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Hi everyone!
Do you remember your first poem? I started writing poems in my early teens. (At least ones that I can still remember) If you'd like to share one of your very first tries...let's check them out! I was always the flowery, pensive type. Here's one from when I was 12 years old...(only a few years ago!)

Softly does your gentle breath
brush against my cheek as the night's warm breeze
does play with my hair,
and the moonstreaked clouds
move slowly in the air,
creating pictures in the sky
and casting shadows on the sand,
that once was filled with children's song
and castles made by hand...

Not bad, Heidi, for a twelve year old...not bad at all. Matter of fact, it's pretty good to be written by someone so young. Would you care to divulge whose "gentle breath" you're referring to in the first line?
My first poem was a limerick and I don't remember how old I was when I wrote it, probably in my twenties, but I remember borrowing the punch line from an old joke(that was before I started making up my own puns) and I think it was this one:
When I buy gifts for my wife Dee,
I do the same for my other, Bea.
I try to be fair,
Give each her share,
Now ain't that awful bigamy?

Jim....you were crackin' puns like that in your twenties? I guess you have always been a punster! Love it.

As for "whose gentle breath?" There was this boy named Jeff in my school......


Heidi

Heidi, I have to tell you about my favorite poem written by a child. Her name is Diane and she lives in New Zeland. She was perhaps 9 or 10 at the time she wrote this- about 1978. It is simple and profound but you do have to think about it for awhile. Most people don't seem to "get it" right away and because a child wrote it, often it is dismissed; but I think she knew exactly what she was saying. I am going to type it in from memory but I think it will be correct because I never forgot it.

The wind is half the flower
Because the wind is in the flower
The white flower
Is in the clouds
__________________
Knowledge speaks, but wisdom listens.
Jimi Hendrix

Samuel,
I'm getting chills. "Out of the mouths of babes!" You know, people forget that children are spiritual beings in smaller bodies. I am so grateful you shared this poem with me. I'm still getting chills! I wonder what ever became of this child?

Heidi

Heidi, I wonder the same thing. I just remembered her last name- I'm pretty sure her name is Diane Carins. She was living in New Zeland at the time. I don't remember the name of the book this was published in but it was a collected work of children's poetry somewhere between 1975 and 1980 I am thinking. I haven't tried to Google it but I may because there were some other great poems in it. My wife and I collect children's art. In Oregon, as a fund raiser, the art created in the elementary school art class was offered for bid sale. Usually the parents will buy the work. We would try to find the best work and buy it. I have a painting on my wall right now that I wouldn't trade for a Piacasso (well, I would if I could sell it for millions I guess) but you get my point.

Samuel,
Thank you, again. I think that collecting children's art must be wonderful! The world of child is so curious and playful...until they begin to feel the hand of pressure coming down upon them. I heard a delightful mp3 by Linda P. Adams' 5-year-old son in the mp3 forum yesterday. If you take the time to get toward the end, it gets increasingly adorable. He's singing into the garage band program in her computer and really gets into it. Anyone who relates to young children would smile at that recording. To me, it was similar in price to that painting on your wall.

Heidi

First serious one was when I had just turned 14.

A Miracle?

The miracle designated life
Come and goes, yet always comes again
'tis at a low ebb during strife
And epochs of discontent
And nocturnal years
And eras of sadness
Leading many on a path to madness

But Oh, the joy that it brings
And the melodious song it sings
Almost too much to ask for

But Oh, the horror it brings
And the deafening bells that it rings
To drown out all the joy and songs
Crushing one under it's endless throngs

But the joy that it brings...

But the BELLS that it rings...

But the joy that it brings...

