Posts filed under ‘.poetry’
Father’s Valentine
I’m working on a valentine,
my very special own design,
a heart to give my Dad tonight…
(it’s quite a chore to get it right).
The first time that I cut it out,
one side was thin, the other stout…
And so I tried to fix it, but,
I made an error when I cut.
I wasn’t careful, though I tried,
and overcut the other side…
Just one more snip should do it, then….
Whoops! I cut too much again!
A snip off here, a snip off there,
and maybe just another hair….
It’s finally done, but understand,
it’s somewhat smaller than I’d planned.
It’s not much bigger than a bean…
the tiniest heart I’d ever seen.
I guess I’ll give it to him now…
I bet he likes it anyhow!
Mother’s Chocolate Valentine
I bought a box of chocolate hearts,
a present for my mother,
they looked so good I tasted one,
and then I tried another.
They both were so delicious
that I ate another four,
and then another couple,
and then half a dozen more.
I couldn’t seem to stop myself,
I nibbled on and on,
before I knew what happened,
all the chocolate hearts were gone.
I felt a little guilty,
I was stuffed down to my socks,
I ate my mother’s valentine……
I hope she likes the box. 
Derrière le Miroir
Mobile en haut
Stabile en bas
Telle est la tour Eiffel
Calder est comme elle
Oiseleur du fer
Horloger du vent
Dresseur de fauves noirs
Ingénieur hilare
Architecte inquiétant
Sculpteur du temps. »
Swaying up high
Stable at the bottom
Such is the Eiffel Tower
And thus is Calder
Iron catcher
Black beast tamer
Smiling engineer
Troubling architect
Sculptor of time.
Jacques Prévert
Taken from texts in Derrière le Miroir, No. 156,
Maeght Éditeur, 1966
The Seed
How does it know,
this little seed,
if it is to grow
to a flower or weed,
If it is to be
a vine or shoot,
or grow to a tree
with a long deep root?
A seed is so small,
where do you suppose
it stores up all
of the things it knows?
Package of Seeds
They can’t see their pictures,
they can’t read the label –
the seeds in a package –
so how are they able
to know if they’re daisies
or green for the table?
It sounds like a fancy,
it sounds like a fable,
but you do the sowing,
the weeding, the hoeing,
and they’ll do the knowing
of how to be growing.
We like March
We like March, his shoes are Purple.
He is new and high —
Makes he Mud for Dog and Peddler —
Makes he Forests Dry.
Knows the Adder’s Tongue his coming
And begets her spot —
Stands the Sun so close and mighty —
That our Minds are hot.
News is he of all the others —
Bold it were to die
With the Blue Birds buccaneering
On his British sky —
How Many Seconds in a Minute
How many seconds in a minute?
Sixty, and no more in it.
How many minutes in an hour?
Sixty for sun and shower.
How many hours in a day?
Twenty-four for work and play.
How many days in a week?
Seven both to hear and speak.
How many weeks in a month?
Four, as the swift moon runn’th.
How many months in a year?
Twelve the almanac makes clear.
How many years in an age?
One hundred says the sage.
How many ages in time?
No one knows the rhyme.
Brother And Sister
“SISTER, sister, go to bed!
Go and rest your weary head.”
Thus the prudent brother said.
“Do you want a battered hide,
Or scratches to your face applied?”
Thus his sister calm replied.
“Sister, do not raise my wrath.
I’d make you into mutton broth
As easily as kill a moth”
The sister raised her beaming eye
And looked on him indignantly
And sternly answered, “Only try!”
Off to the cook he quickly ran.
“Dear Cook, please lend a frying-pan
To me as quickly as you can.”
And wherefore should I lend it you?”
“The reason, Cook, is plain to view.
I wish to make an Irish stew.”
“What meat is in that stew to go?”
“My sister’ll be the contents!”
“Oh”
“You’ll lend the pan to me, Cook?”
“No!”
Moral: Never stew your sister.
