A few updates: First, Market Mondays will resume next week. I was excited by that new feature, but then my grandfather passed away later on the same day, which completely drained away my time and attention. Second, I’ve started receiving selections from the screening readers for the April PAD Challenge.
For today’s prompt, write a childhood poem. My first thought is that this could be a poem about your own childhood, but also maybe someone else’s. I wasn’t thinking of a childish poem or poem with children in it, but I suppose both are fair game when considering childhood, aren’t they? As usual, I expect you to make of this prompt what you will–and have fun!
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Learn how to find more readers for your poetry with the Build an Audience for Your Poetry tutorial! In this 60-minute tutorial, poets will learn how to connect with more readers online, in person, and via publication.
Poets will learn the basic definition of a platform (and why it’s important), tools for cultivating a readership, how to define goals and set priorities, how to find readers without distracting from your writing, and more!
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Here’s my attempt at a Childhood Poem:
“florence”
this street seemed so much longer
in my memory & these homes
housed so many children
& i was one & i was one
we’d run next door & across
the street with our toy guns &
imaginations running wild
& spinning into the future
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Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community, which means he maintains this blog, edits a couple Market Books (Poet’s Market and Writer’s Market), writes a poetry column for Writer’s Digest magazine, leads online education, speaks around the country on publishing and poetry, and a lot of other fun writing-related stuff.
He used to ride his bike without any hands (or helmet), play a million variations of tag, and dream of jumping on a train and riding it to wherever the tracks would lead. And he’s the author of Solving the World’s Problems.
Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.
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Find more poetic posts here:
- What Is the Value of Poetry?
- 2015 April PAD Challenge: Next Steps.
- Kristina Marie Darling: Poet Interview.
PUPPY PLUNGE
Awake now –
bone of imaginary
creature in his mouth
dug out of the dark,
every day discoveries
fractured
granite uplift whimsy-weather –
how can we ever hold him
in tippity timbers, his
jaws itchy as spirit
kept blind in the womb,
let out on a world
measureless – that
netted fence we placed
over retaining-wall but he
plunges
quicksilver as wings over
rubble of Monday
scattered &
tatters of the
unplanned unexplained
vagaries of wind & sun he
walks the wall – kings-
X. He’s safe as he is brave.
Yes! I say but already he’s
zippity run gone.
Here’s the third in my series of poems inspired by Jane Hirshfield’s first section of poems in her new book, The Beauty, all of which have titles beginning with “My”:
My Childhood
I won’t bore you with the details –
it was just a normal life.
Well, there was the time
I was abducted by aliens –
no, they didn’t probe me;
they just gave me ice cream.
I was in a war, too, and I took the hill
for our side. Yes, I died a few times,
but a minute later I’d jump up,
a marvelous resurrection.
And I’ll never forget the day
I walked on the moon.
You can still see my sneaker prints
in the undisturbed dust.
Then there was the Indy 500,
where I lapped the competition.
and the Kentucky Derby
which I won by a nose.
Oh yeah, and I almost forgot
that walk-off home run I hit
in the bottom of the ninth to win
the World Series for the Phillies.
Like I said, a normal childhood.
Long Lake
Schools out
slap slap of flip flops
Kool-Aid mustaches
“Wild Thing”
gets your blood pumpin
cottages filling up
Seaman’s store opens
for the summer people
docks and boats ready
fish flies snap underfoot
parent’s drinking Drewrys
ice cold long necks
dad with his Lucky Strikes
mom prefers filtered L&M
crayfish hiding
tent pitched in the backyard
playing kickball in the street
nose buried in a book
antennae needs adjusting
Jackie Gleason is fuzzy
This kaleidoscope is familiar, especially the fuzzy Gleason. Those were the days when cigarettes were actually thought to be healthy; Camel had a T-zone ad in that regard. This was nice to read.
Thanks, I noticed after I sent it that I put an “e” on the end of antenna that don’t belong there!
