For this week’s prompt, write a baby poem. The poem could be about a human baby, animal baby, or any other type of baby (alien, plant?). Remember: Baby could be an expression used to describe an adult’s baby-ish behavior, or a term of endearment. Heck, I’m sure someone might even try to write a poem about the candy bar that has baby in its name.
Here’s my attempt:
“Baby, baby”
Baby, baby, don’t cry at night.
Baby, baby, don’t fuss and fight.
Baby, baby, just smile and play
like tomorrow is still today.
When the diapers need to be changed
or the teddy bears rearranged,
just remember you’ll be all right.
Baby, baby, don’t cry at night.
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Want more poetry? Check out these previous posts:
- 2013 April PAD Challenge: Guidelines. The poeming starts on April 1 and runs each day until May.
- 5 Ways to Revise Poems. Face it: writing is fun, but revision is where the magic happens.
- WD Poetic Form Challenge: Pantoum. Rhymes, refrains, and the latest poetic form challenge champion.
I,
at first,
breathe only air,
my lungs, foreign sacs,
inflating and deflating with light.
What is this, around me, surrounding
me in what I can only assume
is light? But is that the proper word?
We come into this world so knowledgeable and wise
only to have to learn to speak the language of man.
It’s gone too soon.
When we become upright,
we cling to the clouds only to find
they sift through our fingers.
When comes the point we no longer bend
but break and snap and collect rust?
When comes the day of reckoning?
“What is this quintessence of dust?
Man delights not me.”
‘TWAS BABY
‘Twas baby who saved my life,
‘Twas baby that made everything alright,
‘Twas baby who made me see the light,
‘Twas baby.
‘Twas baby where it all began,
‘Twas baby made me say “I can”,
‘Twas baby my heart lays in the sand,
‘Twas baby.
‘Twas baby no more lies,
‘Twas baby, no more cries,
‘Twas baby all high fives,
‘Twas baby.
‘Twas baby I will say “I do”,
‘Twas baby I know it’s only you,
‘Twas baby I know this love is true,
‘Twas baby.
LaSteph
Babies can certainly change a person’s life: most people they change for the better. Some people they change for the worse. I know my son changed my life. I like this poem a lot.
I invite you to submit to my magazine: Mid-Ohio Valley Poetry Magazine. E-mail for particulars at chaplainmarvinwv@gmail.com We pay $15.00 per issue if we use your poetry or a subscription for one year. Subscriptions rates are $15.00 postal and $10.00 e-mail. I hope I’m allowed to say this.
come follow sweet foal
by juanita lewison-snyder
come follow sweet foal,
into this field of poppies
red and yellow and green
beneath your newborn frogs so tender.
we’ll follow your dam to where
the best grass lies still
for hide-and-seek and nap taking.
i’ll tickle your muzzle hairs
and pretend-brush the russet down
that is your hide until you
rear, or snort, or nip back in jest.
we’ll spend the coming summer
catching reflections in one another’s eyes,
and savoring golden delicious apples
under blue skies and summer rains
while you grow into the leather halter
i made for you when you were but
a small teddy bear tucked
safely away in your mother’s belly,
and i first heard your soft whinny
impatient against her womb,
eager to bring the welcome banner
to us instead.
© 2013 by Juanita Lewison-Snyder
Lambs
Already branded
they toddle
on unsteady legs
behind their
mothers in the
muddy field,
charges of long
tradition, herders
from the Pyrannes,
their ancestors
have surrendered
themselves
still mild
to feed and warm
ours. How
painful to give
thanks.
Baby
Tiny bundle
(pink or blue)
of smells –
we love you!
“No, let me. I’ll show you how to do it right.”
An hour past, “No, you can’t hold him like that.”
“You’re spoiling him,” she says later that night.
And in the morning, “You shouldn’t let him fuss so long.”
I remember the days, weeks and months,
The years of terror. All that time
I was convinced I would screw you up.
That I was doing it all wrong.
Her constant admonitions,
Her thirty-year-old, out-of-date advice.
“He’s teething; he’ll catch a chill.”
