ࡱ> g kbjbjVV !r<r<jc5d0dd5zV[Dr5t5t5t5t5t5t5$8k;v555;";";"<r5;"r5;";"r+T,PĽ !"P,^5505^,;!(;,,;4;"55%"5; : Daily Poetry Warm-Up Each day you are assigned a warm up, your job will be to read the poem for that day and respond to it. You can respond in the space next to the poem, under the poem, or around the poem. You can respond to a poem in many different ways: You can comment on what you thought the purpose of the poem was You can talk about how the poem makes you feel If the poem gives you an idea for a poem of your own, you could start writing one You could comment on the tone of the poem You could talk about why or why not you liked the poem If the poem reminds you of something you could write about that. You can respond using SOAPS (see right hand side) You could respond by mimicking the poems style but changing the content or subject of the poem SOAPS What is the Subject? The general topic, content, and ideas contained in the text. What is the Occasion? The time and place of the piece: the current situation. Who is the Audience? The group of readers to whom this piece is directed. What is the Purpose? The reason behind the text. Who is the Speaker? The voice that tells the story. Ogden Nash (1902-1971) THE HIPPOPOTAMUS Behold the hippopotamus! We laugh at how he looks to us, And yet in moments dank and grim, I wonder how we look to him. Peace, peace, thou hippopotamus! We really look all right to us, As you no doubt delight the eye Of other hippopotami. THE EEL I don't mind eels Except as meals. And the way they feels. THE FLY God in his wisdom made the fly And then forgot to tell us why. William Carlos Williams The Red Wheelbarrow So much depends Upon A red wheel Barrow Glazed with rain Water Beside the white Chickens. Marriage So different, this man And this woman: A stream flowing In a field. This is Just to Say I have eaten The plums That were in The ice box And which You were probably Saving For breakfast Forgive me They were delicious So sweet And so cold. e.e. cummings [Anyone Lived In a Pretty How Town) anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did Women and men(both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn't they reaped their same sun moon stars rain children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone's any was all to her someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then)they said their nevers they slept their dream stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down) one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes. Women and men(both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain Sandra Cisneros Night Madness Poem Theres a poem in my head Like too many cups of coffee. A pea under twenty eiderdowns. A sadness in my heart like stone. A telephone. And always my Night madness that outs like bats Across this Texas sky. Im the crazy lady they warned you about. The she of rumor talked about--- And worse, who talks. Its no secret. Im here. Under a circle of light. The light always on, revisiting a glass, An easy cigar. The kind Who reels the twilight sky. Swoop circling. Im witch woman high On tobacco and holy water. Im a woman delighted with her disasters They give me something to do. A profession of sorts. Keeps me industrious And of some serviceable use. In dreams the origami of the brain Opens like a fist, a pomegranate, An expensive geometry. Not true. I havent a clue Why Im rumpled tonight. Choose your weapon. Mine---the telephone, my tongue. Both black as gun. I have the magic of words, The power to charm and kill at will. To kill myself or to aim haphazardly. And kill you. Jack Kerouac In