Not in verse – free or otherwise
I realized I’d better get back to A Mother’s Garden when I submitted a poem to my hometown’s sidewalk poetry contest and a week later, I can’t remember what it was. I think that means I need to start creating new material again, rather than dipping into and revising the old.
Suggestions for content welcome.
I wrote and posted this poem several years ago on a theme of “A Mother’s Dream of Peace.” In light of events in Charlottesville, It’s still relevant.
I dream that differences will be valued, not disdained.
Eye color, hair color, body shapes, and skin shades will be appreciated for their beauty and variety.
Cultural traditions will not disappear, but will thrive and grow together into a rich and fascinating sharing of knowledge and beliefs.
I dream that blindness will be merely a different way of seeing, and deafness impair only the quantity, not the quality of the language ‘heard’.
Children will matter because they own the future. Their education, academic and social, will become and remain of utmost importance.
Mediators and peacemakers will be recognized as the strongest leaders.
Questions will come from curiosity, not ignorance, and the answers will breed respect.
Knowing each other, knowing ourselves, will lead to knowing that fights and conflicts, wars of all kinds, can cease to be of value.
A caption could read “What happens when an overtired husband plays with the books on my dresser”.
I need to
Oh, no, first I should
But if I’m not
No one else can
Everyone counts on me
Did I forget to
I hate to, but if I don’t
If I don’t, who will?
I haven’t had a chance
I’ll do it myself, just as soon as
Don’t worry, I’ll get to it
We teachers take on so much,
We forget that we take it on voluntarily
And we forget it’s okay to say no.
We caretakers and quiet leaders need care, too.
It’s time we put ourselves first – and mean it.
Two tiny pieces
Little treasure chests built of sugar and cocoa, storing creamy caramel or peanut butter.
In their shiny pink and purple wrapping
Fit perfectly in the cozy cubbyhole beneath my car’s radio.
Sharing their intimate space with extra sunglasses, they wait patiently.
For the day they’ll be needed
When their sweet aroma
And savory filling
Will satisfy Mom or Dad or child or teen
Traveling a long distance
Or running errands until dinner time is past.
How long will these little treasures last?
They will provide pleasure far behond
What their diminutive size might suggest.
an elemental poem
Dripping, collecting, pooling
Who owns this water?
The people who pump it into their swimming pool, clean it with cholrine, and swim in it to ease the stress of daily living?
Mr. and Mrs. Mallard who are looking for a place to live?
Those who harness its power for the industries that give us jobs and products to purchase with our pay?
Those who live near it, on it, and in it?
Or those who pum it through miles of desert pipeline to reach their homes?
Those who sail on it?
The companies who bottle it to sell in stores, Or the people who pay for the bottles?
Of all the water on Earth
Those who drink from it
Those who bathe in it
Those who use it, treat it, Return it to its source
All use, and therefore share, ownership and responsibility for this precious resource.