Little Poems - Poems about Little

i wonder if my sister is aware she’s the reason i lost my muchness it’s like i don’t want to be loud anymore i want to be like a whisper or a gust of wind i want to be quiet and go unnoticed so bad that i tip toe and hold my breath maybe because i approached it...

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We are accustomed to a variety birds who, after we fill our feeders, find a way to fly up, perch a while and have a snack or two every day. It’s usually the same birds each day with quiet smiles we greet but recently a Rose-breasted grosbeak happened by for a bite to eat. We realized when it...

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It was on one early summer morn that the voice of a watchful Mama Corn told a frightful story, meant to warn her son, Pop, just recently born. "Pop", it said, her darling boy to save, "Once, in a cornfield, I too would wave. In the sun and breeze, I was brave, but you must listen up and behave. You're...

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He’d stay for a minute and watch the sun. Then disappear like the wind… and then there was none! He’d follow my footsteps in the snow. He’d watch me off to work in the car go. He’d be around at breakfast and tea time and would always get fed. He’d patrol n the nighttime when we were in bed....

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A little lie, like a thin veil covering the truth in the night of crystal, A little candor, like a moonbeam gently piercing the darkness, Forgetfulness does not weep, for tears have dried on the cheeks of lost memories, Folly doesn't hurt, for it remains like a shadow silently slipping through time. So many falls into temptation happen, like...

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When I buy paper towels, I don’t care about the ply. I just don’t want boring white ones And perhaps you wonder why. Well, a towel with a picture, Printed on each rolled-down sheet, Seems to brighten up my kitchen - Same with napkins, I’d repeat. Some have flowers, others veggies, There are those with bright designs - Any type of printed image With my...

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Time's little sister She is so very young time has been around for eons, his beginning forgotten in the haze of no time Yet, she was there to remember when time was kind when roses grew, when people fell in love Children's happy voices, the birth of nations and the end of horrid regimes Time is a brute, takes no interest...

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Don't just be a walker a marcher... Think poetically think high! ...

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Remembering the frantic little boy with strawberry blond hair who didn't say boo Nonverbal (though he could talk) most of his responses happened to be witnessed as his characteristic and courtesy enigmatic trademark shoulder shrug. If born free and clear today skilled professional diagnosticians employed within the mental health field, would probably unanimously agree he met criteria as high functioning autistic spectrum predicated upon withdrawn and introverted behavior classic...

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eyes contact between eyes ...

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I never said the fish was that big, just long enough for your surprise. Yes, the sky did fall down once - though not in ways you've come upon. The art of the little white lie is a Trojan horse disguised to catch your attention. To trick you to pose or question what you'd never otherwise ask. The lie, error or mistake, flips the mind...

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in every pack of pistachios there are one or two shells which are resistant to the fingernail the addictive leverage the satisfying splitting apart you put them aside and save them for later meanwhile pick, click, chew and finally return to the awkward ones refusing to yield their treasure curse them go ahead curse them you won't be defeated, you will solve their riddle you...

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Poem written by my little daughter When I go to the park I climb right up to the top of the slide and slither down quick the other side .. I swing up high and then down low whirling round fast as I can go ... I like to hang from the climbing frame and ride in...

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*A Meditation on Growing Up* ## I. [Age 6] — First Light Your fingernails, chewed down to pink, sort bottle caps by rust and shine. I offer you my father's Pepsi crown— you pocket it without a blink. ## II. [Age 7] — The Promise Under sheets stretched between two chairs, your breath carries grape bubble gum. You whisper secrets through the cotton dark: "Blood...

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It never shouts. It doesn’t pound the table or raise its hands to the ceiling. It speaks like wind nudging a loose leaf, whispering sideways when the road seems stitched shut. Sometimes, it’s the hush between your name and the echo. Other times, it’s thunder disguised as a tremble— that pause before you say yes to something terrifying and right. It doesn't argue. It waits while you weigh silence against...

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