A limerick for my Father.
My dad is a nice guy named Barry
whose chin and cheeks have grown quite hairy.
The beard is short and normal in size,
but quite hard on my poor eyes.
I hope for a visit from the razor fairy!
ps. My dad’s name is not really Barry.
pps. Everyone hates the beard
ppps. he does not seem to care
pppps. Okay, I really don’t hate the beard, it is better than the handlebar mustache, but not as nice as his nice smooth cheeks.
Now presenting the reason I am not a poet! ‘Twas Two Weeks Before Christmas
and each of The Huckablogs were anticipating its arrival,
when just a few days before they’d worried about their survival.
They all had been sick; yet they festively pressed on,
determined to decorate everything from the den to the lawn.
Even with bronchitis The Husband strung the lights
While I was out on the drive making sure they looked right.
The LED’s, how they twinkled, as we strived to go green.
They used much less power yet cast a bright sheen.
With little talent for sewing, but a project most grand,
I prayed as I sewed I’d not lose my right hand.
For our church pageant costumes were in demand
for five of the cutest you ever saw lambs.
For hours I cut and I stitched with no sleep
to make woolly vests for five little sheep.
I finished the vests then suddenly recalled–
they’d need sheep ears too…bed was further forestalled.
Four lambs looked pure in their fuzzy white frocks.
While my kid? He was the black sheep of the flock.
With his ears sewn on to his winter cap, he did not sing at all
But wandered about and nearly caused candles to fall!
A quick save by a mommy kept him from the flames,
but the situation was so dire I needed Lexapro for my brain.
On came my dad as a king in his gold ribbon crown,
He knew most of his lines and even managed to not frown.
The play was a smash, now for Christmas what’s next?
Some presents would be nice, but not if bought with hot checks!
Some consulting work came through just at the right time,
and now the bank account held slightly more than a dime.
After some planning, I shopped and wrapped by myself,
leaving not one Toy Story trinket on the shelf.
But now it was done, and it was time to enjoy!
First, came a visit from Dr. Ang and her boy,
then came the parties, the parades and the dinners
even those cheesy games which had us as the winners!
This is why I love Christmas, its all of the fun-
The smiles and the hugs, with no more chores to be done!
Of course we had to visit Santa and sit on his lap.
That did not go well, for The Son had no nap.
He pouted, he cried, even stuck out his tongue,
just generally acted like he was really quite young.
Santa was patient and finally coaxed a slight smile,
and even chatted with my stubborn kid for a while.
Sorry dear internet my blog has been boring,
but life must be lived and spare time was spent snoring.
So as the year of 2009 draws to a close,
expect no more posts, of rhymes or of prose.
I will be much too busy celebrating the birth
of God in the flesh as he was here on the Earth.
Merry Christmas from The Huckablog and all of us here,
I promise to post minimal bad rhyming next year.
Filed under Boy is my face red, Poetry | Comments (2)Seven days
The Weaning Day is a week from today, so get ready for a barrage of breast feeding related posts. Today? A poem.
Published in S E G U L L A H, an LDS Publication (don’t ask why I am reading LDS poetry, I am still most Methodist — but man, those Mormons can WRITE.)
Milk and Blood
by Sharlee Mullins Glenn
I dreamed of Oxford . . .
(spires, a thousand spires, endless lectures, musty halls a solitary self in a Bodleian expanse. A good life my dear Wormwood. An orderly life.)
then awakened to laundry
and things to be wiped
(countertops, noses, bottoms)
How did this happen? And when, exactly?
Time flows, it flows, it flows
and there are choices to be made:
left or right?
paper or plastic?
blood or milk?
There’s freedom in the bleeding;
bondage in the milk—do not be deceived.
Ah, but it’s an empty freedom; a holy bondage,
A sweet and holy bondage.
Five times I chose the chains, those tender chains,
(though once will bind you just as well!)
and checked the crimson flow.
Suckled while dreaming of Trinity Term
but awakened, always awakened, to the laundry
and to that small and cherished captor at my breast.
Potty humor never dies
Before the power went out last week I spent hours cleaning out forgotten drawers at my Ma’s house. There I uncovered this little gem written by my Ma when she was about eleven. The handwriting is perfect, if faded, the paper is yellow and brittle, but the punchlines are still intact.
My Mother
Who when my prayers were poorly said
would tuck me in my little bed
and spank my butt till it was red?
My mother.
Who when the morning light had come,
and in my bed I’d turded some,
would gently wipe my little bum?
My mother.
Who would my hair neatly part,
and gently press me to her heart,
and squeeze me till I sometimes fart?
My mother.
Who took me from my warm, warm cot,
and put me on my cold, cold pot,
and made me pee would I or not?
My mother.
Who looked at me with eye-brows knit,
when in my drawers I had shit
and said to me, “Up and git!”?
My mother.
I’m on your side when times get rough and friends just can’t be found.
See comments for details on photography.
When you’re weary, feeling small,
When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all;
I’m on your side. when times get rough
And friends just can’t be found,
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
When you’re down and out,
When you’re on the street,
When evening falls so hard
I will comfort you.
I’ll take your part.
When darkness comes
And pains is all around,
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.
Sail on silvergirl,
Sail on by.
Your time has come to shine.
All your dreams are on their way.
See how they shine.
If you need a friend
I’m sailing right behind.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind.
by: Paul Simon
Filed under Photography, Poetry, The Son | Comment (1)A Happy Child. My Happy Child.
A Happy Child
I saw this day sweet flowers grow thick –
But not one like the child did pick.
I heard the packhounds in green park –
But no dog like the child heard bark.
I heard this day bird after bird –
But not one like the child has heard.
A hundred butterflies saw I –
But not one like the child saw fly.
I saw the horses roll in grass –
But no horse like the child saw pass.
My world this day has lovely been –
But not like what the child has seen.
by: W.H. Davies
See comments for details on photography.
A man (er, little boy) on a tractor.
The dog walked just like it was smiling,
the man drove like the world was all right.
The tractor hummed on like a part of a song
that you sing to your children at night.
His work was laid out there before him
in rows of green, his whole life was revealed.
Oh what I wouldn’t give if I could just live
like a man on a tractor with a dog in a field.
Let me do what I’m doing,
let me be where I am,
let me find peace of mind
on my own piece of land.
When I’m lost, help me to let go
and find some way to feel
like a man on a tractor with a dog in a field.
by: Rodney Atkins
See comments for details on photography.
