Best Silverstein Poems
Behind a chair
Below a desk
with my bare feet on a wall, in my flannel pajama or a wet swimming suit,
With my hands on my peanut butter and jelly toast,
marmalade, not cherry or anything else
Next to an ocean, ignoring the smell,
Lying in a hammock or in the grass, even on a sandy gritty beach towel.
Listening to children’s giggles, being dripped on
by wet swimming suits running past
I can devour a pile of books.
History, science, animal facts, jokes, limericks, Dr. Seuss, Shel Silverstein, Coleridge, Poe.
When one grabs me and throttles me to pay attention I am lost….
I am no longer a mere mortal.
I am in a microscope, under a kitchen floorboard, in a tulip’s leaf,
I am a faery, a T-rex, a Stormtrooper, a police detective.
In a treehouse,
High above my neighbors, not hearing them at all,
Yet subconsciously hearing everything,
I learned to be a book worm, reading Agatha Christie first….
Written 3-08-19
Contest: The Bookworm Poetry Contest Sponsor: Kai Michael Neumann
I wish I could write
like those others before me,
Byron and Shelley and old Edgar Poe
Flowery phrases
Thy love unforgetting,
chasing a raven as ink tends to flow
Follow a sidewalk
in Silverstein footsteps,
sit neath a tree as the apples appear
Doth O’ my feelings
O’er Midsummer stanzas
Dream thee melodic as words of Shakespeare
Maybe some thoughts
in a past tense creation,
deeper in meaning like Sylvia Plath
Or Robert Frost
and the nature he touches,
meandering off through the trees down a path
Emily Dickinson,
aprons and daisies,
words overflowing the tea kettle rim
And let’s not forget
“The man”, Leonard Cohen,
what I would give if I could write like him
Neruda, Longfellow,
Kipling and cummings
so many thoughts in their own point of view
Taking our minds
to assorted locations
every piece speaks of something quite new
So many poets
who weave inspiration,
any or all I can just hope to be
But here I am
just writing my verses,
I guess I am stuck being little ol’ me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And here’s a few more,
some you might know
Who inspire all
when their ink it does flow
Charmaine, Paloma,
Heidi and Dee
Victor and Daniel
Catie, Laniey
Holly, Alexis,
Mystic and Rick
Maurice, The Seeker
Eve and Tim Smith
Arthur and Freddie
James, Jo and Jan
Nette, Laura Loo
Broken Wings, San
And so many others
I’ve met on this site
Who each day inspire
this poet to write
If I have forgotten anyone, I apologize. I am still quite new here.
Shel Silverstein has penned gold, dear friends,
The Missing Piece, The Giving Tree, Where the Sidewalk Ends...
Still, I was surprised to find that he wrote, too
Johnny Cash’s hit, “A Boy Named Sue.”
THE IMMORTAL
“Once there was a tree, and she loved a little boy.”
Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree
You will go to the land of Oblivion to remember. You will bring in the hands the faithful document of your calligram and the children's bread, as always, under the arm. You will turn to see, and there will not be a column of salt that will martyrize you the rest of the way. Your map is the snow, but, it is in the forest's fire that the Silverstein's tree awaits you, on its stump, sit down, your feet burn, your heart goes out through your mouth. Do not be afraid to take it out and lull it like a meek bird that trembles wounded. These things are and were written, but not as you will imagine the journey to the center of the seed. Go with peace, the root of your flesh and my flesh is hollow. Sometimes you will see orchids grow from their venom, but don't be afraid to take them to your chest and rub them as a symbol of your purity, they are helpless, they wither. Don't believe me a single word, shut me up with your back and follow the voice of the river peeking in the distance. Upon arrival, observe the water twitter, and the water birds that simulate fish but that nobody has seen and you will doubt. Perhaps it is an illusion, a deadly rant that collapses to mourn over the grave of heaven. A cold, cold in the neck, which strangles in the brain stem, and yes, produces a fine rain that transcends ghostly pain, and there, incline to its throbbing. Don't leave, the night waits intermittently, it loves you, it needs you in its orbit because you know its tunnels and without wings you fly. But it is not all. The absolute flash of a star at death is that; a poem that opens in solitude, in loneliness, and then, who reads?
I will write the funniest poem of all time.
