Snow, snow
Soft and white
Snow comes down
Morning bright.

Snow, snow
Soft and white
Snow comes down
Morning bright.
  
as dictated to my mother in the car
 

Rose is the brightest flower in a large boquet. 
Rose is a  velvet  skirt or a rosy  day in  May. 
Your  cheeks are rosy  when you play outside 
on a  winter's day.   Rose  tastes  like  a  pie, 
freshly baked.   Rose is never the same; it's a 
surprise.   Rose  smells like  a clean  bath.   It 
feels like the softest velvet.  It's the feel of a 
lazy sunset.
 

(first published in The Goshen News along with other classmates' work in their weekly K.I.D.S.  feature corner)
 

Running around loop de loop,
To try throwing the ball through the hoop.
You've got the ball now and you're running down the court.
(How do you like that for some kind of sport.)
We've won the game. I feel so proud.
I guess I'm not the only one, listen to that croud!
 

IT'S NO USE 

It's no use crying over spilled milk;
But why are we trying so hard to keep from crying?
It's no use crying over spilled milk.
So let's just face it, 
There's no way to replace it.

The wind doth blow
And I do row
Across the stream
Where waters flow

Over the edge
I see myself
And smile upon my golden wealth
But as the water changes & ripples
I see my faults & my cripples

I ponder upon those things that which
Make my reflection twitch
And I try to make them straight
But see that it will be my fate.

The wind doth blow
And I do run
In the meadow beneath the sun
Where every thing
Is like spring
And Joy & Peace like bells do ring.
 

(Punctuation and line breaks not edited – however, the spelling was so embarrassingly terrible, I had to fix it.)
 

SCHOOL 

Hustling, bustling,
Going back and forth,
Turning around,
"Which way is north?"
"Hi."  "Bye."
"Where's my next class?"
Ding ding ding
"Oh, I need a pass."

"Number your paper one to ten."
"I think I'll use pencil.  No, maybe pen."
"Open your book to page 25."
Then you suddenly realize...
"Um, I forgot my book."
And everyone gives you this funny look.
Please get me out of this mess.
They don't even give you a recess!

Then there's that wonderful thing, the bus.
Where if you sit in the back you can learn to cuss.
And when you get home, you're just about dead.
You feel like going straight to bed.
And every once in a while they give you a break,
But when they don't your life's at stake.
 

(First published by Expressions - a photocopied, folded, legal-size piece of paper full of poems put out by Fairfield Jr. High's English classes.  Author's note:  The transition from homeschooling to jr. high was a big one.)