When the Dreamer Dies
quick to catch the drips of chocolate ice cream
on the tip of her tiny pink tongue
the tastiest summer tradition she could think of
skipping down the path
worn down by so many others before her
to swings that take her up, up, and away
the happiest spring memory she could think of
bundling up in puffy coats
peeling off layers upon layers of wet socks
sipping chocolate and marshmallows
the warmest winter concoction she could think of
pulling on riding boots
running through the golden leaves that crunch beneath her feet
the only thing left to fall was herself
the fondest fall excursion she could think of
each season that passed brought new traditions
new memories, new concoctions, new excursions
new reasons to smile and laugh and look at the world with all the light in her eyes
but even the heart of smallest little girl
has to break eventually
This is mildly stupendous, in my opinion: so gentle, and such soft landing. Wonderful.
MEMORIALS TO A BOYHOOD HOME
In the center of our yard a flower bed grew,
a garden of beauty brought fully into view,
and in the center of the plot a pole was planted,
straight and true and never slanted
until the iron rusted after dad had died.
As a boy, I tried to shinny skyward to the top
of the flagpole that marked our place. A space
where Old Glory’s banner proudly flew, a wave
of red and white and blue unfurled and true
to mark a sailor’s port and an immigrant’s station;
a symbol of a valiant nation honored in its way.
Today the pole is gone. Fallen by rusts’s voracious
appetite. The naturalized citizen who saluted in reverence
to the land of his preference has been laid to rest.
The proud chest of the sailor rises and falls no more
his ship moored in its silent shore, his dutiful chore
is done. The memory of these people and places
is etched, their faces tattooed on hearts and minds that
held them dear. All that remains here is this banner aloft
crisp and clean, flown to keep their memories alive!
I commented on this at your Phoenix site, but want to add here that the whole flower bed imagery is so appropriate, in my view, especially the renewed pole.
Childhood: Theirs
High above my head
The water is careening
Out and over the edge –
White and foamy.
It crashes down the eroding rock face
Throwing itself carefree
Out and over
And over and onto
Onto and away
And away
Standing at the bottom
I stand, arms outstretched
Trying to grab hold of the spray
As it alights all over my face –
Runs like rivulets
Down my cheeks, careless
Out and over
And over and onto
Onto and away
And away
-Krina Ulmer
I love this. It creates wonder.
Childhood Home
It’s hard to go back. The houses
are miniature, shabby without chic.
We sit outside in the car and talk memories—
the time mother backed the car into the house,
missing the jog the driveway took. It’s less
funny today as one who would have to pay
for a moment’s lack of focus, the crumpled fender,
the busted tail light. Is everything like that—
as we grow, the humor shrinks into a hard
nugget, a rock in the gut? The backyard looks
small from here but I never played there,
no whiffle ball games, no hide and seek.
The park was a block down the hill
and to the right, the hill no longer so steep.
How did we sled it, those sharp winter days,
spinning in our saucers, breathless with fear
and with joy? We sit outside in the car, watching
the house with no one inside, no one to tell us
to come in, it’s too cold to linger, come into
this house where memories are warm.
Wow. This piece works!
A Mighty Oak
An old oak tree
One hundred or more
Only ashes remain
A landmark destroyed
Once a child of nature
The hurt still lingers
A hollow feeling prevails
Heads hang low
This moved me. Much.
Childhood Remembrance
By: Nurit Israeli
I was a grown-up child from
the very beginning, or so it felt.
The adults were busy surviving,
it was no time for children
to be immature.
The wars made me wary.
When sirens wailed, I feared
we might die. In the shelter,
I pretended to be brave but
was beside myself with worry.
I materialized amid multiple
miscarriages − a sole survivor.
On the wall by my bed, I drew two
make-believe siblings, a brother
and a sister, to keep me company.
The one room that was home felt
as safe as a womb. Food was
rationed, yet my mother worked
miracles with the little we got.
I was a bad eater, but I took in the love.
There were few toys and many
made-up games. There were bedtime
stories and lullabies, fervent debates
and prayers for peace: a small space
brimming with people and dreams.
I was aware of the hardships, though
whispered in Polish. I mastered
enough of my parents’ mother tongue
to understand. From early on, I did
my utmost to brighten their path.
Honestly, despite the hurdles,
there was much pride in trying
from the very beginning to do good
because, back then, doing good
mattered way more than anything.
Oh, it was trying at times, yet the air
was filled with the magic of ideals,
and yes, I’ll confess: the memories
that still linger with startling clarity
become dearer as time goes by.