Vain The stars in the sky In vain The tragedy of Hamlet In vain The key in the lock In vain The sleeping mother In vain The lamp in the corner In vain The lamp in the corner unlit In vain Abraham Lincoln In vain The Aztec empire In vain The writing hand: in vain (The shoetrees in the shoes In vain The windowshade string upon the hand bible In vain The glitter of the greenglass ashtray In vain The bear in the woods In vain The Life of Buddha In vain)  Acts of Love by Pam Rehm Pam Rehm If endear is earned and is meant to identify two halves then it composes one meaning which means a token a knot a note a noting in the head of how it feels to have your heart be the dear one Poet: EE Cummings i carry your heart with me i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe. All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the maxome foe he sought- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood a while in thought. As in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And burbled as it came. One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack. He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "Has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Calloh! Callay! He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. And then we cowards by Cesare Pavese Cesare Pavese And then we cowards who loved the whispering evening, the houses, the paths by the river, the dirty red lights of those places, the sweet soundless sorrow we reached our hands out toward the living chain in silence, but our heart startled us with blood, and no more sweetness then, no more losing ourselves on the path by the river no longer slaves, we knew we were alone and alive. One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII by Pablo Neruda Pablo Neruda I dont love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz, or arrow of carnations that propagate fire: I love you as one loves certain obscure things, secretly, between the shadow and the soul. I love you as the plant that doesnt bloom but carries the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself, and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose from the earth lives dimly in my body. I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you directly without problems or pride: I love you like this because I dont know any other way to love, except in this form in which I am not nor are you, so close that your hand upon my chest is mine, so close that your eyes close with my dreams. Poet: Langston Hughes Freedom Freedom will not come Today, this year Nor ever Through compromise and fear. I have as much right As the other fellow has To stand On my two feet And own land. I tire so of hearing people say, Let things take their course Tomorrow is another day I do not need freedom when I am dead I cannot live on tomorrows bread. Freedom Is a strong seed Planted In a great need I live here, too I want freedom Just as you. .Christina Rossetti In an Artist's Studio Onefacelooksoutfromallhiscanvases, Oneselfsamefiguresitsorwalksorleans: Wefoundherhiddenjustbehindthosescreens, Thatmirrorgavebackallherloveliness. Aqueeninopalorinrubydress, Anamelessgirlinfreshestsummer-greens, Asaint,anangeleverycanvasmeans Thesameonemeaning,neithermorenorless. Hefeedsuponherfacebydayandnight, Andshewithtruekindeyeslooksbackonhim, Fairasthemoonandjoyfulasthelight: Notwanwithwaiting,notwithsorrowdim; Noassheis,butwaswhenhopeshonebright; Notassheis,butasshefillshisdream. The Cats Will Know by Cesare Pavese Cesare Pavese Rain will fall again on your smooth pavement, a light rain like a breath or a step. The breeze and the dawn will