Tag Archives: poems

Odes: Poems of Praise & Celebration

Through our mentor texts were were able to learn about metaphor, simile, and personification. We also continued our exploration of imagery and line breaks. These poems went through two rounds of revision.

Ode to Portugal

I love when the trees sway

in the sweet air.

I love the old stone houses

with Victorian windows

and moss covered roofs.

I love my family

the twin cousins

and the sixteen aunts

that drive me to small lakes

and large beaches.

I love the old brick roads

that wrap themselves

around the edges of mountains

and sides of cliffs.

I love the tabby cats that

try to catch the

snow white butterflies

in the morning,

my personal circus act.

I love the clear chirps

of crickets that sing along

with the squeaking bats.

I love the silky field

against  the crimson

sky in the afternoon.

-Christy

Ode to My Hair

My hair is dark coffee with a splash,

of milk.

I sleep with a tight braid tucked

behind my ear.

The waves of my hair break

against the shore of my shoulders.

After school I throw

it up in a messy bun

like a ball of yarn.

Friends touch my hair,

because they think it’s shiny,

like the sun.

Sometimes I let my hair

loose on chilly days or

I twirl it around my fingers

when I’m not paying attention,

in math class.

-Angelina

Ode to My Mom’s Chocolate Cake

Silky smooth chocolate splashes

into a white round bowl.

Her black apron drips with chocolate

when she mixes the melted

chocolate in a heavy cream. Then

she layers the bitter dark chocolate,

and crunchy graham crackers

onto a rectangular pan.

My mother sets it in the fridge

for the whole night, until its ready

to be eaten. Then she tops

it off with coco powder to give

it a rich taste.

This homemade cake

is better than any other.

I take one small bite, and it feels

like heaven.

-Angelina

                                            An Ode to Baseball                     

The white ball, full of red

                                     seams to grip.

My brown glove, ready to catch every ball hit.

My black and gold bat wants to

rip the cover off the baseball

My team wants to win every tournament.

Green grass and brown dirt,

      want to get worn down and filled with greatness.

Umpires in gear, call

      balls,

                  strikes,

                      safe,

                             or out!

Coach writes down a game plan, on how to beat the other team.

Parents root for their kids and team

jumping up and down like bunny rabbits.

Kids rattle the fences, wanting to distract the pitcher.

This great game being around,

for so many years getting more and more competitive.

The sun beaming down on people wanting to experience great TALENT on the field.

                                                                                 By: Gustavo

An Ode to My Toilet  

I love my royal throne

with its pearly white

seat. Its coldness

gives me goose bumps.

It gives me joy when

I have to go relieve myself.

I sit on it when I brush

because I like to sit when I brush my teeth.

I also use it to flush my colorful dead fish.

I watch them sink down

into their own graveyard.

It’s like they’re being sucked in to a mini tornado.

This invention makes my world a whole lot less smelly.

 – Anthony

Ode to Snowball Fights

Snow falls lightly 

On the ground.    

The cloudy sky    

Hides the sun    

and protects    

the snow from

its heat.    

The tranquil silence  

is broken     

as my sister and I   

run out into the   

snowdrifts that cover

the already frosty ground.

We are splashes of color

against a blank, white canvas.

The walls are built up

to shield us from

the snow spheres

used as ammunition

against each other.

The snowballs are

lacking some accuracy

cut the targets

can still potentially be

found by the icy cannonballs.

Our battle lasts for hours

the sun continues its path

across the sky

behind the cloudy cover

as the snow flies.

 – Jonathan

Ode to Coffee

The scent of caramel

floods my kitchen

as water fills

my old rustic metal cup.

The light  pitter patter  

of popping bubbles

come from the small iron cup

on the oven.

The French Press

comes apart

letting me put ground coffee

into the glass cup.

I pour the water in to the glass cup

pressing the filter down.

I tillt the French press

into my clock tower mug

letting the dark liquid spill

like a waterfall into my cup.

 – Christy