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BACKGROUND IMAGE: Stewart Butterfield
CATEGORY HEADINGS: modified images of Late 19th-early 20th century children's books, Bodleian Library, University of Oxford

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Tromping my way down the line,
Tussling one word at a time --
It was either them or me.

I persevered, muscles flexed,

First one word and then the next,
Speaking them aloud slowly.

They raised the white flag, this batch,
During our word-wrestling match,
As they told their tale to me.

- Tabatha Yeatts

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My sister reads very well
and my brother does excel.
Both of them can write and spell.

I have tried to read a book,
but don’t know how when I look.
I really feel like a schnook.

Mother said, “Don’t be afraid.
You will learn when in first grade.”
She was right.  My fears did fade.

No more squiggles do I see,
They’re letters, I’ve learned with glee.
That’s my big discovery.

Each letter has its own sound.
When joined, they make words, I’ve found.
“I’m reading!” I shout around!

Now I have learned how to read.
Many books are what I need,
I’m so proud I did succeed.

By Patricia Podlipec 2016

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by Lynzee, 2nd grade student of Margaret Simon

TEACHER:
Three lines, Seven syllables,
Is it hard? No, it isn't,

Go on try a septercet.

STUDENT:
Fine, I'll do it! how 'bout this?

Moon, why are you awake now?
What time do you go to sleep?

TEACHER:
I saw the moon yesterday,

Bright in early morning sky,
Give a septercet a try!

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© 2016 Michelle Kogan

Reading leaves between the lines,

hearing consonants in waves,

catching letters on high wires . . .

Watch out here comes metaphor,

she’s sifting in semantics,

mixing in dreams, hopes, and rhymes.

Rhythms running, hurrying,

checking meter one more time,

Meters measured, on the mark.

Alliterations in the

lead, loading all on the page . . .

Presto, Bam– A Poem’s Born!

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Syllables are funny things.
Some rush by at a brisk clip,
others stretch and twist the tongue.

Quick as did-dle did-dle dee,
or taking a bit longer
like schwarmfst skwirlp twoolm preefts brawlg thrunch.

By David McMullin

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I have no words of my own.
They travel in a suitcase—
nouns and verbs and adjectives,

adverbs with no place to be—
crammed in like hotel soaps and
tiny bottles of shampoo.

Words like bumble and wallop,
humdinger and pernicious,
they moisturize, volumize,

but otherwise come and go
as they please. Such is the way
with some travel companions.

© 2016 Michelle Heidenrich Barnes. All rights reserved.

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Farewell words - I bid you well
Down new paths you must travel
May you spread joy as you go

I have loved you tenderly
I have shaped you gingerly
And now I must set you free

Farewell words - embark anew
On paths to be discovered
Inspire all who read you

By Lanie Lazo 2016

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What? Were you talking to me?
I’m sorry I didn’t hear.

I hope you will understand.

Even though you can see me,

I’m not actually here.

I’ve been sucked inside my book.

© 2016 Elizabeth Steinglass.

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R-R-R-Reading roller coaster
screeches round, up, down, spelling

out magical adventures  . . .

~ Michelle Kogan

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by J.G. Annino

Unexpected words spill me

on hard sand, at drifted stick:

Ahoy, mate! Here be dragons!

Unexpected words thrill me

in thick mud, by twisted twig:

Something wicked this way comes!

Unexpected words chill me,

finger-writ, on windowpane:

Hey! Jack Frost is here to play!

Unexpected words fill me,

letters on hot pie, beckon:

Taste me immediately!

c. 2016 Jan Godown Annino

(Inspired by my father's writing on our frosted windows in New Jersey and by my mother's writing in the Florida sand after our family traded mid-Atlantic winters for summer hurricanes. Appreciations to Lady Jane Yolen & Today's Little Ditty Michelle - jga)

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Library books sit on shelves
Wait for lights off and begin
hushed voices with each other

Conversations in the dark
Whoa, she dogeared my pages.
I felt his tears on THE END.

Forgotten, not been checked out.

A first grader stole a book,
Tucked it under her rag coat.

Blue moon shines through the window.

Library books, gossipers,
Whispering words without sleep.

© Jone Rush MacCulloch

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I’ve never seen the ocean

but I know it’s fierce and wide

and governed by the moon’s tide.

