Dating poems for kids

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Generally the guy I'm attracted to is the guy in the club with all the tattoos and nail polish.

He's usually the lead singer in a punk band and plays guitar.

Kings, to the youngster, cannot compare With the gentle father who’s with him there.

And the greatest mind of the human race Not for one minute could take his place. The soul of the father is steeped in joy, For he’s finding out, to his heart’s delight, That his son is fit for the future fight.

My grandfather took guests out on a launch boat for fishing outings, but when my cousins and siblings and I were around, he rented a pontoon at a smaller neighboring lake that was stocked with sunnies so he could take us all out at once, without fear of one of us overzealous young fisherpersons overturning the boat.

Zeal was never his greatest challenge when it came to having me on his boat; rather, the challenge was wheedling me into removing a fish from the hook, which I still say would be made easier if the fish would close its eyes and hold its breath, or at minimum, stop breathing from outside its body.

He is learning the glorious depths of him, And the thoughts he thinks and his every whim; And he shall discover, when night comes on, How close he has grown to his little son.

A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip— Builders of life’s companionship!

— Ron Rash The women who clean fish are all named Rose or Grace.My grandfather sits to the far right in a folding chair, and I know his left hand is on the tobacco in his pants pocket because I used to wrap it for him every Christmas. — Rita Dove, author of Grace Notes floating atop the surface of the lake the moon’s silver coins slip through his fishing net — Dave Read Bamboo stick and he flicks his wrist, swings the line across continents. In the morning, I find it clipped to the soap dish in my shower: question mark glistening steam. — Marjorie Maddox On the gold rock, we used to sit with our primitive poles.Grandmother’s hips bulge from the brush, she’s leaning into the ice chest, sun through the trees printing her dress with soft luminous paws. Sticks we gathered from grandmother’s broken maples, pins we tied by the head onto white string.But I also cried at the blood, the shining hole, and more often than not I threw the breathless sunnies back in. The water drives a wedge of iron through the iron edge of the cliff; whereupon the stars, pink rice-grains, ink- bespattered jelly fish, crabs like green lilies, and submarine toadstools, slide each on the other.All external marks of abuse are present on this defiant edifice— all the physical features of ac- cident—lack of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and hatchet strokes, these things stand out on it; the chasm-side is dead.

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