flourish again when you return, as if beneath your step. Between flowers and sills the cats will know. There will be other days, there will be other voices. You will smile alone. The cats will know. You will hear words old and spent and useless like costumes left over from yesterdays parties. You too will make gestures. Youll answer with words face of springtime, you too will make gestures. The cats will know, face of springtime; and the light rain and the hyacinth dawn that wrench the heart of him who hopes no more for you they are the sad smile you smile by yourself. There will be other days, other voices and renewals. Face of springtime, we will suffer at daybreak. Poet: Robert Frost Mending Wall Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it And spills the upper boulder in the sun, And make gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there, I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: "Stay where you are until our backs are turned!" We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of outdoor game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors." Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: "Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offense. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there, Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors." Poet: Sylvia Plath The Arrival of the Bee Box I ordered this, clean wood box Square as a chair and almost too heavy to lift. I would say it was the coffin of a midget Or a square baby Were there not such a din in it. The box is locked, it is dangerous. I have to live with it overnight And I can't keep away from it. There are no windows, so I can't see what is in there. There is only a little grid, no exit. I put my eye to the grid. It is dark, dark, With the swarmy feeling of African hands Minute and shrunk for export, Black on black, angrily clambering. How can I let them out? It is the noise that appalls me most of all, The unintelligible syllables. It is like a Roman mob, Small, taken one by one, but my god, together! I lay my ear to furious Latin. I am not a Caesar. I have simply ordered a box of maniacs. They can be sent back. They can die, I need feed them nothing, I am the owner. I wonder how hungry they are. I wonder if they would forget me If I just undid the locks and stood back and turned into a tree. There is the laburnum, its blond colonnades, And the petticoats of the cherry. They might ignore me immediately In my moon suit and funeral veil. I am no source of honey So why should they turn on me? Tomorrow I will be sweet God, I will set them free. The box is only temporary. If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda I want you to know one thing. You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me. Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little. If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you. If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land. But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine A Dream Within A Dream by Edgar Allan Poe Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, Thus much let me avow-- You are not wrong, who deem That my days have been a dream; Yet if hope has flown away In a night, or in a day, In a vision, or in none, Is it therefore the less gone? All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream. I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand-- How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep--while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein There is a place where the sidewalk ends And before the street begins, And there the grass grows soft and white, And there the sun burns crimson bright, And there the moon-bird rests from his flight To cool in the peppermint wind. Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black And the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And watch where the chalk-white arrows go To the place where the sidewalk ends. Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends A Birthday Poem by Ted Kooser Just past dawn, the sun stands with its heavy red head in a black stanchion of trees, waiting for someone to come with his bucket for the foamy white light, and then a long day in the pasture. I too spend my days grazing, feasting on every green moment till darkness calls, and with the others I walk away into the night, swinging the little tin bell of my name. All the World's a Stage by William Shakespeare All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. Brown Penny by William Butler Yeats I whispered, 'I am too young,' And then, 'I am old enough'; Wherefore I threw a penny To find out if I might love. 'Go and love, go and love, young man, If the lady be young and fair.' Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, I am looped in the loops of her hair. O love is the crooked thing, There is nobody wise enough To find out all that is in it, For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon. Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, One cannot begin it too soon. 22. Emily Dickinson Because I could not stop for death Because I could not stop for Death,He kindly stopped for me;The carriage held but just ourselvesAnd Immortality.We slowly drove, he knew no haste,And I had put awayMy labor, and my leisure too,For his civility.We passed the school where children playedAt wrestling in a ring;We passed the fields of gazing grain,We passed the setting sun.We paused before a house that seemedA swelling of the ground;The roof was scarcely visible,The cornice but a mound.Since then t is centuries; but eachFeels shorter than the dayI first surmised the horses headsWere toward eternity. One Art by  HYPERLINK "http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/7" Elizabeth Bishop The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster. Lose something every day. Accept the fluster of lost door keys, the hour badly spent. The art of losing isn't hard to master. Then practice losing farther, losing faster: places, and names, and where it was you meant to travel. None of these will bring disaster. I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or next-to-last, of three loved houses went. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster, some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent. I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster. --Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident the art of losing's not too hard to master though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster. . Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod Author Unknown Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod, one night sailed off in a wooden shoe; Sailed off on a river of crystal light into a sea of dew. "Where are you going and what do you wish?" the old moon asked the three. "We've come to fish for the herring fish that live in this beautiful sea. Nets of silver and gold have we," said Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod. The old moon laughed and sang a song as they rocked in the wooden shoe. And the wind that sped them all night long ruffled the waves of dew. Now the little stars are the herring fish that live in that beautiful sea; "Cast your nets wherever you wish never afraid are we!" So cried the stars to the fishermen three - Winkin', and Blinkin', and Nod. So all night long their nets they threw to the stars in the twinkling foam. 'Til down from the skies came the wooden shoe bringing the fisherman home. 'Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed as if it could not be. Some folks say 'twas a dream they dreamed of sailing that misty sea. But I shall name you the fisherman three - Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod. Now Winkin' and Blinkin' are two little eyes and Nod is a little head. And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies is a wee one's trundle bed. So close your eyes while mother sings of the wonderful sights that be. And you shall see those beautiful things as you sail on the misty sea, Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three - Winkin', Blinkin', and Nod. I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings by Maya Angelou A free bird leaps on the back Of the wind and floats downstream Till the current ends and dips his wing In the orange suns rays And dares to claim the sky. But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage Can seldom see through his bars of rage His wings are clipped and his feet are tied So he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill Of things unknown but longed for still And his tune is heard on the distant hill for The caged bird sings of freedom. The free bird thinks of another breeze And the trade winds soft through The sighing trees And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright Lawn and he names the sky his own. But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream His wings are clipped and his feet are tied So he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with A fearful trill of things unknown But longed for still and his Tune is heard on the distant hill For the caged bird sings of freedom. Ode to My Southern Drawl Kathi Apelt Here in the south my tongue relaxes under the warm blanket of my language. Ive been away too long, In places where tongues are clipped And I must say if I may Im happier here where dogs are named Duke because theyre redbones and our sons have soft names like Hampton and Buddy There arent any blizzards in yall and even though the temperatures may drop the name is blue norther not cold snap which is too abrupt. I used to blush at my maiden tongue my badge of ignorance my scarlet letter among the literati. But not any more. And I like it when my friends say G I R L! in a whole note whenever I bring them a casserole for no other reason than casserole feels good to say. I know its heat at the root of my southern drawl. I know this because in cold climates you cannot speak slowly or your teeth will clamp down onto your tongue and punish it for leaving your mouth open so long. You have to spit out the words or else biting air will slip between your lips and strangle you. No, no in the north theres no relishing no pondering no savoring a particular turn of phrase no allowing the ls to roll roll roll across the soft palate. Here in the south we treat words like wine letting them rest in our mouths until they are ripe and have soaked into the sides of our cheeks. And sometimes they get so warm, we have to cool them off with iced tea or Coca Cola or else we change the subject which could be anything from husbands, to the gospel, to the PTA, and if we talk the gospel well, we always choose Luke because Luke feels so good up against the back of our throats. And, honey, why not let the message go ahead and give us a little massage? I mean, isnt