There are many tasks you have to do when you’re about to move. In this poem defrosting the freezer unearths some important memories, and reminders of what will be left behind.

Defrosting the Freezer

One container of spaghetti sauce

Grandma made before she died.

Two old pieces of wedding cake

you couldn’t pay me to eat.

Three snowballs from last winter,

slightly deformed, no longer fluffy.

Four small flounder from the time

Grandpa took me deep-sea fishing.

Everything coated in a thick

white layer of sadness.      

from Moving Day by Ralph Fletcher

Spider Web

An elusive thing

at the birth of spring:

the first fine web

of a spiderling.

You can’t hardly feel it,

it’s almost not there,

caressing your face,

lighter than air.

          by Ralph Fletcher

Two for Tuesday. The first one is a science poem, and gives

a good way to remember what H20 means. The second is a sad

love poem.

H20

The recipe

       for water is

the same as

       it’s always been:

two parts

       hydrogren

one part

       oxygen.

Two-to-one

       that’s the rule

to make a water

       molecule.

Waiting for the Splash

Last night

after you hung up

I wrote you a poem

hoping it might

change your heart.

This morning

I tell myself:

Get serious, man.

Someone once compared

writing a poem

and hoping it will

change the world

to dropping rose petals

down a deep well

waiting for the splash.

from I Am Wings: Poems about Love

© Ralph Fletcher. All rights reserved.

This is a poem about how it feels after you go to a

family reunion, and get to hang out with all the

relatives.

Shrink-Wrapped

We leave the reunion, go home

to a house that’s much too quiet.

No more tag or kick-the-can of

killer croquet with my cousins.

No more bloody war stories

told by my big-bellied uncles.

No more staying up late watching TV

while the grownups crazy-laugh

around the kitchen table.

Just us. Boring us.

Our family becomes

like a package of plums

shrink-wrapped

at the supermarket—

so small and tight

I can hardly breathe.

from Relatively Speaking: Poems About Family

                Aquarium

Knife-dancing angels playfully fight.

Snails move slow and often stop.

Guppies gaze through watery windows

Hung with curtains of swirling light.

Fish hear secrets and never tell.

Most sleep and eat and keep in pairs.

They listen to me in perfect silence:

I should listen half as well.

I study my fish and they study me,

Our worlds bridged by heavy glass.

But I am dry and far too heavy;

I clomp to the kitchen gracelessly.

At times my land life seems out of whack:

No fins, no gills, with unwebbed feet.

Life on earth began in the water—

Today I swear I’d gladly go back.

                          by Ralph Fletcher

Beach Baby

She’s one year old. One tooth. A total pudge.

She tries to get out of the water but her

soaked diaper must weigh

ten thousand pounds

so all she can do is

sit.

Later she sees me eating cheese puffs

and toddles over, towering above me,

a baby so giant she blocks out the sun,

sticks out her hand and yells: MINE’S!

Her mother hustles over, apologizes,

and hauls her back to their blanket.

Then the baby starts eating sand, grinning,

grinding the grains with that one tooth.

    from Have You Been To The Beach Lately? by Raph Fletcher

Tapeworm

I don’t mind snakes

or wriggling worms

though one of them

sure makes me squirm.

Deep in your gut

the tapeworm waits

and eats the food

fresh off your plate.

No need to hunt—

it takes your food,

stealing meat

that you just chewed.

                     

It knows one thing:

 eat, eat, eat, eat;

this parasite grows

to fifty feet!

Most snakes are cool

and eels, no doubt,

but tapeworms

I could live without.

            by Ralph Fletcher

          Water Lily

I am famous: the sacred lotus,

a symbol of grace and purity,

though to croaking frogs I am no more

than a hang-out joint, an all-night store.

My petals enfold stamens of gold.

I float, serene, but down below

these roots of mine are deeply stuck

in the coolest most delicious muck.

  

 

              Wildflowers

Help wanted: sturdy individuals

interested in grass-roots work

at a number of rugged locations

(cliffs, desert, some tundra).

Good benefits. Must be strong

and adaptable, self-starter,

persistent, willing to relocate,

with no fear of high places

and no known allergies

to bees.

© 2015 Ralph Fletcher. All rights reserved.

               Bad Weather

They’re predicting a big term paper

due to hit here on Monday morning.

Tuesday the forecast looks real bad:

intense DOL and grammar drills.

Wednesday will be a scorcher

when the state writing test arrives.

Thursday there’s a high probability

of five-paragraph essays.

Friday should bring some relief

when scattered poetry blows in.

from A Writing Kind of Day by Ralph Fletcher

Dig Down Deep

There’s water everywhere,”

Bobby used to tell me.

“It’s under the mountains,

even under the deserts

if you dig down

deep enough.”

I didn’t answer him:

he was my little brother

and I just let him talk.

But I found out he was right

when Bobby died a few weeks

after his seventeenth birthday.

