After "Where The Sidewalk Ends" by Shel Silverstein
There is a place where the sidewalk ends,
but I've not found it again; a place
where real life falls away at last
and magical things await their friend,
the one lost in childhood's grownup waste ~
the castle, the princess, kingdoms vast,
the knight, and the nightingale to send
its song to the midnight moon, then lace
from morning mist erase so sun may cast
its warmth upon the day.
When I drive down my road
and I look in my mirrors
they shake
interesting
my music must be too loud
so I turn it down
I can see the pebbles in the snow
kicked up by the last teenager to race down this lane
the little black dots make the road look like a Shell Silverstein sketch
how funny
it's been forever since I read his poems
I loved them
I wonder if I still have that book...
no matter
I'll get home soon
that car still rattling as I go
that's probably why I had my music so loud
it was silly though
still is
I love to feel the vibrations in my seat
I doubt my parents would like this song
I'm not even sure if I do myself
How silly yet again
I think of myself as so grounded
yet I cant even tell what I'm thinking
or what I like and enjoy
As conscious as I am
as deep as I look
within myself
I still cant put a finger on it
there's something I cant read
or is there
maybe I'm just trying to read the scribbles
the scratches I interpreted as another language
maybe I'm looking too deep
maybe I should look at the road.
I have this crazy little thing I like to do,
put words together make a rhyme or two.
Dip my toes in the sands of rhyme
then make a word splash all mine.
I have this crazy little thing I like to do,
craft thoughts out with a rhyme or two.
Ink to life a thought dancing so free
zoom in hues and shades that be.
I have this crazy little thing I like to do
read the Psalms for the inspirational hue.
But because I like things simple and fun
Shel Silverstein is where my love for poetry begun.
I learned what I needed to know about poetry from Shel Silverstein.
Poetry does not have to be high society or serious.
It can be humorous, common, funny and fun!
I love Silverstein's books and his cartoons, he is my inspiration.
Weirdly enough, I am a cartoonist, a painter, and an artist.
In addition to being a poet, Shel was a singer and songwriter.
I have often wondered if I could write songs; I believe I could.
Sometimes Silverstein’s punchlines are so funny I howl.
I do not always strive for humor, but I am delighted when it happens.
Thanks to his unique voice, I felt that poetry was “obtainable”.
I knew that it was “manageable, and doable.”
His poetry gave me hope, and inspires me still.
WHAT ABOUT WOLFS
shel silverstein: a bit childish, his giving tree my kids remember, though its parts were dismembered as it gave to the bitter end of life.
ogden nash: well, he gives us moo and milk, until the utter end, short and brief. reminds us of the soup’s - wolf.
wendy cope: born in kent in the london broil (ahem…borough) of bexley. things are going clunk and your face has too much gunk, a hoarder with thirty years of junk and especially she doth remind us don’t answer email when you're drunk.
william james collins: a hoot, billy! only child, born in manhattan, dear old dad worked on wall street. a poet laureate’s big recital on two poems about what dogs think (probably) - what about wolfs?
gershon wolf: he’s flower power-ful in his jest. for example - hippies pulled the triggers and out came flowers. though other comedic poets might create a chuckle, gershon always makes us smile.
7/21/2022
My child has a love of poetry
It is rare, for she is only nine.
In her bare mind, words are potpourri
floating, rhyming by stanza, by line.
Holding a book ever so tightly
(it relieves the raw ache in her chest),
my sweet Emma floats almost nightly
carried by puffins in a bird nest.
She paints her pictures lying in bed
dreaming up puffin activities.
Writing what's in the front of her head,
one of her common proclivities.
Her situation stems from asthma
of pet hair and seasonal rebirth.
She fancies ease from the miasma,
high above noxious coughing on earth.
Starting with nursery rhymes at three
we have read Silverstein and Dahl
both of us memorize easily.
Her choice today is Lewis Carroll.
My Emma lives in her Wonderland
especially with a nebulizer.
Her teachers all seem to understand
it's “down to earth” math that defies her.
August 23, 2021
Sponsor Regina McIntosh
Contest Name The One Who Touches My Heart
Has there ever been a pen as sharp as when Whitman penned his captain dead?
Was anyone more right than when Thomas urged rage against the dying light?
Did you ever read a bigger thrill than Wadsworth’s dancing daffodils?
What would be the cost if Frost’s two roads were to be lost?
Would anyone ever the Yukon see if Service had not cremated Sam Magee?
How much clearer are our skies since Angelou still did rise?
If, If were thrown in a trash can wouldn’t Kipling still be the man, my son?
Where would we go with out Poe and the Raven tapping nevermore so?
How do the poppies blow as McCrae saw them row by row?
Will Blake’s Tyger still burn at night as to make our world bright?
Where would the sidewalk end if Silverstein never took up his pen?
If Dickinson is nobody with breadth can somebody else stop for death?
Have you ever read about Burn’s love like roses of red?
How would one know the worlds a stage if with the Bard one never engaged?