Never-ending “When I had my children…”
But you grew up
Happy, strong, and I am proud.
Maybe an issue or two
That were caused by my over-careful touch.
But you turned out all right,
Didn’t you?
I watched you grow taller than me.
And smarter.
And kinder.
And as you found someone else
To replace me, as the most important woman
In your life.
And as she cradles that little bundle,
Holding him tight,
My old heart beats lighter.
I watch her fumble,
Until she finally has him swaddled tight.
And I smile, and I say,
“You’re doing great.”
Makes me smile.
Perfect love
Nine month’s I carried you,nine months I loved,talked and sang to you as you grew and formed into what God intented for you. Then the day came for me to see you! Such a perfect baby and as I laid eyes on you,you took my breath away. On that day my life was changed and I knew it would never be the same. From a beautiful baby to a wonderful man you have grown. I held you through sickness,tears,laughter and fears. I taught you to crawl and walk and most of all I told you about God. Now I must let you go,for you’re not a little baby anymore. But in my heart you will always be my baby and I will always love you so.
ON THE DELIVERY FLOOR
Babies
sometimes may be
heartaches, other times, not;
but always blessings, whomever
they be.
Daddy’s Girl
He guffaws at the idea;
still so small in his eyes,
incapable of fending
for myself.
The disbelief was present
in the aching tear on his
cheek last year- when he passed
my hand to another man.
Now they well up again,
just thrice in his life.
Each instance relating to
his little girl.
A birth, a re-birth, and now
another birth; his nostalgic
gaze conveys his stoic
happiness.
I will always be his baby.
This recalls the old song for me. Very well done. thanks.
TURNING ASIDE
Your eyes have the glow of the morning,
when sunrise is warming the earth,
but yet have a touch of a warning
that their laughter may not convey mirth,
and in time I took heed of the warning
that my dreams and your ways would collide,
and left you, one late summer morning,
for, baby, you’re cold inside.
I love the simplicity. Excellent.
Thank you.
Just stopped in to read a few – for a few moment – caught your comment to another poet – you say you’re “new to this?” well you are a natural – and must have been writing in your heart or simply not sharing for all your years – this poem is elegant and lovely … Bravo
I thought it would be fun to do a child’s point of view! Please leave comments to help me improve! I’m just starting out! Thank you!
“New Brother”
Brother, why do you yell?
I’m in my room.
and as mom sleeps in her shell,
I’m left to doom.
“Taking a nap”
is what she said,
leading to mishap
with the fenced-in bed.
Why is it I,
the one stuck for the clean?
Your not very shy,
though, not to be mean.
All my time that you shave!
I’m not a full-time volunteer!
Merely a standing slave
for our mom, over here.
Truly, I say,
It’s impossible to avoid,
to awake, night and day,
frazzled and annoyed.
I know it’s not your fault
but it’s easy for me to accuse
and not so much as halt
when you have no voice to use!
But even if I feed jar food
while staring at my typer,
watch your childish mood
and change your diaper,
you can’t make me
not like you…
But to let you know,
it’s in the beginning
that all sibling rivalry begins.
I am new to this myself, and so am hesitant to suggest anything, but I think “Your” in the third stanza should be “You’re.” I think the double turn at the end is very effective.
Hello there and WELCOME… a delightful twist from the child’s point of view … the rhythym is wonderful – I would just re-read and perhaps tweak a tiny bit when the beat may sound the tiniest bit off – but all is all a fun read ! The only major change I might make IMHO (in my humble opinion) would be to continue the rhyme in the last line with pehaps
But to let you know
it’s in the beginning
that all sibling rivalry begins to grow!
whoops posted before I could correct the typo above .. should read perhaps (obviously)
DOLLS
Faux offspring, pink plastic
with fluttering lids, pudgy
thumbs fitted to their
socketed lips, they lay
in their boxes waiting to
wet or waaa, infantile
facsimiles we’ll drag by
heel or threaten to throw
out the window until
our sisters cry, or plop
into a manger under
a nailed-up star, or
find orphaned in a heap
by a trailer’s shell or
musing in a dusty chair,
those hard eyes almost
closed, remembering
their molten birth,
the steel mold that
determined everything.
