February 28, 1996

February must have been poetry month in sixth grade, or something like that. This one isn't the complete poem- I only wrote down what I thought was the funniest, most overly dramatic stanza from a much longer poem about our first cat. His name was Kitya, and what you have to know is that a: he was black, and b: he left us for a family across the alleyway. I wasn't really that bothered, but you might not be able to tell that from this poem...

Kitya
His eyes were the mists as sea,
rolling, rolling waves of amber, blue, and green.
His fur was soft, silken cloth in mourning.
His paws walked silently by, that's why no one awoke when
he purred his last purr and went out the door.

February 26, 1996

I found this poem that I wrote in 6th grade while I was in Seattle this Christmas. I've added one line at the end of the second stanza in order to keep the rhythm the same throughout, but other than that this is what I wrote when I was 12.

Rose is Going Romping
Rose is going romping
through the thorough field of daisies.
Her feet are a flight with feathers just right,
and the daisies are as yellow as the sun.

Rose is going romping
to the West end of the field.
The town lays there, with two small shops,
and her feet are a flight with feathers just right
(and the daisies are as yellow as the sun.)

Rose was going romping, and reaching the small town:
she bought two eggs and an elephant ear,
but her feet were a flight with feathers just right
and so she went home with a tear.