Raising Poets

We take poetry writing VERY seriously ’round these parts.

Accent, alliteration, heptameter, iambic pentameter, stanza, meter, ode, sonnet, and RHYME are all terms that you’ll hear regularly dropped at my house.

I try my hardest to instill in my children a love of all things written in the form of  descriptive, flowing, poetic and intellectual prose.

With all of this instruction, it’s no wonder really, that my children collectively produce such amazing examples of ingenious, heartfelt and rhyming prose.

My name is Mama.

I’ve always wanted to ride on a llama.

I’m not a huge fan of Obama.

How about a sauna?

My name is Daddy.

When I golf, I want my own caddy.

Behave or I’ll get maddy.

My name is Grace.

I have a pretty face.

Sometimes people stop and are so taken they must brace.

I always carry mace.

My name is Emma.

Nothing much rhymes with Emma but lemma.

My name is Garrett.

I’m so apparent.

I don’t like carrots.

I LOVE my parents.

My name is Tick.

Don’t bug me or I’ll get my stick.

I’m not allowed to have my own Bic.

When it comes to choosing, I’ll pick.

My name is John.

I like to play on the lawn.

And eat candy until it’s gone.

Sometimes I break out in song.

Admit it.  You think my children are the next big poets.

Am I right?

Comments

  1. 7

    says

    I’m not allowed to have my own Bic either. I don’t have a cool poem about it, though … only an admonition from my husband to clean out my pockets before I wash more pens. Not nearly as good.

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