Monthly Archives: July 2009

stopping in a glen on a summer evening

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.
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Vogons Beware

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!

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Hey, I wrote poetry. I think it doesn’t suck.

“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.

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