Ms. Boysen’s Class Poetry (vol. 1)

Ms. Boysen's Class, Anonymous Students

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Snow Days

Snow days are the best days.
They’re for vivid movies
and warm fuzzy blankets,
snowmen and snowballs.
Snow days are the best days.

They are for baking sweet smelling treats,
hearing the loud ding of the oven,
tasting the warm, chewiness of the cookies.
Snow days are the best days.

The snow flakes dance down from the sky.
All the kids excited to play in the snow.
Snowballs are flying like shooting stars
across the snowy sky.
Snow days are the best days.

They are for the steaming hot chocolate,
after coming inside from a long day outside.
They are for the red noses
and rosey cheeks.
Full of content smiles.
Snow days are the best.

A Dark Side

Whose paint is that? I think I know.
Its owner is quite sad though.
It really is a tale of woe,
I watch her frown. I cry hello.

She gives her paint a shake,
And sobs until the tears make.
The only other sound’s the break,
Of distant waves and birds awake.

The paint is colorful, fun and deep,
But she has promises to keep,
Until then she shall not sleep.
She lies in bed with ducts that weep.

She rises from her bitter bed,
With thoughts of sadness in her head,
She idolizes being dead.
Facing the day with never-ending dread.

Every day begins as pain,
Wondering what there is to gain.
By the time the night reigns,
She’s happy to have remained sane.

Everyone wants to stick out

Most want to be the sunshine’s ray
They want to sprout
In order to make someone’s day

Just like the wind whispers metaphors
Word may go around
Her words sound of honey and its demanded encores
A talent is to be found

The smell of freshly baked bread
The sounds of a softly played saxophone
The touch of a clay sculpture remembering the dead
The sight of a painting expressing the thought of home

Talents can come as easy as genetics
Helping to create your overall aesthetics

The smell of a nicely cooked platter
The sounds of small hums in between the singer’s words
The touch of tiny details that are scattered
To see the drawings of beautiful song birds

Who said you can’t be a jack of all trades?
To be the ace of spades