I’ve never smelled the seaweed,

never touched a gold starfish

though I wish and wish and wish.

I’ve seen the photos, read books

with pictures, heard a seashell

sing a  song and cast a spell.

Someday I’ll see the ocean,

feel wet sand between my toes,

see where the green sea grass grows.

Someday, I’ll taste the bright salt

flavor of the waves. I’ll say,

“Delicious!” Someday. Someday.

---Julie Larios

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by Shirin Shamsi

When I read my mind takes flight,
To lands and worlds far beyond,
Further than a shooting star.

When I read my mind takes flight,
I meet people unlike me,
Yet feel for them profoundly.

When I read my mind takes flight,
Delights, expands, stretches, grows,
Returning home, snug and warm.

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I met a girl in a book—
a sister to me, my heart

sang to be so understood.

I met a girl in a book—

a stranger to me, my heart

sang to hear her melody.

Sister, stranger, girl, or boy—

in my heart their printed souls

find a voice and turn to song.

© 2016 by Elizabeth Steinglass
All rights reserved.

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by Kathleen Mazurowski

Open Books welcomes readers,

writers, adventurers, you.

browse the shelves, select a few.

Open Books encourages

words, written and read by you.

Find a character or two.

Open Books welcomes dreamers,

schemers, explorers, and you.

visit, chat, and share books, too.

(www.open-books.org is a not for profit organization. They have two second-hand bookstores in Chicago that support literacy programs for young people. I volunteer for the writing field trips now.)

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Words drifting coasting across worlds
shuts of imaginings open
we climb over montane of letters

Advancers’ as pages turn
Exploring books reaching stars
road mapping our further

Knowledge enriching our dreams
Dashes of space existents
Books open our life begins

Poem by Jessica Bigi

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Bookmark fell out on the floor

Caught by wind, flew out the door

Not my bookmark anymore

How far would the wind convey

Aiding lofty get away

In what story would it stay?

Weeks on weeks I saw my mark

Near a bookstore, in the park

Antsy, waiting to embark

What worlds it had traveled to

Make-believe, the old and new

No more bookmark ingénue

Months on months I saw it there

In an old book in the square

Happy, torn beyond repair

© 2016 Audrey Day-Williams

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Nestled on my grandma’s lap,

she opens a book and I’m

sailing off to fairyland.

A magic castle rises,

princess slumbering within,

the prince arrives to wake her.

Turn the page. Red Riding Hood

knocks on Grandma’s door. Beware!

A devious wolf awaits.

One story ends, another

begins. “Fee, fi, fo, fum,” hums

a hungry, fearsome giant.

Just in time, Jack saves the day,

rescues friends from a sad fate.

But Giant, enraged, gives chase,

lumbering down the beanstalk.

Will Jack get away? He grabs

an axe, chops with all his might.

Tales now told, the book is closed.

You know how this story ends.

Happily ever after.

by Catherine Flynn, © 2016

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Once upon a fairy tale,
Once upon a magic rhyme,
Once upon and long ago,

Once upon another time,
Dragons lived upon the earth,
Mermaids swam under the seas,

Talking fish granted wishes,
Beanstalks grew from magic beans,
And there lived a red-capped girl

In a cabin by a brook;
Once upon a fairy tale,
Ever after in my book.

-Jane Baskwill

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When she wanders in the woods,
soft white reflecting diamonds,
her fair skin glows like snowflakes.

Apple laced in evil spells
tastes of beauty golden red
slips her slowly into sleep.

Finally she rests from all
her troubles. Let her be free.
Love will find a peaceful soul.

–Margaret Simon

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I’m a witch who loves to brew.

Should I use spell one or two —

Spotted Frog or Shriveled Shrew?

Both are nice. But, look! There’s more.

Should I use spell three or four —

Ugly Warts or Endless Snore?

Potion bottles. Stir and mix.

Should I use spell five or six —

Legs of Iron or Hair of Sticks?

Brew til midnight. Brew til late.

Maybe seven, maybe eight —

Tongue-Tied Tight or Bug-Filled Plate?

All good choices. Look again.

Should I use spell nine or ten —

Bleating Goat or Clucking Hen?

Cauldron’s boiling. But I dread

choosing spells—it hurts my head!

Never mind. I’m off to bed.

© 2016 Penny Parker Klostermann. All rights reserved.

