Poem for a sleeping child
There’s a wish to wander in your cool innocence
and cruise the thoughttides of no
responsibility—so easily you wipe your
shoeless feet on the ever waiting door
mat of socialization. How can I help you keep your
tender "souls" intact—your tread from
wearing thin out of align so as not to
fall flat. Your easy grace put to an
unfair test of ill-will winds blowing
carelessly at your soft back. I long for your sweet
calm at rest so deep so empty filled with
solid happiness—you know you are loved
beyond any measure that’s human or infinite. If
I could walk with you for a moment and peek
quietly at your conscience-----but no-it's yours
and no Dooleys allowed. Forgive me to
want to intrude on your ever pleasant play-would you
share with me like the kernel of rice or
squashed raisin-I might, but only if we all
can go. Keep it hold it for as long as you
can-as it suddenly disappears without a trace
never to be found again lest you become your
own sondaughter and learn to bask on
the outside looking in—---and be content. I
will live to never intrude on your soulspace,
but will always knock first. I am sorry ahead
of time for any pain I cause—for my mat
was torn treaded , muddy and ragged—my
sleep had no wanting witness. But I promise
to watch over you all ways.
Dave Collins collincd. Song, Poem for a sleeping child, by Kevin Ubanks
In this passage of time
I long for the month of my birth
a real child of the spring am I
born on the Vernal Equinox
I come fully alive in spring
The sights and sounds of spring
do hold me in enthral
the beauty of each emerging bud
and oh to enjoy the warmth of sun
The busy work of nesting birds
the joyful songs they do emit
filling the world with wonder
as busily they feed their chicks
The carpets of the spring flowers
strewn here and there at random
gallant bluebells wave their trumpets
while stately daffodils bow their heads
All these bring such joy and lightness
to this weary old soul of mine
giving me the kick I need
to put away the winter blues
I love her joyful smile, her hair in
A plump round face with chocolate
on her nose,
for she's her mamas' chubby little
What better gift for me in all the
wrapped in pink with lace and
I love her joyful smile, her hair in
Brown stains caress her mouth in
one great swirl,
with a drop or two I saw upon her
For she's her mamas' chubby little
"I made a cake for you" she says,
around the room before she strikes
I love her joyful smile, her hair in
"A cake for me?" I ask the precious
I touch her sticky face and spotted
She'll always be my chubby baby
Hand in hand around the room we
when we stop, I laugh and pull her
I love her joyful smile, her hair in
For she's her mamas' chubby little
One day, with these small hands I will forge the future.
One day, with my small feet I will walk for miles and miles just like you taught me.
One day, with this small mouth I will say things, oh so sweet and try not to say the bad.
One day, I will stray from you and from all you have taught me.
One day, I will realize I make mistakes and will apologize for my ignorance.
One day, this small child you see will grow and make you proud.
One day, I will find love and start a life of my own.
One day, I will have children and teach them all you have taught me.
One day, I will hold your hand like you held mine through all of the heartache.
One day, I will carry you as you did me when I was but a child.
One day, but through it all never forget, I am forever your loving child.
At Gateway yin
Long sham temple
Pink laced Taipei doll
Sealed Carmine red lips
From the four
Dragon tail rains
Swept gale winds
Funnel golden sand
Through pearly whites
That smile no more
Slighting the whitest Pearl
Lifeless love soul
Dress eroded salty seas
Passages are lingering..
You are extreme in beauty
perfected by builders who constructed all
your planking with pine trees from Ivory coast
and made a mast for you out of the combined crafts
from brown ebony and snake wood.
Out of the oaks from Bashan your Oars are made
and from the cypress wood of Cyprus
your decks crafted and inlaid with ivory.
Your awning of blue and purple fabric are from Egypt
and the inhabitants of America would be your rowers.