The first line establishes the need to read this. Wonderful.
Oh, thank you, William!
Faith
I have an old,
old man’s body,
but I know,
know this:
there’s a happy,
happy child, deep,
deep in my heart.
Now you might say how,
how can I be so,
so sure, when I can’t,
can’t see it,
not even with the best,
best mirror.
Well, I might just answer
that I know,
know this in the same,
same way I know
there’s a Uncaused
Cause.
That’s all.
Love this, Daniel. A nod of recognition here too…
This poem is good, good
Those repetitions make this ring like altar bells.
I was thinking “church bells”, but “altar” is ok too…thanks for noticing
2 June 1953
Mama was tired of bobby pinning
my straight hair Saturday nights
to give me curls for church
so she bought the kit, Tonette I recall it was,
at the drugstore there by the A&P,
we went to Aunt Lucille’s, my daddy’s
favorite sister, she had the rods and such.
Uncle Ray had moved their big television
set from the wall to right in front of the
kitchen door, that didn’t make sense to me.
“Big day over in England,” Aunt Lucille explained,
“they’re crowning a queen and according
to the TV Guide we can watch it here.”
I was so excited I could hardly sit
still on that ladder-backed kitchen chair
while Aunt Lucille rolled my hair up tight
on about a hundred curling rods.
Mama had a surprise for me to look at
while I sat with stinging eyes from
all the stuff it took to fix my hair
a paper doll book with the Queen
her robes and jewels just like I was watching on TV.
Getting my first permanent wave could have
been real boring but the time just flew by
soon I was standing on the chair
with my head in the sink while Aunt Lucille
poured warm water all over my new curly hair.
Over there in London Elizabeth got her crown
at Aunt Lucille’s I got curls and paper dolls
and the memory of our coronation day.
Enjoyed reading this tale, Reatha!
Thanks for the memory….
The Question
The inquisitive nature of a child
leads one to reflect on the most
burning question of youth.
It’s not ‘what will I be when I grow up?’
or, ‘Is there a God up above?’,
but a simple nod to Dad’s driving skills
and the ultimate test of his patience
with the perennial favourite
‘Are we there yet?’
Ah! Spot on.
CRICKY ALLEYS
Childhood was different then.
Right across the street
the Crick was always there.
Home of soaker feet
and every triple dare.
In dry spells that crickle
was hardly a trickle,
But after a storm
the Crick would transform
into churning brown torrents
draining the land in a flood
of all things plus mud
downstream to Lake Erie.
Caught up and washed away
Still here today, by grace
and desperate reaching hands.
It never stopped the daily exploration,
learning nature on location,
from tadpoles and swimming holes
to dreaming dreams on lazy strolls.
Building rock bridges and dams.
getting out of boyish jams.
Childhood education was real
with a Crick as a classroom.
Across from the Crick
Behind the brick house rows
was a labyrinth world
that every kid knows.
The alleys hosted fantasy lives
where children just did it
Outdoors, rain or shine.
until dark or ’till nine.
The streets belonged to grown ups
but alleys were for kids.
Concrete play spaces
with trash can lid bases
After dinner the tribe would gather
Girls and boys of all ages, and sizes
escaping their homework
released from their chores,
they gathered for chase games
to just be outdoors.
The real magic of the alley
was not what the kids did.
but the world they created
just kids being kids
and kids making rules
learning more in the alleys
than locked in their schools
Somehow as the years have passed
the crick became a creek.
It’s now urban greenspace,
and has lost its mystique.
Not appropriate for
any child to explore
The alleys have crumbled.
Now they’re empty pathways
for cars to reach garages.
No kids running or funning.
Most importantly – no laughing.
Nature is experienced indoors
and games are played on phone screens
The kids are growing up too fast
Childhood is a thing of the past.
— by Tom Hayes
Of all things, this reminds me of the old Toonerville Trolley and Gasoline Alley comics, and the childhood scenes they offered. Thanks for posting.
Only a Child Can Dream
Lofty, unrealistic, ambitious thoughts
crowd the minds of children.
They view the world as
an expectant stage,
waiting…
for cataclysmic performances.
