Poetry Apron

This was not my idea. My colleague, Billisue, made a poetry apron and I thought it was cool so I made one of my own. A poetry apron is a fun way to immerse young writers in poetry and show them that poems can be about anything. Each pocket has an object and a poem that has something to do with that object. Students request a pocket, I show them the object, then read the accompanying poem. I think it would be fun to have poetry apron themes such as holidays, bugs, family members, or just about anything. I really like my poetry apron and so do the kids. Check out the buttons on the apron. They all came from my grandma's button box. And the denim pockets were cut from my kids' outgrown jeans.

Don't Poems

A few years ago, my kids and I wrote Don't Poems for my husband for Father's Day. For my post, I revised the poems and added some pictures to match the year the poems were written. Don't Poems are an easy format for students to follow and they also make great Mother's Day gifts!



Sam's Don't List

Don’t talk to me.

Don’t forget, I’m gonna need a ride.

Don’t wear those shorts in front of my friends again.

Don’t you think I need a new phone?

Don’t touch my stuff.

Don’t worry Dad, I’ll be home on time.

Don’t you like my hair?

And don’t ever, ever forget . . .

I’ll always be your little girl.

Mitch's Don't List

Don’t make me get a haircut!!!!!!!

Don’t forget my bat, my glove, my water, and my DS.

Don’t make me practice my drums.

Don’t worry Dad, I won’t get muddy in the creek.

Don’t change the channel.

Don’t make me ride the bus to band, please.

Don’t you want to throw the football with me?

And don’t ever, ever  forget,

I’ll always be your buddy.

                                                                                                                                                       

An Unwanted Sign of Spring

The weather is a perfect 83 degrees with a warm west wind. The trees, covered in ice just a few short weeks ago, are now budding. New growth. Unfortunately, that isn't the only new growth that has occurred in the last few weeks. When I went to try on my spring pants, they wouldn't stretch, zip, or snap around my new growth. No, I am not pregnant. Time to get back to the, dare I say it, gym. It isn't that I hate the gym, I just don't want to go. I'd rather complain and whine and make excuses why I've put on ten pounds. Actually, I think it is more like 12. I'll get on the scale tomorrow.

Math + Music = Poetry

The song, Seasons of Love, from the musical Rent, is one of my favorite songs. Our 5th and 6th graders have been working on conversions in math and it made me think of this song. I used the lyrics from Seasons of Love as a mentor text for my own poem about conversions in measurement. Here are the original lyrics:

Rent movie trailer

Seasons of Love (From Rent by Jonathan Larson)

Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes,
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Moments so dear.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure--measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights
In cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
In five hundred twenty-five thousand
Six hundred minutes
How do you measure
A year in the life?
How about love?
Measure in love.
Seasons of love.

 Here is my attempt at a conversions in math poem:

Daytime Conversions

Eighty-six thousand four-hundred seconds,
Eighty-six thousand four-hundred seconds tick away.

Eighty-six thousand four-hundred seconds
How do you measure your life in a day?
In instants, in heartbeats, in flashes or ticks.
In minutes, in jiffies, in cappuccino sips.

Eighty-six thousand four-hundred seconds,
Eighty-six thousand four-hundred seconds tick away.

My Mother's Hands

This is a poem I wrote for my mom for her birthday a few years ago. She keeps a copy pinned up on the bulletin board in her sewing room. Now everytime she creates one of her beautiful quilts, she sews an outline of her hand to the back. I just noticed that I have the same curve in my pinky that she does.

My Mother's Hands

When I look at my hands,

I see your hands,

My mom's hand

I see your mother's hands.

Trim fingernails,

No polish,

White moons

Peeking out from under cuticles. 

Bluish veins more visible,

Through thinning skin.

Hard working hands. 

Gripping and squeezing,

Dressmaker shears. 

Some days agile,



A section of the quilt my
mom made for me. Aren't I
 lucky to have an artist
 for a mom!



Some days achy.

Loving hands. 

Sliding a daughter's bangs out of her eyes.

Cupping a son's chin

As he mumbles a question.

Sometimes when I look at my hands,

As I write, or turn the pages of a book,

I see your hands,

I see your mother's hands.

Tomorrow is a drag, man

When I was searching around http://www.poets.org/, I found this video clip of a beatnik poetess from the 1958 movie, Highschool Confidential. Check out Uncle Fester in the back playing the piano. Fun stuff.

Writing is Hard



There is a writer in
everyone, even me!

Composing a daily slice is hard work. Sometimes it is scary, taking risks with my writing and my topics. But it is a promise I made to myself. And now, I see myself differently as a writer and teacher of young writers.  My commitment to assisting children to write daily and find the power in their words is reaffirmed.

 I feel like I'm a baby in this whole writing thing. And now my head swirls with ideas of how to use my new learning. It is exciting to think about how much more I want to learn. I feel like I'm just getting started.