Oh little child, your hunger grows
for things outside your world of woes
gangs and morsels you feed upon
to gather strength and carry on.
Sirens bellow, flashing lights
weaken so the appetite
windows now your only shield
from who you are and what you feel.
Watching how the colored clothes
come together in violent pose
feeling it’s your only chance
you turn away and start to dance.
Pelvis thrusting, rapid feet
arms are flailing to the beat
letting go of all you fear
you dance until you disappear.
I wrote this many years ago when I taught in a low income early childhood center. My eyes opened. My heart squeezed.
(For me, fireflies are such a wonderful reminder of childhood)
My daughter and her family have been hunkered down with her dad and I for the last two months. Today is her birthday. The above box is her “wrapped” gift.
In the 1920’s, before gift wrap was readily available, they used brown paper – but decorated it with flowers, lace, etc.
I found a magic marker – orange. The red seems to be missing.
Missing like my gift bags and wrapping paper, hence the brown paper.
I can’t blame CoVid 19 on the masses rushing to buy out wrapping paper and hoarding it like toilet paper.
But I can blame CoVid for this: my husband’s new mission to “declutter” and organize every room in the house. This includes, but is not limited to, the pantry, his side of the closet, every cabinet and drawer in the house, and the laundry room.
That’s where I kept my wrapping paper.
No, we can’t blame everything on CoVid. But we can blame it on restlessness, the need to do something different, and missing wrapping paper.
Where do your poems grow?