With painstaking sadness
too many turn their backs
on imagination and dreams.
Leaving “Puff” in the dust,
waiting…
for inevitable disappointment.
Greedy, unrealistic, ambitious schemes
motivate the adult majority.
Locking down emotions,
stoically advancing in all aspects,
loving…
the anticipation of the conquest.
With resonating gladness
several return to embrace
fantastic elements that
provoke imagination.
Loving…
infinite possibilities in the cosmos.
–ShennonDoah
Wow, the word choices are construction make this compelling. Wonderful.
Thanks, William.
Mother’s Purse
New or old,
it mattered not.
Brown or black,
I really don’t recall.
Still, certain scents
carry me away,
to carefree days
of childhood bliss.
The smell of tobacco
almost camouflaged
by open rolls of
breath mints.
The lingering hint
of sweet perfume,
maybe a tiny sample
sized vial of cologne.
And the residue of
hairspray on the
brush that
teased her hair.
After all these years,
I guess it wasn’t really
the aroma of “Certs”
over cigarettes.
Nor the common
fragrance of
“White Rain” or
“Chanel #5” either.
The bouquet of her
purse was wonderful
because it was hers,
and it smelled like…love.
Just wonderful.
A Child’s Country Prayer
Bless us as we run along fall-ripened trails;
protect us from the burrs that burrow into sweaters,
and woolens, warm and scratchy,
and wind-whipped stalks of golden spun wheat
that leave their marks on ankles and bare knees.
Forgive us for our squirmy bottoms on hard seats in
your house, and please let Pastor Matthews talk faster,
or say less, next week. I hope it’s not a sin to wonder,
but- I don’t understand why Mama gets mad at me for
twitching just a bit, while Papa’s snoring beside her.
Thank you for making sure those bales of hay were
in the barn today. Otherwise, I’d probably broke my
leg jumping off the loft! Papa says he’ll fix the tree swing
before the barn fixes me good. And, if you could,
please send more fireflies tonight… they’re really pretty!
AMEN
This is pure delight to read and imagine.
Thank you! What a lovely response!
Second Childhood, Unlimited
We sit half bored, half-envious,
as mothers-to-be open package
after package of much-needed
items every child must have,
things we never saw before,
things our mothers never used,
but aware that the world has
changed many a diaper since
we were children. We hold
up the tiny pinafores and onesies,
booties and blankets and touch
the softness of the material,
admire the smocking, the fullness
of infant wear and wish we had
something roomy and soft like
this to wear, something involving
feet and snaps along the crotch,
snuggle wear with kangaroos and
bunnies, wildflowers and embroidery
and soft soft soft as a sleeping
baby’s breath. We are adults
headed toward second childhood,
having reservations about the first one,
time pulling us as if we are skating
downhill toward a lake of Jell-O
and mashed potatoes, walkers gone wild.
We touch the softness and say,
“how sweet,” imagining ourselves
entrepreneurs of an industry called
Second Childhood, manufacturing
gigantic infant fashions for the aged
who are slowly coming home on
the outside rail, ready for
a comfortable change.
What a fascinating perspective! For me, “skating / downhill toward a lake of Jell-O” pretty much encapsulated it.
Yes, Jane, skating downhill, half-envious… Love your take!
“The Paletero* Man”
On the corner
I see the paletero man
The bells ringing
My eyes gleaming
Holding a dollar in my right hand
The warm air sticks to my body
The air smells sweet
The fresh cut grass is nice & neat
In the backyard is a party
The sun’s rays dance across my body
Filtering through the trees
My little sister looks up at me
Smiling as salsa music blasts nearby
I smile back as a car races by
Children run in the streets
Playing with peels of laughter to the music’s beat
I stand in my neighborhood
Wishing wishes that never could
Never could be
This is my home I never want to leave
Looking to where the paletero man stands
I think “this is MY land”
I grew up here
Never living in fear
The people the houses
Their culture surrounds us
Making us their family
Knowing one day soon this won’t be my reality
I yell out to the paletero man
Waving my dollar in my hand
My sister smiles at me
I smile back
As the paletero man comes down the block
*Note: Paletero is roughly translated to popsicle but a special kind of popsicle with different flavors (fruits, cookies, etc) and milk cream or water (more of a creamy texture than icy). The “paletero man” as he is called; walks around the neighborhoods pushing a freezer cart that has bells on the handle that rings as he is walking.