Enough! Have your life, my boy
You have it but once for to spend
Oh! This mad miracle called life
Will it NEVER end

So Ben, I see you used to be a good poet! What happened? Just kidding. This is quite good. It is sad that a 14-year-old is thinking those thought however. I can't say that I didn't. I remember starting the 9th grade and had just been liberated from a horrible Junior High School in Albuquerque where I risk getting beat up every day. One day on the way to the new school, I had an ephiany. It was just a thought but for the firsrt time in my life I knew that I could know everything that could be known. I just had the knowledge that my Mind had access to all knowledge and that I was equal to all the great thinkers, scientist, poets etc. Before that time, I had thought that poverty, or family standing, or privledge or fate limited me. That is why I still remember it to this day. It wasn't arrogance. It was just the realization that "all men are created equal", not abstractly, but really. Of course I forget that more often than I should but thank God for those moments of clarity even if they are 45 years old. It is good that you can see what you were thinking at age 14. The ambivalence about life in this poem is totally understandable and could be sang by David, Locke, Hume, Aristotle, Job, Skakespeare et all- it is very wise. We just have to remember we are still chidren. We will be better off remembering that.

Hope this wasn't a "make me feel bad" comment, SJ, since I posted something rather stern elsewhere. I mean I posted this 2 days ago, with nary a word, so I decided to delete the story that was behind this. But a mere 7 minutes after my post (elsewhere), you comment on this.

Oh well, I appreciate what you've written here very much!
Ben

I think it was just a co incident. I had not read your comments about Lyman on the mentor critique forum when I commented on this poem. In fact if you read my PM to you, my question was "are you mad at me for teasing you" about this poem. And I think this poem is very good. It just reminded me of when I was 14. Sadly, I don't think we get any smarter than we are when we are that age so my teasing you was teasing myself as well.

Well, I think the act of living itself makes most of us considerably smarter, though the capacity for learning is probably as great at that age, I agree.

Wow, Ben and Sam, you've been having quite the time while I've been away! I'm glad you two are playing nice.

Ben, it is easy to see that you were a profound young man at 14 and that you are a humourous and profound man now. We are who we are at any age. Life just gives us more experience from which to draw.

Sam, we can certainly gain intelligence as we grow through life. It's been scientifically proven that even I.Q. can be improved. So, there's hope for all of us yet!

Ain't life grand?

Heidi

I think you must be right. We adopted a girl whose IQ was measured at 78 when she came into our home at age 6. She is now 17, a B student in High school, and is talking seriously about college for the first time. She is one year behind (repeated 7th grade) so she won't finish HS unitl she is 19.

She can go to TCU (where I work) tuition free ($30,000 per year) or if she can't get into TCU, they will pay for any school that will accepted her. I never figured out if her IQ actually changed or if they just got it wrong when she was six. She was emotionally "shut down" when she first became our foster child and was tested. We suspect sexual abuse. She said, "I don't know" so many times that I told her she wasn't allowed to say that anymore. She had to invent new ways to say it if she really didn't know like, "I don't have an answer for you" or I don't understand what you mean" but she wouldn't say "I don't know". We were not strick about it- we would just ask her to give us some kind of answer and usually she could. She is probably our biggest suprise of the 5 children we adopted. And let me tell you that intelligence "branding" is not a good thing for kids or parents. Sometimes when Brittany would do something dumb, my wife and I would say, "Well maybe she is doing the best she can". One time a school evaluation was sent home that was an oxymoron; saying "She is preforming at a level above her capacity" Huh? How is that possible?

Very admirable, SJH. I've always had fond memories of Ma Brown, a lady in my neighborhood when I was growing up, who had a small home for orphans.

Tell the truth, Heidi! Did you see my post before I deleted the story surrounding this poem? (which I thought would be interesting, but was met with extreme apathy )

Ben

Hello again! How's my two favorite "first poem" guys?

Samuel,
Wow! Five adopted children? You are truly something! Yes, branding of any kind for anyone suggests a fixed condition. Just in simply doing that, it causes harm since it puts someone in a category in which they soon after feel stuck. Any condition can be improved upon if you apply the correct actions or technology. It seems as though you and your wife have found successful ways to assist your children to grow "beyond their capacity!" Now, whomever said that, should be labeled "stupid!" I applaud you for seeing that!