The most creative of all so far, I’d say. Wonderful!
Clever! Bravo, Brian!
Out of the mouths of babes
Philosophers come from the oddest places
Theories of imaginable spaces
Innocent no influence or trace of
Outside waste, they’re all true aces.
Wow… can’t believe I missed that… sorry!
Peas to Blueberries
I handle all that comes
But the news of being a great aunt
Auntie my baby’s the size of a pea
The news was great felt old but happy
Being a great aunt
And mom, telling mom and no reaction
The news was great felt old but happy
But now as I hold mom’s hand tears come
Mom, telling mom and no reaction
No laughing excitement at being a great grandmother
Now as I hold mom’s hand tears come
And I cannot go on.
No laughing excitement at being a great grandmother
I handled all that came
And I cannot go on.
Auntie my baby’s now the size of a blueberry
Grandbabies
I think of Hannah of the Bible
who had competition
from her husband’s other wife
who ridiculed her for being barren.
Her husband said, “Don’t I
mean more to you than ten sons?”
Hannah begged God for a baby
in such a way the priest
thought she was drunk.
So if you see me at church
and think I’m inebriated
I’m just begging God for grandbabies.
I love my husband and children
but they don’t fill the bill
for ten grandchildren.
now that I have two, I totally get this Connie
Two left feet
Leaking transmission fluid
Runaway baby
One Year.
One year gone,
the year of “firsts”–
First Thanksgiving
First Christmas
First birthday.
First anniversary.
One year gone,
one year since
you didn’t wake up
in the morning,
leaving me dangling
from this earth
by a fraying strand
of thread.
“One year gone”
births in me
a baby-sized hope
for the next year:
for less sorrow,
fewer tears,
and a stronger tie
to this earth
where you no longer
live.
So sorry for your loss, Julie. Praying that your baby-sized hope will be fulfilled.
Oh, julie. This is just beautiful. My heart aches for you.
</3
This is so poignantly told, esp the second stanza – my heart aches for yours
Thank you, all–it’s been a tough one! But i do have smallish hope, and i will work toward better days.
It was just a year ago this past weekend that my sister died at 62. It’s been amazingly harder than i thought to deal with!
Oops, sorry Julie I had you mixed up with someone one here whose baby had passed away awhile back. So I’m praying your baby sized hope will grow into adult sized.
I have four sisters and I know it would be extremely difficult to lose one.
Oh, Julie … it’s so, so hard. My heart goes out to you.
Nothing more can be said – but you’ve put the tears into words – the searing painful ache into words of beauty and – we read – and we share – with full hearts and for many I am sure like myself through eyes blurred with tears.
Baby, I Love Those Paws
Still, silent, resembles
stuffed animal with big
button eyes, wide nose,
black and white body.
Tumbling fur crawls
toward bamboo to chew,
chubby paws rake the ground.
Happy baby panda.
Who Knew
The girls grew up, became the kind
Of women we knew they would
Kind, compassionate, caring—selected
Men we could only have wished
For them, dreamed about—perfect
Choices both of them—we breathed
Easy—not sad empty nesters, relieved.
Then, in what seemed like a heartbeat
We learned we were about to be grandparents
It seemed a surreal concept at first
Right up until those first sonograms
Especially the video when you turned
As if looking straight at the camera
And opened your eyes—we were goners—
In love with a baby not yet born
We tried—oh how we tried baby boy
Not to be too excited about your impending
Birth—not to be overly crazy about the idea
Of you—to no avail—you had my heart
In your tiny unborn fist and were squeezing
The life out of it—long before you arrived
How does it happen I wonder
That out of nowhere this love develops
So strong that I knew, without question
Another child was coming into the world
That I would gladly throw myself under a bus for
Should the need ever arise …
It is one of the great mysteries of life I don’t need
To know the answer to but I do wonder…
Awwwww Sharon…. “heart in your tiny unborn fist and were squeezing” Awww Sharon… wow!
