Where I Learned To Love Rhyme: Where The Sidewalk Ends

 Thursdays being my long days, I had given myself permission to take a day off of posting, but I forgot how early the sky grows dark these days and arrived early. Chilly air and darkness are two of my least favorite things and why bookstores are oh so inviting, and I wandered in to browse. Something caught my eye-- the old familiar face of a book of poems and drawings one: Shel Silverstein. At one time, I may have held the record people who checked out “Where the Sidewalk Ends,” at the Springfield Public Library. Same goes for Silverstein’s follow-up “A Light in the Attic.” I was young during a time when he made poetry fun and I soaked it up.

I had a smile as wide as a mile, or so he would probably say when chancing upon my favorites. Here are three poems to brighten anyone’s day and also to remind my own self that poems, even those written for children, are quite enlightening. There are lessons to be learned and feelings to be had that are more about being human than being a kid or a teenager or adult. Perhaps that’s why I liked Silverstein in the first place; he doesn’t pander, he tells it like it is—in his own way.

The first poem is the title of “Where the Sidewalk Ends” and is just beautiful to read and is as inspiring now as it was as a kid. But the second poem, I remembered almost by heart and did not flip to it but sought it out…it’s mischevious and the title was enough to make me want to read it over and over again, oh that Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout. I love the rhyme scheme in this and the picture in the book I read showed a girl smiling while reading a book on the top of a huge pile of trash, as if she were the top star ornament of a Christmas tree. Hilarious. This poem got a thank you from my own mouth because it’s fun to read. Then, I give you the boa. Who among us has not, at one time as an adult, felt the sensation of constriction?

Where the Sidewalk Ends

From the book "Where the Sidewalk Ends" (1974)

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.


Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout


Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout
Would not take the garbage out.
She'd wash the dishes and scrub the pans
Cook the yams and spice the hams,
And though her parents would scream and shout,
She simply would not take the garbage out.
And so it piled up to the ceiling:
Coffee grounds, potato peelings,
Brown bananas and rotten peas,
Chunks of sour cottage cheese.
It filled the can, it covered the floor,
It cracked the windows and blocked the door,
With bacon rinds and chicken bones,
Drippy ends of ice cream cones,
Prune pits, peach pits, orange peels,
Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,
Pizza crusts and withered greens,
Soggy beans, and tangerines,
Crusts of black-burned buttered toast,
Grisly bits of beefy roast.
The garbage rolled on down the halls,
It raised the roof, it broke the walls,
I mean, greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,
Blobs of gooey bubble gum,
Cellophane from old bologna,
Rubbery, blubbery macaroni,
Peanut butter, caked and dry,
Curdled milk, and crusts of pie,
Rotting melons, dried-up mustard,
Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,
Cold French fries and rancid meat,
Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.
At last the garbage reached so high
That finally it touched the sky,
And none of her friends would come to play,
And all of her neighbors moved away;
And finally, Sarah Cynthia Stout
Said, "Okay, I'll take the garbage out!"
But then, of course it was too late,
The garbage reached across the state,
From New York to the Golden Gate;
And there in the garbage she did hate
Poor Sarah met an awful fate
That I cannot right now relate
Because the hour is much too late
But children, remember Sarah Stout,
And always take the garbage out.

Boa Constrictor

Oh, I'm being eaten

By a boa constrictor,

A boa constrictor,

A boa constrictor,

I'm being eaten by a boa constrictor,

And I don't like it--one bit.

Well, what do you know?

It's nibblin' my toe.

Oh, gee,

It's up to my knee.

Oh my,

It's up to my thigh.

Oh, fiddle,

It's up to my middle.

Oh, heck,

It's up to my neck.

Oh, dread,

It's upmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff...