Would that we all could be
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod,
sailing and bobbing along
on beautiful misty seas.
Snuggled together in our boat
lullaby waves softly lulling,
drifting slowly under the stars
off to the shores of Neverland.
Never the hatred,
never the strife.
Never the sadness
never the Covid-19.
Yes, I’ll be Wynken and you be Blynken,
both with our lids shut tight.
Smile with me and together shall we
nod off to the shores of Neverland.
Sarah is hosting Tuesday Poetics today at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to write about boats. For me, the first thing that came to mind was the poem Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. My mother often read it to me when I was very young….always just before bedtime. The poem was written by American writer and poet, Eugene Field and first published on March 9, 1889. Photo illustration is from the actual book my mother read to me from, Volume One, Poems of Early Childhood, in Childcraft in Fourteen Volumes, published by the Quarrie Corporation, Chicago, in 1947. I’ve obviously also taken liberty with Peter Pan’s Neverland!
Skiddely-do, I see you.
tromping loudly as we romp.
Skiddely-do, join me too.
Spinning spinning like a top
round and round we never stop.
Skiddely-do, crouch down low.
Creepity-creep, oh so slow.
Skiddely-do is so much fun
until we’re all, skiddely-done.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today Bjorn asks us to write using alliteration (repetition of the same sound in the beginning of one or more words in a line of poetry). It strikes me that young childrens’ games and songs often have alliteration, which makes them “catchy”, easy to memorize and repeat…and when they also include an action (clapping hands; stomping feet; creeping crawling) they’re even more fun! I’m only sorry my grand daughter is not with us in San Diego to make up a tune to this little ditty. Click HERE to listen when she put a tune to a previous poem I wrote a few years ago. Perhaps you can read this new poem aloud and come up with a tune yourself! 🙂
Mind stalled, synapses off kilter
gait pained by age and atrophy,
he swings a chalk bucket
as we walk our weekly walk.
Stopped to watch scurrying ants
he stoops, putting chalk to sidewalk.
Hopscotch numbers beyond his grasp
he draws a simple sun, one cloud.
Standing, he pats my face
grins at me, then bends again.
Clutching pink chalk, draws a string
attached to one pink balloon.
Chalk tossed aside, he lowers himself
shifts bony frame uncomfortably
until he is perfectly placed,
as if holding that pink string.
Eyes tight shut, he lies still
floating in his muddled mind,
beside the cloud and sun.
And I smile wistfully.
I picture him a young boy
spent from playing tag,
drawing this sidewalk scene
lying down just like this . . .
then jumping up to run away,
an entire life in front of him.
Not bumbling to recognize me,
needing a helping hand.
My nephew posted this photo of his son quite some time ago on FB. I loved the photo and asked permission to use it some day on my poetry blog. This little boy is a wonderful bright, lively and imaginative child! I went to a place with this poem that I wasn’t expecting.
Posting for OLN (Open Link Night) at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today that famous guy from Sweden, Bjorn, is still revelling in the summer solstice season and Sweden’s advancement in the World Cup!
scabby knees squat low
agate rolled in sweaty palms
spit for extra luck
cold marbles wait for quick hit
king of the hood at six, shoots
A tanka (5 lines with the following syllabic pattern: 5-7-5-7-7) written for Misky’s Twiglet #82, “cold marble”. A twiglet is a short phrase meant to inspire writing. Perhaps someday all our children will only shoot marbles.
In the neighborhood where we raised our children, there was a beautiful weeping willow in the front yard next door. Our children loved to have picnic lunches beneath its low bowing branches. Other times, all the children in the area gathered and played tag, running in and out of the green lacey-leafed cascading curtains, sometimes tripping on the roots that made the ground lumpy beneath its shade. Laughter abounded around the tree.
The only day it earned its name was the day the arborists came. They sawed it into pieces. Drilled out its heart-stump, and carted it all away. My children watched the scene in horror and cried their hurt that night as we sat at the dinner table. Mother nature wept her disappointment in a summer evening storm. Strands of weeping branches littered our street, until the street cleaner arrived early one morning and swept all evidence away.
birds sing sweet sorrow
weeping willow cracks in grief
earth disrobed by man
Thursday is Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Gail is hosting and asks us to come imbibe some words and post one poem of our choice – no prompt given. We’re a friendly bunch. Come enjoy!
Lily of the valley and lily-clouds,
soft cotton poofs on high
occasionally tinged sadly
as raindrops teared the sky.
White gloves held pocketbooks
as ruffled anklets met mary janes.
These were my lillian summers,
years gone by.
That’s me with my beloved brother and gramma and grampa. Written for Misky’s Twiglet prompt, “lily cloud.”
It was only a tree
in Mrs. Jester’s yard.
Can’t recall her,
just the skinned knees
and Lily the Spy.
I peered through apple blossoms
deciphered shape shifter clouds
ate raisins from a little box
and colored crayon clues,
until she hollered
Navy blue jumper
white Peter Pan collar blouse,
ICS grade school uniform.
Hand reaches into font
presses damp sponge,
wet hand crosses self.
I skip into the sun.
Written for Misky’s Twiglet #15, “rushing waters.” A twiglet, the shorter the better, is a phrase to prompt a flow, thought or memory. Yep, that’s me in third grade!