Sorry everyone. I don’t know what I did to double-post. :0
The Cradle Robbers
While preparing my
evening salad, I
set the ingredients
out on the butcher
block in a row:
spring greens (a delicate
mixture of baby
spinach, baby
lettuces and
radicchio); gourmet
baby seedless
cucumbers; baby
carrots; chopped
walnuts; raisins and
oh, and I almost forgot
the tomatoes. When
I was young, (back
when mere mortals
like us didn’t eat
gourmet anything,)
we had regular tomatoes
and cherry tomatoes—
which were small,
like cherries.
Now-a-days,
cherry tomatoes
are like cups
of coffee—large,
grande and super
grande. I usually
get grape tomatoes.
And like their
name-sake, their
shape and size
tend to vary—some.
But what with
nearly everything
else be a ‘baby’
something, I
tend to think of them
as baby tomatoes.
So with that in mind,
when I find some that
are especially
small
it makes me think
of the harvesters
as cradle robbers.
Ellen Knight 3.13.13
The Cradle Robbers
While preparing my
evening salad, I
set the ingredients
out on the butcher
block in a row:
spring greens (a delicate
mixture of baby
spinach, baby
lettuces and
radicchio); gourmet
baby seedless
cucumbers; baby
carrots; chopped
walnuts; raisins and
oh, and I almost forgot
the tomatoes. When
I was young, (back
when mere mortals
like us didn’t eat
gourmet anything,)
we had regular tomatoes
and cherry tomatoes—
which were small,
like cherries.
Now-a-days,
cherry tomatoes
are like cups
of coffee—large,
grande and super
grande. I usually
get grape tomatoes.
And like their
name-sake, their
shape and size
tend to vary—some.
But what with
nearly everything
else be a ‘baby’
something, I
tend to think of them
as baby tomatoes.
So with that in mind,
when I find some that
are especially
small
it makes me think
of the harvesters
as cradle robbers. Ellen Knight 3.13.13
(write a baby poem)
Just double the deliciousness. ^_^
Smokey’s Miracle
She sat up with him crying
every night, him already a big boy,
his legs too long for her lap,
but still aching, whimpering
on her shoulder, held
by her round arms.
She could not remember
a single verse, but she could hear
Smokey Robinson crooning
in her head and followed his lead
Ooooh, baby baby
oo-oo-oo-oooh, baby baby
over and over patting him
to that rhythm, until his tears
stopped and his breathing
changed from hurt to helped.
Then she sang it for herself.
<3
Small Lessons
All baby
things are dear, even
those who grow
fangs, claws, angry hungry maws.
Innocent eyes shine.
Once babies
learn something of what
they are, they
start to teach us what we are,
nurtured nature, hope.
this is lovely Jane, and true
This is so true! I have learned so much about myself since I had my two little ones! Very nice.
Baby
Back in the days when I thought I’d
always be your baby. “Don’t leave
so soon,” I so naively cried.
I never thought you’d make me grieve
back in the days when I thought I’d
always be your charming child bride
How did you learn not to believe?
Back in the days when I thought I’d
always be yours. Baby, don’t leave.
Diana Terrill Clark
aww
A babe in the world among the literary deities
I coo in metaphors and smiles
So sweet to the hearing and in the reading too
A newbie to language my contributions I’m egger to make
The quill in hand like the rattle of a babe
Astonished and amazed at the melody’s I hope to create
I set my sail a midst the parchment a vastness of papaya
Destination not always known I experiment as I go
Compass points made up as my quill sails the parchment sea
Seeking new adventures new worlds and creations
A bud before it blooms a beautiful flower soon to bring forth
This is where I’m at a new born babe in the literary arts
A literary master I hope to someday grow to be
A literary masterpiece I hope will someday come out of me
A poet in diapers at the moment I be
A poetic babe yes that’s me
BEHIND CHAINLINK
So many rejects here –
a three-legged greyhound pup who’ll never race;
a gangly colt too ugly to be shown in halter;
one astigmatic alley-kitten who can’t focus
on the smallest, slowest rats;
a gosling with no sense of vector
who’ll never join the migratory flight.
