Last night the culminating reading for the school I've worked with since 1992. Yes, 1992. Not these particular kids, who didn't exist in 1992. They're fifth and sixth graders - and poets. I handed each a poetic license, entitling them continue to write and revel in poetry. One of the kids came up to me afterwards to check out the meaning of revel. One mother asked, "They wrote those poems?" "Yes," I said. "Except for A.," she said. "He wrote his too," I said. "But you said he memorized it," she said. "He wrote it and then he memorized it for the reading," I said. "I can't imagine those words coming from him," she said, at which point I realized A. was her son. Every year there's one sixth grader who is so truly sad our poetry making/reading time is over she/he gives me a touchingly awkward goodbye speech and hug. Here's what this year's fellow traveler, a boy, wrote and read at the reading:

Ode to Poetry

Traditional

Ode to poetry
the awesome power of blah
a river of words
leaving people in awe

a picture may be worth 1000 words
but 1000 words is one great picture
cutting, crafting, working words
make a wordily overture

Rhyme

Poetry is an art as some might agree
true poets that is to a certain degree
but my goal is, surely you'll see
to make other people believe like me

Haiku

Poetry is fun
it isn't true poetry
if it isn't fun

Discipline is key
strong nouns, strong verbs, strong writing
rhyme sometimes won't work

Come With Me

Come with me
to the place
where there is poetry
don't grab your keys
you're already there

Traditional

there it is, that's it
I know that that was short
but I was kind of hoping
you'd be the poetry sort

in the humongous hole of poetry
I've only shown you a dimple
it may look just like building words
but I can tell you, poetry isn't simple

-B.

Here's the poem the mom didn't recognize as her son's:

My Mind

My mind is a mass of incandescent gas
a giant nuclear furnace
where hydrogen turns to helium
with a temperature of 17 degrees

-A.