Ben,
No, I did not see your post that was met with apathy. Hey, one never knows how their communication will be received until it is given. Wanna try it again?

Heidi

Just for you, Vegas. Heidi ho and away we go! (BTW, when I deleted this, I forgot I was deleting my reference to your poem. So here it is in it's entirety. Thought if nobody here liked it, I'd read it to Mama, so I copied it!)

Actually, Mrs. Thompson, at twelve, I was probably pondering the lint in my navel!
This is heavy duty for a kid. VERY good! You woulda scared the bejeepers outta me, if you'd told me this at twelve. "Warm breath"...yikes!

I think the story behind my first "serious" poem is FAR more interesting than the piece. I don't know if I'm up to typing (or remembering) all of it, but I'll start it and maybe finish later.

I had just turned 14 in the spring of my sophomore year. Ms. Taylor, our English teacher, gave us a last second assignment (right before the bell rang) on Friday, to write a poem "about life" over the week-end. The high school baseball team had a game that night and a double header on Saturday, so the assignment never crossed my mind. We won the first two, but lost the Saturday night game, embarrassingly (could we maybe have been a little tired? ). Anyway, Coach Roy made all the starters come to practice after church Sunday afternoon...for THREE hours...very little practice, mostly running our cans off.

That night, around eight, a guy in my English class, Ricky Plyler, who lived up the street, comes by and asks about the poem. "OH NOOO!" It hadn't once crossed my mind, and I can't give Ms. Taylor a reason to browbeat me. (That woman did NOT like me, and I never knew why. I later found out that she suspected {but couldn't prove} that my older brother had put a very real looking rubber snake in her drawer, (though he wasn't even in her class at the time) that scared the crap out of her. That might have had something to do with it, but I can't say for sure. But I digress.

I was too worn out to think, so I asked Mama to wake me up early next morning. She did, and I wrote a poem about life. Went to school and about 10 minutes before first bell, Mary Petty, class genius, whom I'd known since sixth grade, approached and asked to see my poem. She is about the only person I would have allowed to see it, as she and I had a history of poetry contests, orations, and the like since seventh grade. She read it and said it was excellent. (Understand, Mary knew I had a secret life, which I tried VERY hard to keep separate from my "other" life as an athlete and regular ol' guy, so I knew she would never out me when it came to certain endeavors that ball players simply didn't do...back then, anyhow.)

Bell rings...social studies, followed by English. We enter, take our seats, and Ms. Taylor announces that we'll be reading aloud as many of the poems as we can get to during the period. My heart sinks.

First person she calls on is David Browne (football player, later the starting center for the University of Tennessee). I can still remember the opening....

To me, life is like a bag of popcorn
In the early morn
Or later going to a picture show
And seeing Marilyn Monroe (yes, she was already dead! )

Anyway, that's all I remember. In fact, there were only about four more lines, but I had my face in my hands thinking, "Dear Lord, you gotta help me out here. Life...LIFE. EVERYTHING is life!!!" (But in my goofy brain, I had taken it literally as LIFE, pure unadulterated life, the ACTUAL word "life".)

She spent about a minute criting his disaster, but was generally praiseworthy and encouraging...and that set the trend. She seemed to be calling on those (especially jocks, nearly every guy in that class was a member of one team or another that I played on) who had no aptitude whatsoever for poetry.
And theirs were all similar to David's (though not THAT obtuse )in that they were about day to day living.

I'm watching that clock for at least four hours (the periods were 45 minutes), when, ,finally, with only about 10 minutes to go she calls on Sandra Frederick, who IS involved in the arts (choir). That's a wrap, fer shure! Sandra's is bound to be a long one, much as she jabbers. No...such...luck. She's decided to create a limerick, which brought the house down, but even with the ensuing laughter, only about 2 minutes lapsed. I found out the next day that Ms. Taylor had already seen Sandra's limerick (had to be pre-approved for bawdiness, which it wasn't [bawdy] ), so she, in fact KNEW there'd be time for one more.

