Ericka, prose here as well…some of it purple! It’s so nice to see you, Queen of the Gorgeous Covers!

I had to sit down with my daughter today to outline her 4th quarter goals for Language Arts. She picked writing a poem as one of her goals and said it would be easy. She rattled off at least 3 different types and lost me after the first one.

When each of my girls graduated from elementary school I gave them a charm bracelet and wrote them a poem–one stanza for each charm. Here’s some of the stanzas I came up with for my youngest:

Blow Dryer

A girl, her Dad, a purple chair;
Blow dryer, bathrobe, dripping hair;
Hair flying, drying, warm but not hot;
Brush moving, smoothing each tangle and knot.

Arc de Triomphe

You’re already a star; attracting friends
Who orbit you as Paris boulevards
Accelerate, converge on Place d’Etoile.
Your green eyes mesmerize. Your elfin grins
Illuminate your singing, drama, art.
Toward your creative brightness laughter bends
Like avenues embrace l’Arc de Triomphe.
In English and in French, with smiles, with hugs,
Your pixie heart translates your native language, Love.

Knitting Needles and Yarn

Your hands are small, and yet they hold
both knitting needles and suspended yarn,
Moving up and over, through and off.
As stitches whisper, needles click,
The multicolored wool becomes a scarf,
A teddy bear, a hat—while stitch by row
Your skill, and your imagination, grow.

Sand Dollar

At every age the beach draws your delight;
Wide eyed inside a Snugli, cradled close
To Daddy’s chest; Or toddling hand in hand
With Sophie, water squishing through your toes,
Collecting shells and treasures on the shore;
Or running with your cousins to explore,
In sunset silhouette, pools left by tide;
Or autographing “Leila” in the sand.

I have some very old poetry books that my grandmother used in school. They are practically falling apart but they contain all the classics and I love to open them every once in a while.

This is a great blog and all of you have posted beautiful work.

Little Women by Susan Ludvigson

There in the playhouse
making pies of flour and water
and apples from the neighbor’s yard,
we learned to handle anything—
husbands who stopped in
just long enough
to sample cookies,
gardens that washed away
in the first spring storm,
and babies crying,
their mechanical wails
stuck in their throats
like dimes. Sometimes
we thought we’d try something—I’d be
a missionary in Africa,
and a ballet dancer,
and go to Mars.
I remember standing on the sidewalk.
hands raised to the sky,
proclaiming I would not
be married, have children,
live in a neighborhood
like this. But always
we returned
to the little house
behind my real one.
put on the long dresses
with folds that wrapped us
like gifts,
the shiny high heels
and the feathered hats.
Then we practiced
a dignified walk
around and around the block.

You have some of the best posts!