One Inch Tall by Shel Silverstein

If you were only one inch tall, you'd ride a worm to school.

The teardrop of a crying ant would be your swimming pool.

A crumb of cake would be a feast

And last you seven days at least,

A flea would be a frightening beast

If you were one inch tall.

If you were only one inch tall, you'd walk beneath the door,

And it would take about a month to get down to the store.

A bit of fluff would be your bed,

You'd swing upon a spider's thread,

And wear a thimble on your head

If you were one inch tall.

You'd surf across the kitchen sink upon a stick of gum.

You couldn't hug your mama, you'd just have to hug her thumb.

You'd run from people's feet in fright,

To move a pen would take all night,

(This poem took fourteen years to write--

'Cause I'm just one inch tall).

Quote by Shel Silverstein

“This bridge will only take you halfway there, to those mysterious lands you long to see. Through gypsy camps and swirling Arab fair, and moonlit woods where unicorns run free. So come and walk awhile with me and share the twisting trails and wonderous worlds Ive known. But this bridge will only take you halfway there. The last few steps you have to take alone.”

Bus Trip by Susan Mitchell

All across America children are learning to fly.

On a bus leaving New Hampshire, on a bus

leaving Colorado, I sat next to a child

who had learned how to fly

and she carried her flying clenched

inside both fists. She carried her flying

in a suitcase and in a stuffed dog

made of dirt and the places where she had stood

all night listening to the rain. A child sits

on the roof of a house, she dangles

first one leg, then the other,

as if she were thinking

of how America looks late at night

through the windows of a bus.

From a woman across the aisle, she borrows

a mirror, from a woman in the back

a lipstick. Keep it, a voice says.

From a man she takes a cigarette,

which she taps against her thigh.

The man closes his eyes

over her body, such a small body

he could lift it to his mouth

with one hand. In a bathroom she buys a comb

with a quarter borrowed from me

and insists I write down

my name and address so she can return it

from L.A. or from Chicago or from wherever it is

someone she hasn't met yet is waiting for her.

In the dark of the bus she combs her hair.

And what she says to me is a song

that takes only three minutes

to hear, which I accept

like a stick of gum. Now you tell me

the songs you like best,

she says.

And I do.

Phenomenal woman by Maya Angelou

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say,
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman

Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.

Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me.