that what the good Lord intended when he said First, there was the word? Valentine for Ernest Mann Naomi Shihab Nye You cant order a poem like you order a taco. Walk up to the counter, say Ill take two and expect it to be handed back to you on a shiny plate. Still, I like your spirit. Anyone who says, Heres my address, write me a poem, deserves something in reply. So Ill tell you a secret instead: poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes, they are sleeping. They are the shadows drifting across our ceilings the moment before we wake up. What we have to do is live in a way that lets us find them. Once I knew a man who gave his wife two skunks for a valentine. He couldnt understand why she was crying. I thought they had such beautiful eyes. And he was serious. He was a serious man who lived in a serious way. Nothing was ugly just because the world said so. He really liked those skunks. So, he re-invented them as valentines and they became beautiful. At least, to him. And the poems that had been hiding In the eyes of skunks for centuries crawled out and curled up at his feet. Maybe if we re-invent whatever our lives give us we find poems. Check your garage, the odd sock in your drawer, the person you almost like, but not quite. And let me know.      PAGE \* MERGEFORMAT 1  }  k       [ \ h p r ʾykZIkZIkZ hG]hG]CJOJQJ^JaJ hG]hG]CJOJQJ^JaJhG]hG]5OJQJ^JhG]OJQJ^JhG]hG]OJQJ^JhG]OJQJ^JhG]CJOJQJaJhCJOJQJaJh}CJOJQJaJha8CJOJQJaJha8ha8CJOJQJaJhCJ0OJQJaJ0h|yhP^HCJ0OJQJaJ0he4CJ0OJQJaJ0  D t ) k     [ \ r  & FgdG]$a$gdG]gdG]gda8 & Fgda8 & Fdhgda8dhgda8$a$gd ' ( < \ ] ^ _ ` a b c d e f g h  gd#j ^gdLgda8$a$gd & FgdG]gdG]  ' ( 3 : < \ ] d e f g h  õseeeZRJh}OJQJheOJQJh#jh|yOJQJh#jhP^H0J>*OJQJh#jhP^H>*OJQJh#jhP^HOJQJh#jOJQJh#jhOJQJhG]CJ0OJQJaJ0hCJ0OJQJaJ0hG]CJOJQJ^JaJ hG]hG]CJOJQJ^JaJhG]hG]5OJQJ^JhG]hG]OJQJ^J hG]hG]CJOJQJ^JaJ  01EUZ[hopgdegd#j01EĢn\Qh#jheOJQJ"hehT5>*CJOJQJaJ"h#jhT5>*CJOJQJaJh#jhTCJOJQJaJh#jhTOJQJha8OJQJh#jhOJQJh#jha8>*OJQJh#jha8OJQJh#jOJQJhrOJQJh#jhr5>*OJQJhe5>*OJQJh#jhrOJQJheOJQJ,89CU]klwgd#jqgd#j ^gdLgd#j9Tv#Lde ^gdL & Fgd#jgd#j"/zo`oUM=he4B*CJOJQJaJphhe4OJQJh#jh|yOJQJh#jhpCJOJQJaJh#jhpOJQJ!h#jhp0JB*OJQJph!heh|y0JB*OJQJph!h#jh|y0JB*OJQJphh#jheOJQJh,VOJQJh#jh'OJQJh#jh,VOJQJheh,V5OJQJheh,VOJQJh#jh29ROJQJheOJQJ  5RSv-.Ingd#jo$If[$\$gd#jPkd$$If0!"634a$$Ifa$gd#j $Ifgd#j$If^gdLgd#j"/9Njvwyyyyyyyd-DM `gde4d-DM gde4d-DM gde4 -DM gde4gd#j=kda$$If!634a/7/JKLǿvi\Q?-#h#jhS.M5B*OJQJ\ph7]W#h#jh,5B*OJQJ\ph7]Wh#jhS.MOJQJh#jh@~OJQJ^Jh#jhlOJQJ^J#h#jh@~5B*OJQJ\ph#h#jh@~5B*OJQJ\ph7]W#h#jhl5B*OJQJ\ph7]Wh#jhe4OJQJhe4OJQJh@~OJQJh#jh@~OJQJh#jh|yOJQJhe4B*CJOJQJaJph#he40JB*CJOJQJaJph#/KL ^gdLgd#jd-DM `gde4d-DM gde4""""""""d-DM `gde4d-DM gde4d-DM gde4 -DM gde4 & Fgd#j ^gdLgd#j"""""""^$_$j$$$$''''Q)R)Ƚ|tkbVK=h#jh,5OJQJ\h#jhlOJQJh#jhl>*OJQJhe4>*OJQJhe>*OJQJheOJQJh@~OJQJ#he40JB*CJOJQJaJphhe4B*CJOJQJaJphhe4OJQJhe5B*OJQJ\ph7]Wh#jhS.MOJQJh#jh@~OJQJh#jhS.MOJQJ^Jh#jhS.MOJQJ^J#h#jhS.M5B*OJQJ\ph""#,#B#^#q######$*$E$^$_$`$a$b$c$d$e$f$g$h$i$gd#jd-DM `gde4i$j$$$$$%D%p%q%%%&?&@&{&&&#'U''d-DM `gde4d-DM gde4d-DM gde4 -DM gde4gd#j'''''''''''''''''''('(0(?(M(N(o((gd#j ^gdL ^gde(((((()))0)?)L)O)P)Q)e)+++++++++++++gd#jR)e)z),,,&,3,t/u/z/{/////|44071727376777ŵؓqc[J!h#jheB*OJQJ^Jphh~OJQJh#jhl6OJQJ]h#jhlCJOJQJaJh#jhlOJQJhLOJQJheOJQJhe4OJQJ#he40JB*CJOJQJaJphhe4B*CJOJQJaJphhe4OJQJhe5OJQJ\h#jhG]OJQJhehG]56OJQJ]h#jhG]5OJQJ\++,,,&,5,K,e,x,,,,,,---3-P-g-d-DM `gde4d-DM gde4d-DM gde4 -DM gde4 & Fgd#jgd#jg-|-------...K.L.a.v...... / /'/C/X/t/d-DM gde4d-DM `gde4t/u/v/w/x/y/z/{/|/}/~//////071727374757! 2( Px 4 #\'*.25@9gd#j [$\$gd#j ^gdLgde4gd#j5767778797:7M7N7i7j7777788:8[8z88888! 