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Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

To Homo Sapiens

 

I am your forest.

The sound of your ax

Silences my voice.

I am your…

I am…

I…

 

*****

I am Salmon.

I am Black Rhino.

I am Honey Bee.

Soon to be fossilized

Into your earth. Unless

 

You learn to hear

Hummingbird wings.

frances

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When I was in high school, Russia and Communism were taboo subjects; they were feared into silence.  One day I read where poets were the most feared in Russia and my passion for poetry empowered me and I became less and less fearful as I kept on writing. I felt the more poetry I read and wrote, I weaker the enemy became.

Poets for Peace

Each time a poet

Puts pen to paper,

There is a sliver of hope

For Peace.

from my forth coming poetry book: Dangerous Woman….

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Georgia O’Keefe

My host of flowers leaves me

breathless as your one.

lavenderpoppies

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During one of my poetry writing sessions with 3rd graders, this was my contribution. Not quite up to par with my students’ poetry.

 

                                  A Poet’s Declaration

 I am a star

In the Milky Way.

I am the crest

On emerald waves.

I am a dewdrop, crystal clear,

Capturing sunbeams in the morning mist.

I am that dust

On butterfly wings.

I am that song

Of a thousand strings.

I am that teardrop

You have kissed.

I am a poet!

I am! I am!

I am that rage

In the thunderstorm,

I am that image

Of a thousand form.

I am magic on each page.

I am a poet!

I am! I am!

 

   Frances H. Kakugawa

   From Teacher, You Look Like a Horse

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pens for blog

The poets in droves

Lick their pens, salivating

Over metaphors, images, turning

Death into Life. It must be

Poetry Month.

frances

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one daffodil

It wasn’t a host of golden daffodils

Not even one thousand,

But I did gaze – and gazed –

My heart did with pleasure fills

It was only one, the first of spring –

And I did wander lonely as a cloud.

A poet could not but be gay.

In daffodils, one or ten thousand.

 

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A  Plea

They call me ugly.

They call me names.

But I don’t cry.

I feel nothing.

They call me ugly.

They call me names.

I feel sad.

I feel mad.

But I don’t cry.

I feel scared,

Oh so scared

Of thunder and lightning

But I don’t cry.

I feel different.

So please stop.

That’s not nice.

Don’t be mean.

I have muscles.

And I don’t cry.

I feel nothing.

By Mr. Kramer’s and Mrs. Williams’ classes

The students, ages 18-22,  all won my heart.I had the honor of visiting two classrooms of students who live with Autism.It all began with my children’s book Wordsworth the Poet.Janet, one of the  students with autism,  found so much comfort and joy with Wordsworth, that she and her family invited me to read Wordsworth the Poet to her classmates. Wordsworth is a little mouse poet and that is the cause of his problem. People make fun of him and call him different. But he continues to be a poet and at the end, his family, friends and villagers accept him for who he is.

“They still cannot understand why Wordsworth is what he is. They still cannot understand

how Wordsworth can feel and see so many things. But they no longer worry about him or make fun of him. Now they look at Wordsworth and say, “Wordsworth is a poet.”

Excerpt from Wordsworth the Poet

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