Copyright © 2001 by Marisa Montes. All rights reserved.

What's It Like To Be a Cat?

What's it like to be a cat?
To lick my fur and stretch like that?
To roll up tight into a ball,
to wake and tumble down the hall,
to rub my whiskers on a chair,
to flick my tail into the air,
to spread my nails and sharpen them,
to pounce upon the curtain's hem?
What's it like to be a cat?
I think I'd like to be like that.

Individuality

I dot my "i's" with stars;
I cross my "t's" with squiggles;
I write my "e's;"
like backward "3's;"
and fill my page with giggles.

Today, I Think, I'll Be Snail

Today, I think, I'll be snail.
    I'll creep real slow and leave a trail—
    a sleek and shiny, slimy trail—
    so when you pass, you'll see the tale
of when I tried to be a snail.

Perhaps instead, I'll be a frog.
    I'll swallow flies and leap a log.
    I'll sneak up on that big bulldog
    and scare him deep into the bog—
that's what I'll do when I'm a frog.

But, no—I think I'll be a kid.
    I'll climb tall rocks, and I won't skid.
    I'll eat all things without a lid,
    and butt my head against a grid:
'cause it's a blast to be a kid!

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 Where Would I Hide an Elephant?

 Where would I hide an elephant,
    if one should come my way?
Where would I hide an elephant,
    in the bright, clear light of day?

I could hide him in the bath tub,
    and close the shower door.
But I'd warn him not to take a bath
    and flood the bathroom floor.

 I could hide him in the bedroom,
    beneath my brother's bed.
But I'd warn him not to trump his trunk
    and not to lift his head.

I could hide him in the kitchen,
    behind the kitchen sink.
But I'd warn him not to use his trunk
    to try to sneak a drink.

I could hide him in the garden,
    and warn him not to shout
when he climbed up to the fountain top
    to be its water spout.

That's where I'd hide an elephant,
    if one should come my way.
That's where I'd hide an elephant,
    in the bright, clear light of day.  

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What Do You Do With Pumpkin Guts?

Once you've carved a pumpkin's eyes,
carved a smile of sheer surprise,
carved a circle for a nose,
and you're so pleased, you've curled your toes . . .
    What do you do with the pumpkin guts?

Do you heat them up as hash?
Should you toss them in the trash?
Do you hide them in your hat?
Or could you serve them to your cat?
    What do you do with the pumpkin guts?

Can you stuff them in a bird,
mixed with crumbs and soy-bean curd?
Can you string up all the seeds
around your neck instead of beads?
    What do you do with the pumpkin guts?

Do you fling the seeds around?
Should you plant them in the ground?
Can the seeds be set to roast?
Or mixed in home-made bread for toast?
    What do you do with the pumpkin guts?

Can you take the stringy stuff
knit it up into a muff,
loop it high along the wall,
or wind it tight into a ball?
    What do you do with the pumpkin guts?

Will guts make a jaunty wig?
Or spaghetti for a pig?
Gross-glop for a haunted house?
Or soft nesting for a mouse?
    What do you do with the pumpkin guts?

Will the guts make pumpkin pie?
Will they make an orange dye?
Can you mash them into paste?
It seems a shame to let them waste!
    Oh, what do you do with the pumpkin guts?

Anything you choose to do
With pumpkin guts is up to you.
But I'll dress up, check out the scene,
And have a HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
    (So what did you do with those pumpkin guts?)  

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Lights off

When Mom and Dad turn off the light,
I get a chill—I shake with fright.
I pull the covers to my nose;
I turn my head and try to doze.

Is someone standing by the door?
What is that thumping on the floor?
A shiver slithers down my back.
I tense–-prepared for its attack.

Then something horrid lifts its head,
and swiftly pounces on my bed.
I close my eyes, I hold my breath—
I'm certain of impending death.

A slimy thing slides up my cheek.
Oh, dare I, dare I take a peek?
I look up quick . . . then I relax:
Its just my silly beagle, Max.

