Room 105 — MISS STRETCHBERRY

SEPTEMBER 13

I don’t want to
because boys
don’t write poetry.

Girls do.

SEPTEMBER 21

I tried.
Can’t do it.
Brain’s empty.

SEPTEMBER 27

I don’t understand
the poem about
the red wheelbarrow
and the white chickens
and why so much
depends upon
them.

If that is a poem
about the red wheelbarrow
and the white chickens
then any words
can be a poem
You’ve just got to
make
short
lines.

OCTOBER 4

Do you promise
not to read it
out loud?
Do you promise
not to put it
on the board?

Okay, here it is,
but I don’t like it.

So much depends
upon
a blue car
splattered with mud
speeding down the road.

OCTOBER 10

What do you mean —
Why does so much depend
upon
a blue car?

You didn’t say before
that I had to tell why.

The wheelbarrow guy
didn’t tell why.

OCTOBER 17

What was up with
the snowy woods poem
you read today?

Why doesn’t the person just
keep going if he’s got
so many miles to go
before he sleeps?

And why do I have to tell more
about the blue car
splattered with mud
speeding down the road?

I don’t want to
write about that blue car
that had miles to go
before it slept,
so many miles to go in such a hurry.

OCTOBER 24

I am sorry to say
I did not really understand
the tiger tiger burning bright poem
but at least it sounded good
in my ears

Here is the blue car
with tiger sounds:

Blue car, blue car, shining bright
in the darkness of the night
who could see you speeding by
like a comet in the sky?

I could see you speeding by
blue car, blue car, shining bright.
I could see you speeding by
like a comet in the sky.

Some of the tiger sounds
are still in my ears
like drums beat-beat-beating

© Sharon Creech