April always sweeps me away. Then I come to my senses and realize April is Poetry Month. And I have not presented a post about one of my favorite subjects. Today is the day. One of the first of more to come. But just in case, I have picked three quick, simple poems.
Fred The Tom Cat is my first poem complete with illustration. I found this gem in a book titled Stories and Poems. In all of my eleven year old glory. As is.
FRED TOM CAT
Hello, I'm Fred Tom Cat
When I walk by people
they say, "Scat you dirty
rat!"
Now lets make this clear.
I should cause no fear.
I do not bite.
Even though I fight.
I have a wife,
She leads a normal
life.
I have three kittens,
They have their own mittens.
Our house is a big box,
Our beds are a couple
of socks.
My salery is fair,
Even though its is a
terrfic scare.
We eat fish,
Right out of a dish.
Today put out some cream
If a Tom Cat gulps it
down, don't scream.
*********
Seven Falls was written for the last page of my daughter's high school graduation scrapbook. The poem is placed next to a photo of the maple trees - the picture shot on the very fall day we danced as three.
SEVEN FALLS
BabyBird,
your story begins with a pile of leaves from the red maple
trees
standing in front of Mama and Daddy’s home.
A student was raking leaves for the BSU at the U of A.
He caught my Mama’s eye,
and she was not the type of Mama who had ever gotten caught
worrying over beaus and grooms.
She just handed him a broom.
Months later, in the middle of summer
she was reading the paper and said,
“There’s my friend.”
I could not have known then
when she first said his name—
our traveled road would be the same.
On the fall afternoon when he had finished his job
he told Mama goodbye and handed her the broom—
the unsuspecting groom—
none of us ever would have guessed.
Seven falls down the road would find we three—
our family—
dancing with you in our arms
beneath the glow of the red maple trees
where he’d raked leaves seven years before.
*********
Three 3 O'clock A.M. In the middle of the night, really morning. Waking up, putting on my robe and walking into the den. Turning on the lamp. A bump in the night wakes me up. In this case, snoring. I have written poems in total darkness but a circle of light is my preference. A clear spot on any piece of paper will do.
THREE
O’CLOCK A.M.
Three
o’clock in the morning
Sounds
like a snoring wall,
Joints
creaking in relaxation,
The
power of 1 AA battery marking the second
boxed
in a red metal clock high on the shelf.
Dark
and quiet.
When
most people are fast asleep.
A.M.
I
am awake without effort
Or
caffeine
But
a mind that won’t stop
Counting
numbers in the dark
Without
thinking
Of
what to wear in ten days
On
a Saturday
Three
days after I turn fifty
And
the color on my toes
But
paler on my fingers
I
will wear “Happy to Me.”
Happy
to be me
Maybe
not always
But
always grateful for the love in my life
That
has helped me get here.
A
station in life
Not
the stop I wanted
Or
the brochure picked out
But
still waiting
Breathless
Excited
for the next trip.
Always
grateful
Even
for an illness trying to pull me down,
Showing
me weak and on my knees.
Grateful
for grace
That
reaches down and lifts me
Back
to a good day walking
Across
a pebbled lot crunching
With
the sun in my face
And
air in my lungs.
Life
in my bones,
These
fifty year old bones
Carrying
around the heart of a sixteen year old girl.
Amy Holt Taylor@2018