What becomes of this menagerie of infant failure?
How can these misfit babies
find their place in a world entranced
with stardom and the rapacious bottom line?
Very raw and unapologetic. I like it!
Goodness, yes.
It almost hurts to read this; reminds me of something I wrote about the indifference of nature, but your point is more poiinted than that.
LIGHT SLIP
There is a spotlight, called a baby,
to weakly light some places;
it’s often used on stages, maybe
to heighten weakened graces.
An old director once caused furor
before we broke for dinner;
he saw an actress in the mirror
and said, “Get a baby in her.”
Oh no!
Baby’s Lovin’ Arms
Beamin’ in my baby’s lovin’ arms
Beamin’ in my baby’s lovin’ arms
I’m hot under the collar, waitin’ round the holler
To shine in my baby’s lovin’ arms
✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧
You know I think I’ll take that girl a fishin’
For those sweet times in her arms I’m a wishin’
To pamper and a coddle her, maybe even fondle her
When I’m grinnin’ in my baby’s lovin’ arms
✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧
I think I’ll take that old motorhome for a ride
A few scratches and dents never damaged my pride
Keeps my checkbook in the red
Pains my back and aches my head
When I’m glowin’ in my baby’s lovin’ arms
✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧
Nothing she ever does seems to bother me
Our love’s as plain as day for all to see
From the mornin’ when the red bird sings
Till the evenin’ I’ll ride angel wings
When I’m beamin’ in my baby’s lovin’ arms
✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧
Anything my dear darling’s heart desires
You know I’ll stop at nothing, I’ll never tire
Come a little closer and I’ll make it clear
Find a job for my sweetheart dear
So she can support me for the rest of my life !!
© ~ Randy Bell ~ 2013
How did you do those diamonds!?!
Very lyrical and sweet. Nice job.
Very cool! Have you written a tune for it yet? It BEGS it!
The melody for New River Train might work.
Did You Say Bay B?
Twenty-six loading docks labeled A thru Z
Trucks loading and unloading have it down to a T.
Forward, reverse without scratch or dent
All day and all night without relent.
A radio call from truck 173,
“At which bay do you want me to be?”
I carefully check the dock list and see,
“Bill, please pull in to loading bay B!”
So clever!
I Was a Teenage Breech Baby
Turns out
I was turned around
ready to get the ground
running
before I could
walk
talk
balk
Chalk it up
to experience
some people
have their head
up their asses
in greater masses
these days
it seems to me
they all need compasses
to find their way
find themselves
and not their
aliases
Fill their glasses
with liquid courage
try to discourage
the fear
inside
they hide
at the bottom
of a
bottle
doddle
Throttle back
just let it
go
grow
know
Crow
if you like
no one will listen
until you give
in
win
Sin
not or be damned
for all eternity
until you
repent
relent
Spent
all my money on the
minister
sinister
Sister
helped me
grow
know
Sow
what you reap
or is it the other way
around
ground
Pound
of flesh
sacrifice
once or
twice.
Love this. ^_^
Baby Blue (or pink?)
And the baby said
“Wah!”
Cry baby cry
it builds character
puts hair on your chest
you’ll grow up big and strong
just like your daddy
now be a good girl
and go back to sleep.
Frazzled Limerick
By Madeleine Begun Kane
A frazzled new father named Jim
Bought his baby toy trains on a whim.
When his wife saw the gift,
She was terribly miffed,
So she yelled, “That’s for you. What’s for him?”
Madeleine Begun Kane
hahaha! Awesome!
Peter Pan stories -
a cute baby still sleeping,
dandelion dreams
Oh Adriana – I often write and think “dandelion dreams” – this is wonderful
Pop Star Baby
“Oh Babyyyyy, yeah,” sang the pop star,
and all the ‘tween girls screamed, “Me! Me!”
He could have sung the song off-key
or even just played air guitar.
The older kids yawn. “How bizarre.”
(And most adults somehow agree.)
But all the ‘tween girls screamed, “Me! Me!”
