Cinquain

This is the cinquain poem Charles wrote this morning. A cinquain has 5 lines each with a set number of syllables: 2,4,6,8,2.

Bella
Curious goat
Chair jumping little girl
Playful hopping friend to Clara
Short ears.

Kids

Thought I'd take a moment at lunch to post what the kids are doing... Human & caprine.

Charles is reading under the walnut tree while Bella & Clara graze nearby.

Gillian is in the goat house talking to Gypsy and Traveller.

What a beautiful Monday! Here's a poem...

Little Girl, Be Careful What You Say
by Carl Sandburg

Little girl, be careful what you say
when you make talk with words, words--
for words are made of syllables
and syllables, child, are made of air--
and air is so thin-- air is the breath of God--
air is finer than fire or mist,
finer than moonlight,
finer than spider-webs in the moon,
finer than water-flowers in the morning:
and words are strong, too,
stronger than rocks or steel
stronger than potatoes, corn, fish, cattle,
and soft, too, soft as little pigeon-eggs,
soft as the music of hummingbird wings.
So, little girl, when you speak greetings,
when you tell jokes, make wishes or prayers,
be careful, be careless, be careful,
be what you wish to be.

A haiku by Charles-

Ankylosaurus
Spiky, armored dinosaur
grazed on grassy plains.

Poetry month is turning out to be pretty fun for the kids. Gillian especially likes clapping out syllables. The kids and I enjoyed talking about the following poem - as summer approaches I vividly remember enduring the same frustration.

Bed in Summer
by Robert Lewis Stevenson
In winter I get up at night And dress by yellow candle-light. In summer, quite the other way, I have to go to bed by day. I have to go to bed and see The birds still hopping on the tree, Or hear the grown-up people’s feet Still going past me in the street. And does it not seem hard to you, When all the sky is clear and blue, And I should like so much to play, To have to go to bed by day?

April Continues...

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US

by: William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

HE world is too much with us: late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:

Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;

The winds that will be howling at all hours,

And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;

For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. -- Great God! I'd rather be

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

9 Years Old!

Happy Birthday to Charles!
He turned nine on Monday. The Transformers cake was devoured, the Neoshifters were built in record time and the summer clothes are impatiently awaiting pleasant weather!

National Poetry Month

We're learning about poetry. Writing it, reading it, trying to understand the rhythms and meanings.

SPRING

by: Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950)

O what purpose, April, do you return again?

Beauty is not enough.

You can no longer quiet me with the redness

Of little leaves opening stickily.

I know what I know.

The sun is hot on my neck as I observe

The spikes of the crocus.

The smell of the earth is good.

It is apparent that there is no death.

But what does that signify?

Not only under ground are the brains of men

Eaten by maggots.

Life in itself

Is nothing,

An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.

It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,

April

Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.