The other day, Dianne Odegard, from Bat Conservation International, visited my Nature & the Quest for Meaning to discuss bats. After giving a PowerPoint presentation about the myths and misconceptions of bats, Dianne asked us to create poetry about the winged beasts. She challenged us to team up with the person next to us and create a haiku about the unusual mammals and submit them to the Bat Conservation website afterwards.
I can be green. I can be brown.
I can look colorful or dull.
Not only can I come in different colors, I can also come in different shapes.
In the water or on the land, I can live just about anywhere!
Though no matter where I live, I always have my home on my back,
Allowing me to take life slowly as I please.
What am I?
Highlight or double-click for the answer.
Answer: [ Turtle ]
<- What Am I? #5 |
I am always served at a table,
Usually of 2, but sometimes of 4.
I am always small.
What am I?
Highlight for the answer.
Answer: [ PingPong Ball ]
⥊ What Am I? #4 | What Am I? #6 ⥋
“Veiled in Secrets” by Noelle Brooks
Given the assignment in English 3 AP to write a poem giving ourselves a name that describes something about ourselves such as “Eats Too Much” or “Smiles When Sad,” I wrote this poem describing my hidden insecurities about life. We were told to decorate our assignment to be hung on the classroom wall, so I used my Photoshop abilities to make it all pretty. 😀 If you can’t see the image, the written poem follows.
This was the first assignment I was given in this little class I attended at the Public Library. Read a few paragraphs from the book, Cold Mountain, describing this goat woman, and rearranged the words to form a poem, throwing in a few of my own here and there.
Living so remote,
The woman observes the world with blue eyes, still bright.
The contentious world but a fading memory,
As is she.
Her mind still grasping a picture of herself some decades previous,
Only grooming her long, pale, cobweb hair by feel,
Never glancing at her reflection.
Only the sagging, puckering folds of hide about her eyes and jowls
Meet her fingertips and brindle across her brow.
With pink cheeks and a mind turned only toward God’s finer productions,
She lives, unaware of the relic she’s become.
Another poem…I know I am not the best poet, but this was an assignment, and I was just thinking…So, here you go. 🙂
There is a place that only he and I know of…
Our place and no one else’s.
It resides deep in the forest,
Waiting there, alone and hidden.
Birds sing sweetly around with chirps and tweets.
Squirrels explore, climbing about the many trees.
Insects live, constantly moving about.
In this place, there is a bench, aged and lonely.
It has heard many songs composed by the birds,
It has felt many fingers caress its wooden surface,
It has offered a place to rest to many explorers.
With a rough exterior, formed from experiences,
It finds comfort in the forest, hidden from the world.
In this place, many memories reside.
A few of our own have been added,
Unseen and unheard to all, but us.
Warm feelings of joy have been felt here.
Sweet fragrances of the crimson petals and ferns fill our souls and lighten our hearts.
A breeze sweeps through and whispers across my skin,
Tickling me with its cool, soft breath.
This wind, untamed and free to roam, gently persuades the trees from side to side,
Allowing them to sing out through creaks and moans.
This place is our place…
Shielding our memories and keeping them safe,
Until the next time we return with smiles upon our faces,
Remembering and reliving…
I found an online poetry contest thing and although I haven’t written poetry for years as I’m not very good in that area, I decided to give it a shot just because I don’t have much time for anything else right now. I recently found out that I am pretty good with iambic pantameter though… I managed to scribble this down while I was babysitting today just thinking over some things…Also, note that I have no idea how punctuation in poetry works.
I can appear to sweep and sway in a varied motion.
Mystery and wonder always seem to follow me.
I can appear gray to some and blue to others.
I can roll although I am not solid.
Only from a distance can I be viewed.
However you may chase me, I am always just a bit ahead.
Swamps and other humid places are what I normally call home.
What am I?
Highlight for the answer.
Answer: [ Fog/Mist ]
<- What Am I? #3 | What Am I? #5 ->
People like to take pictures of me for some reason.
Perhaps it’s because I lay so still and quiet.
I can look majestic in a way and some find me beautiful.
I lie everywhere, although I look different in each new place.
Although I am called the same everywhere, my title can change.
With varying heights and varying lengths, I can have a unique look everywhere.
With famous structures, I am easily recognized.
I am usually gazed upon from a distance.
What am I?
Highlight or double-click for the answer.
Answer: [ Cityscape ]
<- What Am I? #2 | What Am I? #4 ->
I swirl and I swirl, never seeming to stop.
Loops and loops on top of each other.
I can be large, but I can also be small.
I can vary in a few different ways.
Sometimes my loops are broken and do not connect.
Every preschool student should know what I am.
What am I?
Highlight for the answer.
Answer: [ Number 8 ]
<- What Am I? #1 | What Am I? #3 ->
With my shiny surface, I look almost brand new.
My coat matches that of rich blood.
You can follow my curves around and around.
There is but one interruption in my skin, dipping down.
I come from a larger object and can create even more.
My insides are lush, yet very vulnerable.
I bruise easily so watch where you put me.
What am I?
Highlight or double-click for the answer.
Answer: [ Apple ]
| What Am I? #2 ->
I wrote these poems back in 2003 when I was in the 6th grade.
Winter is cold, alone and dark.
All animals hidden away, some flown south in search of warmth.
Nothing around, nothing to see,
But the black of the sky and the white of the land.
Winter is sad, brisk and quiet.
Everything around is cold and dying.
The air around is thin and harsh,
The moon, bright and full.
Winter is bleak, windy, and frozen.
A mere doe searching for food,
Lying down in Death itself,
Waiting, waiting, waiting for something.
Winter is Death, freezing, and mysterious.
The night casting shadows on the snow.
The moon summoning bright light overhead,
The only hope in this brisk, cold night.
Winter is queer, strange, and odd.
The morning sun slowly rising from slumber,
Painting the land with pink and orange,
The sky violet with little hope of morning.
Winter is bright, blinding, and white.
With morning, little hope is arisen.
The long night is over, the doe is forgotten.
Another day is born, with new night to come.
Winter is hopeless, dreadful, and frightening.
Days and nights passing by in a never-ending circle,
Waiting for the miracle of spring to come.
But until, winter stays, killing and depressing.