Thankful Poem

I planned on posting a couple of posts just on random things I'm thankful for.  But I didn't.  This month my other blog sort of took some of my emotional energy, in a good way. 

If I had a gratitude list, a really short one, that isn't just run-o-the mill, it would be: my baby in his footie pj's, my nine year old's love notes, seasons, home, my eleven year-old's infectious giggle, grass, running, rivers and river guides, sisters, my six year old's big beautiful eyes, three year-old's spunkiness, unexpected blog friends, real life friends, Jesus, jumping, and babies.

Here is a mini poem I wrote the other day:

Thank You

For the baby smell
On my hands
As I kneel down to pray.


All my blessings encapsulated in that one smell on my hands one night.  I am living my dream, no sarcasm intended. 

So beautifully captured in this video.  Happy Thanksgiving!  Safe travels everyone.

Baby Explores Poem

I must delay updating you on my project for one more day, as I am super pooped today.  Up in the night for 2 hours with a little sick one.  Here is a little poem I wrote about my baby and our sometime explorings while little girl is in dance.  I wanted to edit it some more, but I can always do that later.   And sorry, its kind of like an epic poem, as it describes an hour in detail.  :)

Do you ever do this?  Let the little one direct the activity?  What was your experience?  I would like to do it more.


Exploring the Woods

I let you explore the woods today,
I followed you like a bear cub momma in
Reverse.
When you'd stop,
I'd stop.
Out a glass door
With a plastic VW bug
In one hand
And an orange shoe in the other.
I could see the top of your soft
Ginger head,
Toddling up and down,
Calculating,
Then going.
First down the ramp.
Time to smell the flowers.
You bent at the waist,
Sniffing loudly
Inches away from
A red prickly bush.
Then out into the parking lot,
Between two cars,
Then back again.
Then out again,
Across a crumbly
Blacktop
With bright yellow
Painted lines
And empty cars.
Head to the right,
And the left,
Deciding,
Not delaying.
Making lots of decisions in
Nanoseconds.
We've neared an office building
Flower bed,
Strewn with brightly colored poppies,
Strung like beads on a child's
Necklace.
Now you've got it,
Sniffing a quarter inch from
a bare yellow
pollinator.
Then off
To try your first
Revolving door,
Air compressing around us,
Like astronauts
In a cosmonaut.
Then decompressing.
I wonder if anyone will wonder why we're in here.
You wander down a black alien
zig-zag carpet corridor
to the left,
Smelling of papers and coffee and work.
Then back out the door,
As the outside rushes in to greet us,
Then back in,
Then back out.
Off to smell one more flower,
Then marching off,
Occasional head turning to make sure
Momma bear is following.
You turn at the big road,
Noticing a grumbling
school bus
Make its way down the road.
Then you turn toward a tree,
examining something,
But recoil when I run my
Finger down its bark,
Making a dry
Scrraaaaatch.
You're not touching that.
Off you go again.
On the homestretch,
You leave the path to try
out an army green
Plastic
Cover
Recessed in the growing grass.
Bump, a hollow sound--
Then again.
You were leary of the blue one,
another tree's bark (not touching that either),
and not sure you want to go back.
Inside,
I sat on the green velvet couch,
Sunk in,
Beckoned, entreated, invited you
To try a book with me.
The sun was pouring lines around
A tangerine velvet button couch
And bright carpet flowers.
You looked, squoze
Between a pillar and the window
And then looked at me
from the circles
under the stairs,
Your face like a little spy
Who'd discovered a secret world,
And then got discovered himself.
Giggled.
Eyes looking at me through
Different holes,
Wondering if the result would be the same.
"I SEE YOU!"
Baby laugh.
The most musical sound in the world.
(Baby delight=
My delight!)
Then you decided Christopher Columbus
had not had enough,
Following wafting sounds
Into another room.
When I caught up,
You were framed in the doorway,
There was a stage.
A blonde in short exercise clothes and tan muscles
Was building a set with another man.
They were putting up some gauzy-curtains
By a big French clock.
There was a guillotine with a
big red half-polka dot
Blood-stain on a lifted blade.
Michael Jackson was floating
on  the breeze.

Little Moby Dick was having a day.

Kindergarten Poem

That day has come.  The day when I close the chapter of a little one's time with me. 

Little Pink Backpack

This morning I watched

The back of your little pink backpack

As you marched with golden

Curls into a fall

School.

I think when I hugged you

Goodbye,

A string from my heart

Must’ve

Attached itself to that

Little backpack,

Because with each

Step

I feel it stretch

As if it might burst.