Needless to say, after the room had quieted, she said, almost with an air of, ("Nyah, ah-ah," {as she twirls her handlebar moustache} "I gotcha this time Mr. Big Shot")..."Ben Burton." I was in complete torment. I didn't respond.

"Uh, Ben, get up and read your poem. NOW!"

No response.

"Okay, so you didn't do your assignment? Well, I don't care how many GAMES you played, mister, an unexcused assignment drops you one letter grade." (More so than that reality, I was stunned at her reference to the baseball games. Heck, I didn't even know she knew I did anything beyond her class.)

I was on the verge of tears, but I was prepared to accept that fate, rather than risk alienating by fellow teammates, by revealing what a weirdo I was.

Suddenly, a female voice speaks up. "Uhhhh, Ms. Taylor. He did TOO write his poem. I think he's just too shy to read it. I'LL read it, though."

"Well, Mary, since you didn't get called on to read yours, which I already know is wonderful, I suppose it would be okay," she said haltingly. (Dang, I'm getting too sleepy...I'm sitting here thinking I'm writing a novel!!! she said HALTINGLY? Good grief!)

So Mary walks over to my desk, opens the pad I wrote it in, and takes it to the front of the room. Our eyes met briefly, as she gave me a look of, "this is for your own good, Burton.. I immediately looked down, placed my palms over my ears, and squinted my eyes tight.. As she began to read, I was caught in two strange netherworlds, one the harsh reality of how I would be perceived very shortly...the other, of hearing Mary's distant voice reading so beautifully, as I had heard many times before, but with the knowledge that, for the first time, the words were MINE. It was surreal. We had read many poems to each other during free periods for a few years...Poe, Whitman, Eliot, Sandburg, Frost...a lot of the biggies and a few obscure, but this was a first. Mary was good, I mean, really good. She made nationals in one of her speeches.
The poem....

A Miracle?

The miracle designated life
Come and goes, yet always comes again
'tis at a low ebb during strife
And epochs of discontent
And nocturnal years
And eras of sadness
Leading many on a path to madness

But Oh, the joy that it brings
And the melodious song it sings
Almost too much to ask for

But Oh, the horror it brings
And the deafening bells that it rings
To drown out all the joy and songs
Crushing one under it's endless throngs

But the joy that it brings...

But the BELLS that it rings...

But the joy that it brings...

Enough! Have your life, my boy
You have it but once for to spend
Oh! This mad miracle called life
Will it NEVER end

The silence immediately following was as deafening as the bells. Mary returned to her seat.
Ms. Taylor cleared her throat, and went right into the next day's assignment. At the time, I was totally relieved.

After class, in the hall, these guys were huddled up talking while casting furtive glances at me as I stood at my locker. Had to think fast. I approached them.

"Hey, com'ere guys, listen to me."

Brownie says, "I swear, Burton, I heard you had some weird ways, but this beats everything!"

"No, no, no, ya'll got it all wrong. Hear me out!" I walked in close and lowered my voice.

"Alright look, ya'll know what happened this week-end. I forgot all about the assignment." Plyler was amongst the group, and he vouched for me. "Well, I looked through some old books of my Mama's and found one with poems, and when I saw the one about life, I" (whispering) "copied it."

Now, I was in a whole 'nother realm.

Brownie said, "Man, Ben, she could get you for pladenism" (heck no, I didn't correct him! )"if she ever finds out!"

"Yeah, I know, but I didn't have any choice. The book was really old, so I'm hoping she never sees it. Ya'll keep your traps shut, though."

"Wow, that took some more guts, Ben. Don't worry, we ain't gonna say another word, but old lady Taylor (she was 28 ) is likely to be burning the midnight oil trying to find that poem."

I have just gone from Mr. Weirdo to the ballsiest guy in school.

I turn and look to my right, and standing, with her arms folded across the notepad on her chest, not five feet away, is Mary, shaking her head in wonder, with a wry grin like I've never seen.

An hour later, in our free period, we discussed it. She asked if I had even heard her reading, and for the first time, I gave Mary Petty a big hug, and said she was so wonderful, she almost made me cry.