2( Px 4 #\'*.25@9gde! 2( Px 4 #\'*.25@9gd#j7787:7D<_<`<f<g<x<<<AAA4AFAGACCCDDFFFFFPH_HwHHHNMOMPM\MǿtgtgtgtgtZhLhLOJQJ^Jh#jh|QOJQJ^Jh#jh|QOJQJ^J#h#jh|Q5B*OJQJ\ph#h#jh|Q5B*OJQJ\ph<`[he5B*OJQJ\ph<`[h#jh|QOJQJheOJQJh#jh~OJQJ!h#jh~B*OJQJ^JphhLB*OJQJ^JphheB*OJQJ^Jph#89-9K9o9p99999::::M:u:::::;E;r;;;;;! 2( Px 4 #\'*.25@9gd#j;;<C<D<_<`<a<b<c<d<e<f<g<<AAAAAGACC ^gdL & Fgd#jgd#j! 2( Px 4 #\'*.25@9gd#jCCCCCDFFFFFFFFFFFFFFPHQHRHSHTHUHVHWH ^gdLgd#jWHXHYHZH[H\H]H^H_HHNMOMPMtMrOsOtOuOvOwOxOyOzO{O|O}O~O ^gdL ^gdLgd#j\MsMtMrOxO}O~OOOOOOOPP0P1P4P5PXPYPlPmPPPPPPPPPPPQQ*Q+Q.Q/QTQUQoQpQQQQQQQQQQQRR*R.R/R0RȽheOJQJh#jh,B* OJQJph h#jhLOJQJh,OJQJh#jh,OJQJh#jh|QOJQJh#jh|QOJQJ^Jh#jh|QOJQJ^J#h#jh|Q5B*OJQJ\ph:~OOOOOOOOTkd$$If  634` ap yt, $Ifgd#jgd#jOOPP0PJTkd$$If  634` ap yt, $Ifgd#jTkd1$$If  634` ap yt,0P1P4P5PXPJTkd$$If  634` ap yt, $Ifgd#jTkd+$$If  634` ap yt,XPYPlPmPPJTkd$$If  634` ap yt, $Ifgd#jTkd%$$If  634` ap yt,PPPPPJTkd$$If  634` ap yt, $Ifgd#jTkd$$If  634` ap yt,PPPPPJTkd$$If  634` ap yt, $Ifgd#jTkd$$If  634` ap yt,PPQQ*QJTkd$$If  634` ap yt, $Ifgd#jTkd$$If  634` ap yt,*Q+Q.Q/QTQJTkd$$If  634` ap yt, $Ifgd#jTkd $$If  634` ap yt,TQUQoQpQQJTkd$$If  634` ap yt, $Ifgd#jTkd$$If  634` ap yt,QQQQQJTkd~ $$If  634` ap yt, $Ifgd#jTkd $$If  634` ap yt,QQQQQJTkdx $$If  634` ap yt, $Ifgd#jTkd $$If  634` ap yt,QQRR*RJTkdr $$If  634` ap yt, $Ifgd#jTkd $$If  634` ap yt,*R+R,R-R.R/R0R9R:RRS>kdl $$Ifr 634ayt, $Ifgd#jgdegd#jTkd $$If  634` ap yt, 0R7R=R>RrRsRRRRUUUUU[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[蹧蟹蔟zkzkzkzkzkzY#h#jh#j5B*OJQJ\phh P5B*OJQJ\ph<`[#h#jh#j5B*OJQJ\ph<`[hLOJQJh#jh#jOJQJheOJQJ"h#jh,6CJOJQJ]aJh#jh,CJOJQJaJ h#jh,0JCJOJQJaJjh#jh,OJQJUh#jh,OJQJh#jh,0JOJQJRRRRRR S8SbSSSSTKT|qqqqqqqqqq $Ifgd#j;kd $$If634ayt, $Ifgd#j;kd $$If634ayt, KTvTTTT$UTUUUUUU VcWXZ[[ ^gd#j [$\$gd#jgde;kdv $$If634ayt, $Ifgd#j[[[[[[[[[[[[______________gd#j ^gdegde ^gd#j[[_____`a9aFaJaSacfffffffffiiôxi]N>h Ph P6CJOJ QJ aJh Ph PCJOJ QJ aJh PCJOJ QJ aJh Ph PCJOJ QJ aJh POJQJhm8Khm8KOJQJhm8K6CJOJQJaJhm8KCJOJQJaJhm8Khm8K6CJOJQJaJhm8Khm8KCJOJQJaJhm8KOJQJh|QOJQJh#jh,OJQJheOJQJh#jh#jOJQJ^Jh#jh#jOJQJ^J_______``)`M`\`e`v`````aaa-aFaiaaaaa$a$gdm8Kgdm8Kgd#jaab;bObqbrbbbbbc"cHcccccccccd4dLdMd_dxdd$a$gdm8Kdddde/eNefeeeeef*fQfffffffffffg1gXgjggdm8K$a$gdm8Kjgkggggg(hQhzhhhhh i7iaiiiij:jpjjjjjkYkjkgdm8Kijkkkmknkpkqksktkvkwkxkykzk{k|k}kkkkkkkkkkkkk̾jhP?UmHnHuh;OmHnHujhP?UhrhP?hK jhK Uh Ph PCJOJ QJ aJjklkmkokpkrkskukvkwkxkykzk{k|kkkkkkkkkkgdm8KgdP?901h:p|y/ =!"#$% P 8 001h:p#j/ =!"#$% < 001h:pe/ =!"#$% P 8 001h:p#j/ =!"#$% 8 001h:p#j/ =!"#$% < 001h:pe/ =!"#$% P 8 001h:p#j/ =!"#$% < 001h:pe/ =!"#$% P 8 001h:p#j/ =!"#$% 8 001h:p#j/ =!"#$% < 001h:pe4/ =!"#$% P 8 001h:p#j/ =!"#$% < 001h:pe/ =!"#$% P 8 001h:p#j/ =!"#$% < 001h:pe/ =!"#$% P 8 001h:p#j/ =!"#$% < 001h:pe/ =!"#$% P 8 001h:p#j/ =!"#$% < 001h:pe/ =!"#$% P 8 001h:p#j/ =!"#$% < 001h:pe/ =!"#$% P 8 001h:p#j/ =!"#$% _$$If!vh#v0#v:V 655934Q$$If!vh#v!:V 6,534{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,{$$If!vh#v:V  6,534 ` p yt,V$$If!vh#v :V 6534yt,W$$If!vh#v:V 6,534yt,W$$If!vh#v:V 6,534yt,W$$If!vh#v:V 6,534yt,^ 02 0@P`p2( 0@P`p 0@P`p 0@P`p 0@P`p 0@P`p 0@P`p8XV~_HmH nH sH tH @`@ NormalCJ_HaJmH sH tH N@"N l Heading 2dd@&[$\$5CJ$\aJ$DA D Default Paragraph FontRi@R  Table Normal4 l4a (k (No List *W`* P^HStrong5\PU`P r Hyperlink%7>*CJOJQJS*Y(aJo(ph3fe@ rHTML Preformatted7 2( Px 4 #\'*.25@9CJOJQJ^JaJDo!D rtitle15CJOJQJ\aJo(phfR^@2R p Normal (Web)dd[$\$CJOJQJaJ6OB6 e4author2 ;BoQB e4fullname_search1 <4@b4 P?Header  H$6oq6 P? Header CharCJaJ4 @4 P?0Footer  H$6o6 P?0 Footer CharCJaJPK![Content_Types].xmlN0EH-J@%ǎǢ|ș$زULTB l,3;rØJB+$G]7O٭V$ !)O^rC$y@/yH*񄴽)޵߻UDb`}"qۋJחX^)I`nEp)liV[]1M<OP6r=zgbIguSebORD۫qu gZo~ٺlAplxpT0+[}`jzAV2Fi@qv֬5\|ʜ̭NleXdsjcs7f W+Ն7`g ȘJj|h(KD- dXiJ؇(x$( :;˹! I_TS 1?E??ZBΪmU/?