Yet I realize

This means

You’re not looking back.

You’re happy,

Progressing,

Moving forward

To meet your life without regret or remorse.

I hope I’ve done right.

From that first moment

When they placed you in my arms,

Your tiny baby cry

Made me cry too.

I loved you,

Watched you grow,

Smile for the first time,

Take first tentative steps,

Smear baby food on

Your head,

Dance,

Look for bugs,

Read books,

Welcome little siblings with
love.

Now maybe you’ve packed up

Those memories,

With my love,

Into your tiny backpack,

Ready to see what

New

Adventure

Awaits.

The strings are still attached

To my heart,

You’ll never know.

But I’ll be watching my baby,

And loving you,

And remembering

Our time together,

As my little girl

Marches toward Womanhood

On this sunny autumn morning.

   (with Grandpa)

 

Speaking of something sentimental that reminds me of my own childhood, I heard a story on NPR about John Boswell's PBS remixes.  Some are funny and quirky and inspiring.  This one with Mr. Rogers brought backs some serious memories and made me cry.  :)

 

Dishwashing Poem

I referred yesterday to a poem I found and saved.  About washing dishes, of all things.  :)

If you want to see day 4 1/2 of NYC (New York public library, an attempt at the Tenement Museum, Chrysler Building lobby, and getting lost), see here.

I'm off on a mini date with two of my kiddos.  It was going to be just one, but the other one tried to get my attention by cleaning two bathrooms and mopping a room.  Ha ha.  I think he got my attention.  Cute.  I was trying to be really firm so a little girl could get some time with just me (I'm going to take each of them on a date before school starts), but I figure I can take her when the others are in school.  

(my kids were roughly this old at writing.  time is just flying too fast!)

I Saw Happiness

I saw happiness that

Morning

In a sink of dish washing

Suds

As my four year-old

Burst in to tell me

That our

Bleeding-Heart-had-bloomed-and-it’s-in-the-shape-of-a-heart

Is-that-why-it’s-called-a-bleeding-heart-and-I-saw-a-cool-bug

I-named-it-a-dragon-bug-what-do-dragon-bugs-do?

Then, leaving me to my thoughts,

His hair standing up quizzically in the back,

I smiled within myself as

The door muffled his receding

tromp-tromp-tromp.

Then through the kitchen window,

A perfect view

Of his sister,

Throwing her

Bouncy ball into the air with all her might,

Little arms barely clearing her head.

First trying the grass,

Then finding a better spot in the

Scrawled yesterday’s painted sidewalk,

Filled with

Bright blue and yellow balloons,

Rockets,

And a rudimentary hopscotch.

And I remembered that I’d given up

Office work,

Kayaking,

And a world championship in the hurdles,

Subjected my body to stretch marks,

Varicose veins, and sleep deprivation experiments

(thinking as I read her Pooh that my head too was stuffed with fluff)

To watch my baby sleep,

Her soft breath moving in and out,

A two year-old throw her blue ball, unaware of observation,

And a crouching four year-old wonder at the latest

Wandering bug.

I laughed inside myself

To discover that

Happiness had somehow found me

Inside a bowl of rainbow-

swirling dish suds

As the sun filtered through the

Kitchen window

On a late Thursday

Afternoon.

As always, suggestions appreciated!  Happy Friday!

Family Night - Hard Work

This month I tried to think about how to help my kids really value work.  I thought back in my own life to an experience that changed my heart about the value of work.

I have pushed this part of my past aside often because I regret having spent so much time on sports.  I wish I'd spent it on something that lasted a little longer, like school. 

So my kids have rarely heard me talk about these experiences.  I dug out some old mementos I'd saved in dusty cardboard boxes that smelled of yellow paper and the past.

I gave them each one of these things to hold (my husband was working late). 

They were so cute, my little 3 wanted the "necklace," and promptly put it on, and others turned the papers or jar over in their hands with wondering looks.

I told them the story of a little girl who was once the worst player on her soccer team.  She was also the one panting the hardest at the back of the pack any time conditioning or longer distance running were done, resenting every minute of it.  Yes, it was me. 

Then one day, in high school, she read an article about a young cross country runner named Rosy Gardner (full article here), who worked so hard the football coaches at her high school often wished they could pour some of her energy and grit into their players.  She did two-a-days, her first one at 5:20 am each day, rain or shine.  At one point, a trainer had to practically physically carry her to get her feet looked at -- she had peeled off blood-encrusted socks (from blisters) in preparation to run (again) with her team that day (I admired this a lot at the time, ha ha).  Not only that, but Gardner was a pleasant, humble, well-liked student.

