And the word is...

[Pendragon]

I think I may have poeted this somewhere before, Amp, but it so fits the aspect of "learn" from "teach" that I must post it again:

Carpe Diem

He wakes me up before the alarm clock rings,
And I rub my eyes and groan and grumble;
But he shouts, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

He goes downstairs, and starts to sing,
While, wondering if I actually got any sleep for my cloths I fumble.
He wakes me up before the alarm clock rings!

He plays cat’s cradle with a piece of string—
While I have my coffee—black and strong! A double!
But he shouts, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

He’s off again, like a new fledged bird on wings!
I rub my eyes, and stretch, yawn and stumble.
He wakes me up before the alarm clock rings!

Sighing inside, I try my best to keep up with his youthful springs,
Mouth ever ready to shout: “Keep out of trouble!”
But he shouts, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

Ah, wretched time! What a curse the passing years bring!
Now my son is the one watching a little son blow bubbles.
But I remember how He woke me up before the alarm clock rang!
And shouted, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

© 1996 D. L. Harris


By the by, I have no grandchildren, yet, thank the Good Lord, but I have two sons who dwarf their old dad, and a beautiful daughter whose boyfriend does the same!

Pen

[ampoule]

Carpe ME!! You have seized me with this poem Pen. I love it. You have really captured that little boy exuberance. So.....come on.....let's do something!!

[firefangled]

I think I may have poeted this somewhere before, Amp, but it so fits the aspect of "learn" from "teach" that I must post it again:

Carpe Diem

He wakes me up before the alarm clock rings,
And I rub my eyes and groan and grumble;
But he shouts, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

He goes downstairs, and starts to sing,
While, wondering if I actually got any sleep for my cloths I fumble.
He wakes me up before the alarm clock rings!

He plays cat’s cradle with a piece of string—
While I have my coffee—black and strong! A double!
But he shouts, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

He’s off again, like a new fledged bird on wings!
I rub my eyes, and stretch, yawn and stumble.
He wakes me up before the alarm clock rings!

Sighing inside, I try my best to keep up with his youthful springs,
Mouth ever ready to shout: “Keep out of trouble!”
But he shouts, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

Ah, wretched time! What a curse the passing years bring!
Now my son is the one watching a little son blow bubbles.
But I remember how He woke me up before the alarm clock rang!
And shouted, “Hey, Dad! Let’s do something!”

© 1996 D. L. Harris


By the by, I have no grandchildren, yet, thank the Good Lord, but I have two sons who dwarf their old dad, and a beautiful daughter whose boyfriend does the same!

Pen

Pen, again and again you amaze me with your dexterity with this form. You also always manage to tell some moving or delightful story as you spin these out. This is such a joyful poem. Thanks.

[Pendragon]

Thank you, Amp and Fire. I love the form poetry, as it makes me think. I never let the form rule me, but still I like to use the form. This forum is loaded with my sonnets, for birthdays, in the Another Creative Thread in games, aka, the Obits, and here and there. I do reversibles which were the first form contest, Pantoums, Sestinas, but perhaps Villainelle is my bread and butter. Again, thank you. Coming from two winning poets it's high praise!

Pen

[firefangled]

Thank you, Amp and Fire. I love the form poetry, as it makes me think. I never let the form rule me, but still I like to use the form. This forum is loaded with my sonnets, for birthdays, in the Another Creative Thread in games, aka, the Obits, and here and there. I do reversibles which were the first form contest, Pantoums, Sestinas, but perhaps Villainelle is my bread and butter. Again, thank you. Coming from two winning poets it's high praise!

Pen

John Crowe Ransom (I think) once said (I am paraphrasing) that poetic forms should be used the way fishermen use specific nets to catch specific fish.

[ampoule]

Hand In Hand

Time is of the
Essence when telling
About all you know and
Care about, passing with your
Heart to those who hunger and thirst,
Lessons that are steeped in living
Each question as it comes, to
Ask for the seed it holds,
Require the truth and
Never give up.

amp, August Nineteenth, TwoThousandSeven

[ampoule]

Poppy's Dry Run Creek would have fit very well here. Perhaps he would like to choose a new word for us to write about???

[motherhubbard]

This was real quick, but I wanted to get one in.


Through labor I sway, my head tilted back and my knees bent.
After the work I sway, to comfort my baby and to ease my own soreness.
With a gentle back and forth motion I sway as the baby fills his tummy.
And when he is done I sway still, as he smiles spilling my milk from his mouth

The moves are old, as old as time
Through the rhythm of that motion knowledge is passed on and on
From a mother’s arms to the secret mind of her child
Words what were said or hummed or not even uttered aloud.

Tears are rocked away, bread is kneaded,
history is written, and stories are told
All to the rhythm of generations
culminated in my own dance, and passed along to you.

[CdnReader]

I really love this one, Mother.

[stephofthenight]

mother, sometimes the best poems are those of which wernt completly thought out, they where just written from thoughts, and emotions...I realy like it

[motherhubbard]

thanks guys- I just love having babies

[Granny5]

thanks guys- I just love having babies

Much better you than me....no work for me, just loving and spoiling!! I love my new job!! It's a very beautiful and moving poem, MH. I know exactly what you mean.

[Poppy]

I would think the word PATIENCE would be appropriate to TEACH then.

Full steam ahead, he yells.
Have patience old pal we don't
want to run out of coal
before the passengers
have boarded.

[ampoule]

All right everyone. Let's hear it for

PATIENCE

Thank you Poppy.

[PrinceMyshkin]

To hell with waiting any longer. I was an adult. I didn't have to wait. Children had to wait: sit here, sit there, keep still, we'll see, maybe on your next birthday, ask me one more time and... And old people had to wait, thanklessly, for release, for permission to leave. At either end of our lives, we spent hours and days, months, waiting. And in the middle, too. Prisoners had to wait, having refused at some time in the past to wait for what our society would have had them believe would be theirs, would belong to all of us, tomorrow: tomorrow being the time that adults invented to keep kids quiet, and the rich and powerful to keep the poor in line. And those who had given their hearts too easily in love, who had tried to buy love with the thin, perpetually diminishing coin of their patient hopefulness. All those and others had to wait, but not me; not any longer. Humanity was one long, endless waiting line that went in a spiral around and around the world. The line wavered in places and there were gaps in it here and there where some of the waiters had given up and others had not yet closed the ranks, but for the most part the line was docile and remarkably well-behaved. Everyone was waiting, as they had been trained since birth to do.