~xY'y5g&΋/ɋ>GMGeD3Vq%'#q$8K)fw9:ĵ x}rxwr:\TZaG*y8IjbRc|XŻǿI u3KGnD1NIBs RuK>V.EL+M2#'fi ~V vl{u8zH *:(W☕ ~JTe\O*tHGHY}KNP*ݾ˦TѼ9/#A7qZ$*c?qUnwN%Oi4 =3N)cbJ uV4(Tn 7_?m-ٛ{UBwznʜ"Z xJZp; {/<P;,)''KQk5qpN8KGbe Sd̛\17 pa>SR! 3K4'+rzQ TTIIvt]Kc⫲K#v5+|D~O@%\w_nN[L9KqgVhn R!y+Un;*&/HrT >>\ t=.Tġ S; Z~!P9giCڧ!# B,;X=ۻ,I2UWV9$lk=Aj;{AP79|s*Y;̠[MCۿhf]o{oY=1kyVV5E8Vk+֜\80X4D)!!?*|fv u"xA@T_q64)kڬuV7 t '%;i9s9x,ڎ-45xd8?ǘd/Y|t &LILJ`& -Gt/PK! ѐ'theme/theme/_rels/themeManager.xml.relsM 0wooӺ&݈Э5 6?$Q ,.aic21h:qm@RN;d`o7gK(M&$R(.1r'JЊT8V"AȻHu}|$b{P8g/]QAsم(#L[PK-![Content_Types].xmlPK-!֧6 0_rels/.relsPK-!kytheme/theme/themeManager.xmlPK-!0C)theme/theme/theme1.xmlPK-! ѐ' theme/theme/_rels/themeManager.xml.relsPK] g $u''1/8/`4g49/JMSWc ; u ' e  Q  A  1 o  0244444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444444447 /R)77\M0R[ik69;?CFKPUcgl "i$'(+g-t/578;CWH~OO0PXPPPP*QTQQQQ*RRKT[_adjgjkk78:<=>@ABDEGHIJLMNOQRSTVWXYZ[\]^_`abdefhijkm=JrJJcX*,7!8@0(  B S  ?123467891112131416171819GGH0HlHHHHI*ITIoIIIIJc     GGH0HlHHHHI*ITIoIIIIJcT Y   ' f l 1 6 MX AI3= !/5=AGLV_imnst|5;_e=C *016DJRV\akt~ 11;;>>BBCCMMMMNNNNFOLOOOVOPPPP QQVQ[QRR RR"R(R.R5RiSoSrSyS8TYEYYY*\.\/\3\^^icjclcmcocpcrcscucvc|ccccicjc|ccc7aicjc|ccc7aicc(t*cE*{n\k[t<W  >^`>5CJ$o(. ^`hH.  L^ `LhH.  ^ `hH. x^x`hH. HL^H`LhH. ^`hH. ^`hH. L^`LhH.^`o(. ^`hH. pL^p`LhH. @ ^@ `hH. ^`hH. L^`LhH. ^`hH. ^`hH. PL^P`LhH.h^`OJQJo(hHh^`OJQJ^Jo(hHohpp^p`OJ QJ o(hHh@ @ ^@ `OJQJo(hHh^`OJQJ^Jo(hHoh^`OJ QJ o(hHh^`OJQJo(hHh^`OJQJ^Jo(hHohPP^P`OJ QJ o(hH^`o(. ^`hH. pLp^p`LhH. @ @ ^@ `hH. ^`hH. L^`LhH. ^`hH. ^`hH. PLP^P`LhH.t{n\kcE*(<                          H:@        6j_glergl\gl> aEPPx.4 F v') aEPPd aEPPF aEPPz &@A\ aEPP: gl%$%: n+aEPPOCiBeMglFaEPP,o{L*Ko 3aEPPW+N^vaEPP}{L*~;&@%Ix}H3&@,KzVz{6 {L*Ci"aEPPt%To\g&aEPP@pS&glA'f'Vv''gl+](&@qB)CVhw){Pc*&@Y*&@{L*A'e +aEPP_U+e@KX+&@ X.aEPP k.aEPPA0aEPP]1aEPP1aEPP 3YX6KBO7aEPP8VV9aEPP$]_;59Xddo=aEPPe@F &@.2ciB8/a?D{L*1fD{L*iFaEPP{Fgl6G_U+jiHaEPP=JaEPPH1L{L*7)NvOglaOglaEPP6GngR&@:A8S lK8UqSbibI7TglT@TaEPPv+V&@CVf'VW+K;9Y{L*eY{L*F Z{L*q2Z7)N4+ZglTo\N^4.gP^aEPPs~aaEPP%a{L*bibaQbaEPPibgl+7b.2c:A8Sc&@&Zqhw)qYr{L*OraEPPE/vx.4 @LbvaEPPz v&@v%'gyDtxjBzez{L*E7{{L*zVz{&|{L*Ix}OCK,}gl#"~ PG]}O,e4P?P^Hm8KS.M|Q29RC`c#jrK a8},V|yp=,@~r&L'e;OTljclc@cX@Unknown G*Ax Times New Roman5Symbol3. *Cx Arial1^ GigiCNComic Sans MS9^ K PGabriola7. [ @Verdana5. .[`)Tahoma?= *Cx Courier New3^ Ravie;WingdingsA$BCambria Math"1hT2T2!48c8c2QHX ?P^H2! xx Poetry Warm-UpS0301690Jordan, Tammy, A    Oh+'0Hx    (08@Poetry Warm-Up S0301690NormalJordan, Tammy, A2Microsoft Office Word@@@3 @@3 T;# Document+,D՜.+, PID_HLINKSAxh'http://www.poets.org/poeProperties ?@ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ[\]^_`abcdefghijklmnoprstuvwxz{|}~Root Entry F0ˮData q1Tabley;WordDocument!SummaryInformation(DocumentSummaryInformation8CompObjrMsoDataStore 0ˮ0ˮ   F Microsoft Word 97-2003 Document MSWordDocWord.Document.89q DocumentLibraryFMNZKNAEWFUYQRBTF==2 0ˮ0ˮItem  {PropertiesQLAFI1WRQDA==2 0ˮ0ˮItem  Properties KBM2K3USQMKGJHQ==20ˮ0ˮItem " schemaLocation="http://dublincore.org/schemas/xmls/qdc/2003/04/02/dc.xsd"/> This value indicates the number of saves or revisions. The application is responsible for updating this value after each revision. xt"> This value indicates the number of saves or revisions. The application is responsible for updating this value after each revision. ormDocumentLibraryFormDocumentLibraryForm ՜.+,D՜.+,\ hp  $Katy Independent School District28c Poetry Warm-Up TitleH0t| , _PID_HLINKSResource Type ContentTypeAxh'http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/7 ;#Pre AP