Best Bassinet Poems
Seven generations walked through your door,
Which stood so strong and always welcomed in.
You said goodbye when boys headed to war,
Two soldiers lost to battles they can’t win.
Your kitchen always busy as a bee,
With canning, baking apple crumble cake.
Stone hearth, a place for warmth and drink some tea,
The table decked with riches to partake.
The living room a place to sit and chat,
With pictures hanging for one hundred years.
A chair still there where ancestors once sat,
This room for laughter and at times for tears.
Your nursery where many babies grew,
With bassinet where ev’ry child did lie.
The paint would change at times from pink to blue,
A place where time would always quickly fly.
The floors within have felt each child’s first walk,
Their worn out wood drowned many times with stain.
You watched the aging people gently rock,
You’ve heard and felt the tapping of a cane.
I stand and listen in your sacred halls
And feel that you’re a part of everyone.
Each breath we took embedded in your walls,
Of fathers, mothers, daughters and of sons.
Old house of stone your warmth embraces me,
Your children now all scattered far and wide.
You still stand proud for all the world to see,
The thoughts of you, sweet memories inside.
The house my children grew up in.
Iambic Pentameter
Written by Brenda Meier-Hans
10.02.2014
Giorgio’s Contest: Iambic Verse III
2nd
Best of 2014 1st place
The sunlight streams through the windowpane
Casting a rainbow around my newborn
In her bassinet as she sleeps.
Brightening my world with flickering magic.
Her silky blonde curls glisten with the spiritual light.
Her soft cuddlable skin, her sweet powder sent,
And a smile to melt anybody’s heart,
She’s a flower of radiance and perfection.
Oh, my heart warms as I hold her hand, so tiny
In mine, and in my world. I marvel and sigh,
How beautiful a gift I’ve been blessed.
My tipsy mind dances on beams of lights
And shadows of songs and merry, dancing
Upon specks of dust across the floor.
Ebullient memories will be made giving her
The courage and strength to move mountains.
Denial is a can of peas
whose contents
should never be indulged
beyond the expiration date.
Yet there I stood,
evidence screaming reality
at my eyes, their gaze steadfast
upon the wailing baby girl
before me in her bassinet.
My mind then confidently knew
that what lay there
could have never come
from briefest self-indulgence.
Still, my heart wouldn't listen—
And rightly so.
I turned and faced
a solitary window,
which framed a cold and gray
November day
that froze as well
the unrecorded moment.
Though soft upon my parted lips
came unbidden words:
“I love you, dearest child”—
knowing all that was yet to be,
for here lay an open book
in which life would write about
a young girl’s timeless, playful mirth,
but also test her brazen dreams
and tireless hopes alike.
On life’s other end,
my mother wearies
of her endless days
and puzzles
over life prolonged well past
these ninety-seven years—
asking with familiar eyes,
undimmed by age,
the reason why,
which none can answer,
and which none tries,
and silence reigns.
Then, soon enough
both memories and questions fade,
their cycles now complete.
Mark B. Peterson, Any Poem/Any Form, December 26, 2013
I had a cat, a large one
I thought I loved the cat
The cat thought he loved me too!
Then, one day,
They took the cat away
The cat, with the bassinet, the little furry presence
And Sameeha’s science club chapstick
And I thought I was kissing scientific a book cover
Where he is artistic in a beauty in the other way, rare.
It was a cat. After all, it was just a cat
It had the nicest jacket ,
with hoodies on,
the cat used to sit on time,
the cat
And it had the fish, tummy time, happy face, and everything first time
For I never yearn to come back! For there, to chime!
It is just a known type of pain that I knew for far too long!
On a question paper, pm time, departmental too
Dealey Plaza, are you keeping right on the still unresolved Elm street?
Heavenly God , do you play around heavenly to utter Godsay, is your slip
Where you do not know usually after or before the strait the gate
You never knew Jack Ruby and you never knew Oswald
So you never knew other than too much other than, Please, other tall!
I wait for you in the moonlight
In the quiet of the night
Within this room that holds
So many moments of your life
The dreams you've dreamed
Still linger here
Between these flower-papered walls
That look beyond the window
At the Autumn leaves that fall
A quilted robe lies draped across
A wicker rocking chair
That held you and rocked you
When grief
Was more than you could bear
A bassinet now empty
Where once a baby slept
Remains enshrined
Chained to a time
By the million tears you wept
A picture of a handsome man
With you there by his side
A bride and groom so in love
With stardust in their eyes
Stands behind a pane of glass
Within a gilded frame
Where your lip prints and
finger prints
On its surface..still remain
And now...
