Friday, April 30, 2010
Saturday, March 27, 2010
A Pair of Spectacles: or Cinderella Retold by Maggie
“Oomph! This trash can is too heavy! Oh, hi. My name is Marguerite. Call me Maggie for short. You may have heard of my step-sister, Cinderella*? Of course you have. It’s all her fault now that I’m emptying the trash can. How? Well, she used to work for us- I didn’t have to dress my dolls… or feed the dogs... or push the play button on my iPod**. Now all of that’s changed. Here, let me tell you what really happened. And let me tell it right.
“It all started when Mom got a phone call from the royal palace one day. It wasn’t an invitation, like the author insisted, but that really didn’t have anything to do with it. The conversation (over the phone!) changed everything. And, because my mom didn’t want anyone hearing her (she put our phone off speakerphone), I only heard bits and pieces of the conversation. And the next thing I new, I was going to win the prince’s hand, I thought. Unfortunately, I had the wrong idea.
“‘Now listen, girls,’ Mom said to me and my sister, Mildred, ‘One of you has been picked to marry the prince. At a masquerade. Tomorrow night.’ ‘Which?’ we both asked at the same time. ‘Why, of course I don’t know,’ said my mom. (If I remember correctly, that’s not how the author told this story.) And guess what else? Cinderella was with us at the time! ‘You can go, too, dear,’ Mother said to her sweetly, ‘if you finish all your work in time.’ I was super excited! My mom was the nicest mom in the world, believe me. Cinderella was the mean one- she was always trying to ruin our chances, because you know what? She didn’t get her work done! Of course, she did have a lot of extra chores that day… including helping us with our costumes (it was a masquerade). She just… well, didn’t have any time to get her work done. Of course it was to her advantage. How were the rest of us to know she’d called a seamstress (now this is where the Mr. What’s-His-Name (the author) made up all that magic stuff about a fairy-godmother, and a carriage of pure gold…)? It just didn’t make any sense. Cinderella arrived in a sleek white limousine. Of course! We left it there for her! Um, yes, we… borrowed a friend’s *cough* corvette.
“I guess something didn’t add up for the prince. Why he didn’t see that I was obviously the prettiest of all the girls that night, I don’t know. But, what I do know is that Cinderella supplied the prince with a pair of eyeglasses that night! Come to think of it, they were rose-colored. The conclusion is the prince married Cinderella. Ha! I just proved to you that Cinderella was a cheat!*** Please… believe me?
“So… if you find any rose-colored spectacles lying around, let me know. A time-travel pill into the past would also really help. And, by the way, if you just happen to know anyone who is familiar with how to dress dolls, feed dogs, and push play on an iPod, keep in touch, okay? Thanks for listening!”
“It all started when Mom got a phone call from the royal palace one day. It wasn’t an invitation, like the author insisted, but that really didn’t have anything to do with it. The conversation (over the phone!) changed everything. And, because my mom didn’t want anyone hearing her (she put our phone off speakerphone), I only heard bits and pieces of the conversation. And the next thing I new, I was going to win the prince’s hand, I thought. Unfortunately, I had the wrong idea.
“‘Now listen, girls,’ Mom said to me and my sister, Mildred, ‘One of you has been picked to marry the prince. At a masquerade. Tomorrow night.’ ‘Which?’ we both asked at the same time. ‘Why, of course I don’t know,’ said my mom. (If I remember correctly, that’s not how the author told this story.) And guess what else? Cinderella was with us at the time! ‘You can go, too, dear,’ Mother said to her sweetly, ‘if you finish all your work in time.’ I was super excited! My mom was the nicest mom in the world, believe me. Cinderella was the mean one- she was always trying to ruin our chances, because you know what? She didn’t get her work done! Of course, she did have a lot of extra chores that day… including helping us with our costumes (it was a masquerade). She just… well, didn’t have any time to get her work done. Of course it was to her advantage. How were the rest of us to know she’d called a seamstress (now this is where the Mr. What’s-His-Name (the author) made up all that magic stuff about a fairy-godmother, and a carriage of pure gold…)? It just didn’t make any sense. Cinderella arrived in a sleek white limousine. Of course! We left it there for her! Um, yes, we… borrowed a friend’s *cough* corvette.
“I guess something didn’t add up for the prince. Why he didn’t see that I was obviously the prettiest of all the girls that night, I don’t know. But, what I do know is that Cinderella supplied the prince with a pair of eyeglasses that night! Come to think of it, they were rose-colored. The conclusion is the prince married Cinderella. Ha! I just proved to you that Cinderella was a cheat!*** Please… believe me?
“So… if you find any rose-colored spectacles lying around, let me know. A time-travel pill into the past would also really help. And, by the way, if you just happen to know anyone who is familiar with how to dress dolls, feed dogs, and push play on an iPod, keep in touch, okay? Thanks for listening!”
Thursday, March 25, 2010
How the Skunk Got its Stripes
Once, in the beginning of time, a long time ago, was a skunk who hated to work. It was the sweetest smelling animal in all of creation then, and it was terribly afraid that if it would work, it would lose its scent, and spoil its beautiful coat. For at that time, the skunk had a smashing, dashing, prancing, dancing, rushing, ushing, quick coat, which, dearest, was not the regular black-and-white stripe, dearest- it was India rubber oiled with all the colors of the rainbow (and you must not forget it!), which made the skunk very proud indeed.
