Old Poems,
From a time when I was pretty much a weird little poet child.

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A Story

I am a story about fun and not fun,
I am a story about glad and sad,
I am a story about happy and not happy,
I am a story about bord and not bord,
I am a story about suprised and not suprised,
I am a story about thinking and not thinking,
I am a story about feelings.

This is a poem from first grade. Original spelling intact. Sometime when I was older, I tried to 'improve' upon my first grade journal entry, but I find that I like the original better.

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Morning Suns

Morning suns come in the morning,
Evening suns come in the evening,
They all come in one day so Hurayh!

Another product of first grade journals.

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Trees

Trees grow high,
With a lie,
So don't get a tie,
Or you'll get rie.

First grade journals. I seriously wonder how I came up with that, and what rie is.

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Flowers

Flowers sway on the way,
I lay and stay.
Why oh why does this rhym?
I do not know go climeb.

First grade journals. rhyme, and climb.

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Fish

Fish are fun.
Fish are fun.
Fish are almost done.

So went a long-running set of 'poetry' from my deranged first grade self. Replace fish with wales, sharks, people, animals, plants, sisters, snails, and countless other things, and you have one first grade student who should have flunked journals.

But enough of first grade for now.

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Kitten Play

The kittens have the greatest time,
So it's very hard to make it rhyme.
They're playing with a string ball,
And I will tell you that's not all.
Out of four of these little cats,
Two of them break out in a spat!
A cup spilt, now there's milk.
For one to drink, with a wink.
Two brown, one white, and one gray,
Now I've told you all the way.

Kitten Play was my first real attempt at poetry. I wrote it sometime in 2nd grade, and thought it wonderful. I rewrote it several times before it came to this form and was written in a permanent journal. It wasn't my first poem, but it was the first thing I wrote that I considered to be poetry. I'm still fond of the little verse, silly as it is.

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Piano Somebody

"The piano," they say, "It's fun to play."
But I think it is not that way.
I hate the piano! Those awful black and white keys!
But dad says if I work hard, I'll play it with ease.
I'd rather be no one that a piano somebody,
The piano is my chain, and I want to be FREE!

My parents forced me to take piano lessons for the majority of my childhood. I was quite mad and did not want to practice. I have always valued my crazy thoughts privacy, and wrote this in the back of a notebook.

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The Great Blue Heron

At the pond near my home,
if you are lucky,
You might see a heron,
instead of just duckys.

He is majestic and beautiful,
God's great work of art,
Yet sometimes I wonder
What he thinks in his heart.

When his beak dives into the water,
It looks like a spear.
Piercing the hearts of fish
That have wondered too near.

Don't get to close!
Oh no! You scared him away!
But do not worry,
He will be back another day.

I don't like this poem. My 6th grade self should have known better that to think this was cool.

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Stars

When I gaze upon the stars,
They do not seem quite so far,
And I imagine touching them,
Like thousands of tiny gems.

Are they really far away?
I am not sure of that today.
Maybe they are not so near,
It is this that remains unclear.

Obviously I had not learned about stars yet. I also place this in 6th grade. It's not good, more concerned with rhyme than with flow. But I don't hate it as much as "The Great Blue Heron".

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Ore, What Else

Seashells tumbling on the shore,
I am standing on the moor,
Forget what I came here for.
Oh yes, to get seashells for my store.
I'll sell you one for an apple core.
Just come into my door,
I even sell Eyore
And ancient kings of lore.
Selling is such a chore.
Hear the lions roar.
Does this poem have much more?
This must be such a bore.
What do you think of Al Gore?
I believe he is a snore.
Look at the shirt I tore.
I'm sweating at every pore.
If I were a bird I would soar,
In terms of money I am poor.
I'm going to get a s'more.
So long!

There's a poem for you. There may be more to poetry than rhyme, but if rhyming made the poem, this would be Shakespeare. Or Longfellow. Perhaps Tennyson, or Dickinson. Whitman? Lord Byron?

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That'll be all for now. I'll have to dig up another set for you yet. :)

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