holding on to innocence

It’s the way the bag bounces on her back

as she runs the alley to school.

Late again, but determined today

to stick to all the rules.

I don’t get it right all the time –

if ever. Yet she forgives me with her hand

that reaches out to curl around mine

before she sinks to dreaming land.

It’s the smile she saves to seek me out

when she wins her latest Gold.

It’s the hug she gets, win or lose,

for being so brave and bold.

It’s the trust she has in her big round eyes

that I’ll treasure in my box.

She’s about to grow, to become her own.

For now, she truly rocks.

A poem for day four of NaPoWriMo: love without saying love

a sense of swimming

Up my nose, the chlorine sticks its doses:

like a spell, it lulls me and it woos me.

Through my eyes, her swimmers’ arms balletic:

elbows up, calves strong, her heart is centric.

To my ears she swishes through the blueness:

slicing splash, swishing aim, fingers’ trueness.

This poem is for Day 17 of NaPoWriMo, challenging me to write about three of the senses.

this little light that shines…

I feel so raw

when my girl gets called

a loser.

I think so fast

when my love for her

is tossed

in the net of all their taunts.

They’re bigger than her.

So what?

They swagger, they sway

in her face

to stop her winning game.

They’d like to blow right out her light

a candle snuffed before its prime.

Yet in her heart she feels

some bright

that shines way beyond:

oh yes. She’ll have her time.

the woe of the winning heart

I win a race. I achieve something great.

Yet the girls in the playground

mock me til I cry and I deflate.

What’s wrong with putting my all

into a sprint I really meant? Yet I bow and say

I’m sorry to the losers who cajole.

Can’t we all be equal partners in the race

of life and love? Or is losing just so shameful

that to want to win is a self-centred disgrace?

A poem for a happy tear

My girl always checks

for tear-stained flecks

on my middle-aged cheeks.

They don’t play hide and seek,

because those tears that fall

don’t make me feel small.

They’re not drops of doom

on a melancholy costume.

There are two types of tears:

one regrets time; one gains years.

The first cries for loss of self,

the second cheers for spiritual wealth.

So when I see my little girl swim,

my happy tears fill to the brim,

because she’s doing what she came here to do.

So I leave bitter tears for others to rue.

A poem for a mummy i knew

A mummy I knew had a cute little girl,

Always acting good, not rocking her world.

A mummy I knew was busy as hell

Her little girl in front of the TV did dwell.

A mummy I knew always checked her phone

Day or night, under her pillow it droned.

A mummy I knew stressed all around.

Her heart a deep freeze, her forehead a frown.

A mummy I knew woke up to what she’d lost.

Her little girl was growing up fast.

One last chance to melt the frost?