"silverstein" poems
Magic
Read this to yourself.
Read it silently.
Don’t move your lips.
Don’t make a sound?
Listen to yourself.
Listen without hearing anything.
What a wonderfully weird thing, huh?
NOW MAKE THIS PART LOUD!
SCREAM IT IN YOUR MIND!
DROWN EVERYTHING OUT.
Now, hear a whisper.
A tiny whisper.
Now, read this next line in your best crotchety old man voice:
“Hello there sonny, does this town have a post office?”
Awesome! Who was that?
Whose voice was that?
Certainly not yours.
How do you do that?
How!?
Must be magic!!
Jan 4, 2016
Jan 4, 2016 at 5:47 PM UTC
Shel Silverstein and Roald Dahl
Live just down the hall
From each other
Somewhere in my mind
'Cause these ***** old men
Are known to have penned
Many favorite kid books of mine
But they also worked blue
And wrote more than a few
Naughty songs, novels and rhymes
They stayed true to their style
They'd go the extra mile
Their smut's guaranteed to blow minds!
May 18, 2021
May 18, 2021 at 8:38 PM UTC
I asked my inner writer,
Is your prose poetic?
Or your poetry prosaic?
And my inner writer asked me,
Are you traditional with modern values?
Or are you modern with traditional values?
Are you an introvert who loves to express?
Or an extravert who loves silences?
Are you an optimist who sees the clouds?
Or a pessimist who sees rainbows?
Are you thoughtful with some light-hearted ways?
Or humourous with some sober ways?
And on and on and on and on
And on and on it went.
I'll never ask my inner writer
About writing
Again.
-Vijayalakshmi Harish
24.09.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Sep 24, 2012
Sep 24, 2012 at 2:40 AM UTC
I find myself sidewalking everything
So Silverstein was lucky to know where it ends
Will I ever be privileged to discover such a thing?
Too many trivial needs distract from its pursuit
But how am I to know?
When it's time, I only cared for my toys
The way the sheeple only care for their handouts
Do tell; if the Pentagon lays off 800,000 people
Will we know they're telling the truth about unemployment
When their words flow between mouthfuls
Of stolen fruit and gold
At the table of the elite
So tell me, who is John Galt?
I sit at a table with a mind that knows how to think for himself
And can't help but think this is the purest form of elitism:
Until at last the time has come
For the imminent end of all serfdom
Brought by the brawn of the brainy
How are we to keep our heads when the others ***** us over
Take our heads clean off to see the contents
Only the strongest can withstand the attempts to skew ideas
Upon who's minds the lying flies
Forced off by intellect
The simple last defender of God and liberty
Big Brother would have us not discuss such things
At times, I feel that we are the last in the world
So, tell me- if this paper is the last in the world, have we written something significant?
I've no doubt the world will see
The mistakes of society
Time then, will bring forth a new renaissance, with us as creators
And they, as the readers of some disconnected thoughts
Written at a time when the end of a page was a good stopping point for poetry, but not for the limit of government infringement on personal freedom.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:38 AM UTC
I will not play at tug o' war .
I'd rather play at hug o' war,
Where everyone huhs
Instead of tugs,
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
And everyone cuddles,
And everyone wins.
By Shel Silverstein.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
Yes I jumped in those leaves
crunchy, fluffy, autumn leaves
Waded in the decorative fountain
Climbed on the public art
Yes I danced swing in the BART station
Hid in the grocery store among rolls of
toilet paper
Had to *** a ride after the Dicken's faire
Played in the rain
Hugged my mother
Made my dad take me to see Tangled in 3D
Yes I measured the baking soda for those
dinosaur chocolate chip cookies
Loved Steve Irwin will all my childhood admiration
Was afraid of the Deep End
Memorized Shel Silverstein
Remember my sister reading me Harry Potter
Gripping my best friend on Tower of Terror, Indiana Jones, Space Mountain
Sang Christmas Carols in October
And I'm not even sorry
I was a pirate paleontologist pop-star
pokemon master steampunk rocker renaissance girl who
time-traveled, hunting T-rex
adventuring with Christopher Robin, Calvin and Hobbes
Made two corsages for my junior prom, fed ducks,
ate at Mels, posed in the dollar store, watched
the Avengers in our glittering dresses for the second
Laughed so hard I cried about the stupidest things
I doubted, got lost in Costco, found my faith
Had my prayers answered
For the bestest, most faithful friends
I have the "simple human relief of knowing you’ve done wrong, and living through it"
And don't take this the wrong way
It's not like I'm going to jump off a bridge
Well, maybe with a bungee cord?