One day, a flower, which had the worst looking coat of all in that time, and so worked and worked toward maybe someday getting a lovely coat, looked longingly at the skunk’s beautiful India rubber skin oiled with all the colors of the rainbow. “Pardon me,” said the flower, “but I simply must know just how you received that India rubber skin oiled with all the colors of the rainbow.” “Well,” said the skunk, and that was all it would say. It had no feelings for the simple flower, with hairy old leaves, and petals of vast shrewdness, but said only, “Well,” and that was all.
The flower, within its petals of vast shrewdness, looked at the skunk, so conceited and all, and decided to bring forth the genie, from his small oil lamp that he had been given permission to collect at the beginning of the world. It was not gold, but the flower thought with wonder that it was India rubber oiled with all the colors of the rainbow, and that made all the difference (And now you see why you mustn’t have forgotten the India rubber skin oiled with all the colors of the rainbow). Finally, it asked the teeny-tiny powerless genie to come out, and fix the skunk of its conceited scent and India rubber skin oiled with all the colors of the rainbow. The genie said, “How, and I shall,” and recited the following rhythm: “Skunks that won’t work had better regard the lurk.” And the genie got out of his pot, and immediately turned the skunk into a creature as small as himself, and stuck him in the oil lamp. For the genie was so immensely tiny and powerless, that it was nearly impossible for the skunk to see the lurking man. “Let me out!” the little skunk shrieked. “No,” said the genie, “for you would not work.” “But I will!” gasped the skunk, “Now please let me out!” “Alright,” said the flower with its petals of vast shrewdness, “Let the skunk out on one condition.” “What condition?” asked the skunk from within the oil lamp made of India rubber oiled with all the colors of the rainbow. “That you would give up your lovely scent, and your beautiful India rubber skin oiled with all the colors of the rainbow- and work!” “But that is all I’ve got! But—it is granted.”
So the flower, along with its petals of vast shrewdness, let the skunk out, and the genie transferred the lovely scent, and the skunk’s India rubber skin oiled with all the colors of the rainbow over to the flower. And ever since then, the skunk has never refused to work, and all the flowers have had a lovely scent and smell.
One day, a flower, which had the worst looking coat of all in that time, and so worked and worked toward maybe someday getting a lovely coat, looked longingly at the skunk’s beautiful India rubber skin oiled with all the colors of the rainbow. “Pardon me,” said the flower, “but I simply must know just how you received that India rubber skin oiled with all the colors of the rainbow.” “Well,” said the skunk, and that was all it would say. It had no feelings for the simple flower, with hairy old leaves, and petals of vast shrewdness, but said only, “Well,” and that was all.
The flower, within its petals of vast shrewdness, looked at the skunk, so conceited and all, and decided to bring forth the genie, from his small oil lamp that he had been given permission to collect at the beginning of the world. It was not gold, but the flower thought with wonder that it was India rubber oiled with all the colors of the rainbow, and that made all the difference (And now you see why you mustn’t have forgotten the India rubber skin oiled with all the colors of the rainbow). Finally, it asked the teeny-tiny powerless genie to come out, and fix the skunk of its conceited scent and India rubber skin oiled with all the colors of the rainbow. The genie said, “How, and I shall,” and recited the following rhythm: “Skunks that won’t work had better regard the lurk.” And the genie got out of his pot, and immediately turned the skunk into a creature as small as himself, and stuck him in the oil lamp. For the genie was so immensely tiny and powerless, that it was nearly impossible for the skunk to see the lurking man. “Let me out!” the little skunk shrieked. “No,” said the genie, “for you would not work.” “But I will!” gasped the skunk, “Now please let me out!” “Alright,” said the flower with its petals of vast shrewdness, “Let the skunk out on one condition.” “What condition?” asked the skunk from within the oil lamp made of India rubber oiled with all the colors of the rainbow. “That you would give up your lovely scent, and your beautiful India rubber skin oiled with all the colors of the rainbow- and work!” “But that is all I’ve got! But—it is granted.”
So the flower, along with its petals of vast shrewdness, let the skunk out, and the genie transferred the lovely scent, and the skunk’s India rubber skin oiled with all the colors of the rainbow over to the flower. And ever since then, the skunk has never refused to work, and all the flowers have had a lovely scent and smell.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Mathematical Genius: The Diary of Sophie Germain
January 10, 1790
Dear Diary,
I still cannot figure out that arithmetic problem that Archimedes left. Why can’t I get over the mystery of his death? It is something that I know I should not be wrapped up in, but I simply must find out what was so involving to him that he would die trying it. My parents, unfortunately for me, do not understand this longing of mine. I’ve been secretly studying at midnight. I hope they won’t ever find me out. Last week they made it clear that I was no longer allowed to study mathematics; however, I shall not ever give it up. Now I must get back to that example of Archimedes’s. What was so fascinating to him that he would die over it?
January 12, 1790
Dear Diary,
I think I have finally found a key to my problem. In mathematics, I mean. I tried telling mama today; well, I don’t mean to say I tried, I wasn’t even going to tell her, but I was so excited it simply slipped out. Therefore, she discovered my studying at midnight, when I should be asleep. When papa found out about it from mama, he took away all my lamplight. I’ll try candles tonight. But what has gotten into them, I wonder? I used to be allowed to study all the time, and now it is simply, “Sophie, don’t do this,” and “Sophie, don’t let me ever catch you doing that,” and so on and so forth, and it gets so tiring! I went into papa’s library early this morning when I was sure no one would be there, and there I found Bessie, the parlor maid, dusting away. When I checked further, she was actually asleep, much to my shock. And I noticed a cot bed in the corner. Has papa moved her to the library in order to stop me from studying? I brought the subject up with him at dinner, keeping back the fact that I had seen her at 2:00 this morning. He seemed rather guilty, but said nothing, much to my dismay.
