I am not a poet. Still, sometimes life seems a bit more manageable with a prescribed number of syllables, doesn’t it?
***
Small furious boy
growls and pounds the couch cushions
his mind filled with NO.
***
When a little guy
endeavours to create art
his tongue must stick out.
***
Blue eyes gazing up
cluster of balloons rising
face aglow with joy.
***
Tiny daughter howls
right to the end of her breath
trapped in wakefulness.
***
Baby’s deep-pool stare
all innocence and wonder
irresistible.
***
Slack sleeping faces
perfect delicate features
so lovely it hurts.
***
We just ride the waves
frustration and elation
hard but still worth it.
***
[subscribe2]
oh, whose were the blue eyes? glad they liked the balloons. ev said that one of the balloons popped – oh dear! did it encounter stucco? so many of our ceilings are dangerous…
emerge, they were E’s blue eyes. When he realized he could pull on them and they would float back up… it was that awesome grin, like the “wingardium leviosa” moment. Sigh.
Love this. I also adore poetry; there’s something almost magical about its cadence.
Julia, I’ve noticed your everyday writing is full of poetic rhythm – I figured it must be the music in you!
Sigh. Just lovely. What a journey, n’est-ce pas?
Mama, I think of you whenever I write anything resembling poetry. 🙂
Nice haikus. I laughed out loud at “his mind filled with NO.” Ah, parenting. Good times.
Thanks, Larks – I’m guessing all of us have had THOSE moments – as you say, good times! Had one just today when I told my son his time with the iPhone was up… lovely memories to cherish. 😉