But if I died right now
**** Gone.
I wouldn't say I envied anybody
Not really
We've had a pretty **** great time
haven't we?
Oh sure I'd protest
Places to go, people to see, things to eat, but...
As long as You forgive me
my faults
Whose to say,
There is anything else I HAVE to do
Before I have lived a GREAT life
I have nothing to prove
besides that I am grateful
for this breath of life
which may pass at any moment
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 2:49 PM UTC
when i was little,
i used to read those books,
you know,
by shel silverstein?
where the sidewalk ends,
and
a light in the attic?
there was a poem in one,
and it went like this:
"Last night, while I lay thinking here,
some Whatifs crawled inside my ear
and pranced and partied all night long
and sang their same old Whatif song:
Whatif I'm dumb in school?
Whatif they've closed the swimming pool?
Whatif I get beat up?
Whatif there's poison in my cup?
Whatif I start to cry?
Whatif I get sick and die?
Whatif I flunk that test?
Whatif green hair grows on my chest?
Whatif nobody likes me?
Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me?
Whatif I don't grow taller?
Whatif my head starts getting smaller?
Whatif the fish won't bite?
Whatif the wind tears up my kite?
Whatif they start a war?
Whatif my parents get divorced?
Whatif the bus is late?
Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight?
Whatif I tear my pants?
Whatif I never learn to dance?
Everything seems well, and then
the nighttime Whatifs strike again!"
and that poem sticks in my head,
a lot.
because,
really,
"whatif's" control my every thought.
my "whatif's" keep me,
all in check,
when they breathe their "whatif's",
on my neck.
they keep me waiting,
watching,
and wary,
"whatif" life, wasn't so scary?
"whatif" i could live,
and not be so afraid,
"whatif" i was sure,
of the choices i've made?
i guess i'll find out soon,
but "whatif" i don't.
to be honest i'm scared,
that maybe i won't.
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 10:06 PM UTC
Underneath the Poet Tree
Come and rest awhile with me,
And watch the way the word-web weaves
Between the shady story leaves.
The branches of the Poet Tree
Reach from the mountains to the sea.
So come and dream, or come and climb--
Just don't get hit by falling rhymes.
Sep 10, 2013
Sep 10, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
*Find me a place where the city ends
In a line where the meadow begins
And the flowers grow sweet and wild
And the sunlight falls on every child
And all night the songbirds sing.
To soften the moons bloom on the wind
Cross from the city with ***** smoke stacks
and the pavement wind’s without end.
Past all the cracks where dandelions grow.
To the place where the pace of all is slow.
We shall walk where the wildflower and wildlife go.
In the place where the city ends
Yes we shall walk where the pace of all is slow
To where the sounds of children’s laughter goes
For in their innocence they surely know.
The place where the city ends.*
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 5:15 PM UTC
Trying to write poetry again after months and months
is
like
rereading all my Shel Silverstein poem books
&
attempting to create a time machine to go back
to
my
good old days
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 4:17 PM UTC
She had blue skin,
And so did he.
He kept it hid
And so did she.
They searched for blue
Their whole life through,
Then passed right by
And never knew.
-Shel Silverstein.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 6:36 AM UTC
When I was nine-ish I planned to give my mother a book of poems for her birthday.
Mother's Day?
Christmas?
Something.
I would write fifty-three poems for her
I was in a Jack Prelutsky phase.
My sister preferred Shel Silverstein.
I don't remember any of them
Or even if I made it
But I remember planning.
At night I wrote on the slats of my sister's bunk bed
She always got top bunk.
I wrote my plan
And ideas for these poems
And styles and layouts and covers.
I don't know if I went through with it
But if I did
I hope that she kept it
So I can remember who I was.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 7:16 PM UTC
Humans like to think
Other humans are
Replaceable.
Humans like to think
That they themselves
Are not.
But let me let you in on a secret:
Everyone is either a lesson
Or a blessing.
No lesson can be replaced,
And neither can any blessing.
Because in some way,
They were necessary to make you who you are.
I was told recently
About a book.
"The Missing Piece" by Shel Silverstein.
The lesson I was given from this book,
Is that you can have all kinds of pieces!
Pieces that don't fit, pieces that would never fit,
And pieces that look like they should fit but don't at all.
So if you ever feel replaceable,
Remember you are someone's perfect missing piece.
You just have to sort out through all the not-so perfect pieces first.
