More Nonsense in Poetry Form

Bananas Don’t Care

All fruits are expected to be certain things,
To have certain habits, to zap certain zings.
They must be quite juicy, they must pack a punch,
They must fit precisely in brown bags of lunch.
They shouldn’t be mushy or spotted with brown.
They shouldn’t be shaped like a smile or a frown.
They’re most often best when they’re rounded and fat…

But bananas don’t care about that.

A fruit’s duty is to keep fresh in the fridge,
A place on the counter: a rare privilege
That’s granted to those who are soon to be ate,
So proudly displayed in a bowl, on a plate.
Most fruits wouldn’t dare just to sit or to hang
Around like some sort of orangutang.
They know to refrigerate is where it’s at…

But bananas don’t care about that.

All fruits are aware that they can’t last for long:
Prepared for the day when their freshness is gone.
And then, if not eaten, they know what must pass:
They make their way, dignified, into the trash.
They don’t ask the freezer to postpone this dread,
Preserving them ‘till they are baked into bread,
They wouldn’t presume to act like such a brat…

But bananas don’t care about that.

Bananas don’t care,
They’re fruit with a flair!
They’re food full of fun,
Not “phoney” – a pun.
Take one, take a bunch!
They’re yummy to munch!
And if you find spots
Of black and brown rots,
Or bite in to gleen
It’s still much too green,
Or hear yourself squeal
As you slip on the peel,
Remember when down to the ground you go SPLAT…
Bananas don’t care about that.

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Long time, no post…

Who knew having two under two would make for a busy life? I think I thought I knew what busy felt like – or would be like – but clearly not.

However, I keep coming back to the resolution to write more, despite feeling like I barely have enough time to cut my fingernails or clean my bathroom… or sleep more than 3 hours at a time.

Here are a couple things I’ve written recently, and let’s see how often I can add more. The first is something I wrote for my son’s dedication a couple Sunday’s ago, and the second is a silly poem about my daughter’s tendency to wear her boots (or Mommy or Daddy’s boots) on her hands and “walk” around the house “stepping” on everything.

 

Bruce’s Dedication

I am drawn to the lighthouse of your smile:
Gazing up and down and down and up and then
Locking on your face – so much like mine, like ours…
Our love has reached its harbour in this child.

You play in streams with wading, waiting steps.
And sip at love from cups filled, overflowing,
But I and he and those who’ve come before
Have soaked ourselves in wilder, lavish depths.

We are drawn to the guiding of this star
That shines with sure and never changing grace.
We are drawn to deep, uncertain waters
And we have felt His longings in our hearts.

Each stroke brings you further on upstream,
Each new thought will widen banks and shores,
And you will sail at last to vastness,
You will glimpse the far horizon’s gleam.

I do not hope or strive to keep you safe from waves,
For love is not a safe and simple game we play
I cannot pray that you will never know of less and loss,
For love is greater than these lives we try to save.

But I would ask for you to swim with open arms,
I would have you drawn to seek this greatest Love,
And revel in the froth and foam and join with us
In our captivation by our Lover’s charms.

This beacon of your smiling draws me in,
And mirrors back our joy, reflecting off the deep
And wide and all surrounding ocean of His love,
And now, the tide, that calls you to begin.

 

 

The Boot-Handed Bandit

Who is this, stomping by,
With a spooky, odd gait,
And a spring in the step
Where no foot puts its weight?

Who is this? Can it be?
Do we meet with our doom?
Do we skitter and scatter
Like bugs ‘round the room?

Yes we do! Here she is!
She won’t stop in her tracks,
And her steps won’t be light,
And her stomps won’t be slack.

She can stand in one spot,
And yet, trample with treads,
She can sit on her seat,
And still dance to our dreads.

It’s the boot-handed bandit,
Who is fiercely afoot,
With her boots where most mittens
Be presumably put.

No, she can’t rob a bank,
And she won’t pick your pocket.
She sure shant snatch your purse,
Or your shiny gold locket.

She won’t pick at your wallet,
Since she can’t pick at all.
Because boots don’t have fingers
As you might now recall…

She’s not grasping at straws,
Because grasping requires
Things that boots do not boast,
Nor could ever acquire.

But she’ll stomp on your footsies,
Your tootsies: your toes.
And she’ll step on your spine,
Scuff your neck, kick your nose.

And before you say “stop!”,
She’ll have finished her sprint,
And there won’t be an inch
Which will not have a print.

For the boot-handed bandit
Is so fiercely afoot.
With her boots where most mittens
Be presumably put.

So, beware, all you crooks
Who wear boots on your feet.
She’s the fiercest and fastest,
Most fearlest, bombastest,
The stompest and rompest,
Undeniably pompest –
The roughest and toughest,
And most off-the-cuffest,
The rootin’-est, tootin’-est,
And certainly bootin’-est
Bandit you ever will meet.

 

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