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I’m captain of paper ships
Hoisting sails of streaming words
Exploring alphabet  seas

Casting nets and lines of dreams
Reeling tails of mystery
Folds of paper fins splashing

Sea Serpents and fairy tale
Treasure maps of jewels and gold
Paper waves rock paper ships

Paper hat and paper hook
Pictures in my storybook
I’m captain of paper ships

Poem by Jessica Bigi

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Jungle vines twine to grab me.

Swing machete, slash a path.

Coiling cobra hisses. Halt.

Lowered eyes, barely breathing.

If I move, I’ll be its prey.

Satisfied, it glides away.

Moving on. Stripes flash past me.

Peering cat eyes, then a cough.

Can it smell my mounting fear?

Lowered eyes, turning toward it.

Arms raised high to make me big.

Slowly start to back away.

Tusks appear. Trumpet bellows.

Tiger’s tail darts out of sight.

Weathered eyes latch onto mine.

Elephant! Run, or fight him?

Either way, my chance is slim.

Trunk swipe knocks machete high.

In his eye, there’s a twinkle.

Pivoting, he turns around.

Pokes his tail out toward my hand.

Like a calf, hold and follow.

Crossing trampled vines toward home.

Feeling brave now. Not alone.

©2016 by Sydney O’Neill

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Book spines stripe the wall and I
In tall, quiet word-halls sprawl
Between the shelves on belly.

Bare feet crossed, soles to ceiling,
Elbows propped, paging finger
Lingers in fantastic worlds;

I roam through Heidi’s Swiss Alps,
Skip along Dorothy’s path,
Tumble down rabbit’s deep hole,

Journey in Marty’s spaceship,
Dwell with black ants underground -
All with a flick of the page.

“It’s time to lock,” tocks the clock,
Too soon for Pippi and me;
I grab her hand, she scrambles,

Dives in my bag for tonight;
Till curled up under blankets,
My flashlight as stage footlights,

Pippi reads alive again;
In my room I’m voyaging
To Villa Villekulla.

By Donna JT Smith, 2016

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Tomorrow I'm on the plane,
Chasing west and going home.
Shedding hours as I fly.

Behind me I leave Scotland,
Heart's home, and men who wear kilts.
Consonants that burr so hard

They sound like a tea kettle
On the boil: One lump or two?
After each rain a rainbow.

It's a hard life, that I know,
But I'm taking that bullet
For all my writer buddies.

Some day you will all thank me,
Drinking tea in my Great Hall,
And talking about great books.

©2016 Jane Yolen

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My granddaughter speaks of school -

favorite activity:

where she can write her stories,

and now use “fancy letters,

the ones with curls at the end.

They make the stories lively.”

She’ll write about her days, put

those she loves into the words,

practicing fancy letters.

Linda Baie © All Rights Reserved

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Tattered pages, mud-stained ink.
My words take flight, thoughts soaring
On fluttering fledgling wings.

By Ann Magee

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A thought -a word - a feeling
And soon my head is reeling
I must write it down - I must

In sleep my dreams are vivid
Forgetting makes me livid
I will wake and write - i must

I write words that make a song
Rise and fall they beat along
I will hum and write - I must

Flighty words that make me smile
Weighty words- some strong and vile
Should I write them? Yes I must

Some may rhyme and and some may not
My thoughts put me on the spot
They demand I write - I must

For to write is all I know
Write thru life as on I go
Pen in hand I write - I must

If I write it they will read
They will love it, I believe
So I write and then I trust

Yes I write it yes I must
Right or wrong I write - I just
Write and write thru life - I must

By Janie Lazo 2016

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I am devastated now
The bar has been set quite high
My effort seems all for nought.

I try to write, my thoughts flow
My stories brim with sadness
Dark clouds loom overhead with rain

I want to make myself heard
My thoughts are filled with colour
My mind must put to paper.

by Angelique Pacheco

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It's rude to stare at people,
my daughter's words remind me.
I'm sure that's what I taught her.

I turn away, pretending
disinterest in the woman's
rounding spine, her frowning mouth,

but I need words to describe
her gait, the way she drags one
foot then firmly plants it down.

An accident? Polio?
No way to know. Or did she
strive like Jacob with her God?

My prying eyes refocus
on her face. My daughter pulls
my arm, forces me away.