And before I cut this off,
I should explain,
Your perfect piece is not perfect because it is perfect in the textbook definition of the word.
Your piece is perfect
Because you will be so completely perfect to someone (All your damage, broken parts, and scars too) that you will not need to be perfect, no.
You will just have to be you,
And that in itself
Is irreplaceable.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
9.Show It At The Beach
Oh they won't let us show it at the beach no they won't let us show it at the beach
They think we're gonna grab it if it gets within our reach read more »
Sheldon Allan Silverstein
10.the sea
when you're at the beach you might see
surfers riding out to sea
when you're at the beach you might see read more »
Matthew Smi
11.Santa Monica Mountains..Kanan Dume
Santa Monica Mountains....Kanan Dume
There...in the distance...and one day soon
.......I'll be on the beach....at Malibu read more »
James B. Earley
12.At the Beach
At The Beach
You roll down the window
And even before you see it read more »
Khalid Icanttellyou
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 9:10 PM UTC
Ticonderoga, bite-marks to the lead
Bare-bone, grammar school and phonics
Sentence structures, finger paint
Yarn through cardboard looms
Shel Silverstein and crab-apples
One day I will change the world.
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
Why wear a crown and be asked
If you are a king or queen?
You can just be royal
Any place can be called home
It doesn’t have to be a house
It can be a person
A flower
Your school
A song
A poem
Or anything else
It doesn’t have to be a set in stone house
Or building
So,
For that,
I Am A Wooden Chair
I can be carried anywhere and still feel
As though I am at home
Why do people have to be judged by how they look?
It doesn’t matter if I have acne
If I have tattooed freckles
Or crooked teeth
It’s funny that the things that people call flaws,
I think are cute
Everything that is happening right now,
Doesn’t matter
In a hundred years,
Acne,
Tattooed freckles,
Or crooked teeth
Could be considered
Cute
So,
For that,
I Am A Lover Boy Mouth
I can look like anything I want
And still be cute
Find the David in the marble
Back when Michelangelo
Was carving David,
(WARNING! THIS IS ALL
FAKE, AND JUST A FIGMENT OF MY
IMAGINATION ACTING UP
AGAIN)
He sat at his little stool staring at marble
He said,
“My boi!!!
Yessssssss!”
And that’s how David was made…
Okay,
Okay,
I’m kidding,
But there’s one thing that I do know
When Michelangelo was creating David,
He actually had a block of marble
And saw the David in the marble
Before he even started carving
You can take that many different ways
With your life
With school
You can take that with whatever you want
So,
For that,
I Am A David In A Mask
The reason that there is a mask on David
Is because,
There is a poem by
Shel Silverstein
Called
“Masks”
It’s about two people who are blue
And
Are trying to find people like themselves
They pass right by each other and don’t even know
That they were both blue
Because they didn’t pay attention
And didn’t show who they were to the world
So
For that,
I Am A David Wearing A Mask
It’s crazy how life can be thrown at you
And
You get the wind knocked out of you
But your lungs burst for the taste of air
So you get up and keep walking like nothing ever happened
So,
For that,
I Am A Wrestling Mask
You look at someone with a crown on their head
And ask
“Are you a king or queen?”
But why can’t we just be?
Why can’t we just be ourselves?
Why can’t we just be royal?
Why does there have to be a gender involved?
So,
For reasons that I do not want to explain
For reasons that I do not want to get scolded for
I Am A Cactus
Wearing A Crown
There is no way to say that anything is perfect
There is no way to say that anything is not perfect
There is no way to say that you can’t be a Wooden Chair
A Lover Boy Mouth
A David In A Mask
A Wrestling Mask
Or even A Cactus Wearing A Crown
Just be yourself and you can always be any of these things…..