Then I got upset over Ms. T's dismissal of it, after making nice comments on everyone else's poems. Mary said she probably DID think I had copied it, and that became a running joke for the rest of our days together in high school...Christina Taylor going home every day to dig through mounds of books in her mansion (her husband owned a major glass company in town, so they were well-heeled) determined to find me out. Of course, looking at it now, it's hardly something worthy of publication in ANY poetry book, but it all worked out well for me. I continued my secret dalliances into plays, poetry, orations and choir, while maintaining my standing as a dumb jock.

Oh, in case you're wondering, my brother, Jack.... He told me years later that he had, in fact, put the snake in Ms. Taylor's drawer.
_________________________
Field of Dreams

Ben, this reads like a movie from Nickelodeon, the children's channel. Those kinds of awkward teens scenes are right up their alley.

My worst memory about a writing assignment happened in the 11 grade. The best teacher in the entire school was also the track coach and he taught International Relations. One night I caught fire on an essay assignment. I did my research and put in an all nighter getting it as perfect as I could and I was proud of it. A few days later, on the way to a track meet, the teacher/coach took me to the back of the bus and told me that he knew that I had plagiarized the essay. He said, "I couldn't have written an essay that good. Where did you get it?” I graduated from Creswell High School with him believing that I had plagiarized the essay.

At the time, I was too timid to even challenge him. I just denied it and let it go. Looking back, what I should have done was to challenge him, show him my notes, go over each point I made and show him line by line that I wrote it- but I was very shy.

Oddly, performing music live was always easy. I am never shy in front of a crowd no matter how big as long as I am singing. However, if I had to give a speech, I would rather jump out of the second floor building because at least I might survive that.

Heidi, I have got to tell you what my other daughter wrote last night. Ann has Down syndrome.

First I will tell you that when she was in the 5th grade, her teacher told us that they were not going to attempt to teach her to read because she didn't have enough "horsepower up there". Yes the teacher really said that! We took Ann out of that school, enrolled her in another one and then got her 4 months of tutoring in a reading program created by "Engelmann-Becker". She learned to read in the first two months. Today she reads slowly but with understanding. She has forgotten some of the strategies to "sound out" words but she understands a lot and does not need to be encouraged.

When she writes, she will write things like, "I love you Dad" or "Boys, stay out of my room. I am watching television. Do not disturb! Leave me alone!

Ann loves magic and fantasy and she doesn't quite understand why she can't live in the television set for instance -with the cartoon characters; but last night she broke my heart when she came into the kitchen and handed me a note that said:

"Ann is struck by a magic ray and is turned into a super genius!

It took me back to a dream I had of her when she was 7. In a lucid dream I was walking with Ann and she asked me why the sky was blue. I looked at her and I could see what Ann would look like without Down syndrome. I felt just like I had met my “real” daughter for the first time. I have a picture of Ann when she was about that age and in it I can still glimpse the "whole" Ann. I may post it on this forum if I can figure out how. Ann is so full of fun and humor and her whole Soul is intact- but the hard wiring is wrong- it hurts.

We talk openly about her condition and once she asked me for my three wishes. I said (honestly) “One- that you would be cured of Down syndrome" Two, one billlllion dollars, which makes her laugh at my bad impression of Mike Myers. I don't remember what the third wish was but every few days she asks me. "Dad, what is your first wish?" If I feel like kidding her, I will say, "One billlllion dollars!" and she will laugh and say, "No, no, your FIRST wish". I will tell her and she will hug me and say "That's alright Dad. It's OK. I'm sorry".
______________________
Will the people in the cheaper seats clap your hands? And the rest of you, if you'll just rattle your jewelry
john Lennon

Hello Ben,
Well, that was certainly a fun story! Sam was right. I can see this in a movie on Nickelodeon. Thank you for re-posting it! It's truly a shame when our peers think it isn't cool to write poetry and such. At least, as we get older, we don't have to limit ourselves to the small minds of those who do not understand the immense value of the artist in general. I look forward to seeing more of your work, Ben. If I had to write a poem about "life," I might use your high-spirited nature as an example to show that a person is as alive as he or she can communicate. Ben, you are one of the most alive persons I've met! Bless you for that and don't ever feel that deleting your communication is an option. Instead, communicate your head off!

