soft
urgent;
come-here-quick.
Exasperation races to my lips.
The words hide behind my teeth waiting
while
I put down all the things I need to do.
Can't you see I'm busy?
What-is-it-this-time becomes a hiccup when
I see your face
beaming like a five year-old with
a handful of tickets at the county fair.
It's not the bird you point at while you shush me.
It's not his proud red-ringed head or the feathers
on his belly:
I'm not even looking.
It's the little boy who forgot the old man,
unrestrained by responsibility,
who makes me run to the window
and leave the kettle
boiling;
who shows me pink sunsets,
yellow-shafted flickers
and little white flowers.
He brings me smiles.
Angie Werren, Ohio, USA
That's lovely, Angie. The image brings a smile to my face too.
ReplyDeleteLove this poem. Great images.
ReplyDeleteJust wonderful, Angie!
ReplyDeleteI love this poem!
I really love the childlike play and truth woven in the last stanza.
ReplyDeleteWonderful, and I enjoyed reading it. :) Congrats!
I love it: the rhythm (the tempo), the images, the choice of words…I find impossible to pick a favorite stanza or line, for I like them all
ReplyDeleteHi, just stopped by to say it's a very lovely poem-
ReplyDeletecome on, angie. a werren doesn't do this.
ReplyDeletei hope we're of no relation.
Thank you, everyone, for your kind comments...and thank you, Juliet, for this beautiful space!
ReplyDeleteIt's lovely in here!