Poems by Annie
Pretty Yvette
Pretty Yvette would like a Corvette,
But the money—it just isn’t there.
Her mother is getting her doctorate
‘Cause she no longer wants to cut hair.
Her daddy is building a robot.
Those robot parts—they don’t come cheap.
By day he’s an Apple Store hotshot;
He tinkers while folks are asleep.
Yvette has a brother named Alfred,
Who would like to fly to the moon.
He has rockets all over his bed spread;
He eats from a Buzz Lightyear spoon.
Yvette, she wants to drive racecars
And fly at great speeds round a track.
A Corvette—or maybe a Jaguar--
Would be great in lime green or in black.
But racing must wait till she’s older;
Those dreams, they will just have to keep.
They will wait—they will simmer and smolder--
While she races those cars in her sleep!
Helmet
My helmet, it protected me
While riding through Schenectady
On my trusty, rusty, ten-speed bike.
I like to let my hair blow free,
But without my head, there'd be no ME,
Thus I wear this shell that I don't like.
Some like to spout philosophy
From platforms or on bended knee
That freedom, basic freedom, is their right.
But a corner that is slippery
Or any other tragedy
Could leave them just a plaque marked, "Here lies Mike"
Or "Jen" or "Sam" or "Stephanie"--
Their families sobbing endlessly...
So please:
Wear your helmet when you ride a bike!
Hip Hop
Hip hop music – basses thump,
Hands up high – fist pump bump.
Move your body – stomp your feet,
Feel the rhythm – catch that beat!
Phil the Photographer
Frippery-frappery
Phil the Photographer
Snapped off some photos of
Fancy-type folk.
Flashing montages of
Phantasmagoria,
Phil was just thrilled with the
Chills he’d provoke.
Success
You want to write for little kids,
For ‘tweens, or young adults.
You know success—and maybe fame--
Will be your end results.
You tell your friends you’re serious,
A novel’s gaining ground.
Your poetry is piling up--
An agent must be found!
But truth be told you’re filled with guilt;
It’s rare your butt’s in chair.
The kid lit dream seems out of reach--
You’re tearing out your hair.
A partnership is what you need,
With strangers or a friend,
Who’ll hold you to a daily goal--
And praise you without end.
You’ll meet your goals and feel your joy
Increase as you progress.
A team makes work seem more like play--
And that is true success!
Pretty Yvette would like a Corvette,
But the money—it just isn’t there.
Her mother is getting her doctorate
‘Cause she no longer wants to cut hair.
Her daddy is building a robot.
Those robot parts—they don’t come cheap.
By day he’s an Apple Store hotshot;
He tinkers while folks are asleep.
Yvette has a brother named Alfred,
Who would like to fly to the moon.
He has rockets all over his bed spread;
He eats from a Buzz Lightyear spoon.
Yvette, she wants to drive racecars
And fly at great speeds round a track.
A Corvette—or maybe a Jaguar--
Would be great in lime green or in black.
But racing must wait till she’s older;
Those dreams, they will just have to keep.
They will wait—they will simmer and smolder--
While she races those cars in her sleep!
Helmet
My helmet, it protected me
While riding through Schenectady
On my trusty, rusty, ten-speed bike.
I like to let my hair blow free,
But without my head, there'd be no ME,
Thus I wear this shell that I don't like.
Some like to spout philosophy
From platforms or on bended knee
That freedom, basic freedom, is their right.
But a corner that is slippery
Or any other tragedy
Could leave them just a plaque marked, "Here lies Mike"
Or "Jen" or "Sam" or "Stephanie"--
Their families sobbing endlessly...
So please:
Wear your helmet when you ride a bike!
Hip Hop
Hip hop music – basses thump,
Hands up high – fist pump bump.
Move your body – stomp your feet,
Feel the rhythm – catch that beat!
Phil the Photographer
Frippery-frappery
Phil the Photographer
Snapped off some photos of
Fancy-type folk.
Flashing montages of
Phantasmagoria,
Phil was just thrilled with the
Chills he’d provoke.
Success
You want to write for little kids,
For ‘tweens, or young adults.
You know success—and maybe fame--
Will be your end results.
You tell your friends you’re serious,
A novel’s gaining ground.
Your poetry is piling up--
An agent must be found!
But truth be told you’re filled with guilt;
It’s rare your butt’s in chair.
The kid lit dream seems out of reach--
You’re tearing out your hair.
A partnership is what you need,
With strangers or a friend,
Who’ll hold you to a daily goal--
And praise you without end.
You’ll meet your goals and feel your joy
Increase as you progress.
A team makes work seem more like play--
And that is true success!