January 13, 1790
Dear Diary,
In addition to my lamplight, my candles have all disappeared from my bedchamber- so I smuggled some stubs in from the dustbin in my shoe. I feel deceitful- but if only mama and papa would understand. I wonder what they would think if I showed them the solved arithmetic problem- pleased, proud, angry? Papa was extremely horrified when he found me studying one night. He insisted I have a maid in my room, but I sent her away with threat of dismissal, which worked pretty well, I must admit.
January 16, 1790
Dear Diary,
I feel as though I will never be able to figure out Archimedes. Maybe my parents are right. Maybe I am wasting my time! Anyway, my friend Pierre is coming today; perhaps he can cheer me up.
Later: Yes, Pierre did cheer me up, just as I thought. He and I both sneaked up into the school room and worked on my arithmetic problem. Pierre just breathes mathematics, and whenever I am around him, he seems to rub it off on me. There! I just crossed out my words from above. I’m never even going to start giving up again! Now, if only I could figure out this example….
January 17, 1790
Dear Diary,
I’ve DONE it! I’ve solved Archimedes’ death problem! It was actually really simple, if you can believe it- I can’t; some of his complex formulas are really too incompatible for me. But I’m ready. I’m going to take a chance and tell mama and papa my dream: to be a mathematician.
Later: Well, I gathered together my formulas, my diagrams and my courage, and went to my papa in the library. He fingered my work, scratched his head, and looked at me with a slight smile. I held my breath, and told him I was going to continue studying mathematics. “My daughter,” he mumbled to himself, “a mathematician? Possibly.” As he studied my equations though, papa’s smile grew and grew! “Fantastic!” he sputtered, “Sophie, you did all this yourself?” “I did,” I said to him, and went through the pages of formulas, explaining them to him. Though I knew he already knew them, it gave me great pleasure, and him as well.
And, do you know what else? Papa has given me full access to his library once more! Oh, I will study until I am a book; but why should I care?
March 14, 1790
Dear Diary,
Today Pierre came running in, out of breath and trembling with excitement. He told me his news, after very little coaxing. “Sophie! A group of scholars are opening a school! And the great mathematician Monsieur Lagrange will be teaching here in Paris! And I will get to be apart of it!” “That’s interesting,” I said to him, pretending insult. Pierre was too excited to care, though. “Sophie, did you not hear me? Isn’t it wonderful?” “Yes, I heard you,” I replied, and then tears came to my eyes. “But, Pierre, don’t you understand? I am a girl! As long as France looks on me as the ‘weaker sex,’ Pierre, I may never do mathematics out of my home- on penalty of rioting!” “Oh, I’m so sorry, Sophie,” he said, “but I have an idea,” the light returning to his eyes. I hardly understood what he meant at first, but now….
April 16, 1790
Dear Diary,
I tried Pierre’s idea. Over the past few weeks, I have been studying with Pierre and his friends; in other words, they have copied lecture notes for me, and shown me how to do the examples. And yesterday I prepared a paper for Monsieur Lagrange, and Pierre has smuggled it into the class and submitted it along with all the other papers. I am waiting for his news, with anxious mind and worried spirit.
Even worse: I have signed my name Monsieur LeBlanc. For some reason or other, I don’t believe a highly esteemed mathematician would read an essay signed, Sophie Germain.
April 17, 1790
Dear Diary,
Monsieur LeBlanc (myself) has passed the exam! And what else, for there is even greater news, is that Monsieur Lagrange wishes to meet me! But how? I am still only a girl; “For though I am but little, I am fierce,” as my papa quotes Shakespeare about me… fierce about arithmetic, he means. I am almost thinking about writing Monsieur Lagrange a letter of apology containing my true identity. Pierre says that Monsieur is impressed with my work, an even more wondrous compliment that I could ever have dreamed of. Hmmm. Perhaps I can meet him. An arranged meeting, perhaps?
April 18, 1790
Dear Diary,
My heart is still beating so fast I hardly know what to think. Monsieur Lagrange has been here! At my home! And was accompanied by Pierre~ that rascal~ I just knew his mind was working when he looked at me in that quizzical way of his yesterday. Pierre stayed after Monsieur Lagrange left, and told me the following:
“I told Monsieur about your being a lady mathematician. He was stunned, but was not in the least upset. He even promised to keep your secret!”
Monsieur Lagrange congratulated and moreover, he encouraged me to continue in my race. This will definitely be one of the most treasured moments of my life. I know that no universities will take me. But, God willing, I will continue to help all of Europe with my mathematics. You don’t think that last part was too proud, Diary, do you? Because I think I may make it smaller. I will continue to help all of France with my work. Oh, never mind! I will change all of Europe and the entire world. Perhaps… someday.
