Long Toddled Poems
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Child’s Play
Perhaps we should let the children lead.
Two mothers sat on a bench
speaking in an unusual tongue,
one sat alone scanning her cell phone,
a Dad pretended to teach his daughter to fish,
grandparents toddled after a toddler.
The children did what children do
follow the sound of children’s voices,
gravitate to the excited playfulness,
see only other children – playing,
slowly slip into the wonder of the moment.
No ceremonious introductions necessary
another voice added to the jubilation,
another set of dancing footsteps
racing for the slide, sliding to the ground
laughing in the joy of spring warmth.
The parents watched the children
the children touched their hearts
left the parents thinking…
Perhaps we should let the children lead.
John G. Lawless
When is a bookstore not a bookstore…certainly we have books galore…
but I think that sometimes it all depends on who comes in the store.
Some people come in for the air-conditioning…some to get out of the rain
Some people only peek their heads in and quickly pull them out again.
There is one women who comes in…an older woman…she always wears a hat.
She sits in a chair near the counter and all she wants to do is chat.
Yesterday a mother carrying her daughter on her shoulder walked into the store
Her daughter quickly smiled then toddled away when her mom set her on the floor.
The days when my children and grandchildren were that small are long ago in the past.
I had forgotten, in the interim, how something that small could move so fast.
Her mother immediately shot me a smile…or was it a look of dread?
“She headed down that aisle.” I pointed. “Toward the children’s section.” I said.
As her mother ran to the back of the store…now fully engrossed in the hunt
I had to smile as her daughter…had already returned to the front.
I heard her mother call her name…in that deep voice of a headmaster…
which only caused her daughter to smile and run away a little faster.
As I watched the daughter play this game and heard her mother’s sighs
I remember back to those sweet days of my own parental exercise.
The mother finally corralled her daughter…(she somehow found a way)
saying, “I don’t think the bookstore was a good idea…we’ll come back another day.”
And again in the interim I had forgotten toddlers are smarter than we think…
because as she waved goodby from her mother’s shoulder…I’m sure I saw her wink!
When is a bookstore not a bookstore?
When it’s a place in which people peek…
When it’s a place to sit and chat a while…
or for a child to play hide and seek.
The body has a different relationship
with space now.
Disrespectful of distance before,
it now moves with a new sobriety,
motion slowed by a deliberation
barely perceptible,
as if, with each step,
asking for admission into the space in front,
a little readier to recoil from air
fraught with unwelcome possibility
imagined by creeping frailty,
erstwhile swagger
replaced by a simmering, private anger,
shedding bits of remembered energy,
its age unlearning the freedom of coordination,
edging ever closer to
a reunion, across many decades,
with its former self,
the one who toddled forth with
the same caution,
just much more optimistic.
It was hours before dawn and I could not sleep.
The gloomy fog overpowered the cold dark street.
The street lights offered patches of misty light.
Rain had glossed the pavement, in the dead of night.
From my window I saw the publican escorting old Joe.
Put him out in the street, he closed the pub hours ago.
My yawning fogged the window as he toddled home.
Last of the rain flowed down the gutters leaving foam.
The eerie silence matched the cold dark grey scene.
A more lonely looking place, there had never been.
Scraps of paper and food wrappers were tumbling,
Pushed along by a breeze as I watched Joe stumbling.
He made it to his gate down the end of the road.
A truck carrying newspapers slung off its load,
Plastic wrapped and landed at the newsagent’s door.
I hoped to watch the deserted street, just a bit more.
To see the sunrise and it be busy with people galore.
Such a transformation was worth waiting for.
To see vehicles appear, all come alive in early morn.
But my bed called and I fell asleep before the dawn.
A variation on a theme by Dr. Seuss...
There once was a Grinch who was bad to the bone,
Which was why he always spent Christmas alone,
But one year the Grinch said, "Enough is enough!"
And decided to steal everyone's Christmas stuff.
In the village below, in the center of town,
Stood a great Christmas tree with gifts all around.
There were gaily wrapped presents, some large and some small,
Filled with treats and surprises for one and for all.
The Grinch plotted, connived, he schemed, and he hatched.
"Come Christmas morning," he vowed, "all that loot will be snatched."
Then he rushed back inside to flesh out his plan
To disguise himself as that Santa Claus man.
He measured, and cut, and stitched stitches galore,
When he suddenly heard, just outside his front door,
Something that set both his Grinch ears to ringing.
The sound was quite audibly somebody singing.
He opened his door just a crack so to peek,
And what he beheld made the Grinch squeak out "Eek!"
In front of his cave was a sight quite bewilderin'
A small group of seven or eight village childeren.
Then a curly-haired toddler toddled forward an inch
And cooed, rather cutely, "Mewwy Cwissmas, Mistuh Gwinch!"
The snarl that he tried for turned into a grin,
And 'stead of biting their heads off, he invited them in.
He dashed to his fireplace, tossed on a Yule log,
Then served gingerGrinch cookies and sweet green eggnog.
They ate, drank, and sang for an hour or more
Then announced they must leave and bounced out the front door.
As he watched them depart, to his utter surprise,
The Grinch felt his heart trying to double in size.
He quivered, he quaked, his knees started to shake.
"This unGrinchlike behavior has been a mistake!"
Then he slammed shut the door and proclaimed with a sneer,
"Well, you thwarted me this time, but just wait 'til next year!"
This tale has a moral, quite simple yet bold:
Some people can't change, if the sad truth be told.
The Grinch, of his species, was simply a bad 'un,
He couldn't change his spots, poor thing, even if he had 'em.
Mum and dad were not happy -
What was the reason for all this fuss?
