by Sadie McCann, Age 5

A poem is writing,
Coloring pictures of Bratz.

A poem is a baby,
A carriage, a bassinet, a nie nie,
A soother, a blanket, a name.

A poem is a big sister helping a
Little sister. She changes their diapers,
She can feed her baby food, she can
Put on her clothes.

A poem is like a Mom who helps
Out. A Mom turns off the TV when
We do our homework. A Mom calls
You to have a milk bath.

A poem is like a Dad. A Dad yells
At us, if we’re not cleaning up.
When we’re doing something, he tells
Us to eat.

A poem is like an Aunt. Our Aunt comes
Over when our Mom tells her to come over.
An Aunt helps us clean up. An Aunt plays
with us. An Aunt gives us piggy backs.

A poem is like my grandmother,
A grandmother gives us money
For Christmas and New Years.
A Grandmother teaches us
Chinese. ”Gung hey fa choy,” that
Means hand over the money.

A poem is like my grandfather,
He gives us food to eat when we
Go over our grandfather’s house.
A grandfather gives us presents.

A poem is like a family and
I love my family.

By Judy Taylor
An excerpt from If These Streets Could Talk

A black and white picture through a tenement window

Johnny straddles a kitchen chair

A pack of Marlboros rolled up in his t-shirt sleeve

His saxophone rests on one side of the table

while

A spoon and eyedropper lie on the other

From that moment I knew he was doomed

by Allan Yashin

Forget all the warnings and cautions we’re taught to observe
It may seem imprudent… but if you’ve got the nerve
You can forget the don’t and shouldn’t, better nots and all the rest
Imparted upon us by those who think they know best.
Be careful! Why bother? I wouldn’t do that if I was you!
You’ll be sorry! Just forget it! That’s not what a nice person would do!
All the nay sayers secure in expecting you to pass their propriety test
Ignore them all!
And do what is true to your own spirit
Now and Next.

by Lorraine B. Theordor

I wonder why it’s so difficult to separate what
I want to save, what I have to pay and what I
must throw away.

It may seem strange to some, that no table,
shelf or chair is without some sort of jumble.
Do I dare use the last refuge, the sanctity
of the bathroom for all other?

What is a clutterbug to do, when the piles
keep growing? Look for more space?
Or stop watering the garden?

by Bob Rosen

I asked that you would let us know
That when you got there it would be so
Terrific to grow a pair of angel wings
And all the joy that heaven brings
To honest, loyal survivors of your mothering
You cajoled and taught and led, not smothering
But a role great women play
A gift of giving
To be treasured by us
The living