Matthew's Musings Rocks and gravel pickin' up sticks Home run hits and baseball mitts Grabbers jabbers and concrete slabbers Beebee guns frogs and Lincoln Logs Swinging climbing watchin' those slugs Dogs kitties and roly-poly bugs Pouncees trounces bounces and screeches Hugs and kisses and grass stained breeches Scrapes scuffs bumps and bruises Bows and arrows skateboard cruises Legos Mario and dreams to tell Tents forts and hideouts built "swell" Hikes bikes thunks and slam dunks Walks talks and Tootsie Roll chunks Treats sweets snakin' on Dweebs Checking muscles being a tease Tidying and picking up stuff off the floor Putting his things back into his drawer Prances dances wishes and sings Thinks he can fly pretends he has wings Adventures stories long school days Shares cares loves and prays Numbers letters values and respect Not much time for introspect By Tanya Lawson Written for her son in 1992 - published in Wenatchee Kiosk and "Colors of Thought" Gifts Given Birth... open-ended circle of unbalanced existence Introduction to uncertainty... pedastaled in security A suitcase... packed with a map, and a few tools... the tools to reason, teach, and grow shelter. A journey... befriended by past, rejected by progress The race... detours, treasure hunts, and impatient clock faces Restlessness... flexible moments that justify the gray places Heart-shaped hands to smooth wrinkles Loyal ears to gather whispered secrets - absorb unrelinquished rage Trusting arms to wrap around black fear and quiet lonliness A son-shaped mirror... a laughing reflection of myself. A rose-red song... the thoughtful offspring of my soul. Sky-bright smiles... through eyes of love and devotion. Bits and pieces of trails leading home A strand of faces years long... miles wide Destinations... Bariloche, Cabo Frio, Katjwick ann Zee Silver tip fingers that ignite the f-ed four-stringed lover Passion... given only to those named Soul-Mate Guidance from the cross-shaped tree... or... maybe Mother... Blues soul... forever painted on an unfinished canvas of reds, yellows, Pinks and greens...
New Poetry (update 11-1-99) Too Wonderous Is The Garden
Too wonderous is the garden… To truly speak the language of this flower I must quiet myself to a whisper and listen
Calm the voice that speaks too loud Still the noise that spills to long Cease to overwhelm, trim the foilage Move a few pebbles
Touch delicately the gentle bud Breath softly the fragrance of love Linger long…toil gently
Too wonderous is the garden I shall merely admire today I will listen to the flower speak to me And watch…and breathe
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