 Metamorphosis

First I'm a camel,
    then I'm a frog,
        now I'm a lizard
            asleep on a log.

 I'm white, then I'm gray,
    then I'm bursting with rain:
        I fall to the earth,
            and I rise up again.  

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On Moonlit Nights

On moonlit nights, when I can't sleep,
I sneak outside to take a peek.
The world is covered in a glow
    of stars and moonbeams reaching low
    to touch the ground and light the sky.
They form a ladder climbing high
    above the earth, beyond the moon,
    to Mars and Venus and Neptune.

I place my foot upon a rung;
I grip my hands where none have clung.
I climb and climb above my house
    till all looks smaller than a mouse.
    I leave the earth, I pass the moon:
I'll touch the Little Dipper soon.
    I grab a star, I shout, "Hurray!
    I'm dancing on the Milky Way!"

Before too long, my eyelids droop,
my head and shoulders start to stoop.
I climb the ladder, down . . .
                                            down . . .
                                                            down . . .
I see the moon,
                                the earth,
                                                    my town . . .
Some stardust twinkles in my hand
but disappears when I touch land.
    I drag my feet; they feel like lead.
    Now I can sleep—I'm back in bed.  

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    For Me

Rocks are made for climbing;
    sand dunes are for sliding;
    ice is made for gliding:
And each is made for me.

Lakes are made for diving;
    mountains are for hiking;
    trails are for biking:
And all are made for me

Tree

I'm smaller than sand when I sink in the ground;
I soon begin growing, though making no sound.
In search of the sun, I burst into the light.
In time, I have doubled and tripled my height.
I stretch out my limbs and feel solid and free.
I'm tall as a house, I've grown into a tree.

Rainbow
(published by Scholastic in Pocket Poetry Mini-Books, 2002)

Pink and purple, green and blue;
        yellow, orange, crimson, too.
A wash of colors arcs the sky;
        a pot of gold awaits nearby.  

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If I Were a Raindrop

If I were a raindrop
I'd call a cloud my home.
But, still, there would be moments
when I might wish to roam.

If I fell to China,
I'd nestle in bamboo,
or to Louisiana
I'd float in a bayou.

I might drop on rooftops
or to the mighty sea.
Or I might water flowers
in London or Pa-ree!

But one thing is quite certain:
Wherever I might roam,
I'll soon return to gray clouds,
'Cuz there's no place like home.  

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When I Am Alone

When I am alone,
I'm never alone
'cause I am always there.

When I am alone,
I am not alone
I take me everywhere.

Like ships on the sea;
like birds on the wing;
like castles in the air:

When I am alone,
I don't feel alone
because my thoughts are there.

At times, when I'm scared,
they're creepy and dark.
When I hurt, my thoughts are sad.

But mostly they're fun
and happy and free—
and hardly ever bad.

Wherever I go,
wherever I am,
my thoughts are always there.

On a mountain top,
or a lonely beach,
they're with me everywhere.

I go where I go,
I feel what I feel,
I see what 'ere I see:

Wherever I go,
my best buddy's there:
'Cause my best bosom buddy . . .
is me!  

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    My Abuelita

My abuelita gave to me
Yesterdays of memories:

Abrazos of lavender,
Besos of spice,
Unbound understanding, and
Everything nice.
Love without questioning,
Instant advice,
Times filled with treasured talks—
A paradise.

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    The Seamstress

With nine small hungry mouths to feed,
she sews until her fingers bleed,
to make fine clothes for those of means—
for those who ride in limousines.

Into the night, her shoulders sore,
her starving stomach groans for more . . .
But all is gone—no food is there—
each child is fed—that's her sole care.

Perhaps a nap will take away
the hollow feeling in her way.
She rests her eyes, and in a while
her lips begin to form a smile.

A girl in white, with glowing hair,
electrifies the warm night air.
And in her hands she bears a tray
of fruits and meats—a grand array!

She gobbles up each tasty bite,
then turns to thank the girl in white . . .
but she's alone . . . The hunger's gone,
her strength is back, she can work on.

