Category Poets

SummertimeIs warm and bright,With light-bugsAt night. Autumn timeIs not so sunny,But HalloweenIs funny. WinterChanges most of all,Bright, then gray,Then snowflakes fall. But SpringI like the very bestWhen birds come backTo nest. Also in theSpringtime rainFlowers startTo bloom again.

So many little flowersDrop their tiny heads—But newer buds come to bloomIn their place instead. I miss the little flowersThat have gone away,But the newly budding blossomsAre equally gay.

There’s always weather, weather,Whether we like it or not.Some days are nice and sunny,Sunny and bright and hot. There’s always weather, weather,Whether we like it or don’t.Sometimes so cold and cloudy!Will it soon snow, or won’t? If days were always…

Gypsies are picture-book peopleHanging picture-book clothes on a line.The gypsies fill the vacant lotsWith colors gay as wine. The gypsies’ skins are olive-dark,‘The gypsies’ eyes are black fire.The gypsies wear bright headcloths dyedBy some elfin dyer. The gypsies wear gay…

To make words singIs a wonderful thing—Because in a songWords last so long.

In the morning the citySpreads its wingsMaking a songIn stone that sings. In the evening the cityGoes to bedHanging lightsAbout its head.

We’re all in the telephone hook,Folks from everywhere on earth—Anderson to Zabowski,It’s a record of America’s worth. We’re all in the telephone book.There’s no priority—A millionaire like RockefellerIs likely to be behind me. For generations men have dreamedOf nations united…

When I studied my A-B-C’sAnd learned arithmetic,I also learned in public schoolWhat makes America tick: The kid in frontAnd the kid behindAnd the kid across the aisle,The Italian kidAnd the Polish kidAnd the girl with the Irish smile,The colored kidAnd…

The clouds weave a shawlOf downy plaidFor the sky to put onWhen the weather’s bad.

I went to San Francisco.I saw the bridges highSpun across the waterLike cobwebs in the sky.