Category Archives: children

’til the cows come home

It has been some time (2 years!) since I have posted on this blog and I thought it might be fun to begin again, as I’m sure many lapsed bloggers do at this time of year.¬† Hello again to anyone who might still be out there, at the other end of this post. I hope this finds you well and still enjoying poetry ūüôā¬† This piece was inspired during a 2 week online writing group with the supreme writing promptress and beautiful poet, Jena Schwartz.

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My most beautiful thing

Once, in the blackness of night,
I would gently lay my hand
upon your doll sized chest, 
place my ear against the red ripeness
of your lips, and listen

to the sound of the soft whispering 
– in and out, a tiny pause,
and it begins again –
of the beauty that is
your breath.

You’re bigger now,¬†
but somehow it remains 
my most beautiful thing.
Like an invisible heart-line

between your breath and mine,
its rhythmic flow, a soothing meditation,
a peace-filled reminder of all that is, 
of all that is possible,
and of all that matters.

Fiona Robyn, of Writing Our Way Home, has recently published a novel titled My most beautiful thing, which you can find out more about by clicking on the link below. Right now she is offering it free for kindle on amazon.

As part of this, she has also invited people to write about their own ‘most beautiful thing’, which I have done above. I wonder what you would choose?

Mother, mother

Through a paper thin mirror-image
I glimpse this mother-ness
as if for the first time

I thought I should know her 
intimately, yet I am startled 
by that unfamiliar gaze
in picture perfect focus

She dwells in the unsaid
of the amorphous space between
us.  She cloaks her impalpable
web of connection around
our threadbare shoulders

I was not cognizant of her truth
or beauty, she lay 
obscured from my sight 
as I yielded to you
and other worthy distractions

Now, I pass by that chaotic collage
of our daily lives, where 
this mother image confronts
and confounds me
like a once familiar stranger

In my looking
a subtle shift takes me
from inner preoccupations 
sodden with guilt and 
laid bare by a history 
of which you were not a part

         to seeing

the gently sloping lean of your tender body
      falling into mine

the careless fall of your golden-brown hair
        merging into mine

     hand upon hand

that speaks of the dawn of another story
of mother, that is only mine to be
and yours to one day claim.

daughter of mine

Woman and child pause
to rest on a flat, seat-like rock
that peers out to sea
A small and delicate waist
cupped by the large and pendulous arm,
a well-rehearsed coming together,
as if separation
was only ever
a painful illusion.

Jumping back in the river

“Poetry calls us to pause. ¬†There is so much we overlook, while the abundance around us continues to shimmer, on it’s own.”
Naomi Shihab Nye

I was struck by this quote upon reading it yesterday and realized how much I was missing ‘pausing’ to write my daily small stone. ¬†Since finishing the River of Stones challenge for the month of January, life has taken over again and I have neglected to pause, notice and write the ‘shimmer of abundance’ that is all around. ¬†I can’t guarantee a stone a day, but I aim to step back in the river and watch where it winds. ¬†

Little boy snoring
fights for ear space
over the bang, whistle, bang
of the far-off festival finishing.

Contrasts – small stone Jan 22

‘oh, god’ says one, shaking with fear
‘oh, yay’ says the other, jumping with excitement.
Thunder thunders, hail hammers, wind wails
blue has turned to black
on a wintry summers’ day.
The sunflower stands and stares,
oblivious to it all.

Separation – Small stone Jan 19

Painted woman, red on black
Twisted limbs and shifting hues
Barebreasted mother and babes,
it is hard to discern
where she ends, and they begin.


Complex negotiations – Jan 16 small stone

I ask
You ignore
I tell
You refuse
I threaten
You decide
I yell
You yell.
I prefer
I ask
You do
You prefer
You tell
I do.

Childhood summers – Jan 11 small stone

One creates a new world of chalk, on empty neighbourhood pavements –
“To get to this country the road takes you to the harbour, then you take a boat to Lyttleton, to Australia, then it takes you to England and New York. This is a crazy country, so crazy!”

One sulks indoors, camped in Wardrobe, complaining
“There’s nothing to do”
When did that happen – that a thousand possibilities
reduced to nothing?