Respectfully,
Heidi

Dearest Sam,
Regarding your most recent post (first of the two)...please allow me to comment on your not standing up to that teacher. At that time, you were given a WRONG INDICATION that you had stolen that poem. Is that correct? When one is given a wrong indication, it can stir up all sorts of trouble unless it is handled. It can actually stick your energy right at that horrible past time when the wrong indication was given. It can possibly lead to your current shyness for giving speeches. One thing you might consider is this....I'd write a letter to that teacher. I know it's sounds silly after all these years, but vindication can be very healing and you don't have to worry about it being silly. See if you can track down that teacher. If not, then I strongly suggest you send it to the Principal of that school. You can explain how this experience had affected you and simply say that you wanted to pass it along to all the other teachers at that school as a loving way to keep this from ever happening to another child.

While it may seem a bit over-dramatic, I can almost promise you that it will END that cycle of invalidation for you once and for all. You will have finally done something with that wrong piece of energy that was given to you, thus unsticking yourself from it.

I'd be most happy to take a look at your letter should you agree to try this experiment. The letter should not be angry, but should contain a message that teachers should never make students wrong. When you concentrate on wrongness, you get more wrongness. So, just ask them to take that into consideration for the future generations of students.

Now, I will take this theme and elaborate on it in my next post to follow.

With admiration,
Heidi

Sam,
Now, I have to commend you on handling your daughter so very well. You can SEE the spirit beyond the body. THAT is your daughter and she is communicating to you through the "wrong hard-wiring." So, the more you validate the spirit, the less importance is placed upon the body. That is exactly the key to your success with her thus far. Those who place your daughter in a category called "Downs Syndrome person," are simply ignorant to the ways of the spirit. They do not realize how strong and miraculous the spirit is. When your daughter wrote that note, ""Ann is struck by a magic ray and is turned into a super genius," she was showing you something quite amazing. She was predicting a better future for herself. That willingness to strive for more is what you and your wife are giving her.

Sam, when you put a plant in a pot, it grows to the size of that pot. You are giving Ann a gigantic pot while others wanted to plant her spirit in a small one. Bravo to you and your wife. Ann will grow to the size of that gigantic pot. Your love and understanding are the fertilizer. Bless you all.

Heidi

Heidi--what a beautiful analogy to the gigantic pot... I love that. Sam, I agree with Heidi. Wonderful work you are doing with Ann! We have an adorable baby girl (about 18 months) in our church congregation with Down's Syndrome. Whenever I look at her I can see that beautiful spirit inside too. I know exactly what you're talking about.

Okay, now I need the Kleenex box. [sniff sniff]

Linda

I couldn't put my first poem in the same post as my other comments.
All right. The first poem I *remember* writing was written during class my freshman year of high school. I'm sure I wrote a few before then, for school assignments, but I don't remember them.

It's going to surprise you. You'll know why when you read it. Especially if you have any sense of my personality at all.
My mother utterly hated it, and worried about me.
I just thought it was funny.

OK, this is from memory... I don't know where the original went. My first poem:

=============================

Midnight, Central Park, 1962
by Linda P. Adams

The night was black
The moon was full
I put a crack
Into his skull

It made a thud
That old wrench did
Flat in the mud
Did fall his head

I dropped the wrench
And went my way
Sat on a bench
And waited for day.

[urgh--some stanza about hearing a scary noise come up behind him--can't remember it now]

[another stanza about: shock! it's the dead body! ending with:]

The dead man took
His own revenge.

======================

And there you have it.

Linda

BTW, thanks for the plug, Heidi! I just saw this tonight.
Joe's song is here:
http://www.soundclick.com/captainofthesuperheroes
He's been singing it around the house lately, too!