“Oh Babyyyyy, yeah,” sang the pop star.
Each generation claims, “By far,
OUR music was the best. And we
cannot quite get your ‘Wanna-Be.
This ‘new’ stuff makes us NU-CLE-AR!”
“Oh Babyyyyy, yeah,” sang the pop star.
###
I couldn’t agree more!
And we’re all babies when it comes to music choices
His Sweet Old Baby
Their kids blushed to hear him call her Baby.
What kind of talk is that for a grown man?
And their mama was sixty if she was a day,
hair gone to grey, waist thick, those lines
around her eyes carved by more than laughter.
Even worse, sometimes they’d catch them
all snuggled up, her in his lap in the den,
lights out, all but the TV, sound turned down.
Didn’t even have the decency to jump up,
to look embarrassed, caught like that.
Even in their teens, they’d realized other
fathers and mothers didn’t act that way.
Their friends felt free to barge right in
their parents’ bedroom unannounced.
Their own unspeakable fears went unspoken.
Not until she fell, broke her hip, daring
to laugh at what a cliché she had become
did they notice the fear mingled there
with the adoration, as he wrapped her
in his frail arms on the floor, waiting,
Knowing better than to move her,
to risk hurting her. His own tears
mingled with those she fought back.
Arriving on the scene, right before
the ambulance, they heard his wordless
lullaby, the song he sang to his baby.
oh Nancy – how precious this is – it rings with the kind of love we’d all love to have and the last verse is all too close to the truth – wonderfully written, as always
Oh, Nancy … all choked up out here …
You always, always amaze me.
baby poem
when it grows up,
this poem wants to be
a raging fire
a tumultuous sea
a prowling beast
a fierce and xx wind
(if only it would
grow.)
and then it
tumbled to the snow, and
discovered it was
something,
all along.
when it grows up,
this poem wants
to be
a quiet song.
.
Oops. Typo.
Correct, here:
baby poem
when it grows up,
this poem wants to be
a raging fire
a tumultuous sea
a prowling beast
a fierce and fearsome wind
(if only it would
grow.)
and then it
tumbled to the snow, and
discovered it was
something,
all along.
when it grows up,
this poem wants
to be
a quiet song.
.
just beautiful! it did grow into a song to me!
so cool De – really
Thank you, Ladies.
Forever in love with your words.
The writing workshop begins with a lecture
admonishment of the babies at the table
from the Matriarch of pretty prose
double spaced, named, numbered
your childish stories are not.
And where is your stack
of marked up, hacked up, amateur scribbled up copies.
How can we discuss these joyous, feeble jokes
if we can’t read from our notes?
Couldn’t you read between the lines of my
directionless letter?
Do you know nothing of this business?
Why on earth are you here?
A child I am to this world of round tables
butted up to make one
to rub egos in each others’ faces
our soothers clashed in storied war
our chests uncomfortable, tight
blocking knowledge and opinion
pressed by an angry mother of word
guarding the truths we all know but are scared to admit.
My writing is not the best
but neither is theirs
nor hers.
We’re all bobbing in the same boat
and the far shore hides from our pens.
We won’t make it if we don’t row, together
write from within
agree to disagree
to stroke each other’s fears
and encourage our creative talents.
Spit out that sickness, young child
Row, write, and grow.
Behold the truth and magic of all written words
Labeled, numbered, or not.
Awesome
great read
oh how spot on this is…
PREMONITION
When Ruth hit them out,
far, far out they stayed;
he had such great clout
in games that he played.
I learned, as a lad,
from old man McCabe:
“I knew what he had
when Ruth was a babe.”
you made me smile!
Thanks. That’s what I hoped for.
clever – and a great tribute to boot
BABY CARROTS
baby carrots dressed in orange
sweeter than candy
orangier than Halloween.
Peeled, cut and steamed,
slicked light with honey
and gleaming
bright!
Poetic form: Epulaeryu
nice blend of two prompts Misk – love “orangier”!
Of a Partially Smeared Journal – 1985
How do I begin to gather letters
that will convert words
to rise above their secular nest
and truly see what the heart
by this time revered?