Signed,
Sophie Marie Germain
1790
Dear Diary,
I still cannot figure out that arithmetic problem that Archimedes left. Why can’t I get over the mystery of his death? It is something that I know I should not be wrapped up in, but I simply must find out what was so involving to him that he would die trying it. My parents, unfortunately for me, do not understand this longing of mine. I’ve been secretly studying at midnight. I hope they won’t ever find me out. Last week they made it clear that I was no longer allowed to study mathematics; however, I shall not ever give it up. Now I must get back to that example of Archimedes’s. What was so fascinating to him that he would die over it?
January 12, 1790
Dear Diary,
I think I have finally found a key to my problem. In mathematics, I mean. I tried telling mama today; well, I don’t mean to say I tried, I wasn’t even going to tell her, but I was so excited it simply slipped out. Therefore, she discovered my studying at midnight, when I should be asleep. When papa found out about it from mama, he took away all my lamplight. I’ll try candles tonight. But what has gotten into them, I wonder? I used to be allowed to study all the time, and now it is simply, “Sophie, don’t do this,” and “Sophie, don’t let me ever catch you doing that,” and so on and so forth, and it gets so tiring! I went into papa’s library early this morning when I was sure no one would be there, and there I found Bessie, the parlor maid, dusting away. When I checked further, she was actually asleep, much to my shock. And I noticed a cot bed in the corner. Has papa moved her to the library in order to stop me from studying? I brought the subject up with him at dinner, keeping back the fact that I had seen her at 2:00 this morning. He seemed rather guilty, but said nothing, much to my dismay.
January 13, 1790
Dear Diary,
In addition to my lamplight, my candles have all disappeared from my bedchamber- so I smuggled some stubs in from the dustbin in my shoe. I feel deceitful- but if only mama and papa would understand. I wonder what they would think if I showed them the solved arithmetic problem- pleased, proud, angry? Papa was extremely horrified when he found me studying one night. He insisted I have a maid in my room, but I sent her away with threat of dismissal, which worked pretty well, I must admit.
January 16, 1790
Dear Diary,
I feel as though I will never be able to figure out Archimedes. Maybe my parents are right. Maybe I am wasting my time! Anyway, my friend Pierre is coming today; perhaps he can cheer me up.
Later: Yes, Pierre did cheer me up, just as I thought. He and I both sneaked up into the school room and worked on my arithmetic problem. Pierre just breathes mathematics, and whenever I am around him, he seems to rub it off on me. There! I just crossed out my words from above. I’m never even going to start giving up again! Now, if only I could figure out this example….
January 17, 1790
Dear Diary,
I’ve DONE it! I’ve solved Archimedes’ death problem! It was actually really simple, if you can believe it- I can’t; some of his complex formulas are really too incompatible for me. But I’m ready. I’m going to take a chance and tell mama and papa my dream: to be a mathematician.
Later: Well, I gathered together my formulas, my diagrams and my courage, and went to my papa in the library. He fingered my work, scratched his head, and looked at me with a slight smile. I held my breath, and told him I was going to continue studying mathematics. “My daughter,” he mumbled to himself, “a mathematician? Possibly.” As he studied my equations though, papa’s smile grew and grew! “Fantastic!” he sputtered, “Sophie, you did all this yourself?” “I did,” I said to him, and went through the pages of formulas, explaining them to him. Though I knew he already knew them, it gave me great pleasure, and him as well.
And, do you know what else? Papa has given me full access to his library once more! Oh, I will study until I am a book; but why should I care?
March 14, 1790
Dear Diary,
Today Pierre came running in, out of breath and trembling with excitement. He told me his news, after very little coaxing. “Sophie! A group of scholars are opening a school! And the great mathematician Monsieur Lagrange will be teaching here in Paris! And I will get to be apart of it!” “That’s interesting,” I said to him, pretending insult. Pierre was too excited to care, though. “Sophie, did you not hear me? Isn’t it wonderful?” “Yes, I heard you,” I replied, and then tears came to my eyes. “But, Pierre, don’t you understand? I am a girl! As long as France looks on me as the ‘weaker sex,’ Pierre, I may never do mathematics out of my home- on penalty of rioting!” “Oh, I’m so sorry, Sophie,” he said, “but I have an idea,” the light returning to his eyes. I hardly understood what he meant at first, but now….
April 16, 1790
Dear Diary,
I tried Pierre’s idea. Over the past few weeks, I have been studying with Pierre and his friends; in other words, they have copied lecture notes for me, and shown me how to do the examples. And yesterday I prepared a paper for Monsieur Lagrange, and Pierre has smuggled it into the class and submitted it along with all the other papers. I am waiting for his news, with anxious mind and worried spirit.
Even worse: I have signed my name Monsieur LeBlanc. For some reason or other, I don’t believe a highly esteemed mathematician would read an essay signed, Sophie Germain.
April 17, 1790
Dear Diary,
Monsieur LeBlanc (myself) has passed the exam! And what else, for there is even greater news, is that Monsieur Lagrange wishes to meet me! But how? I am still only a girl; “For though I am but little, I am fierce,” as my papa quotes Shakespeare about me… fierce about arithmetic, he means. I am almost thinking about writing Monsieur Lagrange a letter of apology containing my true identity. Pierre says that Monsieur is impressed with my work, an even more wondrous compliment that I could ever have dreamed of. Hmmm. Perhaps I can meet him. An arranged meeting, perhaps?
