Mother

Swelling, growing, life within,

Kicking thrusting hidden limb,

Tracings under rounded middle,

Madonna, smiling, just a little.

 

In potentia, the child,

Soft and sweet or bright and wild,

Rough and tumble, party dress,

Peaceful time to sit and guess.

 

Knowledge gained, the plans begin,

Dream the life so deep within,

Dream the hearts that pulse as one,

And yearn toward tomorrows sun.

Imagination

where does it go when it flies far away,
where has it gone off to scamper and play,
when it starts to get dark, at the end of the day,
how can you call it back home?

where does it go, down a glass mountain stream,
or under the mountain, where the dragons breathe steam,
or somewhere even further, with the Being of Seem,
even though it’s time to come home?

or maybe up high where the thin branches sway,
or up in a nest, with the eaglets, to play,
or playing come-chase-me with the last flitting ray,
stretching out for that last bit of roam…

But the branches slow down, soft and softer they sway,
And the eaglets curl up, in their warm nest of hay,
And the sunbeams rest softly for the coming new day,
And they whisper “It’s time to go home!”

And the stream’s singing softly, a soft lullaby,
and the dragons snore sweetly in the caves as they lie,
and the Being stands tall, to turn off the sky,
For he knows that it’s time to come home.

So homeward it races, when it hears what is said,
and slips through the window to its own little head,
to lay it down soft on its own little bed,
and I smile, and I welcome it home.

Ocean lullabye

Sleep, baby, sleep,
oceans are deep,
rock in your cradle of blue.

Sleep, baby, sleep,
heavens are deep,
moonlight shines down upon you.

Ghost Story

the wind that whistles through the eaves sings his lullaby,
the leaves that blow through the open door whisper hush now, don’t you cry,
upstairs in the attic a cradle rocks softly, lulling him to sleep,
and out on the hill the tombstone reads simply “Baby, lost to the deep”.

Babies

Her air of “oh-so-adult” vies
with the child behind her eyes,
cartoon knapsack, scuffed a little,
riding high on rounded middle,
this child who still needs mothers care,
will she have the love to spare,
for the child who grows within
this child inside a womans skin?

Rowan

What can I say that hasn’t been said before?
A million songs to a million pairs of little eyes?
Little hands and feet wave at me
through clouds of fragrant wordstuff,
almost buried beneath falling cadences and
sickly-sweet prose. Reaching down, I brush
ineffectually at the swarming bits of fluff,
trying to find something within that is solely you.
With a giggle and a sweet-scented burst of clarity,
you reach for me, scattering useless noise to all
sides, emerging before me like Venus through the waves,
moss-green eyes burning the chaff off of my mind until
all that remains is you, unique and whole and singular
and more precious than words can say.