Rainbow at the end of the tunnel

We have had a few adventures in the past three weeks or so.

(Besides tearing the room apart from stem to stern . . .)

A couple field trips and journeys to the past.

 

There will be a guest writer to tell you all about it very soon -

one of the field trips, that is.

 

One Saturday a few years ago we were doing a deep cleaning.

This poem was written by Krysta (age 9) in the middle of the jumble.

I found it again in the disorderly confusion of the current project.  With her

permission it is printed here with original spelling and punctuation. =)  

 

 

 

Rainy Saturday,

Gloomy gloom evrywher,

Cleaning, sweeping, sowing a dress.

Chewing down pankaces.

Boys go to town

Run out of gas.

The minutes fly past.

 

Out gos this

Out gos that.

Washing the sealing

and the flours.

Scrubbing up things

spick and span and clean

and we all started to feel mean.

 

A box for books

a bag for cloths. (clothes)

and a shelf being cleaned off.

As I look around the room

not much I see but gloom

Things piled on the bed

  on the desk

I hope there will be 

a rainbow soon.  

 

to:  dad

from  Krysta   age 9

 

 

Fast fwd to 2014

This school year I found some poetry books that were compiled
by Caroline Kennedy.  Poems to Memorize or something like that . . .

She shared some memories of her mom.  When her family asked her
what she wanted for birthdays, holidays, etc. Jackie asked for a poem. 
Caroline remembers many last minutes before the *big day* pouring
over poetry books trying to find just the right one, then copying

it in her best handwriting to give to  her mother. 
Jackie kept these treasures in a scrapbook.

 

Arrrgh!  why didn't I think of that years ago? 

I mentioned it in passing to my family and this is the result.

. . . . again printed with permission from Krysta.  

 

 

February 9, 2014

 

Dear Mom,

You wanted a poem,

From me to you.

But should I through books roam,

And find one that is true?

Instead I will write one,

I thought you would like that as well.

This should be fun,

But not much is ringing a bell.

There is one thing I want to say,

To you, my dear Mother.

I love you each and every day,

You are a jewel like no other.

I guess I am done now,

Though the poem, lame may be.

It finishes with a bow,

Or perhaps a curtsy.

 

~ Krysta Harshbarger