I was so inspired by this story as a young teenage athlete that I cut out the article and kept the front page pinned to my bedroom wall or bulletin board for several years.  It inspired me to work harder.  I improved so much in soccer that I went from the worst on my team to second-team all state.

In track, I tried to imitate Rosy by pulling two-a-days and doing gut wrenching work-outs, even in the rain or on holidays.  My senior year, I counted down the last 100 days with little white papers taped to my closet door to remind me of how little time I really had to prepare for the state championship.  Each day, I'd pull down a paper and write down what I did for training that day.  Then I put them in a jar.

When the Regional Championships came around, I toted my little Tang bottle with me to the meet for moral support.  If nothing else, I knew I had given my all.   I knew I was racing someone who ran two seconds better than my best time (that is a lot).  When we rounded the bend, 200 meters into our 300, I was ahead of her but she started to pull up as if to pass me.  I gritted my teeth, the days running in the rain, the times of sacrifice, alone in the early dark, practicing hurdles until I had bruises all over my knees-- all these flashed through my mind, and I hung tight.  Clearing that last hurdle took the last ounce of my strength.  I won by a tiny bit, beating my best time by two seconds.  That day, I stood on the stand in the "1" position for the first time.

More than that, I knew that no matter the outcome I had won, because I had bettered myself and done all I could do.  My proudest achievement was not to be known as the fastest runner, but as someone who wasn't trying in every way possible to cut corners, but as someone who gave her all.  (this is good to remember!  I can do it!  I can work hard!)

Here is a poem I wrote in high school about the overall experience:


The Road

Silently
the footsteps fall
on the wet pavement,
The snow
Beats a slow
Rhythm
On a veiled world,
The streetlight
Illuminates the quiet darkness
As the feet move
Slowly on.
Days turn into weeks,
Yet the slow footsteps
Continue through
The moods of the season,
Drawing strength from
Their silent pilgrimage.
The steps retreat for a moment
And record forever
The image of a blue-gold sky
And the snow
Falling
In the mountains.
I ran the road
Alone,
Expecting only
To conquer myself.
The work
And the sacrifice
And the moments of silent repose
Are mine
Forever.


My kids were strangely quiet as I related these events and had one of them read the poem.

I told them my wish for them would be not to do what I had done, by pouring their best efforts and energies into sports and competitiveness (though these have their place), but into school and service.   I told them that working hard would be one of the most important things they will ever learn.

Then we had a closing prayer.  My little nine year-old said a sweet, thoughtful prayer, and closed it with "and we're thankful that Mom is our mom."

Dad

I hope you'll tolerate this little diversion from my project for a minute as I think about my dad. What I love about him most: empathy, time, and example.  He did the little things: fixed my knick-knacks, taught me how to ride a bike (I promptly rode straight into a thorn bush), read stories, showed me flowers peeking out of chocolate dirt in the spring, played Atari with me :), played kick-the-can with the cousins on a warm summer night; inspired me with his devotion and his words; showed me how to be gentle with living things; treated me as if I were worth it all.  I never felt like a burden to him, but I felt his belief in me, his fierce pride and devotion.  I lived to be like my dad.  The worst I ever felt was when I let him down.  In a day when men are taught and teach to be tough, don't cry-- I could always cry to my dad. 

Some day when the records are shown and all has been weighed and measured, the greatest deeds will not be the ones done in a stadium, or at a podium, or be celebrated in a trophy case.  Some day those with earthly monuments and medals and glory will honor the courage of the dad who quietly sung night-time songs, soothed nightmares, and cheered for little girls.

If you have any suggestions for improvements on my poems, they are welcome. :)  Thanks for reading!  (Note: I must make a nod to Robert Frost, who wrote one of my favorite poems, The Road Not Taken.  The final line in this poem is very nearly an exact quote of the final line in his poem. ) (Note #2: the roads I'm referring to in this post are near where my parents live, and a little sentimental to me since I've visited my parents there with my dear little ones for years, but my parents will be moving soon.  I've had many happy moments there...esp. since at home I get to plod along on my treadmill :))


The High Road

I used to run on the

Black road

Toward the high school

As cars whooshed by.

Then my dad

Showed me

His favorite road,

High above the valley,

An overgrown path

Next to a canal

With trees bending down

To drink the water.

I had to climb to get there,

But I loved

Its tawny-honey-yellow leaves in fall,

Its swirls,

The way specks of sun

Glint off the water.