Sorry. It has already been done.
I will write the most romantical poem of all time.
Ditto.
I will write the craziest poem of all time.
Have you ever heard of Shel Silverstein?
I will write the rhyme-iest poem of all time.
Dr. Seuss?
I will write what I know.
And it will not have to be an “ist” at all.
It will not have to be the most, the funniest, the sorriest, the saddest, the sweetest.
It can just be what it is.
And it does not have to become famous.
It does not have to be understood.
It does not have to be appreciated.
But it will have to be my own.
Because it has to be the poem
That only I can write.
I sit and stare at the
Paper, overwhelmed.
Excited, expectant,
Waiting for her birth.
Wondering where she will take me.
I pick up the pen and begin. Knowing nothing about what is about to happen.
I have this crazy little thing I like to do,
put words together make a rhyme or two.
Dip my toes in the sands of rhyme
then make a word splash all mine.
I have this crazy little thing I like to do,
craft thoughts out with a rhyme or two.
Ink to life a thought dancing so free
zoom in hues and shades that be.
I have this crazy little thing I like to do
read the Psalms for the inspirational hue.
But because I like things simple and fun
Shel Silverstein is where my love for poetry begun.
*The Perfect Proposal*
The perfect proposal
Just what would it be?
In a fairy tale life or in an enchanted dream
Three different scenarios I could see
And let him choose the one that fits him to a T
Popping the question over a picnic lunch in the Swiss Alps
A checkered tablecloth, simple fruit, cheese and crackers, and a sparkling wine
To be read poetry from the greatest of greats—Robert Frost or Shel Silverstein
Another option would be at an abandoned zoo
We could cuddle up in the lion’s den and count the stars in the open sky
And then swim in the aquarium with the dolphins too at the first peak of sunrise
And the final option of the perfect proposal would be standing at the pearly gates of heaven
Heaven is where all our dreams come true anyways
And heaven is where I am going to meet you after the next blood moon
So I sit here below a star studded sky and I thank the Lord for delivering me
I thank the Lord for second and third chances
I thank the Lord for ETERNITY
Gwendolen Rix
9-27-14
I am intrigued by Shel Silverstein
His passion and his works
His obscure way of rhyming
Making fun of other's quirks
Unique, unusual, surprising
Funny and clever is a given
With emphasis on children
And the world that they live in
“Hector the Collector, Boa Constrictor
Band-Aids, Sick, or With his Mouth Full of Food,”
His poems are very different
Yet similarly very good
I chuckle in amusement and smile, reading
“If the World Was Crazy and Sky Seasoning”
But it’s impossible to just like two
When they are all so amazing
“Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout Would Not Take the Garbage out,”
and “The Giving Tree,”
To go unmentioned would devalue Shel’s name
Especially the last one I listed
As it really was his claim to fame
WHAT ABOUT WOLFS
shel silverstein: a bit childish, his giving tree my kids remember, though its parts were dismembered as it gave to the bitter end of life.
ogden nash: well, he gives us moo and milk, until the utter end, short and brief. reminds us of the soup’s - wolf.
wendy cope: born in kent in the london broil (ahem…borough) of bexley. things are going clunk and your face has too much gunk, a hoarder with thirty years of junk and especially she doth remind us don’t answer email when you're drunk.
william james collins: a hoot, billy! only child, born in manhattan, dear old dad worked on wall street. a poet laureate’s big recital on two poems about what dogs think (probably) - what about wolfs?
gershon wolf: he’s flower power-ful in his jest. for example - hippies pulled the triggers and out came flowers. though other comedic poets might create a chuckle, gershon always makes us smile.
7/21/2022
My child has a love of poetry
It is rare, for she is only nine.
In her bare mind, words are potpourri
floating, rhyming by stanza, by line.
Holding a book ever so tightly
(it relieves the raw ache in her chest),
my sweet Emma floats almost nightly
carried by puffins in a bird nest.
She paints her pictures lying in bed
dreaming up puffin activities.
Writing what's in the front of her head,
one of her common proclivities.
Her situation stems from asthma
of pet hair and seasonal rebirth.
She fancies ease from the miasma,
high above noxious coughing on earth.
Starting with nursery rhymes at three
we have read Silverstein and Dahl
both of us memorize easily.