Linda

bang bang maxwell silver wrench. I hope you didn't mean it!

Joe has got that scat thing going on. Now what mother wouldn't love the "messasge" in this song.

Hi Joe,
Thanks!

Absolutely didn't mean it! I have a hard time killing flies and spiders. LOL I don't like horror movies much either.

I was in college before I ever heard "Maxwell's Silver Hammer," too. Funny, huh?

Linda

Wow,
You guys have taken this thread into some very interesting places! Linda, you are one of a kind!

Heidi

Hi there, the scaly one here........This one isn't the first poem that I ever wrote, but it is the earliest one that I can dredge up out of my memory. Sometime, I think summer, of '83.
Kim and Julie were two very pretty young girls who were killed in a traffic accident on their way to school one day.
Kim died instantly, Julie the next day in the hospital.
I wrote this one quickly, and gave a copy to their mother.....


CAN’T STOP DREAMIN’
for Kim and Julie Glisson

Seems like only yesterday we were young and free
Time sure flies when you’re having fun
So beautiful and sweet, you were special to me
Now you’re gone somewhere beyond the sun

Can’t Stop Dreamin’ baby, wish you were here
So hard to make it through without love
God forgive me if I shed a few tears
Can’t Stop Dreamin’ of the way it was

I know somehow I’ve got to carry on
Ain’t nothin’ changed in this old world
Gonna rise above the pain and face it alone
With the peaceful memories of two very special girls

hey y'all, all these poems are really good. my first one was I think when I was about 8 (I'm 13 now). It's kinda cute though.

Hey stars, reach for the sun.
Hey stars, reach for the sky,
Have you ever seen something better than this?
This feeling that I get,
I'm higher than the stars,
And brighter than the sun,
This feeling that I get,
When I'm with you,
Is the best thing that I've ever known.


And there it is.

Hey "x,"
Wow! I am impressed! That's a great way to express your feelings about someone, especially at 8 years old! I hope you find JPF a fun place to hang out and be creative. Being 13, you are at a wonderful time to work on your craft!!! Welcome and I look forward to seeing more of your work!

Heidi

Heidi,

What a great thread! I wrote a song in 6th grade, but since i had not a clue about music, it was just a poem. my music teacher in 7th grade loved it (former mo town artist from the velvetettes) she had the class listen as i sang/spoke it to the class.

Day is gone, night is here
i've been with you for half a year
my life is going great
in my dreams

when i woke up you said good bye
it hurt me way down deep inside
i'm think i'm falling down
in my dreams

cause' love's a clock
a clock is time
i know i'm in love when you're in mind
and love never looked better
with out you, yeah with out you.

I'd give up all, i have a hunch
you wouldn't have gave me six more months
i'm lost but i'm not scared
in my dreams

i don't know if you were ever there
to say the least not for half a year
i'll find some body else
in my dreams

cause' love's a clock
a clock is time
i know i'm in love when you're in mind
and love never looked better
with out you, yeah with out you.

(i suppose i was near twelve when i did this)
-steve

Steve,
It is really amazing to see what kind of poems people have been posting from their youth. I like the comparison of love to a clock. I remember a song I wrote in high school where the first line was "time is only measured by how long it's been since I have seen you." Sure glad you posted this one. You must have been quite the twelve-year-old.

Heidi

here is on from when i was in like grade 8
seems like forever ago...


The Death of a Bum
© 2007 Nicholaus Billings

As he lay dying
in a dark, dark alleyway
he lay withering
as mentally he tries to run away.
He rests in a box
with no possessions to call his own
as he lay thinking,
to the pain
he lets out a moan.
While we sit at home
and watch our TV
all we think about
is me, me, me.
So patiently he sits and waits
for the time when he should die,
he sits and wonders
“why me, God, why?”
When finally he’s died and gone
none of us know
and life goes on
Now he’s beyond, counting his life’s sum
coming to terms with dying a bum.


hope this finds you all well!

nick