Children's Poem

My Horsey
By Ari Zeiger

I'm riding on a horsey.
It has handles by the ears.
This horsey's made by Grandpa
and passed down through the years.

My horsey's two-feet tall,
which might seem sort of low.
But I'm also small, so I give my all
when I'm rocking to and fro.

Oh, my horsey's made of wood
so sometimes I believe
that I'm riding on a horsey
and we're swinging through the trees.

You too should ride a horsey.
There's nothing more you'll love.
Just wrap your arms around like this
and hold on with a hug.

Children's Poem

Bliss

By Ari Zeiger

Who am I?
What makes me me?

It all seems such a mystery.

Usually I just let this go.
I laugh out loud and say: I don't know.
But then sometimes, well, here's the thing.
I have this heart. And it likes to sing.
Yet once or twice the song gets lost.
And in its place, a million thoughts.
That's when I feel incomplete.
Like I'm no one you'd want to meet.

But soon enough, I'll feel OK.
Little by little, throughout the day.
And though my heart might still despair,
something trusts the music's there.
And then I'm free to dance again.
To follow bliss, to be my friend.

Children's Poem

Supermarket

We'd just strolled in the market
when something caught my eye.
Look, the cereal Grandpa eats!
Don't just pass it by.

I screamed.
I laughed.
I pointed.
But Daddy only smiled.
He wouldn't stop.
I cried, why not?
It was a long trip down the aisle.

So then I just went crazy.
It's one way to get heard.
I want that box,
and I want it a lot.
OK, I'll use my words.

Oh, look there's a banana.
Daddy, can I please?
I'm gonna scream.
Then you'll get mean
and say I made a scene.

Thank you so much, Daddy,
for peeling this for me.
Now pass me that tomato,
and I'll finally let you be.

Children's Poem

Kittens Need Space

Kittens need space,
but I wish it weren't true.
We just brought you home,
and now all I want to do. . .

But, Kitten, is that right,
can't I carry you around?
Mom says listen when
you struggle to get down.

I want you to love me.
And don't know what to do.
Kittens need space,
but I wish it weren't true.

The Show

The Show

I missed the show.
I couldn't go.
Whose fault it is,
I do not know.

I was on my bike,
but got a flat.
I began to run—
imagine that!

I was almost there
when I lost my shoe.
Now what's left for me to do?

A truck sped by.
I leapt in back.
It began to rain—
so much for that!

Now it's time for the show to start.
I tried to make it with all my heart.

But you were there,
so take it slow:
Tell me all,
go blow-by-blow.

Poem

The Bird

The bird that tried to race the rain
is back in flight to try again.

They say she's slow and far too old.
They say she's bound to catch a cold.

But there she goes—she's in the sky.
Her wings spread out and yet she's dry.

This drizzle yet may turn to storm.
These clouds keep coming—so dark and torn.

She zooms ahead, now left and right.
She swerves around a lightening strike.

Her feathers still have not got wet.
And if they do, she'll lose the bet.

So much depends upon this claim:
to be the bird that races rain.

"On Moving"

sometimes poetry seems the only way to find the words
the emotion
the insight
the observation
the thing that will make a difference

and so i come to the poem
not to make a splash or find an audience
but to live and look around
to cry
to laugh
to feel

to truly feel this life
and let go.

Poem

"Two Sitting Figures - New Orleans, LA"

This sculpture before me.
This thing I can name.
This black copper
—industrial, geometrical, anonymous.

Two bodies, I think.
A woman and man, I think.
A couple, I think.

The woman in peace.
Something about her legs, hushed before her.
Something about the way this face tilts away.

The man leans near.
Wants to hear.
Wants to say.

I want to ask if she is young or old.
(I can't tell.)
I want to ask if she's with child.
(I can't tell.)

Sculpture, your heads are those windows
built above doors.

Sculpture, your robes are stiff and stark.

Sculpture, does it really matter what you mean?

The pine needles gather at your toes.

This lizard takes to a shoulder,
soaking the heat.

And I take to this poem because
how else would I do it?