Her choice today is Lewis Carroll.
My Emma lives in her Wonderland
especially with a nebulizer.
Her teachers all seem to understand
it's “down to earth” math that defies her.
August 23, 2021
Sponsor Regina McIntosh
Contest Name The One Who Touches My Heart
I’d rather build bridges and tear down a wall
Why do people hate what they don’t know
Life’s too short not to coexist with all
In a ‘Religious War’ the good only fall
An oxymoron of thought so low
I’d rather build bridges and tear down a wall
The three main faiths answer Abraham’s call
Christians and Muslims and Jews should show
Life’s too short not to coexist with all
We’re really all the same after the fall
Than different, we’re more alike than we know
I’d rather build bridges and tear down a wall
Shel Silverstein showed us the best way of all
“Hug ‘O War” is the only good way to go
Life’s too short not to coexist with all
If only we would heed the Apostle Paul
Faith is the substance of things we don’t know
I’d rather build bridges and tear down a wall
Life’s to short not to coexist with all
(Shuffling with Shel)
Ode to Shel Silverstein
The master taps across the stage
Wiggling rhymes upon his page
Tapping, leaping, letting go
Silly poems that steal the show.
Heel, shuffle,
Heel, step
Like A Runny Babbit
Falling up
Flap, heel, turn
A Light is in the Attic.
Spying, listening to his moves
Tapping out his beat
The rhymes that skip across my ears
Are silly, yet so sweet.
Dig, brush
Flap, heel
Rhyming rapt release
Shuffle, heel
Dig, toe, hop
Never a Missing Piece
Learning all the tap dance steps
Shuffle, ball change, hop.
Typing, tapping, out the words
Into my own laptop.
Jump, click
Maxie Ford
A Giraffe and a Half
Stomp, scuff
Hop, riff heel
Always gets a laugh.
The master danced before us
His steps a melody
that shared those silly skillful sounds
just like the Giving Tree.
One day I hope to dance with words
And share with all my friends
These special sublime tap dance steps
To Where The Sidewalk Ends.
Jan. 30, 2017
My MP3 player; My notebook,
My headphones; My pen,
The music; The script,
The bass; The ink flow,
Bullet for my Valentine; Robert Frost.
My CD player; My piece of paper,
My stereo; My pencil,
The sound; The wording,
The rewind; The eraser,
Avenged Sevenfold; Shel Silverstein.
Windows Media Player; Microsoft Word Document,
My speakers; My keyboard
The volume; The font,
The play button; The print button,
Nirvana; William Shakespeare
Two of my greatest loves
I learned what I needed to know about poetry from Shel Silverstein.
Poetry does not have to be high society or serious.
It can be humorous, common, funny and fun!
I love Silverstein's books and his cartoons, he is my inspiration.
Weirdly enough, I am a cartoonist, a painter, and an artist.
In addition to being a poet, Shel was a singer and songwriter.
I have often wondered if I could write songs; I believe I could.
Sometimes Silverstein’s punchlines are so funny I howl.
I do not always strive for humor, but I am delighted when it happens.
Thanks to his unique voice, I felt that poetry was “obtainable”.
I knew that it was “manageable, and doable.”
His poetry gave me hope, and inspires me still.
torn middle eastern attire
an orphaned heart on fire
houses turn to rubble
gotta bomb them on them on the double
who wiped the mossad prints off nine eleven
every body knows angels cries from seven to eleven
our hell is the wrong side of your heaven
the lizard queen had uncle sam driven
the lord red child demanded israhell should be given
from cocain bush to moron bush
come tim osman give me a treacherous smoosh
silverstein where have you been
there's a torn Iraqi spleen
afghanistan fell for c sea spin span
red zio jew out only to have the blue
kissinger brezinsky and their plastic jihad
time to put in chinese glutin in putin the man
now syria libya and egypt here comes pain
gotta love the freedom rain
clinton whispered to somalia I'll bomb hope
obama said yes we can pounded syria like a mad man
putin cried remembered chechnya missed the fun i want in
the orange trump fixed his hair hump yes let's bomb again
Israel took a selfie with saudia humanity couldn't erase the blood stain
oh middle eastern child
empty bag for a pillow
their magic is mellow
Tamer Hossam