Love That Boy - by Walter Dean Myers

Love that boy,
like a rabbit loves to run
I said I love that boy
like a rabbit loves to run
Love to call him in the morning
love to call him
"Hey there, son!"


Jack writes:
I sure liked that poem
by Mr. Walter Dean Myers
called
"Love That Boy."

Because of two reasons
I liked it:
One is because
my dad calls me
in the morning
just like that.
He calls
Hey there, son!

And also because
when I had my
yellow dog
I loved that dog
and I would call him
like this-
I'd say-
Hey there, Sky!

(His name was Sky.)

Paragraphs to Poems

YOU COME TOO
A PARAGRAPH by: Jack, Room 105 - Miss Strecthberry

We were going for a drive and my father said, "We won't be gone long - You come too." And so I went and we drove and drove until we stopped at a red brick building with a sign in blue letters: ANIMAL PROTECTION SHELTER. And inside we walked down a long cement path past cages with all kinds of dogs. Big and small, fat and skinny, some of them hiding in the corner but most of them bark-bark-barking and jumping up against the wire cage as we walked past, as if they were saying, "Me! Me! Choose me! I'm the best one!" And that's where we saw the yellow dog standing against the cage with his paws curled around the wire and his long red tongue hanging out and his black eyes looking a little sad and his long tail wag-wag-wagging, as if he were saying, "Me me me! Choose me!" And we did. We chose him. And in the car he put his head against my chest and wrapped his paws around my arm as if he were saying, "Thank you thank you thank you." And the other dogs in the cages get killed dead if nobody chooses them.



YOU COME TOO
A POEM by: Jack, Room 105 - Miss Strecthberry

We were going for a drive
and my father said
We won't be gone long-
You come too
and so I went
and we drove and drove
until we stopped at a
red brick building
with a sign
in blue letters
ANIMAL PROTECTION SHELTER

And inside we walked
down a long cement path
past cages
with all kinds of
dogs
big and small
fat and skinny
some of them
hiding in the corner
but most of them
bark-bark-barking and
jumping up
against the wire cage
as we walked past
as if they were saying
Me! Me! Choose me!
I'm the best one!

And that's where we saw
the yellow dog
standing against the cage
with his paws curled
around the wire
and his long red tongue
hanging out
and his black eyes
looking a little sad
and his long tail
wag-wag-wagging
as if he were saying
Me me me! Choose me!

And we did.
We chose him.

And in the car
he put his head
against my chest
and wrapped his paws
around my arm
as if he were saying
Thank you thank you thank you.

And the other dogs
in the cages
get killed dead
if nobody chooses them.

Jack's Thoughts About Poetry

Remember the wheelbarrow poem
you read?
Maybe the wheelbarrow poet
was just
making a picture
with words
and
someone else-
like maybe his teacher-
typed it up
and then people thought
it was a poem
because
it looked like one
typed up like that.

And maybe
that's the same thing
that happened with
Mr. Robert Frost.
Maybe he was just
making pictures with words
about the snowy woods
and the pasture-
and his teacher
typed them up
and they looked like poems
so people thought
they were poems.

The Pasture - by: Robert Frost

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;
I'll only stop to rake the leaves away
(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I shan't be gone long. - You come too.
I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I shan't be gone long. - You come too.




JACK from Room 105 - Miss Stretchberry, writes:

I really really really
did NOT get
the pasture poem
you read today.
I mean:
somebody's going out
to the pasture
to clean the spring
and to get
the little tottery calf
while he's out there
and he isn't going
to be gone long
and he wants YOU
(who is YOU?)
to come too.

I mean REALLY.

And you said that
Mr. Robert Frost
who wrote
about the pasture
was also the one
who wrote about
those snowy woods
and the miles to go
before he sleeps-
well!

I think Mr. Robert Frost
has a little
too
much
time
on his
hands.

Love that Blog

The Tiger
by: William Blake

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

dog
by: Valerie Worth

Under a maple tree
The dog lies down,
Lolls his limp
Tongue, yawns,
Rests his long chin
Carefully between
Front paws;
Looks up, alert;
Chops, with heavy
Jaws, at a slow fly,
Blinks, rolls
On his side,
Sighs, closes
His eyes: sleeps
All afternoon
In his loose skin.