I hear your slippers
As they slide across the floor
And I hear...
Your laboured breathing
Outside this bedroom door
And I know that soon
I'll hold you
Here in this flower-papered room
And soothe your old
And frail body
In the light of a silver moon
I...your old companion
An antique Rosewood Bed
Let me hold you...Mary Beth
I..the best friend you've ever had
Let me hold you through the night
And bring you back...again
Sweet Mary Beth
Into the morning light.
She waits,
eight black spindles joined at one end by a pivot, a compass.
Each pinpoint balanced at the intersections
of self-drawn polygons.
Legs jointed like the fingers of a skeleton,
deft, dexterous as a harpist.
Body in two sections with ample abdomen,
the African who carries the water jug on her head.
Or an Indian, the untouchable with her caste mark,
the microscopic grains dropping through the hourglass
like drops of blood.
Blind, she has the surrogate sense of a seismograph.
She would feel a disturbance in the web
were it only a thought.
Never mind she lives in a dark corner
as devoid of light as she is of personality,
she needs neither.
She does not look as the wrapped body of her cannibalized mate
as at a gilt-framed photograph of the dearly departed.
The egg sac is not a silk-lined bassinet,
the hanging ornament
to all her future hopes and dreams.
She is absent of frontal lobes,
moralizing modifiers,
second thoughts.
An instrument of logic,
mate=food
sac=young,
syllogisms minus all prepositions,
additional excess cargo to be jettisoned
as the dried shells of devoured prey.
No welcome mats on the front step,
no settees in the parlor,
no cunning seductress with scarlet claws.
Only a modem waiting in the spaceless black.
Lovers gather, yelling "carpe diem"
Lovers kiss, living with totem
Lovers fall, counting walls
Lovers forget, crushing falls.
Love birds chirping as one
Under a tree skipping one by one
Above the bassinet where cuckoos nests
Below the cradle are loving breasts.
Rush to me and sail with me
On a gondola in Venice we flee
Gaping romanticism in idealism
Dying dualism without ostracism.
My poor vocabulary babies
are gon missing
Tell me kind sir, have you seen them?
Us etymological mothers to
lingual children of lost former meaning,
we are milk carton crying
Many hotline tips
that the academia search party
have been receiving,
unfortunately, has borne no adjective fruit
of root cause discovery
And my poor alphabet unprotected babies
are still missing
Some concerned voices
anonymously said, they saw a couple of
little colloquial diaper tykes
being censored kidnaped late last night
And when dem’ dim synonym scoundrels were spotlighted ,
they fascistically warned them:
Steer clear of this word dirty business, y’hear
Then they rattled their
mouth-muzzling, zip-lip sidearms, menacingly —
They said my innocent children
were gonna grow-up
and cause much sheer mental fear
My infant’s harmless homonym eyes
were New Tact censured hijacked,
Shanghaied as a matter of consonant fact
Somebody please bring those amber pure children
of innocent nomenclature origin back
I, Octavia
do motherly beg,
asking with august favor most acacia
For the cross-cultural media
to free-speech help me
find my lost idiom babies, please!
So that I, and other etymologist mothers
can stop feeling this unabridged pain ...
such emotional scarlet ink heart stain
A bridge of crimson tears over troubled,
choppy, wordy waters —
overflowing with maternal fears
This milk carton crying
for my precious vowels, verbiage dressed babies,
who are now missing ...
Has so bereaved my quill-pricked soul
with perpetual sorrow
Deep Orwellian sadness for these snatched,
suckled lost former meanings
has adverbial sent me
empty intellectual bassinet sighing
And barren cradled
bosom ananym thoughts a-dying
Anguish paints the mask.
Choking on dysphoria
begrimes a collapsed heart.
Hypothermia sets in
when squeezing the color blue.
Silvery Moon drifts through open window.
Baby's bassinet is bathed in evening sky.
Across the open yards, Silvery Moon gifts,
gifts love and devotion to taper the shadows.
A shimmer to shield from darkness
dusting sleepy lids with light like baby powder.
Hold fast to fleeting innocence
and boldness of brilliant shield
as you swaddle my tender babe tonight
through open window, Silvery Moon.
By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, August 7, 2012
Inspired by Babyface (Carl Sandburg)
I love the smell of fresh cut wood. Did you know that? I bet you didn’t know.
Why would you?
You never asked.
Wooden hearts dangling over a baby’s bassinet.
Be not hard like my wooden heart, chipped as a cedar output.
Wood is an insulator right?
Keeping it in like the charge of some electrical outlet cover.
Innocuous scriptures.
A vamp, that shouldn’t have, should have known better.