These rowers will bring you unto the high seas
you’ll become full and heavily loaded in its heart
the countryside shakes at the sound of your sailor’s cries
and all those who handle an oar will disembark from their ships
The whole of Europe is your trading partner in choice garments,
Cloaks of blue and embroidered materials and multicolored carperts
which are bound and secured with cords in your market place.
Your deals encompasses constant exchanges of turquoise,
Corals, rubies, wheat from minnith, white whool, wrought Iron,
Cassia and aromatic cane.
Costal lines are your trading gardens
and Roman ships will be the carriers of your goods.
Your captains are your wise men and your wise men
are the elders of Spain and Portugal
who take charge in repairing your leaks.
Your skyline will shade the sun and your islands, enrich the oceans
you’ll be the wealthiest in culture and diversity
because of your traders and visitors trooping from all corners of the Earth.
Come forth now and prosper
for greatness and fortune await your enrichment.
The were the three Magi with mantels and beards, traveling
on strong camels as far as Bethlehem and having
seen a wondrous star, they began their long journey
by bringing precious gifts, but they warned Joseph and Mary
of Herod's malicious intent...so they fled to Egypt
on a donkey that never complain of a sore hip!
They believed in the Savior as Herod himself full of pride,
and being very wise, they never returned
to tell him what kind of child they had found!
They brought their gifts and knelt at a child
whose fate as foretold was to die for us all,
and he gladly accepted them hearing His Father's call!
Not having heard from the Wise Men who had lied to Him,
Herod sent his soldiers to kill all children under three: screams terrorized Bethlehem;
no, they weren't moved by their mother's painful cry
and shedding their innocent blood they revenged that lie!
O mothers of Bethlehem, Jesus knew that they were slaughtered because of Him!
O mothers of Bethlehem, you wept and moaned as they bled as a sacrificial lamb!
They believed in the Savior from what they had read,
and wanted to see for themselves the glorious event that Daniel spoken of:
the brightest star shining over Bethlehem as angels sang,
announcing Christ's birth in a small town groping on a hill of citrus and clove!
Written on December 16, 2012
I viewed the dawn through mist of fading dreams,
Aware of silver feet upon the roof.
Eaves shivered wet, while raindrops welcomed spring
With murmured sounds, and giving me excuse
To burrow down and doze, with warming trace
Of childhood mornings, which have blown away.
I stretch my arms and rise with no regrets,
And see a rainbow’s face
That arches over hills so far away,
From crayons of time, that I will not forget
I love the rain that falls upon the grass
And look beyond the margins framed inside.
I sense renewal come with mute caress,
Will find new places where my soul resides.
The child in me will dance among the dew,
In soggy dress and mud between my toes,
Not to be dampened by a state of care…
Although the day is blue…
My inner child ignores the dark and low,
And thinks of rain the gift of something new.
Contentment comes from little things I do
Old storybooks will dazzle wishes, fed…
to make believe that wishes could come true
I drink some tea, with snack of jam and bread,
And once again, with growing up to do
Old scrapbooks found, to leap right through my age
Just one more moment as the child relents
My childhood bids adeiu
Recalling now, how fondness comes with sage
But knowing now, how well those days were spent~
In Honor of Cyndi's Contest: Comforts of a Rainy Afternoon
As the life and voice of Dr. Maya Angelou were profoundly deep and moving, I hope you will find this grateful tribute to her to be fitting. As it is too long to be posted here, you can find it at
Or, Read it in parts I and II:
The name woke me up - sat me up in my bed...
"Maya", the name my voice called out...
As I sat there in the dark, listening...
As I had so many times before...
Wondering at the "whys" and "how - tos" of my impossible dreams.
And as the dark, so was the divide -
That place in me, between what I was,
And the Why and Who I wanted to be...
But always, her voice, that voice named "Maya",
Had called across the divide as a still and steady light.
That unbreakable, unshakable, steady light...
I wondered where it was now, with blinking, thinking eyes.
Had it vanished? Was it vanquished? Could I once again rise -
In the dark staring dead at me... daring me to rise...