April 18, 1790
Dear Diary,
My heart is still beating so fast I hardly know what to think. Monsieur Lagrange has been here! At my home! And was accompanied by Pierre~ that rascal~ I just knew his mind was working when he looked at me in that quizzical way of his yesterday. Pierre stayed after Monsieur Lagrange left, and told me the following:
“I told Monsieur about your being a lady mathematician. He was stunned, but was not in the least upset. He even promised to keep your secret!”
Monsieur Lagrange congratulated and moreover, he encouraged me to continue in my race. This will definitely be one of the most treasured moments of my life. I know that no universities will take me. But, God willing, I will continue to help all of Europe with my mathematics. You don’t think that last part was too proud, Diary, do you? Because I think I may make it smaller. I will continue to help all of France with my work. Oh, never mind! I will change all of Europe and the entire world. Perhaps… someday.
Signed,
Sophie Marie Germain
1790
Planning- It's of the Essence
"Bad planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part."
-Attributed to parents and teachers everywhere-
This is a saying most likely written by my wonderful composition teacher! She showed it to us in class today, when we were having a poetry slam.
-Attributed to parents and teachers everywhere-
This is a saying most likely written by my wonderful composition teacher! She showed it to us in class today, when we were having a poetry slam.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
The Flower Alphabet
I'm really not sure whether or not this could be regarded as poetry, but I've decided to post it anyway.
A- Astor
B- Bluebell
C- Crocus
D- Daffodil
E- Elephant Ear
F- Forget-Me-Not
G- Geranium
H- Honeysuckle
I- Iris
J- Jasmine
K- Kingcup
L- Lily
M- Marigold
N- Narcissus
O- Orchid
P- Primrose
Q- Queen Anne’s Lace
R- Ragwort
S- Snapdragon
T- Tulip
U- Ulster Mary
V- Vinca
W- Woodbine
X- Xeranthemum
Y- Yarrow
Z- Zinnia
A- Astor
B- Bluebell
C- Crocus
D- Daffodil
E- Elephant Ear
F- Forget-Me-Not
G- Geranium
H- Honeysuckle
I- Iris
J- Jasmine
K- Kingcup
L- Lily
M- Marigold
N- Narcissus
O- Orchid
P- Primrose
Q- Queen Anne’s Lace
R- Ragwort
S- Snapdragon
T- Tulip
U- Ulster Mary
V- Vinca
W- Woodbine
X- Xeranthemum
Y- Yarrow
Z- Zinnia
For the Record...
I don't know WHO came up with this wise old saying, but... I heard it at Bible study today, and was simply enthralled:
"When trials come into your life, don't nurse them, don't rehearse them; instead, give them to God, and He will reverse them."
There's your bit of wisdom for today!
"When trials come into your life, don't nurse them, don't rehearse them; instead, give them to God, and He will reverse them."
There's your bit of wisdom for today!
Word Spotlight- Onomatopoeia
Onomatopoeia. Just say the word, breathe in a deep breath, and relax. You have just said one of my favorite words, one that I think expresses you without you saying a word.
The definition? Onomatopoeia is a word that suggests the meaning, or sound, of what it just described, such as "clip-clop; boom; beep!" You normally see most Onomatopoeia in a comic.
The definition? Onomatopoeia is a word that suggests the meaning, or sound, of what it just described, such as "clip-clop; boom; beep!" You normally see most Onomatopoeia in a comic.
Sense of Time- July
July
July is purely orange.
Orange is the color of the warm sun overhead.
It’s the time of sweet summer memories relived.
It sounds like a volley-ball tournament- fast, and fleeting, and the *screams and laughter* of youngsters at the beach.
It smells like a summer storm.
It tastes like the mouth-watering sorbet at the beach.
July is when all things begin to circle round.
July is purely orange.
Orange is the color of the warm sun overhead.
It’s the time of sweet summer memories relived.
It sounds like a volley-ball tournament- fast, and fleeting, and the *screams and laughter* of youngsters at the beach.
It smells like a summer storm.
It tastes like the mouth-watering sorbet at the beach.
July is when all things begin to circle round.
The Perfect Star
One night, a long, long time ago, I awoke in heaven- a bright and beautiful star -only this I did not find out until later. I thought I was an ugly piece of work. Only the smallest angels picked up any of my extra stardust. One in particular, a tiny little angel named Amy, didn’t know what she was good for, either; but together, we knew we were in good hands. But after having Amy come and pick up my stardust for many years, she did not come to gather my extra stardust for God to make more stars; the big angel Gabriel came instead, a breathtaking being with large wings, and a peaceful smile. “I have come,” he said, “to take you to the Creator. Come! Make yourself ready! It is a great honor!” “Me?” I asked, “Why me? I am not a big star like the one who twinkles above me so brightly. I am no star like the one who makes thousands of stars every night with stardust. I am just a plain star- someone who is unworthy to come before the Creator.” Gabriel just looked at me with a sad countenance. Just then, the Creator Himself came to me. “Oh, little star,” the Creator said, “I have chosen you to be the most perfect and most brilliant star in the world. I do not mind your imperfections. But will you serve me?” “I would be honored to serve you, my Creator,” I whispered. “Then will I make you the greatest star that ever the world did see.” The Creator took my stardust, and all of the dust He had been saving since I was born, and shaped me again. This time, I was a bright, beautiful star, the greatest and most perfectly shaped star in the universe. Amy was there, and became the helper of the Creator, and the most beautiful stardust collector I had ever seen.
