Three Free Verse Poems and 2 Short Essays

The Dinosaurs are Stuck

A free verse (albeit rhyming A,A,A,B) poem, intended for children.

The museum door squeaked welcome for those not afraid,
to a room full of dinosaurs, so dark and so grayed.

One step too many and the dinosaurs’ song, it played.

A small girl, tingling with fear, froze.

The dinosaurs were ready to either hunt or be slayed,

she knew those fierce teeth were as sharp as a blade.

“They aren’t real,” claimed Oma, “they are just man-made”

but the girl stood firm in her soldier-still pose.

“They are big, big toys, like those from a fair or arcade,”

Oma even jumped up and down to prove the awful charade.

The dinosaurs came no closer, no, they had not swayed,

but the girl didn’t twitch so much as her clothes.

Oma frowned and worried that the girl was so dismayed,

“Honey, look at their feet,” whispered Oma, soft, unafraid,

“the dinosaurs are stuck.” Their secret was now betrayed.

The girl slowly, slowly peeked at their toes.

Despite their loud and horrible song, in place they’d stayed,

The girl breathed deeply and yelled, her fears allayed,

“The dinosaurs are stuck!” (Her indoor voice was quite mislaid.)

“They can’t bite my face or even my nose!”

Should they leave, Oma wondered, gently tugging at her braid,

but the girl went to a small boy, crouching in a bit of dark shade,

sharing that the dinosaurs were stuck and with that news conveyed,

she stated, “Let’s see where the next hall goes.”

Christoph’s Girl

A poem in free verse form.

In the lightness of youth,

devotion,

lost in passages,

remembered as was.

Yet.

Hearing of

a father’s precious girl,

eyes unseeing

of any path not darkness

lays waste

to time and duty,

abandoned in a maze of sorrow,

dear time-worn boy.

Tia Lucia Bedelia Maria

A poem in free verse form.

She self-describes as colorful, fun and funny,

smart, nice (when she isn’t stressed), a momma’s girl,

sporty, lovable and loving.

She is eight.

She rarely sleeps.

She is more empathetic than most adults.

She has little self-control.

She is the top reader in her class.

She cleans by stuffing everything under her desk.

She loathes combing her hair.

She takes medication that makes her hungry.

She purposefully mismatches her clothes.

She understands great depths.

She requires the patience of a saint.

She threatens to kill herself.

She is eight.

Ah, October! There is a meme about it being the month where having cobwebs is considered decorating, and I’m on board with that. The wreath on my front door is so completely covered in cobwebs that I’m not touching it. I rarely use the front door so it wasn’t a huge surprise when a spider fell from the wreath when my daughter opened it. In fact, I’m sure it was quite comfy before that moment. I thought fast, yelled at her to get rid of it, and slammed the door in her face. Before you judge me as an evil parent, please allow me to explain that spiders don’t bother her in the least. She remains calm and can slay them, ignore them, or set them free, depending on the circumstances. She does not get this from me. I’m sure it is from her dad, a renowned mosquito slayer in his own right. He who was loathe to get out of bed for an earthquake would be up in a flash if there was a mosquito in the house, and he wouldn’t stop until the battle had reached its inevitable conclusion.

In related news, this week I was forced to turn on the furnace. By the cat. He doesn’t understand that I’m leery (okay, fine, I’m afraid) to turn on the furnace. My delay in turning on the magic heat-generating machine meant feline retribution including snagged clothes, an inability to use my lap for the computer (it belongs to him when he is cold), and the infamous corner-claw. This is where he hides behind a corner, waits for me to walk by, and then he claws my ankle.

I conceded defeat and turned on the heat, but let me tell you my story.

Two years ago, on a similar chilly October night, I turned on the furnace for the first time that season and blithely returned to my computer. After a time, I went into my bedroom and there was the biggest black widow I’d ever seen sitting on the corner of my jewelry box. It was so large that I thought it was a plastic toy. For a moment, I thought my daughter had put it there for a joke, and I was mad. Then it moved. I ran for the fly swatter and beat it until it was the thickness of a dime. I considered the remains for a moment, decided it was likely dead, and then continued to beat it until it was the thickness of paper. In fact, if you come over, I can show you the exact place where this horror took place.

I called the furnace repair man, told him of spiders living in he ducts, and he found a spot where the ducting had split just enough for spider incursion. I wanted to move, but he convinced me that it was repaired. I still have visions of flashing lights and neon arrows pointing to a new spider entrance under my house, but it just isn’t feasible for me to move right now.

In other news, I was talking with my cousin about our grandad’s second wife, a lovely woman who always had orange candy circus peanuts in a big jar near the kitchen sink. “Can I give the kid peanuts?” she’d ask my mom. Mom would nod, and off we’d go into the kitchen to eat candy. It was great. (I was ten. Stop laughing at me.) I told my cousin that I have a couple of Grandma’s aprons and would be happy to ship one to her. “Oh no,” she responded. “Thank you, but I’m not sentimental.” You would think someone had put a dump truck load of boulders in my mental path. What does that mean? Is she not sentimental emotionally or does she does not collect items of sentiment? I think I understand the latter. I’m not that person, but like to think I can expand my brain to encompass that reality.

Well, or perhaps not.

I need to throw out my old comforter. After his 1980s blue, cotton, calico print was long out of style, Blankie (I didn’t name him) spent his days in the closet but his nights with me, a faux body pillow, malleable to any shape. He has been there for me in sickness and health. He is also the cat’s favorite blanket for kneading. And he simply cannot withstand another washing. There is nothing left to stitch to keep his few remaining clumps of stuffing inside. There. I admitted it.

Last night, I used the comforter from the guest bed while Blankie sat in a sad clump in the corner. Today, I will put him in the trash. Or tomorrow. Today, he can sit in the guest room, enjoying the autumn sunlight. Or I could spray him with Febreeze and stick him in a blanket bag. In the spring, if I haven’t needed him, I can put him in the trash. Or I might, might, be able hand wash him enough to use him as part of a new comforter. He could live again!

Wait. I just failed the “not sentimental” test, didn’t I?