Posts Tagged ‘bed’



Today it’s very cold outside
Drippy nose
Frozen toes
Weather’s right for a nice sled ride
Cough and wheeze
Great big sneeze
Snow-fun beckoned, and so I tried
Slipped and fell
Painful yell
Bruised my body and my pride
Home in bed
Bandaged head
Tomorrow I will stay inside

1/4/90 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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kukla fran ollie

This is a photo of Fran and her puppets from KuKla, Fran and Ollie.

My sisters and I went to the Don McNeil Breakfast club show, in 1949. That’s the show KuKla, Fran, and Ollie got their start on. We met several of the cast members by being called upon, because of this poem and the one posted tomorrow. Don came down from the stage, and had us read the poems I had written. Here’s the poem I read, on the radio. Please note, this was also written in 1949.

To bed at ten – a restless night
Up at four – our heads are light
Ready at five – to train by six
So excited – act like hicks
Chicago by seven – Opera House at last
Now to see that wonderful cast
So here we are, and you can’t match our rage
We’re so darn far back, we can’t see the stage

Aug.1, ‘49 Phyllis VanVleck

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A Blanket of silken thread


“I’m looking for a place to rest,”
Said the fly to Mrs. Spider,
As he lit and sat beside her.

. . .

“Oh, weary fly, please be my guest.”
“I’ll make for you a comfy bed,
And blanket you in silken thread.”

9/8/94 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

3’rd … Arkansas NPD 1997

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Here I sit, under a mulberry tree,
tongue hanging in the dust, after that pull uphill.
That was my last farm pull,
and now I’ll sit here as a relic
for city folk to ogle , and say, “How quaint”.

I like sitting here, mulberries covering
my floor. Children clamoring aboard.
Boys pretending there are horses ahead,
calling commands they’d heard from Grandpa.
Soon spiders will build in my corners,
tickling my boards with their long legs.
The old cat will find a spot under the seat,
where she’ll have her last litter,
on a pile of old gunny sacks.

I have served three generations,
my bed carrying a little of everything . . .
grain, corn, pumpkins, rocks. A farmer’s
wagon, that’s all, but I even carried old Elmer
to his last resting place, out beyond the hill.

I had some exciting times. I loved
the Farmer’s Market every Friday, listening
to their friendly bets on who grew the largest
the best, the tastiest. I was always proud of
what I carried, and my bed was empty before
the day ended. Tired farmer. Tired horses.
Tired old wagon.

Now my backboard flaps loosely in the wind,
about to fall off. I don’t suppose it will be
missed for a while.
Not until fall, when the hay-rides start.
A few repairs here and there, so
those city folk, can ride down a dusty country lane,
my squeaks and creaks adding to the aura.
My old wheels can turn a few more times,
and my bed will like the warmth of the hay
spread on my floor.

I’m the old wagon that sits under the mulberry tree,
The relic that city folk love to ogle.

Then came the next generation using me as
intended, especially on Fridays
at the Farmer’s market. That was exciting’
farmers comparing crops
who has the biggest, who has the brightest.
I was proud of my load.

The 3’rd generation debated about keeping me
but used me for hay-rides. What fun.
Floor covered with straw, children and chaperones
laughing and singing, as the horses
trot along country roads
my squeaks and creaks adding to the aura.

Now I am part of the scenery
Perhaps “my” last resting place. I stand
under the mulberry tree as a relic from the past
yet I long to trail along behind the horses,
out in sunny fields of harvest.

8/ 27/06 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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Spider tricks



“I’m looking for a place to sleep,”

Said a fly to Mrs. Spider,

Then folding in his wings

He sat right down beside her.


“I’ll make for you, the softest bed,

And weave it with my silken thread.

It will keep you warm and snug.

It’s what I do for fly or bug.”


“So come on in and sit on my throne,

And be my guest, my very own.”

The fly, impressed by what she said,

Fell asleep as she made his bed.


A cunning spider, that was she.

In tricking him so easily;

And if you ever wonder why . . .

He was her dinner, that poor fly.


2/27/03              Phyllis DeWitt-VanVle

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