Tag Archives: Poems about children

Easter Morning Confession

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Easter Morning Confession

“What’s all this hoopla over eggs
and animals with furry legs?”
My father chortled every year,
just loud enough for us to hear
while we lay scheming in our beds,
visions of rabbits in our heads
and candy eggs and chocolate,
wondering just where and what
we’d be hunting in the morning,
when, early and with no warning
we’d descend the long back stair
the earliest that we could dare
and set upon the living room
in the early morning gloom
to satiate that yearly lust.
We must have chocolate. We must!

Year after year, we slipped our gaskets
seeking to fill up our baskets.
Even now, that longing swells
when I hear those Easter bells.
So many years since I, a seedling,
commenced my yearly candy wheedling.

How many days, how many nights
did we anticipate delights 
well into our lower teens
of  Peeps and eggs and jelly beans.
and, best of all, that chocolate rabbit
became our yearly Easter habit.
Sitting regally on its ass
amidst the bright green Easter grass
in the baskets overflowing
with our coming and our going,
searching out that Easter stash
of candy, chocolate and cash.
A dollar hidden in one nest
was the very very best
find of the whole Easter season,
and in fact it was the reason
why Easter Sunday was the best—
our favorite of all the rest.

Later, to church, to sing and pray,
remembering just why this day
was celebrated, though I fear
that for us, year after year
there were more than one or two
kids sequestered in a pew
who were not thinking of the prayer,
but of layer upon layer
of goodies that awaited them
in baskets filled up to the brim.
For, though our hearts were pure and pious,
they could not dispel the bias
of a child’s rumbling gut
yearning for more chocolate!! 

The prompt today are egg, hoopla, seedling and longing. Here are the links:
https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/04/20/rdp-saturday-egg/
https://fivedotoh.com/2019/04/20/fowc-with-fandango-hoopla/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/04/20/your-daily-word-prompt-seedling-april-20-2019/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/04/20/longing/

Advice to a Brand New Stepmom

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Advice to a Brand New Stepmom

Release your indignation. Try to quell your grief.
The air is redolent with clues of the impish thief.
Don’t you smell the bubble gum? Can’t you catch a sniff
of the perfumed hair gel that makes his hair so stiff?
Those two dozen cookies that you’d put in a stack
to package for the bake sale, I’d bet are in a sack
high up in the tree house in your own back yard.
The next time you bake cookies, you’d better post a guard!

 

The prompt words today are thief, release, redolent and impish. Here are the links:
https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/03/27/rdp-wednesday-thief/
https://fivedotoh.com/2019/03/27/fowc-with-fandango-release/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/03/27/your-daily-word-prompt-redolent-march-27-2019/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/03/27/impish/

Dream World

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Dream World

My little nephews were quite the rapscallions,
with tinfoil armor and mop handle stallions
they conquered their foes and made off in their galleons
to sail the wild oceans, and then this wild pair
got into their airplanes to sail through the air.
You barely could tell that the swing set was there.

From morning to night, they were batting or pitching,
expounding on hockey and football and itching
to escape the tame lives that they would be ditching
as soon as they grew up. Then they would be soaring
in airplanes and gliders and missiles less boring.
Their engines fired up, the crowds would be roaring

for the heroes they’d be, taking off into space,
vanishing upwards with barely a trace—
off to adventure, intent on the chase.
They would catch up with life and grab onto its tail.
They’d travel each highway and ride every rail,
pass “go” every round and get out of jail!

Life in short would be anything but dull and tame.
It would be a wild spree—an adventurous game
wherein they’d be heroes, ensconced in their fame.
At least this was their theory when they were young,
when adventure was made up in mind and on tongue
and all of their upcoming conquests were sung!

But childhood dreams often go far astray.
They tend to evaporate as day-to-day
we slowly grow up and enter the fray.
Now one’s an accountant, the other a doc,
and there’s little adventure and even less talk
of being an astronaut, pilot or jock.