As I looked down on two people riding on a donkey, the angel Gabriel appeared beside me. “Those are those chosen for you to shed your stardust upon. Wait until later tonight.” I waited and waited, and soon enough, the Creator came to me. “Get up!” he commanded, “Shine your light on the stable just below you!” I did as He said, and as I did, I watched. And waited. A baby’s cry echoed into the night. And I saw some lowly shepherds following my path of light, down towards the stable, and into it. “There,” said the Creator “is my Son. Shine on Him, and brightly.”
In later years, I saw some kings coming upon my still silvery path, which had changed, and was now simply shining on the town of Bethlehem, where the Creator’s Son was born. They appeared to be carrying gifts, and were riding on large camels. “These,” said the Creator, Who was always by my side, watching and directing my starlight, “are three wisemen. They are bringing gifts to honor my Son. And still they will reflect how He is to be treated in future years.” The Creator looked sad for a moment, but when the men reached the stables, all sorrow seemed to have melted away.
My light shone in Bethlehem for many years, disappearing when the Creator wished for it to leave. Then one day, the Creator took me, and said, “Quick. This is my Son.” I looked down upon a different place, called Golgotha, and saw the Creator’s Son nailed to a cross, and left to die “What is- oh, Creator! It is Your Son! Please, let me shine my light on Him once more!” “Yes,” He said, “Presently. When it is finished.” He and I watched, silently. Then the Creator’s Son seemed to cry out. “Now! Shine your light, little star!” I shone my light upon Him, for the first time while He was living, and what I thought was the last. And as I shone, the earth cracked.
Over the next few days, I couldn’t understand. Finally I asked the Creator, “Why? Why did your Son die?” “Listen,” the Creator said, a smile on His lips. And as I watched, I saw the Creator’s Son walk out of His burial mound, alive! “O, Creator! He’s alive! He really is!” “Yes,” the Creator said, “Shine, little Star! Shine once more upon my Son!” I sparkled when I shone, the happiest star I ever had been. “You, little Star, are perfect. You thought you were a mistake, but I had more in mind then you had ever planned for,” said the Creator. I looked back when I was a little star, and I saw. I had the privilege of being chosen to be the star which would lead those to the Creator’s Son, the King of Kings, and the truly most magnificent bright Morning Star. I had looked down upon the Creator’s Son when He lay dying on the cross, and when He had risen. And now I was more joyful than ever, knowing that there would soon be another job for me- to shine on Jesus because He was coming to live in the heavens with me-soon!
As I looked down on two people riding on a donkey, the angel Gabriel appeared beside me. “Those are those chosen for you to shed your stardust upon. Wait until later tonight.” I waited and waited, and soon enough, the Creator came to me. “Get up!” he commanded, “Shine your light on the stable just below you!” I did as He said, and as I did, I watched. And waited. A baby’s cry echoed into the night. And I saw some lowly shepherds following my path of light, down towards the stable, and into it. “There,” said the Creator “is my Son. Shine on Him, and brightly.”
In later years, I saw some kings coming upon my still silvery path, which had changed, and was now simply shining on the town of Bethlehem, where the Creator’s Son was born. They appeared to be carrying gifts, and were riding on large camels. “These,” said the Creator, Who was always by my side, watching and directing my starlight, “are three wisemen. They are bringing gifts to honor my Son. And still they will reflect how He is to be treated in future years.” The Creator looked sad for a moment, but when the men reached the stables, all sorrow seemed to have melted away.
My light shone in Bethlehem for many years, disappearing when the Creator wished for it to leave. Then one day, the Creator took me, and said, “Quick. This is my Son.” I looked down upon a different place, called Golgotha, and saw the Creator’s Son nailed to a cross, and left to die “What is- oh, Creator! It is Your Son! Please, let me shine my light on Him once more!” “Yes,” He said, “Presently. When it is finished.” He and I watched, silently. Then the Creator’s Son seemed to cry out. “Now! Shine your light, little star!” I shone my light upon Him, for the first time while He was living, and what I thought was the last. And as I shone, the earth cracked.
Over the next few days, I couldn’t understand. Finally I asked the Creator, “Why? Why did your Son die?” “Listen,” the Creator said, a smile on His lips. And as I watched, I saw the Creator’s Son walk out of His burial mound, alive! “O, Creator! He’s alive! He really is!” “Yes,” the Creator said, “Shine, little Star! Shine once more upon my Son!” I sparkled when I shone, the happiest star I ever had been. “You, little Star, are perfect. You thought you were a mistake, but I had more in mind then you had ever planned for,” said the Creator. I looked back when I was a little star, and I saw. I had the privilege of being chosen to be the star which would lead those to the Creator’s Son, the King of Kings, and the truly most magnificent bright Morning Star. I had looked down upon the Creator’s Son when He lay dying on the cross, and when He had risen. And now I was more joyful than ever, knowing that there would soon be another job for me- to shine on Jesus because He was coming to live in the heavens with me-soon!
The Limerick
There once was a very young crook
Who had the nerve to steal a good book.
Before the end of his nap
The book was in his lap
And he was reading away in his nook.
Who had the nerve to steal a good book.
Before the end of his nap
The book was in his lap
And he was reading away in his nook.
The Sense of Time Poem- April
April.
April is the color of creamy yellow.
The color of fuzzy new ducklings on the farm.
It’s when you hear ice being broken on the still thinly frozen pond.
It sounds like the shouts of children on an egg hunt.