Although I don’t share the heritage, this makes me nostalgic for real neighborhoods. Wonderfully told.
Fabrication
A green scarf
looped across your waist,
tied at the side
as an exclamation point.
It set me spinning.
Where? I asked
are you going?
You said,
matter of factly,
dance class.
We were four.
I was allowed outdoors
in front of the house
or behind the house,
with my sister to the end of the street,
with my family in the car.
How the ends of that emerald tulle
t-r-a-i-l-e-d when you skipped,
a trail I followed…over the streets
past the cars out of the city
to the sea,
like a shimmery net
with ebb and flow
of cadency,
the deep green folds
billowing with treasures.
Yes,
my mother said,
I could go too.
~ Charise Hoge
http://www.mixandmosspoetry.com/
Ah, this is almost dreamlike in its flow. Superb work, in my opinion.
This was fantastic!
wonderful.
Thank you, honored by your responses!
Bicycle Motorcycle
My bicycle was so passé,
but it was all I could afford,
so I decided to make it a motorcycle,
with just a few pieces of old cardboard.
I folded strips of cardboard over,
clipped it in my spokes,
so when I rode my bicycle,
it made a noise for folks.
It was not a perfect plan however,
because if in reverse you slipped,
the spokes would catch the cardboard wrong
and your motor came unclipped.
This is delightful. Thanks for posting.
braids
good old boys beerchugging back to childhood
self-made slackers shooting selfie schtick
splinters of the elemental joy and how it felt
discovery excitement magnetic
currents coursing smells of spice embraces
warm and cozy comfort happy hugs
reminiscent retinue from far away still tied
to braids of childhood tethered heartstring tugs
by gpr crane
For me, this captures the free-association meanderings of memory. Wonderful.
Bat and Ball
The yard was small,
so we played with a
plastic bat and ball.
It was Yankee Stadium,
or Fenway Park,
depending on the call,
but we loved playing
‘plastic bat and ball’.
In our minds, we heard
the crowd roar.
The games were intense
in the summer heat,
running the bases
in our size five feet.
We’d have tournaments and playoffs
and championship series.
We played until our bodies
were rendered weary.
In our minds, we were
all-star squads.
Entire summers
consumed us all,
with our cherished
plastic bat and ball.
In our minds, we envisioned
them hanging around
the halls and walls
of Cooperstown.
This was how it was for me, too. Thanks for posting.
Grandchildren
I held my granddaughter,
one year old going on six,
on my lap, head laying
back in my arms.
Gazing into her sleepy eyes
watching her eyelids
grow heavy and droop as
I softly run one finger
over her pink satiny cheek, trace
my fingertip gently around her lips
touching her face like a whisper from
the wings of a butterfly.
My fingers brushed a stray
lock of soft silken hair back from
her face as she drifted off to sleep.
I think she knows Grandpa loves her.
Tenderness just oozes from this. Love it.
This one was super hard for me–but finally, we have something 🙂
Recapturing Innocence
“Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.” C.S. Lewis
I once had the power
to float down the staircase
and never touch
step nor rail…
when I am young,
again,
(or old enough)
I’ll try
walking on water.
Spot on!
thanks 🙂
nicely done!
thank you!
Love “when I am young, again, (or old enough).” Evocative and beautifully depicted!
INTO THE LOOKING GLASS
She ventures eager for a sign –
time-lapse compressed bytes like interstices
in a genealogy, how elements
combine and mutate out of nowhere – a chance
conjunction of stars, celestial beacon.
She waits accumulating
fingerprints on wireless mouse
like a personal history.
The message, her own enigmatic life-
line illuminated by the screen –
her birth, so recent, already lost
to her own memory.
lovely!!
Indeed!
A KITCHEN NOW, A WAGON THEN, AND YOU
When the gauzy curtains flutter over the kitchen sink,
they allow childhood memories to slip unbidden
into the room as fresh and fully formed
as if they’d taken place just yesterday and not decades ago.