Yet who knows in the nighttime what sorties are planned?
With their heads on their pillows, do their wishes expand
to soar off to adventures more wild and grand?
Perhaps in their dreams they go back to their youth
and to pastimes less sane—more reckless and uncouth.
Perhaps in their slumbers, their dreams become truth.

The prompt words today were air, theory, rapscallion and itching. Here are the links:
https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2019/02/23/rdp-saturday-air/
https://fivedotoh.com/2019/02/23/fowc-with-fandango-theory/
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/02/23/your-daily-word-prompt-rapscallion-february-23-2019/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2019/02/23/itching/

The Leech

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proclaimed to be fine,

The Leech

They’ve plugged up their ears to muffle his mutterings.
They’re tired of his self-serving utterings.

He’s an indulgence they’d like to be shed of,
expunge from their sofa and free their spare bed of.

He thinks it’s tradition that they should take care of him,
yet they’d prefer that their house just be bare of him.

He’s a caricature of self-indulgence,
wallowing in familial abundance.

They need to be boxing his ears or possessions
and signing up for codependency sessions.

They’ve supported him well and sent him to college,
imbued him with clothes, with playthings and knowledge.

Now he needs to be kicked out to find his own life—
to be taught by experience, seasoned by strife.

Lest they make a mongrel of a fine pup,
it’s time they encourage their boy to grow up!

 

 

The prompt words today are tradition, caricature, indulgence and boxing.

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/12/26/rdp-wednesday-tradition/
FOWC with Fandango — Caricature
https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2018/12/26/your-daily-word-prompt-indulgence-December-26-2018/
https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/12/26/boxing/

Mentoring

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Mentoring

Those in their declining years have wisdom they should share
to give incentive to those younger to achieve what they might dare.
Each youth should have an elder ready to inspire
and show him  different types of things to which he might aspire—
to bring a bit of renegade out from where it’s hidden
so he is not inclined to always do what he is bidden.
Just a touch of wildness befits the mildest maiden,
lest she simply be a helpmate much too fully laden.
And they should also all  be told, each sister and each brother, 
not to squash that renegade they might find in another.

 

The prompt words today are elder, inspire, renegade, decline.  Here are the prompt links in case you want to use them and post a link to your blog on their site:

https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2018/08/23/rdp-84-elder/

https://fivedotoh.com/2018/08/23/fowc-with-fandango-inspire/

https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2018/08/23/renegade/

https://dailyaddictions542855004.wordpress.com/Decline

How Not to Walk a Crocodile

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How Not to Walk a Crocodile

I’ll admit, it’s been a while
since I walked a crocodile,
so my technique is rather rusty
and my memory is dusty.
Still, I’ll tell you if you sit awhile
how not to walk a crocodile!

Don’t walk him through the butcher shop.
The butcher will just call a cop.
Don’t visit bakeries at all.
His roar will cause the cakes to fall.
That store where Mother bought her dress?
No place to walk your croc, I’d guess.

And though your pet may need some air,
it’s best that you don’t take him where
small dogs are left out for our viewing
just right for crocodile chewing.
Dog parks do not work for crocs
Find a new place for your walks.

Don’t walk him on your grandma’s floor.
She’ll sweep you both right out the door.
Don’t take him to your Sunday School.
He’s sure to break the Golden Rule.
And if you take him to the deli,
no saying what ends in his belly.

I’ll share a secret with you now.
It is, I really don’t know how
to take a crocodile for a walk.
All of this has just been talk.
And can I guess by your big smile,
you do not have a crocodile?

I guess it was the recent sighting of a croc on the beach at night that sent this little ditty rushing into my head this morning. I would love to have someone illustrate this.  Anyone want to try? Send a sketch of your vision of the croc in one of the given situations. You can either email it to me or put it on your blog and send me a link!
Here’s a photo of the croc that was on the beach near the house I rent. You could see my house in the background if it were light! Photo by Susana Vijaya. (She estimated the croc to be 3 meters long!)