I felt hopeless, lost back in the divide… now growing ever and ever wide.
What happens now - my question? A miracle now, an answer - indeed...
For through the dark, that voice named "Maya" whispered...
Whispered into me... sounding a new song's drumbeat creed...
"You", the whispering voice whispered..."You, child - Now, You"...
And my feet were suddenly planted, planted bravely on the ground.
And I stood tall and strong, stepping peacefully forward, twirling round,
For the dark no longer stared at me, but I stared into it...
It no longer owned me... but instead, I commanded it,
By a path so still and steady - and now, so brightly lit:
The light I had strained to see was now the miracle shining from inside of me.
My divide... was now, somehow... unified.
And again the whispering voice came: "Yes child - Yes - I speak your name…
I have come and gone so very far, borne witness to it -
Have delivered a gift to you all - and you were born to use it.
Share it... wear it... and to the dark - dare it - with that unbreakable, unshakable light.”
“Be a voice for all seasons - make some noise for all the reasons,
The downtrodden have to hope for, that the world would grasp and grope for…
Be my voice Now… as I have been yours… a brilliant spirit, not a wandering ghost…
Make your choice, Now - Decide - to be Identified…
To see and live your unbreakable, unshakable, unstoppable dreams.”
Continued i Part II
I do not know?
Proud windswept child
How shall I not
Look onto thee with fright?
- The Lord has spoken,
Loud and clear -
His will men cannot fight.
The Lord has spoken,
Yes - He said -
"As Sarah thou shall be -
The mother of six millions,
Those perished and decieved."
The Lord had mercy over me -
He sent His Angels forth,
Those strong-winged guardians
With their hard,
Never failing support.
Until the end comes
I shall fear
To speak about their names:
And of their brother -
Oh windswept child,
Thou need not say
What Lord has given thee -
The might of all Jerusalem,
The freedom of the sea...
And blissfully He lets you stand
Before my tearless eyes -
He gives you sheer naivety,
A will to be surprised.
So easily He lets you think
All power is now yours -
But lessons history shall teach
Will show that you were wrong...
Behold there, a Somalian child is standing upon dry hard rocks.
Its two eyes glitter like a rough diamond, parched, bleak and dark.
Its belly exhibits the fragile bony ribs and silently mocks
The phony Art that seeks phony beauty even in wounded scar-mark.
The orphan boy was trying to scream but no voice came out
From its barren vocal cord, empty stomach and shrinking lung.
Its salty tears have dried out too like parched petals of a dead sprout.
Its face looked blue and pale as if it were serpent-stung.
This child, like all newborns here, was born with a constant Curse
Of utmost struggling life until it moves, stares, breathes no more.
Even showers upon the drought-infested land cannot reimburse
The untold tales of such millions of children, the Pain-store.
Two immobile figures of dead parents laid on dusty ground
And blurred cries of the child melted in heat of wind there.
No humans were there to hear except vultures that hovered around
The dead bodies and waited until death of the tiny figure.
As I watch you sleep
It reminds me of what I cannot lay claim to
A past long forgotten in the deepest recess of my mind
A Peace so profound I could not fathom
I strive so hard to remember how it felt
I struggled for a glimpse of the childhood long lost
But all I can come up with is dust.
As I watch you stretch your pudgy hand
I tried to recollect what being a baby is like
I struggled for the glimpse of the childhood long lost
But memory failed me
Your cute grunt warms my heart
Your tiny face expressive even in your sleep,
Gives me the purest joy.
As I watch you sleep
I ponder the world you inhabit
Who really can know the world you inhabit
Who knows the dream you dreamt
My cute baby, the world I promise you not
But a beautiful life is God’s promise
My tiny cute bundle of joy,
As I watch you sleep,
With all the cry and grunts,
The sleepless night taunts
The constant diaper changing,
I will never trade my little buddle,
Sleep tight, my daughter Carissa and let me
Watch your face my little bundle
CREATIONS BLUNDER - 1/4
Its not you fault, don't be sorry.