The woman's figure chiseled
on my prying mind creates
a tale--Once upon a time.

© 2016 Doraine Bennett

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I wake with opening lines.
Grabbing my pencil, I write.

Scribbling before they are lost.

The day continues along

Unlike my story which stops

Dead in its tracks—what to do?

Zip up jacket—go outside.

Smell fresh cut grass and flowers.

Pick tomatoes and basil.

My mind, relaxed and open

Hears the Universe speaking.

Now I am ready to write.

Copyright 2016 Vivian Kirkfield

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Milestone reached - six hundred posts!

A writer born by blogging

Six posts shared, one from each year.

Journey launched five years ago

Enticed by Mother Reader's

48 Hour Book Challenge.

Sandra (former resident)

Touches red brick floor of porch

Where 4th grade self read and read.

It skipped a generation

but the sewing gene lives on

in daughter Sara who quilts.

I meander through raindrops

Stacey chooses to share my

Windshield wiper ponderings.

Visit home from east coast kids

A poem stretches to capture

Each hug and happy moment.

As tomatoes flourish I

Inhale essence of summer

and Daddy walks beside me.

A celebration of slices!

My journey continues with

Encouraging writer friends.

by Ramona Behnke

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Writing is a way of life:

apples, oranges, wet wipes,

tea go on the shopping list

Writing is a way of life:

text my daughter to confirm

our pedicure appointment

Writing is a way of life:

quick note to thank Grandmother

for anniversary gift

Writing is a way of life:

email sister pictures of

parents for surprise party

Writing is a way of life:

capture thoughts of gratitude

and prayer in journal each day

(c)2016 Kristi Veitenheimer

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All things take on great import
I am obliged to exhort
Truth in rocks, peas, traffic court

-Rebekah Hoeft

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I'm sitting at my laptop...
What to write, what to write, what—

Nothing's coming. NOT A THING.

I'm standing in the bathroom...
Should I floss, should I floss, should—

My mind fills with poetry.

©2016 Suzy Levinson

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My mind paints pictures in words.
Scattered images soaring,
traveling through my backdrop.

I sketch syllables and verbs,
rhymes schemes, rhythm and meter.
They twirl and bop, cavorting.

Winking at me with spirit,
they scintillate with ditty,
title me writer, poet.

The words give children a voice,
speaking a kids melody—
music, euphony, friendship.

Robyn Campbell 2016

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Hungry poet, pen in hand

Little ditty word gourmet

Countless forms, a lush buffet

Hearty haiku, Japanese

Love or nature emphasized

Simple lines, five seven five

Metaphor and simile

Tasty tanka, a “short song”

Thirty-one syllables long

Luscious little limerick

Singsong anapestic lines

Two distinct rhythms and rhymes

Palindrome, ode, clerihew

Reverso, rondeau, quatrain

Persona, sonnet, cinquain

Salivating, choice is made

Poet’s appetite is whet

Sweet and saucy septercet

© 2016 Mindy Gars Dolandis

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Extraordinary being,
stringing idea fragments
onto emotional wires

attached somewhere within me,
make my heart sing with pleasure
'til truth leaks out like honey.

© 2016 by George Heidenrich

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The thing about poetry

is one reads it in light of

his own life experiences.

Each newly written poem

potentially has seven

billion interpretations.

Your poem has the power

to start a conversation

or two, or how many more?

© Diane Mayr

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by Kaiden, 6th grade student of Margaret Simon

Wonder sneaks into my mind

then out like a ding-dong ditcher

leaving me confused and mad.

Wonder starts with an answer

somehow that forms Wonder.

I know you’re asking, “how?”

That’s why it leaves me confused.
Somehow the thing that answers

our questions form more of them.

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September school bells ringing,
Rallying writing 'round halls,
Hallowing reader's journeys.

~ Michelle Kogan

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We shared a computer desk,
side by side, first day of school.
I asked her, what is your name?

Shiny braids shook back and forth.
Oh, I see. Where are you from?
Left and right the braids – no, no.

Español? Or Arabic?
Her hair now quite talkative.
All the words quite clearly, NO.

I clicked on a map, her eyes
swept right, then she clicked a spot.
The braids at rest. Oh, Nepal!

© Linda Mitchell

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by Andrew, 4th grade student of Margaret Simon

Experiments, Chemistry
All these things, make me, me
Potion, liquids, and small fires

Nothing, I want chemistry
I love chemistry, do you?
Waking up, no distractions.