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    Mamota's in Her Garden

Mamota's in her garden,
tending to her darlings.
Mamota's in her garden,
caring for her dears.
She always rises early,
thankful for her blessings.
She breathes in nature's fragrance,
thankful for her years.

    Orchids and Lavender Hugs

I sit in Mamota's lap.
Her rocker's creak-crick, creak-crick, creak-crick,
almost puts me to sleep.
I tug a lock of Mamota's hair.
The silky black curl slides from my finger
and slips back in place.
It smells of lavender.
Mamota always smells of flowers.

I snuggle closer and look up at Mamota's neck.
Skin, loose as empty balloons,
hangs in soft sacks from her jaw,
sags down her thin neck,
and sinks into the hollow above her collar.
I put a finger in the hollow.
I turn and sit on my heels to get a better look.

It's deep. Deep enough to plant a flower:
An orchid.
If I plant a flower in the hollow of Mamota's neck
it would have to be an orchid.
Mamota loves orchids. Her garden is full of them.
Then she'd always have an orchid—
a beautiful orchid—peeking out from her neck.
I plant the orchid.  Mamota awakes.  I tell her of my gift.
She breathes in, smelling the sweet petals.
Her arms encircle me and pull me close:
A lavender hug.

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    Remembering Mamota

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    Mami, My Mamita

Mami, my mamita!
Always where you can hear me.
Mami, my mamita,
In sickness and in health—
Tender, loving, and dear.
Always where I hear can you.

    Mami's Favorite Foods

Mami's favorite foods are pasteles and sweets.
She spreads honey or sugar on all that she eats.
She has rice and frijoles with coconut chips
and adds lots of cane syrup to sauces and dips.

A dollop of jam on her milky white cheese,
with guava and mango paste—more, if you please!
Boldly eats fried green bananas with pineapple pie—
but chocolate candy she eats on the sly.

Whipped cream and meringue, each leave clues on her nose,
that Mami's been eating again, heaven knows!
She attacks each new cake with un gusto quite great;
to watch, one would think it's been years since she ate!

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    Mami's Jardín

Mami's jardín hides incredible things:
Cowboys and horses and dragons with wings;
princes and princesses frozen in time—
miniatures placed without reason or rhyme.

Molded from plastic or metal or glass,
tucked beneath bushes or hidden in grass,
each time she plants a new flower or tree,
she adds a small figure—her signature, see?

    Books!

Books, books, books!  Books, books, books!
Mami loves to read books:
In a robe of nainsook,
she gets hooked, in her nook,
when she wraps 'round a book.
Or she'll lie by a brook
With a fabulous book,
and we'll look, and we'll look,
and perhaps feel forsook—
for to look at a book
gets her totally hooked:
Oh, so totally hooked
that she forgets to cook!
But by hook or by crook,
she will finish that book!
She's a schnook for a book
with a really good hook—
but do not overlook
that she really gets shook
if you took, like a rook,
and ran off with her book!

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My Mom and I Don't Argue

My Mom and I don't argue—
we agree to disagree:
She stomps off to her office,
And I go climb a tree.

I sit up here and ponder
how I'm much more right than she.
But I'm not allowed to tell her—
we've agreed to disagree.

My Mama Tries to Fool Me

 My mama tries to fool me
    and add stuff to my food—
    it's stuff that tastes real yucky
    and puts me in a mood:

Like cheese in my spaghetti
    and spinach in my soup
    or colors like confetti
    that make my stomach swoop.

She thinks that I like brocc'li,
    asparagus, and sprouts.
    They make my head real achy
    and give me awful bouts!

So yesterday I fixed her:
    I took some castor oil,
    and slather upon slather,
    I set her steak to broil!

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    Hope:

            Branches, like brushes
                        of long, slender pine needles,
                                    paint the sky with dreams.

   Secrets:

            Ferns, tucked in shadows
                        of tropical splendor, shield
                                    golden curlicues.

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Copyright © 2003 by Marisa Montes. All rights reserved.
Revised: 18 Aug 2006 18:14:32 -0400 .