Paradox of creation...
A most misconceived,
divine beauty, etched in pain.
The pain that you experience,
is a mistake of creation.
If I had my way...?
I would have divided, the burden.
Why should you alone.., bear the heft.
I would have gifted, the male child;
half of your pain.
Just like, how two instruments.
Mingle, to produce a piece,
of wonderful music.
So whenever she gracefully,
experiences, the jagged, cycle of life.
Her partner should also be humbled.
There is no rhyme or reason,
for this kind of discrimination.
He should have taken my advice.
EPILOGUE TO THE GIRL CHILD - 4/4
YOU ARE, THE BLESSED
WITHOUT WHOM I WOULDN'T EXIST.
NEVER ENJOYED, SO MANY PLEASURES,
OF NATURES, BOUNTIFUL GIFT.
YOU ARE THE THE CONCEIVER OF LIFE.
YOU ARE A MYSTERIOUS MIND.
YOU ARE ENVY OF PICASSO'S PASSION.
YOU ARE VIVALDI'S FOUR SEASONS.
YOU ARE POETRY IN MOTION.
A COLD SPRING IN THE OASIS.
YOUR ARE MONALISA'S MYSTERIOUS SMILE.
YOUR ARE, NOW THE TALENT, OF THIS GENERATION.
I CANNOT CONCEIVE, MY LIFE WITHOUT YOU.
POETRY WOULD HAVE LOST ITS RHYME.
MUSIC WOULD HAVE LOST ITS MOVEMENTS.
I SALUTE YOU, BEAUTIFUL GIRL CHILD.
WITHOUT YOU, LIFE WOULD SURELY CEASE.
DANCES OF A DIVISIVE MIND. - 3/4
There are more gruesome...,
acts of patriarchy.
Devised to Subjugate, the girl child.
Men, so cunningly....,
planned, in the dark of the ages.
The devil; if he exists, would envy.
And perhaps, shrivel away in shame.
And never cease to exist.
But, who created the devil..?
Another, pigment of imagination of mankind.
A mole to infiltrate, the Humane mind.
And keep the subjects,
infected, in fear; of reprisal.
You have come, a long way my Sweetheart.
Because, if you are reading this poem.
You consider, yourself well emancipated.
There was time in history.
When you would have been,
crucified or burnt, alive in the stake...???
Because you have committed,
An unholy and evil act.
You have learnt to read and write.
And liberated your self.
And men have become very insecure.
You got a very long way to go baby.
The choice is in your hands.
UNSHACKLE, your mind from yourself.
There's a host of virus
In your HD.
Within the wolves’ den, the women menstruate together as one. Bleeding and screaming. Hatred from nothing. The succubus has dreams too. Consuming all, hunger never ceases. The tentacles from inside their wombs reach out grabbing at your pocket book. You are now a part of the hive little drones, work till you die. Don't speak, for you can never out scream the mother beast. That all knowing oracle of man's despair. The wolves den breeds filth, Filth breeds filth. Your skulls’ added onto the collection above the fire place mantle.
INFERNO OF THE GIRL CHILD - 2/4
You have, a long way my dear.
And a much longer,
journey awaits you.
There was a time, in history.
During this period of grace.
She was condidered, so impure.
And not allowed to enter
Even the living spaces.
Because man decreed, that,
his own creation sacrilege...?????
At times; she....,
because of this stigma.
If an untoward evil should happen.
Be considered the reason,
for such an event.
Was burnt alive in the stake...
because she was the curse of the Gods...!
to appease the creator....!
who cursed his own creation...?
This is just a pigment of history.
Just one turn, one view.
Through the kaleidoscope, of life.
Tribulations, of our beautiful girl child.
Woman, she is
A mother of five
Man, he is
A father of five
In a life
Of ups and
The four walls
The woven rug
And in the throbbing shadows,
Of fear and joy, they are waiting
Eagerly, for me, to come out