice any longer
'Cause you've deepened the conviction in my soul

 

Oh yes I am wise
But it's wisdom born of pain
Yes, I've paid the price
But look how much I gained
If I have to, I can do anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)
I am woman

 

I am woman watch me grow
See me standing toe to toe
As I spread my lovin' arms across the land
But I'm still an embryo
With a long long way to go
Until I make my brother understand

 

Oh yes I am wise
But it's wisdom born of pain
Yes, I've paid the price
But look how much I gained
If I have to I can face anything
I am strong (strong)
I am invincible (invincible)
I am woman
Oh, I am woman
I am invincible
I am strong

I am woman
I am invincible
I am strong
I am woman

 

 

 

 

https://www.musixmatch.com/lyrics/Helen-Reddy/I-Am-Woman-3

 

 

Wind on the Hill (Monday Poem)

by A. A. Milne

 

 

No one can tell me,

Nobody knows,

Where the wind comes from,

Where the wind goes.

 

It's flying from somewhere

As fast as it can,

I couldn't keep up with it,

Not if I ran,

 

But if I stopped holding

The string of my kite,

It would blow with the wind

For a day and a night.

 

And then when I found it,

Wherever it blew,

I should know that the wind

Had been going there too.

 

So then I could tell them

Where the wind goes  . . . 

But where the wind comes from

Nobody knows.

 

 

 

from Now We Are Six

by A. A. Milne

illustrated by Ernest H. Shepard

Dell, 1955.

 

There is a Land (Monday Poem)

 by Leland B. Jacobs

There is a land---

A marvelous land---

Where trolls and giants dwell;

Where witches

With their bitter brew

Can cast a magic spell;

Where mermaids sing,

Where carpets fly,

Where, in the midst of night,

Brownies dance

To cricket tunes;

And ghosts, all shivery white,

Prowl and moan.

There is a land

Of magic folks and deeds,

And anyone

Can visit there

Who reads and reads and reads.

from Good Books, Good Times

selected by Lee Bennett Hopkins

illustrations by Harvey Stevenson

Trumpet Club, 1990

1212 (Monday Poem)

by Emily Dickinson

 

 

 

A word is dead

When it is said,

Some say.

 

I say it just

Begins to live

That day.

 

 

 

from Wonderful Words: Poems About Reading, Writing, Speaking and Listening

Selected by Lee Bennett Hopkins

Illustrated by Karen Barbour

Simon & Schuster, 2004 

Finding a Poem (Monday Poem)

 by Karla Kuskin

Dig deep in you.

Keep everything you find.

Sketch the ever changing views,

dappled behind your eyes,

rustling in your mind.

Unlock the weather

in your heart.

Unleash a thousand whispers,

let them shout.

Then

when you feel

the presence of a poem

waiting to spring

to sting

within you,

bewitch it

into words

and sing it out.

from Wonderful Words: Poems About Reading, Writing, Speaking and Listening

Selected by Lee Bennett Hopkins

Illustrated by Karen Barbour

Simon & Schuster, 2004