It smells like fresh hay.
It tastes like a sweet celebration.
April is a time of renewal.
April is the color of creamy yellow.
The color of fuzzy new ducklings on the farm.
It’s when you hear ice being broken on the still thinly frozen pond.
It sounds like the shouts of children on an egg hunt.
It smells like fresh hay.
It tastes like a sweet celebration.
April is a time of renewal.
The Sense of Time Poem- September
September
September is tomato red.
The color of back-to-school notebooks.
It’s when you walk out the door and feel fall is on its way.
It sounds like children playing on dusty streets.
It smells like mother taking fresh bread from the oven.
It tastes like the first squash out of the garden.
September is autumn at its best.
September is tomato red.
The color of back-to-school notebooks.
It’s when you walk out the door and feel fall is on its way.
It sounds like children playing on dusty streets.
It smells like mother taking fresh bread from the oven.
It tastes like the first squash out of the garden.
September is autumn at its best.
The Bio-Poem: Featuring Helen Keller
Helen Adams Keller
The first deaf and blind person to receive a Bachelor of Arts Degree.
American, lecturer, author, activist
Lover of Anne, life, and Kamikaze-Go
Who believed in truth, love, and God
Who feared shame, disability, and separation
Who wanted to see, to hear, and to touch
Who gave her experience, her time, and her excitement
Who said, “ The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched, they must be felt with the heart,” and meant it.
The first deaf and blind person to receive a Bachelor of Arts Degree.
American, lecturer, author, activist
Lover of Anne, life, and Kamikaze-Go
Who believed in truth, love, and God
Who feared shame, disability, and separation
Who wanted to see, to hear, and to touch
Who gave her experience, her time, and her excitement
Who said, “ The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched, they must be felt with the heart,” and meant it.
“Life in One Moment”
Flower
Delicate, sweet-smelling
Blooming, fading, waning
By any other name would smell as sweet
Rose
Delicate, sweet-smelling
Blooming, fading, waning
By any other name would smell as sweet
Rose
The Sacred Book
Bible
Profitable, God-breathed
Seeking, Inspiring, Acting
A guide to how we should live
Holy Scriptures
Profitable, God-breathed
Seeking, Inspiring, Acting
A guide to how we should live
Holy Scriptures
The Princess Takes a Nap
The Fairy-Tale Poem
Once there was a real live prince who
Wanted a real wife.
So off he went on world-wide travels,
Almost all of his young life.
But when the real princess still failed
To show her lovely face
The prince was quite beside himself
Fearing public disgrace.
‘Till one night a storm came
All throughout the land.
A princess showed at Prince’s door
Asking for his hand.
The prince was happy for a bride
But all the same inside
He wished to know if she was real
And told her, “Come and bide.”
For time was short the queen knew
And looking at her son
She decided to take into hands
The future of the one.
Into Princess’ room she stole
While the prince was at his sup.
And placed a small pea under the mat,
Hoping Princess wouldn’t act up.
Under twenty mattresses’
Or so, I understood
The queen put down the tiny pea,
Doing what she could.
The princess went to bed that night
With confidence she tried
To take a nice long rest, but in that bed
It was denied.
For that sweet rest was not to be
Instead, a bumpy ride.
And though the princess wanted sleep
She was destined to be bride.
The night passed long and tedious
For poor, real Princess Grace.
And though a frown was there right now
A smile would be on her face.
The morning dawned lovely and bright,
And quick as possibly
Grace got up and off the bed
Which had plagued her terribly.
In the morning, Grace was asked
How had she slept last night.
To which she said, “Oh horribly,
I felt something all night.”
“Under my mattresses’, O Queen,
I felt like I must be
Dreaming, but I woke this morning
Finding there a pea.”
Then much rejoicing was there now
For all throughout the land,
It was proclaimed the prince had found
A real bride for his hand.
The prince was married joyfully,
And happily she wed
The man dreamed of through the night
In that pea-ridden bed.
Now in a quiet land I’ve heard,
Far across the sea.
A young new princess now is found,
Sleeping beautifully.
On top of what her mother slept:
A bright new pearl of a pea.
But I’m not sure if it’s true or not.
You’ll have to look and see.
Once there was a real live prince who
Wanted a real wife.
So off he went on world-wide travels,
Almost all of his young life.
But when the real princess still failed
To show her lovely face
The prince was quite beside himself
Fearing public disgrace.
‘Till one night a storm came
All throughout the land.
A princess showed at Prince’s door
Asking for his hand.
The prince was happy for a bride
But all the same inside
He wished to know if she was real
And told her, “Come and bide.”
For time was short the queen knew
And looking at her son
She decided to take into hands
The future of the one.
Into Princess’ room she stole
While the prince was at his sup.
And placed a small pea under the mat,
Hoping Princess wouldn’t act up.
Under twenty mattresses’
Or so, I understood
The queen put down the tiny pea,
Doing what she could.
The princess went to bed that night
With confidence she tried
To take a nice long rest, but in that bed
It was denied.
For that sweet rest was not to be
Instead, a bumpy ride.
And though the princess wanted sleep
She was destined to be bride.
The night passed long and tedious
For poor, real Princess Grace.
And though a frown was there right now
A smile would be on her face.
The morning dawned lovely and bright,
And quick as possibly
Grace got up and off the bed
Which had plagued her terribly.
In the morning, Grace was asked
How had she slept last night.