My mother cried that night

and every night for a solid year.

Even the old dry faces

sprouted stony tears.

      © 2015 Ralph Fletcher. All rights reserved.

Goodnight Poem

Now the long day

feels complete.

Tuck your feet

between clean sheets.

Tuck your body

into bed.

Tuck moonbeam dreams

into your head.

Tuck your covers

snug and tight.

Tuck the good

into the night.

                               by Ralph Fletcher

Arrowhead

Always keep my eyes alert

for the telltale tip of an

arrowhead.

You can find them around here

sharp enough to draw

blood.

Strange that I know almost

nothing about the people

who first walked this land.

       their myths and songs

       the sound of their words

I’m looking for an arrowhead.

I want to hold one in my hand.

I want to touch the tip of history.

from Ordinary Things: Poems From a Walk in Early Spring

New Baby

My baby sister

before she’s two days old

people start dividing her up.

“She has my olive eyes.”

“Got Grandma’s double-chin.”

“She has her father’s nose.”

Like she’s just a bunch

of borrowed parts

stitched together.

Well, I just got to hold her.

I touched her perfect head

and I’ll tell you this:

My sister is whole.

   from Relatively Speaking: Poems About Family

Taking Things Apart

The movers start

by taking things apart.

Our table lies on the rug,

legless and upside down.

Shelves get disassembled;

beds are left in pieces.

One mover dismantles

my Ping-Pong table, saying:

“Our guys in Ohio will

put everything back together.”

Which makes me wonder

about my ripped-apart life.

Exactly who’s going to put that

together again?

   from Moving Day by Ralph Fletcher

The Lifeguard

Like a god

on Mount Olympus

he sits far above

the common people.

Like an arrogant god

with a perfect body

he tosses down smiles,

crumbs to the girls below.

Like a bronze god

he studies the shore

deciding who will live,

and when to be a hero.

              by Ralph Fletcher

Poets like to play with language. In this
poem I'm having fun playing with different
meanings of the word skip. 

Skipping Stones

Dad skips breakfast

Elizabeth skips rope

I skip stones

George skipped fourth grade

Brian skipped out of school

I skip stones

Flat stones sharp stones

Skinny like potato chips

        ing               wrin

Kick                up                 les

        the                 smooooooth

On              glass                        lake

This is my book on how to write a poem. Practical advice that will help young poets get a feel for the heart of poetry, and how they can create their own.

I’ve been posting one poem per day in honor of National Poetry Month. Today I’m posting two poems. The first one (Babies) was written for younger students; I’m thinking the second one (This Is Not A Love Poem) may appeal to older kids.

Babies

Faucet leak

       pools cool

springs bubble

       babies drool

Seas sparkle

       lakes glisten

streams gurgle

       babies listen

Rivers rise

       flood and worse

water falls

       babies nurse

Rain drenches

       waves crash

water quenches

       babies splash

Ice pelts

       cold creeks

hail pelts

       babies leak

   This Is Not A Love Poem

This is not a love poem no way

you need big words for that 

like “luminous” and “eternity” 

you need iambic pentameter

or at least some serious rhyme

you neded merciless stars

deserts on moonless nights

foamy surf on gusty beaches

you need to get smashed

into such tiny fragments

you can only use the small i

when you write

i love you

© 2015 Ralph Fletcher. All rights reserved.

Weeds

Weeds in the sunlight,
swaying in the breeze.

Weeds pollinated by
hordes of hungry bees.

Weeds softly whispering,
spilling secret seeds.

Weeds multiplying:
weeds, weeds, weeds.

Dandelion, ragweed,
Queen Anne’s lace.

Weeds in my dreams,
weeds in outer space.

Weeds on vacation
but more staying home.

Sneaky little weedlings
sprouting in this poem!

© 2010 Ralph Fletcher. All rights reserved.

How To Bake A Flower

Stir seeds into well-drained soil.

Fold in a half-cup live worms.

Sprinkle in occasional rain

until green shoots appear.

Blend in sun mixed with shade.

Add a dash of moonlight.

Simmer on low four to six weeks

in the slow oven of summer

until sweet blossoms unfold.

Swirl in butterflies. Whip in bees.

© Ralph Fletcher. All rights reserved.

Ma

Salmon hatch in a stream,

swim out to the ocean,

but they always return

to the stream of their birth.

Today I said: “Bye, Ma,”

and I got a funny feeling.

Then it hit me:

Ma was my first word.

As if the word swam back

to where it all began.

from A Writing Kind of Day

Great Blue Heron

Even when we walk up close

he pays no attention to us

as he walks along the shore

peering into shallow water

looking for some juicy crab

or unsuspecting sushi.

He looks like a dorky professor

teaching advanced algebra,

all eyes and bones and beak,

lecturing to invisible students,

hungry for that one moment

when he will get across his

                                             point.

         from Have You Been To The Beach Lately?

             © Ralph Fletcher. All rights reserved.