From the author:

From the Author:

I will not introduce myself.
I will not ask "How do?"
I will not wave, I will not bow,
Or shake a hand with you.

For I am not polite, my friend;
I have no social grace.
Like you, I have no manners,
And I never learned my place.

Instead I'll write a poem
And I'll put myself in verse,
And if you like the sound of me,
Well, THEN we might converse.

So read a line or two of me,
Or don't, if it's a chore,
But since you've read fifteen of me
I bet you'll read one more.

Click here to contact the author
(...or don't...he doesn't really trust emails from children. They can be sticky).

Saturday, 28 May 2011

The Things That I Snow

My teacher's a stuck-up and know-it-all bore
Who knows all he knows and won't think anymore.
For instance, he told me that winter is white,
But surely he can’t be entirely right.
From here where I sit, there is little to show
Such colourless, featureless, blankets of snow.

Look there, in the shade of the juniper tree.
There, where it’s slumbering. There, do you see?

See where the sun sinks sleepily through;
The snow drifts are dreaming in pillows of blue.

And when in the morning, the sun, with a yawn,
Outstretches its arms in the gold of the dawn,

The fields full of snow are transformed to a sea
Of summer-born honey, all flowing and free.

And when the sun swings its way low to the ground
To drop on the trees its imperial crown,
The snow is a robe of crimson and fire
That burns itself out as the evening expires.

Then deep in the night, in the crystalline cold,
The stars and the moon are all patient and old--

The snow is a blanket of silver and black,
A whole other sky a-twinkling back.

So I’ll sit and I’ll think about thinking and snow,
About people who think, about people who know. 

And you know what I think about people who know?
I think they don’t think about things like the snow.

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