To which she said, “Oh horribly,
I felt something all night.”
“Under my mattresses’, O Queen,
I felt like I must be
Dreaming, but I woke this morning
Finding there a pea.”
Then much rejoicing was there now
For all throughout the land,
It was proclaimed the prince had found
A real bride for his hand.
The prince was married joyfully,
And happily she wed
The man dreamed of through the night
In that pea-ridden bed.
Now in a quiet land I’ve heard,
Far across the sea.
A young new princess now is found,
Sleeping beautifully.
On top of what her mother slept:
A bright new pearl of a pea.
But I’m not sure if it’s true or not.
You’ll have to look and see.
To Freedom With Miss Tubman
The Ballad
Ol’ Bill Waters was goin’ to freedom
He’d asked Miss Tubman, “Anything I can do?”
He was ready, he’d been waitin’ for a long, long while-
Oh, what was Bill Waters wantin’ to do?
He was on his way to freedom, freedom
Was on his way to joy!
To a life of peace, and happiness,
With his only little child, a boy.
Miss Tubman arrived just a few moments later,
With a pack on her back, and shoe’ in her hand,
She looked at Bill Waters, and she looked at the child,
And said, “Let’s get goin’ to freedom land!”
He was on his way to freedom, freedom
Was on his way to joy!
To a life of peace, and happiness,
With his only little child, a boy.
Old Bill Waters was crossin’ the river,
But the bay of hounds he did hear.
He cried, and he saw his son’s eye fill with fear,
But, “Come on, Ol’ Bill! We’ll play it by ear!”
He was on his way to freedom, freedom
Was on his way to joy!
To a life of peace, and happiness,
With his only little child, a boy.
Into a stack of some sweet-smelling hay
Plunged Ol’ Bill, and his boy.
He was nervous, and afeard;
Miss Tubman saw his tears, and sang him an old slave joy:
“You are on your way to freedom, freedom
You’re on your way to joy!
To a life of peace and happiness,
Along with your own little boy.”
“You’re givin’ him a life of freedom, freedom
Without no killin’ work.
To have a life of peace and happiness,
What a thing for your little Burk.”
Well, the dogs went past that stack of hay,
Much to the excitement of Bill.
Harriet smiled, made a grab
Of Ol’ Bill’s right hand, and off went they, not to stray.
He was on his way to freedom, freedom
Was on his way to joy!
To a life of peace, and happiness,
With his only little child, a boy.
Early that morning, before the dawn was grey,
A white house did they spot.
“A freedom house,” as Miss Tubman said to Bill,
“Where you surely won’t be caught!”
“Only one more day to freedom, freedom,
One more day till joy!
With a life of peace and happiness,
What a thing for your boy.”
So Ol’ Bill pushed on, quickly to the house,
And softly knocked on the door.
Harriet gave the password; they passed,
Where there weren’t no fear of the war!
Bill had made his way to freedom, freedom
Had made his way to joy!
To a life of peace, and happiness,
With his only little child, a boy.
Ol’ Bill Waters was goin’ to freedom
He’d asked Miss Tubman, “Anything I can do?”
He was ready, he’d been waitin’ for a long, long while-
Oh, what was Bill Waters wantin’ to do?
He was on his way to freedom, freedom
Was on his way to joy!
To a life of peace, and happiness,
With his only little child, a boy.
Miss Tubman arrived just a few moments later,
With a pack on her back, and shoe’ in her hand,
She looked at Bill Waters, and she looked at the child,
And said, “Let’s get goin’ to freedom land!”
He was on his way to freedom, freedom
Was on his way to joy!
To a life of peace, and happiness,
With his only little child, a boy.
Old Bill Waters was crossin’ the river,
But the bay of hounds he did hear.
He cried, and he saw his son’s eye fill with fear,
But, “Come on, Ol’ Bill! We’ll play it by ear!”
He was on his way to freedom, freedom
Was on his way to joy!
To a life of peace, and happiness,
With his only little child, a boy.
Into a stack of some sweet-smelling hay
Plunged Ol’ Bill, and his boy.
He was nervous, and afeard;
Miss Tubman saw his tears, and sang him an old slave joy:
“You are on your way to freedom, freedom
You’re on your way to joy!
To a life of peace and happiness,
Along with your own little boy.”
“You’re givin’ him a life of freedom, freedom
Without no killin’ work.
To have a life of peace and happiness,
What a thing for your little Burk.”
Well, the dogs went past that stack of hay,
Much to the excitement of Bill.
Harriet smiled, made a grab
Of Ol’ Bill’s right hand, and off went they, not to stray.
He was on his way to freedom, freedom
Was on his way to joy!
To a life of peace, and happiness,
With his only little child, a boy.
Early that morning, before the dawn was grey,
A white house did they spot.
“A freedom house,” as Miss Tubman said to Bill,
“Where you surely won’t be caught!”
“Only one more day to freedom, freedom,
One more day till joy!
With a life of peace and happiness,
What a thing for your boy.”
So Ol’ Bill pushed on, quickly to the house,
And softly knocked on the door.
Harriet gave the password; they passed,
Where there weren’t no fear of the war!
Bill had made his way to freedom, freedom
Had made his way to joy!
To a life of peace, and happiness,
With his only little child, a boy.
Welcome to The Composition Blog!
Welcome to the Composition Blog! This is a blog that I will post my poems, compositions, short stories, etc. Enjoy!
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