Update: If you’re not ready to leave croc world yet, here’s an oldie but goodie. (Thanks to Marilyn for the memory jog.)

Kids’ Tribunal

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Kids’ Tribunal

When wind howls like a banshee to fill the dark night air
and monsters lurk in closets or in creakings up the stair,
when your brother knows they’re out there––these creatures he can’t see,
when nightmares wake you up at night and you have to pee
but daren’t leave your bed in fear those creatures will come “getcha”
(all those night-born monsters that come out at night to fetch ya,)
or when sister wets the bed again and seeks a drier nest,
for lying on her soggy sheets, she knows she’ll never rest––
it’s times like these when all the kids form a small tribunal
and determine that their parents’ bed should be declared communal.

 

The prompt word today is communal.

Sharing Mr. Teddy

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Sharing Mr. Teddy 

Caught in baby’s neck creases, clinging to Grandpa’s cuff,
escaped from Mr. Teddy are these little bits of fluff.
These airborne little clumps of fuzz go anywhere they please.
They catch in Daddy’s nose hairs, causing him to sneeze.
They wind up in the pancakes–an artistic swirl of blue.
A few of them are tracked outside under Billy’s shoe.
When he climbs onto the school bus, they go along with him,
and everywhere that Mommy goes, to grocery store or gym,
a piece of Teddy comes along to be left behind
somewhere in the wide wide world, but he doesn’t mind.
He has so many fluffy parts that he can share a few.
And when you come to visit, you can take some home with you!!

The prompt today was fluff.

 

CFFC Challenge: The Letter “J”

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Judith

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Cee’s Fun Foto Challenge this week directs us to post a photo of something beginning with the letter “J” that contains at least six letters. Believe it or not, it took me a good ten minutes to come up with such a word!  I was about to resort to the dictionary when I spied this photo on my desktop. I had used it just a few days ago, but earlier, when I went to put it away, my eyes fell on the purse and I started to wonder what I would have carried in a purse when I was three years old. It seemed like a good subject for a poem, so I left the photo there to remind me to try to do so after I did Cee’s “Fun Foto” post. It didn’t occur to me for a long time, that since my name is Judith and it was a photo of me, that I could do both at the same time. 

Cee’s “J” Challenge.

 

Church Purse

What does a three-year-old put in a purse she takes to church?
Held primly on her lap as legs swing freely from their perch.
Feet dangling from the pew above the varnished floorboards where
fifty years of townsfolk have walked enroute to prayer.
Small straw purse grasped tightly in two nail-bitten fists,
too little for a lipstick or store receipts or lists.

If perhaps the sermon stretches on too long,
what can she find inside this purse that she has brought along?
Black plastic strap she’s twisted securely ‘round a finger—
once she has unwound it, how long will the marks linger
pressed into her chubby flesh, like four little rings
she surveys as she unsnaps her purse to view her “things?”

A single piece of Juicy Fruit in case she gets a cough.
A snap bead and a single bud that happened to fall off
the rosebush of that big house as she ran ahead to linger
on their way to church and squeezed it with her finger
(and perhaps her thumbnail) until it finally snapped.
She’d peel off its petals later as she napped.

She knew she shouldn’t do this. They’d told her this before,
but her parents walked so slowly, and those naps were such a bore.
God may have seen even the smallest sparrow fall,
but were single rosebuds seen by him at all?
That lady they belonged to was so bossy and so haughty
that she provoked the saintliest children to be naughty!

A single plastic wrapped-up toy she worries to and fro
from her last night’s Cracker Jacks bought before the show.
She softly rustles cellophane between her restless fingers,
then sniffs them to determine if the caramel smell still lingers.
Mama gently elbows her to say she should desist––
fluttering her hand a bit, loosely from the wrist.

