Shea
02-17-2009, 11:19 PM
Okay, so they FINALLY built a bookstore closer than 30 minutes from my house (a nice short 4 minute drive! :banana:), and I went to the first of the bi-monthly writer's meetings last week. I intended to get inspiration for my novel that I set down by the end of my pregnancy, but for now, the group is working on poetry instead. We looked at "Searching" by Billy Collins, and were asked to come up with a Collins style poem for the next meeting. This is what I came up with, but I can't think of a title for it, so "Barnes and Noble poem" it is. :p
His daddy lifts him from his highchair,
his short, chubby arms flap as if he is going to take flight.
They join me in the living room and I see
strained sweet potato is still smashed in his eyebrows
making them lit up and on fire.
I fuse with the throng of other mothers
and wonder of the future;
wonder, or worry that it won’t happen.
I can remember thinking I’d never be old enough for high school.
I shivered in the early morning moonlight
as bats fluttered searching for a bedtime snack,
waiting for the bus, but surely,
a random red car would come careening around the corner
to kill or maim me so that I’d never know
scholastic experience beyond the eighth grade.
And yet, I got on that bus
as my son surely will, but now I wonder,
if Tolkien’s mother stared
at her son’s fiery eyebrows
and saw his droopy eyes roll around and finally close,
and wondered the same.
His daddy lifts him from his highchair,
his short, chubby arms flap as if he is going to take flight.
They join me in the living room and I see
strained sweet potato is still smashed in his eyebrows
making them lit up and on fire.
I fuse with the throng of other mothers
and wonder of the future;
wonder, or worry that it won’t happen.
I can remember thinking I’d never be old enough for high school.
I shivered in the early morning moonlight
as bats fluttered searching for a bedtime snack,
waiting for the bus, but surely,
a random red car would come careening around the corner
to kill or maim me so that I’d never know
scholastic experience beyond the eighth grade.
And yet, I got on that bus
as my son surely will, but now I wonder,
if Tolkien’s mother stared
at her son’s fiery eyebrows
and saw his droopy eyes roll around and finally close,
and wondered the same.