Thank you, thank you,.... here is one that I'd like to see as a childrens book, I already have a prototype made ---
Under My Bed
By Victoria Willis
If I looked under my bed, what would I see?
Funky fuzzy dust bunnies lookin’ at me.
Maybe monsters with all sorts of stuff and things.
Jellybeans, books, papers and bubble gum machine rings.
Cracker jack boxes, old records, ribbons, crayons, and pens.
When will this land of junk ever end?
I see chapstick tubes, photos, and empty wire notebooks.
I wonder how far I’ll have to look?
A mis-matched argyle sock, my Christmas underwear and a toy boat.
I don’t think that holey old thing will even float.
A mason jar with some dead lightning bugs for light
And my old stuffed cheap carnival dog that won’t bite.
Oh, a mirror, gum wrappers, a Barbie doll with one arm
Someone’s Easter basket, a plastic apple and an empty ant farm?
Hangin’ upside down from my bed peekin’ in,
I’m thinkin’ about cleaning out this great big clutter bin.
Nah, these treasures will have to stay,
Because I’ll have to get a bulldozer in here, someway.
<i>TO-MORROW, AND TO-MORROW, AND TO-MORROW</i>
by William Shakespeare
To-morrow, and To-morrow, and To-morrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing -
When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-coloured
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground,
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm,
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.