More often than not, you come tugging your big burgundy
wagon with the wonky wheels, sometimes carting Nipper
our grey tabby, sometimes not.
I permit these to float around me and luxuriate in them
as they’re gentle and from before the hard times.
Back when you used to tell me your hair wasn’t dirty blonde,
it was varnish-colour; you’d stand against the door for proof.
Your eyes, still the colour of Lake Ontario in the sunshine,
were sparkly…happy coloured I think now, looking back.
Even in our kitchen I see you offering me a ride in the wagon,
know it for the ruse it used to be…really, I’ll end up towing
you somewhere, but it doesn’t matter, I’d do it gladly
if it brought you back to life.
I think this is remarkable. It reads as memory acts, in my opinion.
Thanks William; that’s kind of how it felt writing it, so I’m glad that’s how it reads.
This is so beautifully written, Sharon! I read and re-read this, enjoying it yet again…
A Wasp on a Leash
A snack-sized ziploc bag
with the crumbs of crackers
packed by mom
in its seams.
A gardening glove,
too big,
with its floral fabric
imitating the garden.
A spool of thread,
a cotton rivulet
trailing in the grass
we wished we were
old enough to cut.
A younger sister,
with her gloved hand
and darkened toes.
We caught our childhood
in the mouth of a
sweaty ziploc bag,
a whispering spirit cornered in plastic
before a slight hand reached in
pinching it between
thumb and finger,
so a clipped thread
could be strung around and tied.
But how little we knew then,
for not everything
must be leashed.
Hmmmm….. thoughtful piece, this.
“Too Young”
too young
to know what lies
beneath dark surfaces
innocent eyes
shields visions that would
damage naïve hearts
we all wish
to keep them locked
inside protective shells
too young
but in time they
all grow up
Ah, `tis true.
In the eyes of a child
friendship is colorblind
until someone comes along
and taints that innocent heart
drawing borders in fields
where we once roam free
Bingo! I hear echoes of Hammerstein’s Carefully Taught.
A haiku
Alone on a Stormy Night
by Arash
A yellow bulb lit
under my lone bed, moonlit.
Monstered light thunders!
Formatting screwed up, let’s try again:
A haiku
All Alone at Night
by Arash
A yellow bulb lit
under my lone bed, moonlit.
Monstered light thunders!
Dammit, old title. I won’t repost, just the title should be what it was originally, “Alone on a Stormy Night”.
Notwithstanding, the piece works.
Childhood
Childhood was the serial killer
who lived across the street from me.
I was unprepared for the violence.
I was just a naive child,
starved for affection, even then.
I wandered through the deep green woods,
hoping to find the perfect friend
I met him there, though didn’t know
enough to notice, friend or foe.
When you’re four, everyone’s a friend.
Something wrong, even then,
his family life felt not quite right,
but I just knew I’d found a friend.
There were no birds, where this boy lived,
no cats, nor dogs around these woods.
but the world was new and now I learn,
I was profiling even then.
Anne Michelle Cook
5/21/15
This brought me up short, especially the final line. Stunning.
Thanks! Yes it was shocking to me too. I never speak about that time and the fact that this was the image that came up for the childhood prompt, took me completely by surprise. I guess it is time to pull the pin out and see if it explodes. Lol
Wow – I like it!
little girl, what do you see?
what do you think
as you gaze about at mountains so high,
at skies white-splashed with clouds,
your lovely long hair flying,
your little body knowing not where to turn
at the wonder of it all.
and then a flower catches your attention.
a flower,
a common yellow flower
young and free like you and
you must have it.
so you pluck it with your strong brown fingers,
crouching in your little girl ease
and looking close,
examining the wonder of the world
all there in something so small
while the mountains rise in majesty nearby
and you play in the grass.
pick the flowers,enjoy them while you may
little one, for soon
you also will be wrenched from your roots
and the ordinary in your life
will never be important
again.
