New kid on the block,
my English comprehension
at most seventy-percent,
new eyes on me--I felt the tension.
The librarian smiled at us,
a Shel Silverstein in her hand,
what was her name? I don't remember,
but her voice rasped like sand.
When she read though,
I heard not a coarse voice,
she went high and low,
smooth and soft with poise.
My English was terrible,
so I closed my eyes to feel,
the beauty, the melody,
the words that made everything surreal.
I not only heard but saw
the poems that were being told.
I could see the cat's paw
and smell the roses being sold.
I write because hearing poems out loud
is more than beautiful.
It's outside reality--up in the cloud,
nothing can be more wonderful.
I want to hear my own work
being spread by children everywhere,
maybe those joyous hearts will spring
when it's music, not words they hear.