S-cribe
H-as
E-mployed
L-iterary
S-ublimity
I-f
L-ine
V-erily
E-xpresses
R-ighteous
S-weetness
T-o
E-njoy
I-ndividual
N-ame
Topic: Birthday of poet Shel Silverstein (September 25)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Scramble, ramble, damble, boo.
Amble, gamble, jamble, moo.
I like rhymes that are prancy and good.
The ones that remind me of my childhood.
Bibbity Bobbity Dibbity Doo.
I am in a child-like mind, how about you?
Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein have taken over my brain.
I want to be serious, but simply cannot refrain.
The sheer happiness of their marvelous rhyme
Kept my younger self in stitches, much of the time.
Red flower, green bush, cumulous clouds, and sky of azure blue.
It is my attempt at two unusual words. How did I do?
torn middle eastern attire
an orphaned heart on fire
houses turn to rubble
gotta bomb them on them on the double
who wiped the mossad prints off nine eleven
every body knows angels cries from seven to eleven
our hell is the wrong side of your heaven
the lizard queen had uncle sam driven
the lord red child demanded israhell should be given
from cocain bush to moron bush
come tim osman give me a treacherous smoosh
silverstein where have you been
there's a torn Iraqi spleen
afghanistan fell for c sea spin span
red zio jew out only to have the blue
kissinger brezinsky and their plastic jihad
time to put in chinese glutin in putin the man
now syria libya and egypt here comes pain
gotta love the freedom rain
clinton whispered to somalia I'll bomb hope
obama said yes we can pounded syria like a mad man
putin cried remembered chechnya missed the fun i want in
the orange trump fixed his hair hump yes let's bomb again
Israel took a selfie with saudia humanity couldn't erase the blood stain
oh middle eastern child
empty bag for a pillow
their magic is mellow
Tamer Hossam
Behind a chair
Below a desk
with my bare feet on a wall, in my flannel pajama or a wet swimming suit,
With my hands on my peanut butter and jelly toast,
marmalade, not cherry or anything else
Next to an ocean, ignoring the smell,
Lying in a hammock or in the grass, even on a sandy gritty beach towel.
Listening to children’s giggles, being dripped on
by wet swimming suits running past
I can devour a pile of books.
History, science, animal facts, jokes, limericks, Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein, Coleridge, Poe.
When one grabs me and throttles me to pay attention I am lost….
I am no longer a mere mortal.
I am in a microscope, under a kitchen floorboard, in a tulip’s leaf,
I am a faery, a T-rex, a Stormtrooper, a police detective.
In a treehouse,
High above my neighbors, not hearing them at all,
Yet subconsciously hearing everything,
I learned to be a book worm, reading Agatha Christie first….
Written 3-08-19
Contest: The Bookworm Poetry Contest Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
Shel Silverstein has penned gold, dear friends,
The Missing Piece, The Giving Tree, Where the Sidewalk Ends...
Still, I was surprised to find that he wrote, too
Johnny Cash’s hit, “A Boy Named Sue.”
I will write the funniest poem of all time.
Sorry. It has already been done.
I will write the most romantical poem of all time.
Ditto.
I will write the craziest poem of all time.
Have you ever heard of Shel Silverstein?
I will write the rhyme-iest poem of all time.
Dr. Seuss?
I will write what I know.
And it will not have to be an “ist” at all.
It will not have to be the most, the funniest, the sorriest, the saddest, the sweetest.
It can just be what it is.
And it does not have to become famous.
It does not have to be understood.
It does not have to be appreciated.
But it will have to be my own.
Because it has to be the poem
That only I can write.
I sit and stare at the
Paper, overwhelmed.
Excited, expectant,
Waiting for her birth.
Wondering where she will take me.
I pick up the pen and begin. Knowing nothing about what is about to happen.
S-ee
H-ow
E-arly
L-ight
S-hines
I-n
L-ovely
V-iew
E-ndorsing
R-adiant
S-un
T-o
E-rase
I-solated
N-ighttime
Topic: Poet (Shel Silverstein)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
(Shuffling with Shel)
Ode to Shel Silverstein
The master taps across the stage
Wiggling rhymes upon his page
Tapping, leaping, letting go
Silly poems that steal the show.
Heel, shuffle,
Heel, step
Like A Runny Babbit
Falling up
Flap, heel, turn
A Light is in the Attic.
Spying, listening to his moves
Tapping out his beat
The rhymes that skip across my ears
Are silly, yet so sweet.
Dig, brush
Flap, heel
Rhyming rapt release
Shuffle, heel
Dig, toe, hop
Never a Missing Piece
Learning all the tap dance steps
Shuffle, ball change, hop.
Typing, tapping, out the words
Into my own laptop.
Jump, click
Maxie Ford
A Giraffe and a Half
Stomp, scuff
Hop, riff heel
Always gets a laugh.
The master danced before us
His steps a melody
that shared those silly skillful sounds
just like the Giving Tree.
One day I hope to dance with words
And share with all my friends
These special sublime tap dance steps
To Where The Sidewalk Ends.
Jan. 30, 2017
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