Get to the lab, no delay
My experiment will die
And I will begin to cry

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by Jacob, 3rd grade student of Margaret Simon

Danger is a tornado death
clouds hover around
like a lion stalking prey

Danger is a sudden flood
black and white mixed up cloud forms
lightning strikes like a zapper

Danger is a hurricane
winds reaching race car speed
like a cheetah chasing me

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In he stomped, furious, rude
"They put gum in my hair! Why?
Because I read!" Then the tears.

by Karen Eastlund

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My brother told a whopper!
On me! I’ll count by sevens
and tame my mood grasshopper.

Seven, fourteen, twenty-one,
twenty-eight, thirty-five, ahhh.
Let go. Anger weighs a ton.

My mood stops jumping. I speak
calmly, that will convince mom
that I’m not a nasty sneak.

My brother might steal or lie,
but sevens calm even when
my worries can magnify.

Sevens are odd, quirky, real –
somehow magic – when I count,
I can control what I feel.

--- Copyright 2016 Brenda Davis Harsham

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Give me room to be your friend;
give me space to stretch and run,

a place to sleep, time to mend.

Yes, I owe so much to you.
I am not ungrateful, no –

though I’m tired, and starving, too.

My whole world has been a cage,
cold and cramped. I should not ask
for anything, at my age,

nor should I expect concern,

love, or care – yet, here I am,
a new home, rules, words to learn.

Neither knows how this will end,
but I am loyal. Trust me, please.

Give me time; I’ll be your friend.

- © 2016, Matt F. Esenwine , all rights reserved

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By Marian Gowan

An ardent usher was he

Believed in the trinity

Each Sunday for all to see

He seated all the faithful

Front-row pews forever full

So priest could bless the prayerful

Always looking heavenward

Now he’s gone to his reward

Who will rise to be steward?

He left behind tattered books

Hymnals, Bibles – no one looks

Stuck in pews and darkened nooks

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Watching caterpillars morph
from worm into chrysalis
never grows old. Starting small

(teeny-tiny, truth be told)
they adopt a growth mindset --
after egg, it's grow, grow, grow.

They change caterpillar clothes
as they thicken and lengthen.
Then comes the ultimate change --

undigested food is purged,
silk belt is spun, anchoring
caterpillar, who lets go

and leans into the process.
Unseen to observing eyes,
parts that were caterpillar

shuffle, shift, reorganize.
What once began as all crawl
will become fluttering flight.

©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016

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Bird Lady has tossed her breads.
Clay pigeons, come leave your beds
time to stuff stool pigeon heads!

Dockyard pigeons, homing too
from bridge girders and the zoo
Pigeon Forgers, welcome too!

Pigeon-chested, pigeon-toed
pigeon-heated by the road…
full tums all—that is the goad.

© 2016 by Violet Nesdoly

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early mornings crisp and cool
smoke curls rising from chimneys
fog gives way to noon day sun

orange pumpkins on the vines
round globes scattered in the field
flocks of geese wing their way south

children running on the path
with the crunch of fallen leaves
autumn is whispering here

©jone rush macculloch, 2016

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Once the seventh month in line
Now pushed back to number nine,
Sweet September is divine:

Harvest hanging on the vine,
Yellow flicker of sunshine,
Squirrels leaping in the pine.

Here and there a subtle sign
Of the coming winter’s whine
When the snowfalls all confine.

But today come sit and dine,
Sup its goodness then recline,
Resist the urge to repine;

You read your book, I’ll read mine
Through the winter’s deep decline,
Till the springtime’s redesign;

All that’s warmth will realign,
Sun and showers will entwine
Making days of summer shine.

Be it seven, be it nine,
Oh, September’s doing fine!
Sweetly tart as clementine!

©Donna JT Smith, 2016, all rights reserved

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http://beyondliteracylink.blogspot.com/2016/09/celebrating-travel.html Writing evolved from the Grand Canyon experience.
—Carol Varsalona

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Writing is an ever-evolving art that surfaces when voice meets page. The process does not stop there for revision is what writers do to fine tune their work. Second septercet, Counting Syllables, can be found at
http://beyondliteracylink.blogspot.com/2016/09/counting-syllables.html. —Carol Varsalona