Father
by Frances Frost
My father's face is brown with sun,
His body is tall and limber.
His hands are gentle with beast or child
And strong as hardwood timber.
My father's eyes are the colors of the sky,
Clear blue or gray as rain:
They change with the swinging change of days
While he watches the weather vane.
That galleon, golden upon our barn,
Veers with the world's four winds.
To fill our barley bins,
To stack our wood and pile our mows
With redtop and sweet tossed clover.
He captains our farm that rides the winds,
A keen-eyed brown earth-lover.
His body is tall and limber.
His hands are gentle with beast or child
And strong as hardwood timber.
My father's eyes are the colors of the sky,
Clear blue or gray as rain:
They change with the swinging change of days
While he watches the weather vane.
That galleon, golden upon our barn,
Veers with the world's four winds.
To fill our barley bins,
To stack our wood and pile our mows
With redtop and sweet tossed clover.
He captains our farm that rides the winds,
A keen-eyed brown earth-lover.
I gave my students the assignment to write a similar poem about someone in their family. They wanted me to write one too, so we could each write about one of the cats. Here's Noah's poem about Shadow:
My Cat
by Noah Janes
My cat's fur is black and shiny,
His body is tall and limber.
His paws are gentle with beat or child
And quick as Nascar racers.
My cat's eyes are green as limes,
green with flecks of whiskey.
They dart from side to side
While we watches the birds fly by.
That squirrel, red upon our shed,
Veers with the world's four winds.
My cat, his eyes on the squirrel,
Knows when to click at him.
To stack our wood and pile our mows
With redtop and sweet tossed clover,
With redtop and sweet tossed clover,
he cannot do.
He's a keen-eyed black house-lover.
I wrote about Shiloh, who is often bullied by Marty:
My cat
by Janel Janes
My cat's face is furry and whiskery.
Her body is short and fat.
Her paws are white and playful,
and as soft as her belly is fat.
My cat's eyes are the colors of fall fields:
golden yellow and shimmery like mist.
They are peaceful and deep, tranquil pools...
except when she's cornered and hissed.
The hisser, intolerant and rude,
raises a paw to strike.
My cat, her eyes on the enemy, knows when
to cry for Mike.
To flop and chirp and roll,
she knows just what to say.
She rules our hearts
and entertains us with her play.
Sarah wrote about Marty (whose nickname is Furry Bird), but she resented having to pattern her poem after someone else's, so she did whatever she wanted:
My furry bird has big yellow eyes and whiskers.
Her feet are big and clumsy
and make the sound "tisker".
Her lines on her back are detailed
although they could be brisker.
I will go with the furry bird trotting
in the afternoon sun.
We will not go fast
because she can't run.
She will meow at tall grass
and any birds that are near.
And she will yell and scream
because dogs are sniffing her rear.
