My ShadowRobert Louis Stevenson, 1850 - 1894

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;For he sometimes shoots up taller like an India-rubber

ball,And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him

at all.

He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play,And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.

He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward you can see;I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to

me!

One morning, very early, before the sun was up,I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in

bed.

SickShel Silverstein, 1930 - 1999

“I cannot go to school today,"Said little Peggy Ann McKay.

“I have the measles and the mumps,A gash, a rash and purple bumps.My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,

I’m going blind in my right eye.My tonsils are as big as rocks,

I’ve counted sixteen chicken poxAnd there’s one more—that’s seventeen,And don’t you think my face looks green?

My leg is cut—my eyes are blue—It might be instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,I’m sure that my left leg is broke—My hip hurts when I move my chin,

My belly button’s caving in,My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,

My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.My nose is cold, my toes are numb.

I have a sliver in my thumb.My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,

I hardly whisper when I speak.My tongue is filling up my mouth,

I think my hair is falling out.My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,

My temperature is one-o-eight.My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,

There is a hole inside my ear.I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?

What’s that? What’s that you say?You say today is. . .Saturday?

G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

Since Hanna Moved AwayJudith Viorst, 1931

The tires on my bike are flat.The sky is grouchy gray.

At least it sure feels like thatSince Hanna moved away.

Chocolate ice cream tastes like prunes.December’s come to stay.

They’ve taken back the Mays and JunesSince Hanna moved away.

Flowers smell like halibut.Velvet feels like hay.

Every handsome dog’s a muttSince Hanna moved away.

Nothing’s fun to laugh about.Nothing’s fun to play.

They call me, but I won’t come outSince Hanna moved away.

The CrocodileLewis Carroll, 1832 - 1898

How doth the little crocodileImprove his shining tail,

And pour the waters of the NileOn every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin,How neatly spreads his claws,And welcomes little fishes in,

With gently smiling jaws!

The Good Moolly CowEliza Lee Follen

Come! supper is ready;Come! boys and girls, now,

For here is fresh milkFrom the good moolly cow.

Have done with your fife,And your row de dow dow,And taste this sweet milk

From the good moolly cow.

Whoever is frettingMust clear up his brow,Or he’ll have no milk

From the good moolly cow.

When children are hungry,O, who can tell how

They love the fresh milkFrom the good moolly cow!

So, when you meet moolly,Just say, with a bow,

“Thank you for your milk,

Mrs. Good Moolly Cow.”

The Land of CounterpaneRobert Louis Stevenson, 1850 - 1894

When I was sick and lay a-bed,I had two pillows at my head,And all my toys beside me layTo keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or soI watched my leaden soldiers go,With different uniforms and drills,

Among the bed-clothes, through the hills;

And sometimes sent my ships in fleetsAll up and down among the sheets;

Or brought my trees and houses out,And planted cities all about.

I was the giant great and stillThat sits upon the pillow-hill,

And sees before him, dale and plain,The pleasant land of counterpane.

The TygerWilliam Blake, 1757 - 1827

Tyger! Tyger! burning brightIn the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?What the hand, dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art,Could twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,And water’d heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning brightIn the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?

TreesJoyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never seeA poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prestAgainst the sweet earth’s flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wearA nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,But only God can make a tree.

My Virtual PuppyI purchased a virtual puppy.

He lives in an app on my phone.He digs in a virtual garden

to bury a virtual bone.I feed him with virtual dog food.I’m teaching him virtual tricks,

like giving me virtual handshakesand fetching his virtual sticks.

He naps on a virtual sofa.He likes to chase virtual cats.

Whenever he’s good I reward himwith virtual dog treats and pats.He’ll bring me the virtual paper.

He’ll chew on a virtual shoe.There’s only one virtual problem.

I clean up his virtual poo.

Our Teacher’s a HippieOur teacher’s a hippie,

like from some old movie.He likes to say “trippy,”

and “far out,” and “groovy!”He dresses in tie-dye

and bell-bottom pants.He listens to hi-fi.

“The Twist” is his dance.He says, “psychedelic!”

He’s truly old-school.He may be a relic,

but, boy, is he cool!