Who can live singularly
as the extension of one’s self
develops and not call it a miracle?
Born and unborn,
we are a couple.
No other connection
pushes a better point
than what has become
of my belly.
You will give birth
to my first spring
of motherhood:
Please be patient
with me.
I was your keeper
before I knew
how to handle
two heartbeats.
You were born
at the bone of day
when the sun spread
its wings of light
as if to announce
“come see this spiritual being
called girl resting
under my high light.
Baby, my shadow was a bare
wall, but you hang the art
of your presence in it.
Yolee – I love this – my favourite of the day I think, especially the last stanza “but you hang the art of your presence in it”
Thank you,
Oh my … so moving …
“I was your keeper
before I knew
how to handle
two heartbeats.”
Love this.
Thank you, Marie. Glad this moved you.
IRRESISTIBLE YOU
Give me your irresistible smile,
That I’m told is more likely gas,
As here I wait, dear me alas,
while you cry and wail
Kick and flail
Until you decide
to give me your irresistible smile.
PENTA BABY
(Sing to the tune of Santa Baby)
Penta Baby,
Grow a flower for all to see.
Make it pretty, Girl.
Penta Baby, Grow another flower tonight.
Penta Baby,
Grow a flower for me, Oh yeah.
Make the garden pretty, Uh huh.
And make your Mama happy tonight.
Physics
So if I hit the chunky blue star
with my left foot and then pull
backwards on the green frog
the doorbell will immediately ring.
.
Except this time it didn’t work.
Maybe if I use the other foot
and then push the frog instead.
Or bite it. This is really tricky.
I’m pretty sure the set of keys
always falls downwards.
And beloved-goddess-woman
arrives whenever I scream.
You can take that one to the bank.
So you see it’s just the doorbell
thing that has me stumped. Wait:
maybe if I pull Mr. Rumpole’s tail.
I was just enjoying my empty nest, until I read this
My baby turned 21 yesterday.
You’re ahead of me by just a little bit – can’t imagine doing it all again!
aww – sometimes the magic works and sometimes…
Great title and well-observed humor. I like the voice of the baby and the truth of the poem.
This is GREAT FUN, Andrew! This: “beloved-goddess-woman
arrives whenever I scream” made me chuckle out loud here — all by big girl self.
And my favorite poem about my favorite baby, who is now 2 years old. Time is going way to fast.
PRINTS
(SOPHIE’S SONNET)
A woman knows instinctively, it seems,
Which moments will leave prints upon her soul.
Her future life weaves fabric through her dreams
And writes upon her heart, as though a scroll.
A woman thinks she knows what to expect
From pioneering moments in her world -
Anticipation of events’ effects,
And how her heart will feel as they’re unfurled.
Yet, there was I, as wholly unprepared
As if I’d never given you a thought.
My heart and hub were all-at-once ensnared –
I would convey in words, yet I cannot.
Sophia Rose: a gift from God above –
New life. New breath. New gift. New print. New love.
Oh MARIE!!! I cannot stay … popped in and oh my goodness… this is exquisite .. frame it for sweet Sophie
Gorgeous! New print, new love. This is wonderful, Marie.
Just beautiful. Yes yes!
I can’t stop reading this.
Oh, Marie. Perfect, perfect, perfect.
just adorable and perfect!
Oh Marie Elena – you have captured the exquisiteness of Sophia Rose and becoming her doting, loving, heart-ensnared Nona (you are a Nona, yes?) so beautifully, it brought tears to my eyes
Oh my … I haven’t been back out to read and comment as I LOVE to do. Stopped by briefly and discovered the kind and humbling comments. Thank you so very much, all! Wow…
Okay, Robert — I “bit.”
SWEET MYSTERY (an Epulaeryu)
American candy bar
Named for … Ruth Cleveland (?!)
“Nestlé make the very best
Chocolate!” Peanuts!
Nougat! Named after
Chicago’s
Babe (?!)
Fun! you made me smile, Marie!
we’re all babies when it comes to sugar!
Thanks so much!