You should have asked me all my favorites.
I love the smell of wood, for wooden hearts cannot be broken.
Merely splintered and sawed of one’s own, free disposition and handiwork.
Let’s carve another organ.
One that can’t do anything but be whole.
Lucky wood.
Poetry is jagged and true, an inconspicuous fopa.
That’s not it.
I want to write a poem that is capturing.
One in which I can dice the words as may entice if not displease.
Here goes…
Wondering the aisles
In search of the perfect bassinet
Choosing between the wood and the metal
Selecting the perfect theme of it all
Then out of nowhere a loud bang
Silence then another pop
What in the world is going on?
Looking for protection, she hides from the sound
Behind the secound corner, who is that man?
What is that he is carrying? Is she in any danger?
Oh Lord please don't let him do anything
For inside the woman, a infant she was bearing
He holds her done, puts the gun to her head
Is anyone to witness this?, can anyone stop him
She tries to tell him that she is no threat
She won't tell anyone, just please let the baby live
But he doesn't seem to listen to her words
A loud shot and she's falls down to the floor
Her pulse slowly weakens, then she is gone
The baby's heart no longer can beat without her
The guy escapes with no harm
The cops have no trace
The lady's family has no comfort
All because wrong time, wrong place
I am taking care of my 11-month-old grandson. I love every-minute and he's stolen my heart. I've seen the growth within him with lots of love and affection he gets. He is crawling and into everything. I never realized how many things needed for this small infant.
Car seat or they won't let you leave the hospital without one
As many diapers as you think you'll need
Diaper bag that handles everything you need on the go
Baby changing table, diaper change as quick as you can they get pretty squirmy
Wipes for their sensitive skin
Diaper rash ointment relieves baby's painful rash
Grocery store plastic bags, fantastic for disposing all those stinky diapers
Baby bath tub, there is such a sweet smell of a freshly bathed baby
No tears baby soap
Washcloths
Baby bath towels hooded or non-hooded
Sleepers with buttons and snaps, they are so much easier to put on
Swaddle or baby blankets, wrapped snug arms from wiggling free
Nail clippers, he loves scratching the back of my arms and face
Baby brush
Baby comb
Thermometer
Baby clothes, they'll grow out of it so fast
Socks
Shoes
Bottles
Formula or milk for hungry
Bottle brush
Baby teething ring to relieve sore gums
Baby binkis it tends to calm them when they are not feeding
Baby dishes
Baby spoon
Variety of baby food and cereal
Juices
Highchair
Bibs
A rocking chair to rock and kiss them good night.
Bassinet or Crib
Crib sheets
Toys, age appropriate for learning
Baby walker, fantastic to keep them busy for a little while
Stroller, a must when you walk or shop
Baby proof your whole house, once they start crawling, they are into everything
Camera, time goes so fast you'll want to remember it all.
7/29/2019
A dream worth living for
Born in the image of an unspoiled soul
Newborn stretches it's small limbs
Hungers, cries, crawls, and walks
A new peaceful dawn, a new world unfurled
5/14/2019
Poetry Contest: Writing Challenge 3, July 2019 - List
Sponsored by: Dear Heart
Awake crying in the darkness
Hungry must be fed
Nursed, changed, swaddled
Rocked and laid gently into the bassinet
Lonely wanting to be held
Awake crying in the darkness
An infant's cry has an Elysian ring,
endearing the late-night hour.
A tiny, yet rattling, distinct sound,
impinges a young mother's weary body.
Joyously awakened, she follows her heart,
as a newborn angel softly calls.
Rest will evade for a short while
as motherly instincts prevail;
endearing the late-night hour.
Tender emotions overwhelm her soul
as dream-like powers drift over,
impinges a young mother's weary body.
Angelic bells heard in air, abound.
Time is of no essence,
as motherly instincts prevail.
Waiting in a Lilliputian ruffled bassinet,
contentment, despite weariness,
a newborn angel softly calls.
Life now holds a most sacred trust,
a miracle of wonderment.
Time is of no essence.
Her total being, now complete,
dreamlike trends never felt before,
impinges a young mother's weary body.
Now aspiring to her most magnanimous role,
futurity holds only hopefulness &
a miracle of wonderment.
Nebular images, as far as she can see,
in tune with her dreams, now reality.
A newborn angel softly calls.
Halos, aspirations, is all that she sees.
An infant's cry has an Elysian ring.
Futurity holds only hopefulness, &
a tiny, yet rattling, distinct sound.
Drifting, in her thoughts,
tones of amazement, never felt before,
impinges a young mother's weary body,
a newborn angel softly calls.