So,
With that saying…
I Am A Cactus
Dec 10, 2017
Dec 10, 2017 at 8:20 PM UTC
If I was a work of art I'd be a poem
but just a blank white sheet of generic notebook paper
and you would be a symphony
which sounds pretty beautiful
but I never really liked Bach and
I never really liked Beethoven and
I never really liked Mozart and
I never really liked
myself
but
ohmygoddidIlikeyou
like Da Vinci liked Mona and
Dali liked
l
o
n
g
d r i p i n g
p
brush strokes depicting surrealist scenes and
Picasso liked Cubism and
Van Gogh liked his own ******* sadness and a tub of sunflower-yellow paint and that girl
he sent his neatly packaged and not-so-neatly severed off ear to
though
I suppose
artists are supposed to hate their art
with a burning self-depreciation sort of self-determination or
at least that's what I got from
Plant and Lydon and Cobain and
every other shooting star rock-and-roll phenomenon with their name engraved on a plaque somewhere
and a drug problem that procured a thousand cigarettes now just as burnt out as they are
but here's the thing
you aren't my art
you
are a breathing
walking
talking
self-portrait that sputters to life every morning
with an accent on each note
like I said
if we were art
you would be a symphony
but the orchestra
is crescondo-ing to no end now and
quite frankly I am tired of all these high-pitched violin marcatos and
I am losing myself in the repeats and
I am just wondering when the fine will come
like I said
if we were art
I would be a poem
that was just an empty piece of drab old paper
much too conventional and clean and
empty
to be appreciated
but
I guess a beginning in the form of an empty sheet of paper is all
Poe and Frost and Plath and
Auden and Silverstein and Dickinson and
Shakespeare and Bukowski and Cummings
had in common
anyway.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
I love too deeply,
And I never learn my lesson.
Nov 24, 2017
Nov 24, 2017 at 3:54 AM UTC
Silverstein, Linkin Park, and Drop Dead Gorgeous
Bands that turn my blood to sludge
It moves like molasses through my veins
Slow and painful
My heart bursts from the build up
Lyrics that speak in a spell
Curse my soul and pierce my eyes with tears
Sickening my rotting guts
Clever perfect words
I wish I could say these words
When I'm stuck in situations similar
These songs tell the story of my life so clearly
Explanations from random places
To tell the world I must
But I remain expressionless
No need to cause unwanted attraction
Wishes of disappearing over take my dreams
Little specs of repair filter through my thoughts
And yet I still have no proper plans
I get crazy ideas and pray that they work in my favor
Hope to God that something comes of it
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 7:40 PM UTC
I won’t sink anymore
She was breathing in the drastic darkness
as it gulped us down.
I’m in a good place
Wandering the passenger seat for someone’s noisy sobs
before finding them in her own throat.
I’m so tired
So she flicked on the lighter
No, happy
and drew it toward her eyes
until her face began to melt behind the flame’s watery haze.
Pretty tired
I turned my head and
the cigarette I had seen tottering
between her teeth had become a rolled up
page of Silverstein with Where the Sidewalk Ends
curling slowly toward her lips.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 12:14 PM UTC
If you decide to buy me flowers
I may press them in my hardcover copy of Shel Silverstein
Because I know that it's your favorite book of poems to read
If you decide to kiss me goodnight
I may kiss you back
Because self-control among other things is what I lack
If you decide to hold the door open for me
I may walk through
Because that's the polite thing to do
If you decide to hold my hand
I may grab yours and hold it close
Because we fit so perfectly and it would be hard for me to let go
If you decide to tell me you love my curly hair
I may wear it that way
Because I don't get complimented on it everyday
If you decide you want to pay for the date
I will not touch the check
Because it's not classy and I'm classy as heck
But if you decide to say that you love me
I may not return the statement
Because you might not feel that way,
Once you see the demons I keep in my basement.
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:20 PM UTC
Once you’ve been in the ocean
A lake is far too small
If a lake ever had ledges
Off them you would surely fall
You’ve swam in much too big of a place
To move to another without so much space
A pond will never be your true home
Not for you not once you’re full grown
Your arms will be too big your legs too giant
Your body in a puddle will never be complaint
So as you develop from a child to something bigger
Remember that you’re an ocean not a river
Your brain is too big so your body had to fit it
And living in a river would would surely **** your big sprit
Stay in the place that fits like a size too big shoe
Where there’s plenty of space for you to grow up to be you
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
This was the last song I listened to with you and we were driving in my car with the top down, watching the leaves fly up behind us on 32. I sang at the top of my lungs and you started to cry because the wounds of losing Dylan were so fresh and I cried too. You grabbed my hand I told you never to let go. And god the world keeps spinning, everyone keeps going on and I just want to scream that I'm not sure i'll ever be ready, can we just take a minute? Because if I move too fast I'm afraid i'll forget what you smell like, or your beautiful voice, or the way you help me so close. Now I'm standing here with a hand that doesn't know if it's holding only air and a heart that's waiting to skip a beat that matches yours perfectly. Crashing, falling down, I'm broken so just let me be.
"Call It Karma-Silverstein"
Call it karma because I was supposed to save you. I was supposed to be your angel that saved you from all of this. And I blame myself because you died in my arms that morning and it was all my fault.
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
Shel Silverstein
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC