We are basically on the home stretch with home school. Christian and I spoke with the Larsons today and it seems that they are finishing up too. They are planning on finishing their reports today and called to ask if they could borrow one of Christian’s claymation movies for Daniel’s report on clay animation. Anyway, here is a poem that I wrote yesterday for school:
The Man in the Purple Cowboy Hat
by Kelly Chapman
There was a man, he had a shop
he sold old chairs and bottles of pop
he sold blonde wigs, he sold pig fat
and he wore a purple cowboy hat
he sold big pots, he sold small pans
he sold rubber gloves to cover your hands
he sold a thesaurus in the shape of a cat
and he wore a purple cowboy hat
he sold roof shingles, he sold bottlecaps
he sold beach bags and beat up maps
he sold a bird cage and a welcome mat
and he wore a purple cowboy hat
he sold escargot (it was alive)
he sold spam and an old bee hive
there was a big box, where he sat
and fiddled with the ribbon on his cowboy hat
he talked to me, most every day
whenever I went out to play
he looked up, smiled, gave me a pat
and tipped up his purple cowboy hat
“Howdy Joe!” he says to me
and he looks right happy, as pleased as can be
“Would you like an old chair or a welcome mat?”
he asked ‘neath his purple cowboy hat
“How ’bout a beach bag, for when it gets hot?”
“or a nice and cool bottle of pop?”
“or maybe a book in the shape of a cat?”
said the man with the purple cowboy hat.
“No thanks Mr. Maloney.” I reply
“I just dropped in to say hi”
“Maybe next time, now how about that?”
and he smiles and nods ‘neath his cowboy hat.
This is a great poem Kelly. I really hope to see more on some of your usual and creative topics.
Kelly,
We really enjoyed reading your poem. Very delightful and delicious! 🙂 It made us laugh and say “cool!
Inspired by your willingness to share a poem, here’s one from each of us.
Nature’s Princess
Oh so lovely and fair her golden locks glow.
Her gown of green moss and red roses.
Oh her dazzling laugh that sounds like the birds.
Oh her bed of green moss and fresh leaves.
And her perfume that smells like lavender.
Her favorite plaything is a ball made of roses and sunshine.
Her pet is a little green frog.
And the briers do not ever hurt her.
The end.
By, Addie
Age 8
Cold Grip of Glory
That winter of 1886 the snow piled 11 feet high.
Everyday eyes watched Blue Slide nervously.
Towering mountain of ice with railroad tracks
crawling beneath. Mirrored by rolling
snowballs, tears accelerating
down the frost bitten face.
Eight young me volunteered for the job,
eager for glory. Took up positions
Girded with shovels, gloves and buffalo coats.
Their job to keep the stretch free of snow.
A priority felt for the train
that mapped this small Montana town.
Resolute boys kept their post as
sleet escaped from overturned sky buckets
while the snow crouched precariously
for the right moment to begin its slide.
Hands shadowed eyes on eight
upturned watchful faces.
“RUN!†the leader shouted as the inevitable
cannon’s boom sent them scrambling. Awakened
mountain’s shrug, trees responding protest,
roar of thunder, sickening crescendo
of battle. Followed by
silence…echoing louder than sound.
A fresh crew, the next morning,
telegraphed about the trains
delay 20 miles down
the track. High spirits, whistles
And feet tromped their way to
relieve the boys. Found none,
only that Blue Slide had slid. A
sigh swept through the party as they
realized the boy’s sense caused desertion
during the night. Until on sharp
eyed kid spotted his brother’s
pocket knife and called the others back.
In a feverish haste the men bloodied
their knuckles on the night-crusted
snow. Underneath in a soft death blanket,
smothering to the desperately searching diggers.
One man broke through a thin layer of ice
left by whispered pleas and gasped.
Rescuers hopes punished by
wide eyed marine pools,
not yet weighted with coppers, sharing back.
Other found nearby with steam tunnels that
hinted at short struggles. Arms pinned, faces
shrouded in blue, their mothers’ in black.
This poem recieved an honorable mention in a newpaper literary contest when I was 16. Must have been a slow news day!