An Entry for a Bite-Sized Poetry Contest on Writing.com

To My Hero

I can’t imagine where I’d be

If you had never rescued me,

A broken child without a dream

Dysfunction crushed my self-esteem.

But you stepped in to help me find

The will and heart to heal my mind,

Each warm embrace would fill my soul
To recreate what parents stole.

An entry for Susanna Leonard Hill's Second Annual Valentiny Writing Contest

Susanna Leonard Hill (see link below) is an author who offers encouragement and opportunities for wannabe children's authors like myself. In this particular contest the requirements are:

• Write a Valentine's story or poem
• For children (aged 12 and under)
• 214 words or less (this is exactly 214 words excluding the title)
• In which someone is confused.

Here is my entry (which earned me a tie for seventh place!):

Sebastian, Say Something

Nell held in her hands three Valentine’s cards

She made in her class during Art.

Miss Polly, her teacher, had helped her to trace,

Then carefully cut out each heart.

Nell glued them on paper she’d folded in half.

Miss Polly had said they looked good.

She wrote on each inside, “I love you so much!”

As well as an eight-year old could.

But now as she held them, while perched on the bed

She slept in the end of each week,

Nell said to Sebastian, her step-mother’s cat,

“Sebastian, I wish you could speak!”

“I know I have known you for only two years.

And clearly, at first I was mad.

I wanted my parents to stay as they were,

But your mommy married my dad.

“I hated to come here; I hated you all.

Leaving my mother was hard,

But your mommy, Susan’s, been ever so nice.

Now, I want to give her this card.

“Sebastian, the problem’s my mother still cries.

I’m worried what harm I might do

By giving to Susan this Valentine’s card

And telling her I love her too.

“So, give me some signal, a simple meow

Or purr to convince me I’m right,

But hurry Sebastian; she’s coming in soon
To hug me and kiss me goodnight!”

https://susannahill.com/2017/02/10/pop-goes-my-heart-the-second-annual-valentiny-writing-contest-is-here/

http://www.writing.com/main/forums/item_id/1911718-30-Day-Image-Prompt-Contest

The Boy with Blinders On

I often saw him walking through the prairie all alone,
His fists both filled with daisies, their recipient unknown.
Some days he might be skipping through the grasses thin and tall.
I’d also catch him dancing though no music played at all.
If someone else might come around or happened in his way,
He wouldn’t miss a skip or step or interrupt his play.

The most peculiar part of this was what I knew to be:
He’d an alcoholic father and a mother absentee.

I also saw him when in school; he loved the kitchen toys.
He always was the last one picked when playing games with boys.
Though based alone on memory, at any time or place –
I never saw the boy without a smile upon his face.
He sang and acted out our songs as though he were a star.
His acting skills were better than the rest of us by far!

As I reflect on grade school times, what baffles me the most:
The other kids would taunt the boy and then would dare to boast.

I only heard what happened next; we’d gone our separate ways.
The boy, now man, did make-up for some musicals and plays.
He met a man, an older one; on him he would depend.
He nursed this mate when illness struck, but illness would not bend.
The rumor was while treating him, he’d gotten AIDS as well.
The boy, now man, lived ten more years then tolled the final bell.

I’m still perplexed by how this boy, turned man, could only find
The positives life gave to him, then leave the rest behind.


Note: the boy was my half-brother, Mark, and when I saw the picture of the blonde child in the field, it reminded me of him. The poem is true, at least as far as what I remember.

http://www.writing.com/main/forums/item_id/1911718-30-Day-Image-Prompt-Contest

Lessons Learned

“Beware of the man in the moon,” Mother said.
“He’ll visit your dreams while you’re snug in your bed.
He knows what you’re doing by day or by night.
The sun may be up, but you’re still in his sight!!”

She said it enough times I thought it was true.
I’d look out each evening to see what he knew.
He glared in my window; on most days I thought
I’d done something wrong even when I had not!

It got to the point where I hardly could sleep.
I tried to ignore him, but failed counting sheep.
I asked for some curtains to black out his stare,
But Mother said children my age needed air.

I looked in the other direction instead,
But still felt his eyes on the back of my head.
And even when sleep would at last come my way,
The man in the moon often made me his prey.

