Meagan has always enjoyed writing. Some of her work appears
on this page:
To be read at the memorial service:
'Twas in the moon of midnight
When the clock was striking 3
And all the stars did whisper
and giggle in their glee.
But all the rings of Saturn were
as silent as could be.
All of Earth was sleeping
and did not make a sound.
No one knew the galaxies
Were twirling round and round.
Even the pewter earthworms now
were snoring in the ground.
A slightly gibbous moon of old
Was shining on the fish.
Tenderly, her silver asked them
What it was they wished.
Golden scales flashed at her,
then vanished with a swish.
A lightly blue spring zephyr
heard the music of the spheres.
Their harmonies were beautiful
and lovely to his ears.
Brushing past the gibbous moon,
He went to join his peers.
The sun was jammin' with the stars,
Rocking out of space.
A lovely shining smile now
Was grinning on his face.
Two comets ran around the orb
A star joined in the chase.
A wizard looking at the sky
Wondered if 'twould rain.
He blew into his telescope
'Twas wonderful, yet plain
8 stars came out the end of it!
(He did it once again.)
Drowsy, spinning whimsically
above the ocean blue.
Sinking in a cloud of mist
Of morning light and dew.
Your time is gone, dear gibbous moon,
Your midnight hour is through.
And though the night is gone, my friends
And though the party's done--
Still rabbits dance in clover grass
in meadows sweet with sun.
Go back to bed, galactic worlds.
Rest 'til tomorrow night's fun.
Poems read at Meagan's burial:
(Read by Lisa Teshima, Meagan’s second and third
Oh sprinkle with stardust the bright leaves of Autumn!
Catch them and snatch them and whirl them around!
Let them descend, then surprise them with gusto!
Blow them toward me for my poems of sound!
There I'll place them quite carefully,
Spreading them so that they cover the ground.
Leaving them peacefully,
Underneath winter's soft snow-blanket's mound.
(Read by Kevin Karr, Meagan’s third grade math
teacher and principal of her elementary school)
A willow tree bent down to touch
the waters of the lake.
And so silent was the breeze.
The willow tree, a queen of trees
Spread golden ripples in her wake.
(Read by Kevin Karr)
There you stand, stubborn.
You are in my path, yet I
Perhaps am in yours.
(Read by Cindy Wilson, Meagan’s Grade 6-8 teacher)
The clouds open and. . .
A hundred thousand words!
Like snow they are falling
To the lips of the reader.
Catch them on your tongue!
Delight in the simple beauty of each
As they dance in the air around you.
Yes! They are unique.
Yes! They are perfect.
Yes! They are stars,
Melting before you even get a chance
to study them closely.
Or arrange them in orderly rows,
As your mother once did with your shoes.
(She doesn't anymore,
because you like them like your words.)
All over the page,
mixing as they please.
The green with the pink, the pink with the blue.
Yes! They do not match.
Yes! They go together.
Yes! They make you smile.
And you hope you will never have to go in
and warm your hands by the fire.
With your back turned away
From that beautiful blizzard.
(Read by Sandy Wahl, Meagan’s seventh and eighth
grade math teacher)
With January, and December too,
You often wonder if it shall be spring.
You often wonder: Will the sky be blue?
And: Will the robins ever start to sing?
Will snow melt into mud, and then to flowers?
Will trees begin to bud; will clouds be white?
Will April really, truly come with showers?
And will the day be longer than the night?
Then come with me, and sniff the frosty air!
For spring is really just behind the bend.
In February and in March it's there
A tingle, like an old forgotten friend.
So if you've ever given spring a doubt
Just wait a bit-the sunshine will come out.
Color Music Summer's Day
(Read by Margot Amrine, one of Meagan’s high school
Color is the music singing in my soul.
First are clarinets-blue and mellow.
A cloudless sky on an August day.
Then French horns and cellos resound in a deeper indigo tone.
Brass is yellow
The morning comes
Flutes are pink
Early with small clouds:
The oboe is decidedly green.
A frog croaks from a nearby pond.
Violet and rose-colored hues flow from the violins, and the low brass
blaze a deep orange.
May 29, 2004
Why is it so rare to see
A poem as lovely as a tree?
Poet-trees grow forests bright
See them dancing in the night.
Yes, only God can make a tree,
But sometimes fools will do for me.
A poet-tree that bends and sways
Can stick with you for days and days.
The fool that made it looks away,
He'd rather have you think a while
Than ruin his terrific style
Explaining it in prose and cons
The sand, the salt, the nights and dawns.
"And why sea is boiling hot
And whether pigs have wings."
April 30, 2003
I saw them standing there, I did
Just standing in the street.
Two zebras in their coats and hats
With slippers on their feet.
As I approached, quite cautiously
With feelings now of dread,
I listened closely to their brays
And this is what they said:
"Why go when we can come, my dear?"
One said unto the next.
"Why come when we can goyou mean!"
The other one looked vexed.
"Why drink when we can eat?" said one
"The restaurant's in the town."
"Why eat when we can drink, you mean!"
This with an angry frown.
And on and on and on them went
And on into the night.
And the moral of this story--well
Why read when you can write?
April 19, 2003 (apologies to grandmothers everywhere)
I think that I'm starting to feel
That my grandmother's really a seal
I wish I was wrong
But she's singing a song
As she's eating raw fish and an eel
The Boy Who Asked About a Fim (written circa 1996)
"What is a fim?" asked a boy one day.
"Who is him?"
His grandpa answered; "He is a wall, straight and tall"
"What is a gringe?" asked the boy. "What is a gringe?"
"A gringe," said his grandpa, "is the tiniest cringe in
a tall man's pants."
"What is a munt?" asked the boy.
"What is a munt?"
Said his grandpa; "It is the good part of a stunt.
Now off to bed,
Go rest your head!
No more questions,
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