She looks for things much quieter in her little purse.
Her snap pistol is noisier. This marble would be worse,
dropped upon the church floor where it would roll away.
If she caused such a ruckus, what would the preacher say?
Something at the bottom feels so round and sticky.
Probably a Lifesaver gone all soft and icky.

A little lace-edged hanky that Grandma tatted for her.
She said that she would show her how, but she’s sure it would bore her.
A folded piece of paper. Crayons––one blue, one red.
If the sermon goes too long, she can color instead.
Mama will not mind and neither will her Dad.
Sister will be embarrassed, but she cares not a tad.

Later on her Daddy’s eyes will start to close,
but she’s sure her mom will nudge him before he starts to doze.
That’s why she is sitting right there in the middle
to correct his snoozes and her daughter’s every fiddle.
Sister is so perfect she needs no reprimand,
so she sits on the outside, removed from Mama’s hand.

After the sermon’s over, the collection plate
passes here before her, certain of its fate.
She’ll unsnap the little purse and reach down far inside it
to try to find the quarter where she chose to hide it
stuck in her silly putty in a little ball.
Now she wonders whether she can remove it all.

The people farther down the pew look in her direction
to try to see the cause of the collection plate’s deflection,
so her quarter is surrendered to join the coins and bills
piled there around it in green and silver hills.
It is the only quarter blanketed in blue.
It is a nice addition, this unexpected hue.

Sister looks disgusted, but her parents do not see,
That quarter cannot be traced back to her now, luckily.
Church will soon be ended with a prayer and song,
and when the music starts up, she will gladly sing along.
 She still dreads church but she gives thanks, for it could be worse.
She could be forced to live through it without her Sunday purse!

Dental Retaliation

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Dental Retaliation

Do you remember toothbrushes lined up on a rack
in the medicine cabinet, at the mirror’s back?
Your father’s brush was ocean blue, your mother’s brush was green,
your sister’s brush the reddest red that you had ever seen,
whereas your brush’s handle had no color at all—
as though it was the ugliest sister at the ball.

How you yearned for color, reaching for your brush
as the first summer’s meadowlark called to break the hush
of the early morning while you were sneaking out
to be the first one out-of-doors to see what was about.
Making that fast decision, your hand fell on the red,
thinking your sister wouldn’t know, for she was still abed.

You put toothpaste upon it, wet it at the tap
and ran the brush over each tooth as well as every gap.
Each toothbrush flavor was different, your older sis had said,
so you thought it would be different brushing your teeth with red.
Your father’s brush was blueberry, your mother’s brush was mint.
Your sister’s luscious cherry—its flavor heaven-sent.

“But because you are adopted,” your sister had the gall
to tell you, “they gave you the brush with no flavor at all.”
You waited to taste cherries, but that taste never came.
That red brush tasted like toothpaste. It tasted just the same
as every other morning when you brushed with yours.
You heard your sister stir upstairs, the squeaking of the floors.

You toweled off her toothbrush and hung it in the rack
and started to run out the door. Then something brought you back.
You opened up the mirror and grabbed her brush again.
A big smile spread across your face—a retaliatory grin.
The dread cod liver oil stood on the tallest shelf.
You were barely big enough to reach it for yourself.

You dipped her toothbrush in it, then quickly blew it dry.
Replaced it, shut the cabinet, and when you chanced to spy
your own reflection in the glass, each of you winked an eye.
Then you ran out to cherry trees to catch the first sunbeam
and brush your teeth with cherries while you listened for her scream.

Yes, we really did have a cherry orchard behind our house. You can see the trees peeking up behind the wild rose bushes directly behind the trellis in the picture above. This is my older sister Patti and I.  Yes, she really did tell me I was adopted. (I wasn’t.) No, I never did smear her toothbrush with cod liver oil. The retaliation part is just a mental one, sixty-some years too late, I’m afraid. She has since redeemed herself.

The prompt today is toothbrush.