He’d come down to earth like a big glowing ball
Then roll close behind me and cause me to fall.
I feared I’d be flattened; my bones would all break.
My mother just stood there. No move did she make.

I always woke up with me covered in sweat.
The dread of those nightmares I’ll never forget!
My teachers concerned, though in only first grade,
My mother confessed to the story she’d made:

“The man in the moon isn’t real at all son.
I just made him up so your chores would be done.
And then when it worked it was tough to let go.
You’d followed the rules for these last weeks or so.

“I never intended to make you so scared
And guess I have damaged the trust we once shared.
I’ll try to rebuild it from this moment on;
My days of deception, my dear son, are gone.”

As far as I knew she was true to her word.
And now I’m a dad the temptation’s occurred,
But when flash the nightmares remembered so well.
The man in the moon is no story I'll tell.

http://www.writing.com/main/forums/item_id/1911718-30-Day-Image-Prompt-Contest

Inspired by Rage Painting’s been my passion for as long as I recall. My toys were paints and canvasses instead of bat and ball. At first I painted simple things, like flowers or a tree, With little definition, but there shapes were clear to see. Folks said I had potential, although difficult to gauge; They said I had more talent than most other kids my age. My parents paid for classes where the rave reviews went on Whatever my assignment – baby, citrus fruit or dawn. The more I heard what people said, the more I thought it true, So painting for a living was the job I would pursue! Of course I went to college choosing Tufts in Medford, Mass. Perfecting my technique, attending each and every class. Then came time to earn a living, there were charges to be paid, But I barely met the deadlines when I tried to ply my trade. I painted people’s portraits and a still life here and there, For ones asked on commission like this antique rocking chair. I also entered shows and brought my water color scenes But I only sold a couple, not a windfall by no means.

The more my debt load piled up, the less my visions came.

Now all my pieces looked like crap; all brush strokes looked the same.

I couldn’t even bring myself to paint a single stroke.

I’d have to choose another path; my talent was a joke.

I stood there with my brush in hand; my canvas clean as new.

I shook the red paint off my brush, well really more like threw.

The color splattered everywhere – it looked like speckled blood.

I shook the black brush just the same; it looked like speckled mud.

Although I meant to toss it out, my final canvas done,

A buyer came and offered what to my eyes was a ton!

Of course I didn’t turn her down, nor ask was she insane.

I cashed the check, refilled my stock, and launched a new campaign.

http://www.writing.com/main/forums/item_id/1911718-30-Day-Image-Prompt-Contest

The Bear Necessities He tells me I’m a bit too old to need my teddy still. I promise him I’ll wean myself (but doubt I ever will). He’s been with me since I was born; I call him Mr. T. He used to always come along, a constant part of me. I never had to suck my thumb because I felt secure. When Mr. T. was by my side, there’s much I could endure. Like visits to Doc Robinson’s or trying days at school, Just never when we had to eat was Mother’s only rule. Although I had to leave him home when starting second grade, I tucked his picture in my bag, and held it when afraid. And over time I’d need him less; he stayed up in my bed, So in the day I’d have my friends to use for strength instead. But anytime I’d go to bed, when sick or time for sleep My Mr. T was what I used instead of counting sheep. Still to this day he calms me down; he helps me when I'm stressed. I only have to hold him tight, to give my mind a rest. So yes I’ll take him on this trip; it’s something I must do. I haven’t stopped at fifty-one, perhaps at fifty-two.

For Kevin - Happy 26th anniversary!

Marriage is a funny thing, 
Two people say, “I do.”
Then try to mesh their varied lives
By making one of two.

It’s also odd, the randomness
Of how it comes to be.
Some strangers cross each other’s path
And have their hearts agree.

Most enter in with issues packed
As weighted as an ox
And try to make each other fit
Within a certain box.

Then add to that one’s age in life. 
With all the folks I’ve met
The longer people live alone
Their ways are firmer set.

So how is it, for all these years,
Though wed at thirty-two,
With ample baggage brought along
And inverse points of view

We somehow made our marriage work
For six years plus a score?
Three awesome kids, concessions made,
And staunchness to the core.