dark green smell and twilight noises; her little hand soft in mine her little voice clear and fine up the hill chattering small animal voices hers and theirs both I suppose then a gasp, a quick look, tense pose we all stopped, breath quickly froze young to old, known to new, waiting, wondering what to do we, the mothers, loosened, breathed, saw our eyes and then knew with no words, but metered gaits glances relaxed after the wait mothers know human or doe that girls and fawns in shady trees will be safe when a mother sees in the quiet of that hour tangible with our feminine power we allowed slow time to flow teaching our young how to grow when we left that little glen no bolt was launched by us or them a simple look, two goodbyes exhaled one wave by hand and one by tail.
Monthly Archives: July 2009
The Terrible Tweenage Monster
He grumps and he growls. He thumps and he howls, that all is not right during the day and the night. When the tv's not on or the channel is wrong and he just hates this song. Plus his sister's along when she doesn't belong! But then at night or after a fight it seems he just might, ask for the light, to be lit by his bed. And...could Mommy feel his head and maybe after a story's been read, he'll laugh at what his sister said. As he settles in, with sleepy eyes and a grin, he hints with his tone it might be nice to be at home!
“Vogon Poetry is widely accepted as the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their poet master, Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem, Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in my Armpit One Midsummer Morning, four of his audience died of internal haemorraging, but the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. The absolute worst poetry was written by Paul Neil Milne Johnstone of Redbridge, Essex. Luckily, it was destroyed when the Earth was.”
My great fear of poetry comes from the quote from the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It is true. Some poems are awful. I don’t want to write awful poetry. But, for my girl, who loves poetry I plan to scrapbook some poems about her. Do Not Say It Is Good If It Is Not!
School with Golden hair and Pink
You weren't afraid to go in the BIG KID school. It wasn't new, not to you. Little sisters know the rule, of what's cool, at that BIG KID school. Except for the PROBLEM with PINK, not purple or blue. That made you think just who were you! And what was she and her friends there too? So that's how we learned what little girls do; when they're together those birds of a feather. But with teachers and Dad, help with amends you were able to be second best friends. In fact you were glad, to bring puppies and bears, sit on the little chairs, playing in the house, listening quiet as a mouse, playing hounds and foxes, having lunch boxes, reading from books, giggling at silly looks, standing in line, and then it was time, when the singing was sung and after zoo fun, all said and done, the year had been won. Now my snug little bug with your flowers in a row, off to grade one my girl you will go.