April 8, 2011

Poem #8 Now for Something Completely Different

How Does a Dinosaur Brush his Teeth
(with huge thanks to Jane Yolen)

How does a dinosaur brush all his teeth?

Does he run from the sink,
and give his mom grief?

Does he clamp his mouth shut,
paint the mirror with paste?

Does he yank at hand towels
to cover his face?

How does a dinosaur
handle the floss?

Does he shout,
“Stand back, Dad! I am the boss!”?

Does he break the box open,
pull out miles of string?

Does he toss it into the air with a fling?

How does a dinosaur make his throat gargle?

Does he spout a fountain of mouthwash
till Mom is losing her marbles?

Does he spray?
Does he play?
Does he act most unpleasant?

No, a dinosaur doesn’t.

A dinosaur waits
with his mouth open wide
while Dad brushes every tooth inside.

He flosses until each molar’s a pearl,
then sips his mouthwash without even a quarrel.

He gives his mom a minty peck on the lips
and runs off to play.

Mama says, “Have fun, little dinosaur,
and Happy Birthday.”

Buckaroo loves Jane Yolen's How Does a Dinosaur books, and we reference them often when struggling through meal time or doctor's visits. Brushing teeth is also a daily challenge for us, so I re-visioned a Yolen story in honor of Buckaroo's fourth birthday.

Happy Birthday, Little Dinosaur

April 7, 2011

Poem #7

African Mother Carrying Her Child  (Wikimedia Commons) 

what thirty american dollars will buy

five dark godiva tulips
obwisana sa na na
one hundred lindor truffles
the rock it crushed my hand, grandma
two harry & david bunnies
obwisana sa
one ghanaian boy, age twelve
the rock it crushed my hand
one thousand bitter kisses