In lazy summer,

A mother duck splashed out of the grass

And her babies followed: pop, pop, pop, pop.

I went there in the spring,

Carpet fluorescing with green

And new insect life.

And in winter,

Crunching white snow

As bare-boned branches

Scratched the sky.

Now I've been there in all the seasons,

Ran with sister, laughing and talking,

Walked there with husband,

New life inside me, (threw up in the grass)

Traipsed with little legs till the

Bend in the path.

But mostly alone,

Thinking, sorting, becoming.

And last,

Meadows of grass skirting

Wooded mountains,

And a little hollow,
Where I felt so much

The nearness of

God,

And awareness of my need for His help,

I knelt down (twice)

And prayed

In the middle of my run.

My dad showed me a higher

Way,

And it has made all the

Difference.

Ode to an Unfinished Batch of Laundry

Busy week--- I have a really funny story for tomorrow.  For today, in the spirit of babies, here is a poem I wrote about one of my girls.

Ode to an Unfinished Batch of Laundry

A patchwork of pinks

Lies disheveled on the tiled

Laundry floor,

The washer door

Half open,

Waiting patiently

Like Cinderella’s gloved footman

At her carriage.

A splash of sunlight reaches across the floor to

Warm us

On this wintry day,

As I cradle baby’s

Down-soft head in my hands--

Breathing in her sweet smell,

Soaking in her smiles,

And pressing her

Milk-soft cheek to

Mine;

Letting the day melt away

As lullabies

Coo the

Half-finished laundry

Away into dreamland.



Here is a link to my favorite poem in this same vein.  Do you have a poem or story that inspires you?

Contrail

1. con·trail

noun /ˈkänˌtrāl/  A trail of condensed water from an aircraft or rocket at high altitude, seen as a white streak against the sky* Today The stroller left Three tracks In the dry brown dirt, Slow contrails From a micro trip Through tall yellow grass, Cattails glittering with dew-glass, And sun-crowned Scottish thistles. The sounds of a diminutive metropolis Hum around us-- Crickets chirruping contentedly, Songbirds babbling, trill-flit, The steady chuck-chuck of a Pasture sprinkler, And a horse Chewing in time. You point a chubby finger, Pausing for the word Your mouth hasn't tasted yet. I love your round Cheeks, Orange tiger-striped Jammas, And your expression, Discovering the world. Content today To make slow contrails in the dirt And watch an airplane hurry on her way, Trailing a silver buttermilk cloud As she rises over A hazy mountain With a faint buzz And disappears. Some day I'll be tracing my finger Across the sky, Watching your contrails As you hurry off to conquer the world. The little pointing finger Will be gone, And I'll remember this bucolic morning, My little boy's Tubby figure clad in Tiger-striped jammas, Looking at me as if I were the whole world. When it's my turn to fly over that Mountain, High up on my way to Arrivederci, I'll crane my neck And strain my eyes, Not for India's Mahal, But for a little Dirt path In the leaning afternoon grass And a little boy Frozen in time. This post based on this day. *Contrail definition by Google*

Worth It

Going to publish a poem, but realized there is a story behind the story.  Will publish tomorrow, here is the story behind the story for today. 

(Inspired in part by this (as quoted by Gordon B. Hinkley here):

"I am always moved by this simple verse of Anne Campbell, written in behalf of her child. Said she:

You are the trip I did not take;

You are the pearls I cannot buy;

You are my blue Italian lake;

You are my piece of foreign sky.

Many of you are mothers...When you grow old and your hair turns white, you will not ask about the fancy clothes you once wore, the cars you drove, or the large house in which you lived. Your burning question will be, “How have my children turned out?” ")

Airplane
I like to watch
The red-eye winking
In predictable time
From the tips of her wings
As she descends back
Toward earth
From a long journey to another world.
...Another titanic silver albatross
And another,
A silent queue
Converging
In a neat line,
Others ascending
One by one,
Then turning
Over the mountains
And out of sight.
Where are you going?
Where have you been?
Tell me your stories
As you
Spin golden threads
In a web
Across the sky;
Threads connecting
Mumbai,
Delhi,
Bangladesh,
London Heathrow,
Paris,
and Arrivederci.
I want to go there
Some day;
For now,
I want to stay,
Tie shoes,
Kiss boo-boos,
Grow life traveller-adventurers.
Today I'm content
To watch you
Ascend, descend, descend,
Ascend, and dream
Your story.
Where are you going?
Where have you been?