I hear echoes of Victor Herbert’s Toyland here.
i used to sing in my bedroom
&i was happy beyond all reason
beyond all crabgrass &homemade curtain
with bits-o-honey saved back on my shelf
farrah fawcett’s teeth were smiling at me
i was a horse with a mop for a mane
jumping puddles &jumping real hurdles
i practiced a hook shot over and up
and when it’s best to leap off from a swing
i raked the untouchable skies back then
i had no reason to think of the sea
with peas &carrots on brown china plates
thoughts on a ceiling; free-floating as dreams
and yes actually, i had a tree
with bendy branch for an elevator
among dad’s pompas grass &blue fescue
my bones willed themselves to be un-broken
i could go /toe-to-toe/ in /tic-tac-toe/
with anne murray or helen of ready
spinning their gold upstairs in my room
where i was happy beyond all reason
I love the almost surrealistic feel of this piece.
The Simple Joy
There used to be so much surprise,
Waiting beyond those stairs.
Boxes of all shapes and sizes,
Teasing us until tomorrow
When they would be torn, exposed,
Innards taken by tiny, tremulous hands.
Hidden within is what we hungered for,
What we harried and hassled for,
Until the overlords finally relented
And granted us our gaudy trinkets,
But under agreement of sealing them
Until some absurdly arbitrary date.
Yet the greatest gifts of all
Were the ones we could not predict.
Unexpected booty soon uncovered,
To keep impish rogues on their toes,
The wait suddenly becoming worth
Restraining our rascally ways for.
Like unwrapping the usual candies,
So unassuming they’d look, ordinary,
Until finding that sweet centre,
A secret flavour discovered,
Heaven to our innocent tongues,
Delirium in a tiny package.
Yes, a simple pleasure indeed,
Playing until pitch-black night,
With no cares or concerns,
And no place to be in the morn.
Precious gifts given to us by magic,
With no exchange expected.
But now, once we have grown,
It slips through our wrinkly fingers,
The simple joy of surprise.
We are asked what we desire,
Instead of anyone guessing,
So we long for those simple days.
The simple, precious days
Where anything surprised our little minds.
I think this is almost haunting in its wistfulness. Superb.
I’m very sorry about your grandfather, Robert.
Thank you, for the post.
🙂
Afield (a haiku)
Dreams and wishes plucked
dandelion blooms gone by
gathered in small hands.
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2015
this is just lovely, Miss Hannah 🙂
The “small hands” pout me at grass level. Wonderfully evocative.
As always, Hannah, so tenderly said. Lovely!
THE GOLDEN OLDEN DAYS
Liberty bodices, long woolly socks
itchy vests, gingham and candy striped frocks,
hand me down clothes from my richer cousin,
handed down then to another dozen.
Holidays were always spent in the sun
at holiday camps where we kids had fun.
No washing machines, fridges, nor TV’s,
our time was spent larking around in trees.
If we were naughty we would get a smack
and we would never dare to answer back.
Sixpence a week was our pocket money
and a treat would be crumpets with honey.
Jezzie,
I love this poem and one from an earlier post.
So, haunting and familiar memories, but I had a dime and biscuits & jelly.
Thank you
I adore this, even though some of the terms, such as “liberty” bodices, are unfamiliar.
Mine was just like this, only buildings lined up.
Oops! This was meant for Heather.
Childhood
a time wishes came true and happy endings sing a song of six pence
the tooth fairy always came left a penny under the pillow pocket full of rye
parents and grandparents would always be here ashes ashes
a small child with a child’s world view we all fall down
May 21, 2015
Childhood
a time wishes came true and happy endings sing a song of six pence
the tooth fairy always came left a penny under the pillow pocket full of rye
parents and grandparents would always be here ashes ashes
a small child with a child’s world view we all fall down
May 21, 2015
You have captured my childhood wonderfully!
These separations change the tone and tenor. Fascinating.
canada homes*
Muddy streets,
row upon row upon row,
houses line up shoulder to shoulder
like little soldiers ready for battle.
Brother and his friend play
with scaled down
construction trucks
imitating the men building
our neighbourhood.
My friend and I
act most unladylike
splash through new puddles
covering ourselves in mud,
getting hosed off before going inside
to rest up for tomorrow.
*Canada Homes refers to both growing up here in the Canadian Suburbs, and the developer of our massive subdivision.
also published (with a photo of me at that construction site) at http://heatherbutton.com/2015/05/21/canada-homes-a-poem/
What a charming picture, especially the hosing.