Portrait Poem



Portrait Poem

In this type of poem, the poet uses words to create vivid pictures for the reader about themselves or another person. This poem may or may not rhyme, and it does not have a specific structure. It is similar to free verse, except the words are more powerful AND they describe someone. **Minimum FIVE words per line, and TEN lines per poem

Carol.

Busy, tired, mother and teacher,

Sister of Bill,

Lover of children, animals, and a happy classroom,

Who feels joy when reading, power when riding, and sore

muscles at day's end,

Who needs laughter, pets, and flowers,

Who gives help, love, and praise,

Who fears dragons, big bugs, and gaining weight,

Who would like to see everyone succeed, wars end forever, and a cure for A.I.D.'s,

Resident of Deerfield, Aspen,

Krimm.

Just because I'm half Japanese

I'm not a California roll

I'm not a Sony TV or radio

I'm not a Toyota or a Nissan

Just because I'm half Japanese

I don't like being considered one race

I do like being considered a Jew

I'm not a "mixed up person"

Just because I'm half Japanese

I do like things that you do like to do

I do like and play basketball

Just because I'm half Japanese

What is race?

Is there a thing called race?

Can't you just like me because I'm me?

I think so.

intelligent, curious, witty, poetic,

firstborn son of Richard Sr. and Dixie,

likes comic books, green Kool-Aid, and The Monkees,

feels happy almost all of the time,

afraid of growing old and dying alone in the dark,

would like to see daybreak from Saturn

rushed, fun-loving, laid back, intelligent,

likes reading, surfing the net, and old movies,

feels under pressure right now,

afraid of not being a good enough teacher,

would like to see his book get published

I am sixteen years old.

I ride wild stallions.

I collect foreign coins.

My sister has six fingers on her left hand.

My mother and I always get along.

Time has stood still for me.

An arsonist destroyed my home.

My father is a mole in the CIA.

I collect refrigerator magnets.

I wrestled in high school.

I have had two poems published.

I have never seen the Northern Lights.

Summertime throws me completely off schedule.

I want to be a famous piano player.

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout

By Shel Silverstein

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout

Would not take the garbage out!

She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans,

Candy the yams and spice the hams,

And though her daddy would scream and shout,

She simply would not take the garbage out.

And so it piled up to the ceilings:

Coffee grounds, potato peelings,

Brown bananas, rotten peas,

Chunks of sour cottage cheese.

It filled the can, it covered the floor,

It cracked the window and blocked the door

With bacon rinds and chicken bones,

Drippy ends of ice cream cones,

Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel,

Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,

Pizza crusts and withered greens,

Soggy beans and tangerines,

Crusts of black burned buttered toast,

Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . .

The garbage rolled on down the hall,

It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . .

Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,

Globs of gooey bubble gum,

Cellophane from green baloney,

Rubbery blubbery macaroni,

Peanut butter, caked and dry,

Curdled milk and crusts of pie,

Moldy melons, dried-up mustard,

Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,

Cold french fried and rancid meat,

Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.

At last the garbage reached so high

That it finally touched the sky.

And all the neighbors moved away,

And none of her friends would come to play.

And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said,

"OK, I'll take the garbage out!"

But then, of course, it was too late. . .

The garbage reached across the state,

From New York to the Golden Gate.

And there, in the garbage she did hate,

Poor Sarah met an awful fate,

That I cannot now relate

Because the hour is much too late.

But children, remember Sarah Stout

And always take the garbage out!

excerpt from Against Cinderella

by Julia Alvarez

I can’t believe it.

Whoever made it up is pulling my foot

so it’ll fit that shoe.

I’ll go along with martyrdom:

she swept and wept; she mended, stoked the fire,

slaved while her three stepsisters,

who just happened to oblige their meanness

by being ugly, dressed themselves.

I’ll swallow that there was a Singer godmother,

who magically could sew a pattern up

and hem it in an hour,

that Cinderella got to be a debutante

and lost her head and later lost her shoe.

But there I stop.

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