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Sand Castle.

Today I built a sand castle.
My brother Danny said, “It will fall!”
He was right. The waves did sweep it up.
It had been low tide after all.

I built a second sand castle.
Danny said, “It has no chance!”
The tide crept up and took it again.
Danny did a victory dance.

I built a third, fourth, fifth, and sixth castle.
All of them, destroyed.
“It’ll never work,” he said. “Give up!”
He began to get annoyed.

Danny paced and fumed and kicked the sand,
As I finished castle number twenty-three.
I’ll admit, I was disappointed,
When it was washed into the sea.

And as I was finishing one more castle,
Danny screamed, “WHY!!!” in complete dismay.
“I’ve built twenty-four castles,” I said, adding my little flag made of twig.
“What have you done today?”

 

They.

They might call they a she,
But they is a they.
They might call they a he,
But they is a they.

And they will be singular,
Or plural, or both.
But their singular identity will not wait around,
For their intellectual growth.

So, they can be she,
Or he, or they.
But they will decide,
For themself. Okay?

 

My Bed Is Alive!

My bed is alive!
I know it must be.
When I tuck in the sheets,
They all come free!

The blankets are strewn,
Pillows on the floor.
Not enough proof?
Guess what? I have more!

Just last night,
I climbed into bed,
But laid OVER the covers,
To secure them instead.

And whilst I slept,
I had the wildest dream,
That a big water monster,
Rose out of a stream!

It tried to attack me!
I ran to hide,
But I tripped down a hill,
And began to slide.

All of a sudden,
I found a small tent.
I ripped it wide open,
And in I went.

It was filled with junk!
There was almost no room.
So, I threw out the bunk,
And the trunk and the broom!

The monster had left,
But a tornado came!
And it tossed the tent about,
Like it was playing a game.

Then all of a sudden,
I awoke with a start.
And all I could hear,
Was my own pounding heart.

I knew it. I knew it!
The bed was a mess!
It had sprung to life,
And got undressed!

I don’t know what to do,
Or how long I’ll survive.
But at least now I have proof,
That my bed is alive.

 

 

P.G. Poulin is a Chicago writer and performer. P.G. has lived in Chicago for almost six years, writing and performing in whatever he can get his hands on from musicals, comedy, and sketch, to teaching and performing with children. He loves anything that both children and adults can watch/read and enjoy together. He’s originally from Boston so he’s of the big city variety. 

Most of P.G.’s poetry is pretty light and silly. You can enjoy more of it here: https://www.instagram.com/pgpoulin/?hl=en. 

 

 

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