Increased postings

Rosa informed me yesterday that she is going to post every day.  Every day!  I should maybe try that too, but I know I won't have something to post every day.  Does that mean I have nothing on my mind worth sharing?  Maybe it's a blank hole in there sometimes. 

So here's what I'm thinking this morning. 

If kids want their stuff to be private, they shouldn't leave it on the kitchen table. 

And if they don't want me to read their books, they shouldn't leave them lying on the couch, open.  I may just lose their page. 

That ties in nicely, actually to what Beth wrote in her notebook on the table.  (They aren't very private thoughts, so I'm sharing them today without permission.  I'll ask later and apologize if I must)

The book lying open was Alice's, called "Love That Dog" by Sharon Creech.  It's written in poetry (or short lines) in the words of an elementary school boy.  The boy doesn't like poetry at the beginning of the book and struggles to understand it.  Here's an example of his writing:

     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 go to
     make
     short
     lines.

That's generally how I feel about poetry too.  Usually the lines and the thoughts behind them are so compressed into a few words that I just don't get them.  And is everything in short lines considered a poem?  Are there no rules?

     Is
     this a poem?
     A short
     meaningless
     top-of-mind
     poem?

Beth writes similar poems, but I do actually like them and maybe because I know her well, I understand the thoughts behind them without much explanation required.  Or maybe she expresses herself well.  This is from her notebook:

         The Bookmark
         The golden stick
         That puts off thoughts of fantasy,
         mystery.

         The Bookmark
         The marker
         That holds together the flow of thoughts
         and dreams
        
         The Bookmark
         The remote
         That presses the pause button for the movie
         in your head.

         "I'm sorry.  I accidently lost your place."

         Flipping pages
         Searching for landmarks
         Finding checkpoints
         Retracing steps

         Found it.

         Sigh.
         Breathe.
         Read on.

I hope she continues writing as she grows up, and I hope the topics don't get so private that she stops reading them to me and sharing.

And Alice, I hope I haven't lost your place in your book.  Use a bookmark next time! :-)