I toddled off into the garden to see them
They were looking very curious
The evidence was plain for all to see
Just one solitary little footprint on the new concrete path
Mum asked was it made by me
Oh no mum it wasn’t me…
but I know who did it …
It was pussy wearing daddy’s old boots
My parents both began to laugh
To this day that footprint remains on the path
(I have to hold up my hands and finally confess… is a true story)
Contest Tall tales in short form sponsored by Casarah Nance
05~05~16
I was minding my own business, a smart tabby cat lazing in the sun,
As the chief of this roost, the house diva, the boss of my domain,
Having such a busy itinerary, its really hard to get all things done,
I have to eat and sleep then I must do more of the exact same,
As the smart one I keep a cool attitude, you know, I got game!
One day my little owner scooped me up, she said she wanted to play,
She toddled me down the hall, saying we would just have so much fun,
These little hands had a firm grasp of me, I could not budge or run away,
Dressed in dolly clothes she hung me on the door then said “ALL done”.
Left all alone to hang in there, smart... maybe not, I guess she’d won!
Submitted by Lee Ramage
Written July 30, 2011
For “Hangin in There Contest”
Placed 5th place
I just got in from the sweltering heat
With anxiety trickling down my feet
something kept beckoning me to go for a ride
so I obeyed the spirit and went back outside
I grabbed my bike and speed down the street
Tired exhausted and dead beat
I rode under the nearby trees
to dodge from the fiery heat
I glanced over the nearby bush
and something gave me a sudden push
Alas the message was sitting inside
and the answer was wrapped up underneath the bush
I parked my bike and hurried down the hill
because I just couldn't keep still
something was swirling in the the stagnant pond
and it caught my attention
A flock of ducks swam towards me
looking sad deserted and lonely
Their droopy heads swinging to and fro
Not knowing which way to go
They held down their tired head
I really thought that they were dead
No cluck no sound they were just swimming around
They swam towards me but I had nothing to give them
Twenty five ducks swimming without a sound
Just disseminating misery all around
They swam in line in the middle of the pond
looking for somewhere to land
They were all heading towards the East
But three broke out of the pack
before the journey was complete
They swam slowly toward me and politely saluted me.
Way over the other side something magnificent resides
A duck with a different color was hiding under the bush
The white duck came out of the bush looking bruised and battered
worn out and sad it toddled across the stagnant pond
and swam in the opposite direction until it reached dry land
I watched it limped out of the water looking confused and ramshackle
It limped on the grass towards the West
While the others headed East
This symbolism was so profound
It carries a heavy burden all around
The white duck separated from the pack
is limping around the globe and spreading
melancholy all over.
Angela is our oldest, she was the prettiest baby imaginable
Her large blue eyes from her Daddy’s side of the family, spoke volumes.
She had a gorgeous face and curls that danced when she toddled.
We thought she was all that and she was.
At nineteen months she became a big sister, and she took it seriously.
Tracy, our second, became her “baby”. She adored her, loved hugging her.
We could not prop her bottle though because Angela would confiscate it
And lie under the crib drinking it with gusto, as she had recently been weaned.
Angela was allergic to everything green, so she preferred inside to outside.
She had weekly allergy shots when she was five; it broke my heart.
She loved school until some big boys she could not identify ambushed her.
It was the first time I let her walk by herself. I held her and sobbed.
When she was seven she got a new baby Sister, Susie. She claimed her.
Telling me one day “You don’t have any idea what this baby means to me.”
She was an avid book reader, had a fantastic sense of humor and a terrific laugh.
Constantly tried to please everyone, which was impossible.
As a preteen she painted her room black and went “Goth” years before anyone else.
I knew it was not a reflection on her soft heart and was unconcerned.
At 16 she was hooked on romance novels, so I took her to a Romance Writers Conference.
We had the best time; and she met her favorite romance writer, Helen Mittermeier,
Helen Mittermeier was gracious and asked Angela what her favorite books were.
Angela could name her heroines, heroes, and tell her the plot of her books.
Helen asked her who her “second favorite author was”.
Angela named someone, and Helen’s entire table of women writers burst out laughing.
Angela’s second favorite author was Helen Mittermeier, using an alias.
They were totally impressed.
Angela went to college and became a designated driver on campus.
No surprise; she always likes nurturing people.
She joined the Air Force when she was in her twenties. I was stunned.
My little powder puff joining the Air Force? What?
She did great; to this day she is a federal employee.
She is a GS16 which is high up.
I have always been proud of my daughter, but my pride was bursting
When she gave the eulogy at my mother’s funeral.
No one could have done a better job.
I am sure my mother was proud too.
The fancy degree from a world famous school
set in a frame that’s worth more
than the paper on which it’s printed
all the awards
the accolades
none of it has taught you
the lessons I learned long ago
before either of us could even read or had ever heard
of Shakespeare or Marlowe
Dickens or Carroll or Hemingway
when we were but larvae of what we would become
when you put on your first pair of patent leather shoes
polished to a high shine
before you toddled to the table for tea
at around the same time that half a world away
I slipped into my sandals
the straps hanging by a thread
the holes in the soles patched with duct tape
before sauntering into the kitchen
to spread mayonnaise or mustard or margarine
onto a single slice of stale bread
so I would have something in my stomach
to see me through until supper
which would consist of a can of some sort of beans
and a ten cent box of macaroni and cheese
with slices of cheap hot dogs stirred in
sometimes cut into quarters
when money was even more tight due to a medical bill
some other unexpected expense
You may be capable of convincing an audience
but you can never really know
You will never understand what that life is
Some things they can’t teach you at Cambridge