Heart’s Jewel

delightful youth
my heart’s jewel

antics haphazard
laughter contagious
spreading joy
sparking imagination

I pray that your spirit
remains vibrant, and
that reality dawns gently

(This poem first appeared in November 2018, as A Child Glows. I submit an edited and re-titled version here for Eugi’s Weekly prompt: jewels. Image my own.)


Christmas Baking

Dates soften in the pan –
I stir with preoccupation
fresh-faced excitement
motivating each step.

I measure sugar, oats,
flour, the enormity
of my heart’s capacity
to love these young ones.

Add butter, and mix,
each stroke a hug,
anticipating enjoyment
a sweet connection.

Pat and bake, timer set,
bright eyes and tiny palms
lift upwards with sparkle –
Christmas cheer upon us.

(For Ragtag Community’s prompt: mix.  Image from personal collection.)

Advocate for Wonder

I know what infinity means:
it’s one hundred plus one.

Voice of innocence
serene her sense of self
of life’s complexities.

Should borrow from her,
embrace that confidence,
but worry intervenes.

How do we preserve
the wonder of youth,
save her from cynicism?

That it is! I reply,
my smile a warm hug –
vow to be forever advocate.

(I submit this poem, inspired by my six-year-old granddaughter, to three challenges:
Ragtag Community’s, serene;  Fandango’s advocate; and Reena’s Exploration challenge.  Image from personal collection.)

Grandchildren Are Carrots

Motoring through duality,
straining, in the middle –
socialized, yet reticent –

My heart is overflowing,
like an unwatched sink
falling apart, too much

Driving, the past’s rain
blurring any joy; feel
dirty, taut, losing control

Harm vanishes, comes
back around; hosting
good intentions, rank;

Progression entirely
defined by vulnerability
smothering celebration

Towed along by sweetness
of children, dining on their
innocence banishes despair.


Spent the day in prone silence –
first as a human pin cushion
in the naturopath’s office –
motionless except my mind
pouring over Christmas plans.

Later, beside my granddaughter,
three-year-old arms akimbo
daring not to budge, until her
innocent breaths deepened –
my body burning to move.

Now, the window of energy
closed, I lie here with you,
no longer motivated to sort
or organize, my brain spent –
mindless poem on fingertips.


Speaking of Clouds


“Look, Grandma!  We match!”
We are both wearing gray.
“You match the clouds, too.”
Grumpa adds = perplexity.

“No, the clouds are not gray;
they are white.” Consternation
spreads across 3-yr-old face,
examining the overcast sky.

“I can’t see them!” Panicking.
“I don’t see gray clouds!”
“Do you see white clouds?”
Hoping to restore rationality.

“No; they just look dirty. Why?”
So, not gray, will be the answer.
“They are full of rain.”  “Ohh!
Dark clouds mean a storm.”

“Or snow,” I suggest; am corrected.
“Snow clouds aren’t dark, silly!”
“They’re not?” Serious revelation.
“They are white!” Sound logic.

“Do you know, Grandma, when
the snow comes all the leaves
will fall down from the trees?”
“That’s right,” Grumpa asserts.

“When your cousin was two,
she was worried the trees were
broken and wanted to fix them.”
“Even I know that’s not true.”

“It’s not?” irresistible goading.
“No, the leaves will grow back
when the winter is over.” Precise
wisdom charms this aged mind.