Tag Archives: children

Nervous Nellies and their Little Mysteries

Posted on by
12

digital drawingHyde and Seek

In my youth my friends and I,

When we were of a mind,

Played little games, amused ourselves,

Were seekers of a kind,

But then grew old and cynical,

Unable to unwind

The fright of not just how or when,

But whom, we feared to find.digital drawing

Things of which one ought to be scairt

The fretful Porpentine, I hear,

Grows scarier from year to year,

No less than Jabberwocks and ghouls

That frighten us and make us fools,

And like Godzilla and his ilk,

Make desperate for hugs, warm milk

And night-lights, all us children who

Are scaredy-cats, like me. And you?

Insisting on Persisting in Resisting

Posted on by
22

The more the situation calls for me to behave with gravity and proper decorum, the more I’m likely to drag my heels and stubbornly glue myself to being silly and irresponsible and to frustrate any attempts to make me act however is deemed suitable to my age. Those nearest and dearest to me have long since learned the futility of asking me to behave in any sort of adult-appropriate manner and they tolerate, or to varying degrees, enable this impossibly impish attitude on my part. No wonder I love them so.

digital painting from a mixed media original

. . . so I'll just keep lying around and looking at the pictures in the clouds . . .

Perpetuating Childhood

In all probability I’d be prone

to be an insufferable old crone,

a hag, a harridan, full of mold,

if I had to mature–grow up–get old–

because, in truth, the prospect’s grim

when responsible heart meets creaky limb,

and milky eye and baggy middle

drag joie-de-vivre down a little–

I’d rather, by far, annoy my peers

by being unfitted to my years,

guffawing, as boisterous as a sinner,

and eating six Popsicles for dinner;

skipping like a stone across the Square

and having wild grass seeds in my hair,

wearing skirts too short; taking much too long

to figure out what I’m doing wrong,

yet enjoying the doing things just the same,

since it’s all a bit like a great big game

anyway–this journey we call a life–

so why should we let it sour, be rife

with tedious, tiresome old-age gunk?

I’d rather go back to school and flunk

for excessive dreaming and foolish pranks.

Grow up? Grow old? Mature?

No, Thanks!

Ah, Youth!

Posted on by
21

oil painting, digitizedPerspective–it’s so much a matter of perspective when we assess the situation, isn’t it. My sister’s younger son once had a moment of imbalance and tripped, not quite falling but giving the smallest yelp of surprise as he righted himself. His brother, two years his senior, rolled his eyes and sighed ever so indulgently, ‘Ah, Youth!’

Big brother was four years old.

There’s a lot of value in considering others’ point of view, not least of all when it happens, in the literal sense, to be at the same level as one’s own knees, or the top of the kitchen table. The whole world is remarkably different from such an angle. People treat us differently, expect different things from us, more often require time and patience and wisdom to interpret our words and ideas and actions.

We assume, quite rightly, that the young require this sort of accommodation and flexibility in our conversations and interactions. How much more so, then, should we be willing to see the universe more clearly through another’s eyes if we can consider him equal to us in age, experience, or status. We are all children in other people’s worlds, when it comes right down to it, barely able to see over their windowsills or fence-tops, hardly understanding a word of their language even when the speak, it seems our own. We’re none of us so truly far past two years old, apparently.

Farmer Friendly

Posted on by
10

photoAn Understanding

Jacob Johnson Underhill,

Our long-gone friend, we miss him still,

For there’s none left to pester now

That he is dead; the old hay mow

Has no more mousetraps set to catch

Him with an unexpected snatch;

His cows remain un-tipped; the well

Where his hat “accidentally” fell

Is boarded up; the outhouse stays

Untroubled now for days and days

Where it was once (we’re sorry, Mom)

Deposit for a cherry bomb

And too, quite often (sorry, Dad)

Pushover to a farmer’s lad

And lass who hunted for a thrill,

Thanks to old farmer Underhill.

photosNow his old tractor has not seen

Us sugar up his gasoline

Or stuff a tater in its pipe

For ages, things that used to gripe

Old Jacob some, but he plowed on

With chuckling brown-toothed grin; he’s gone

And how we miss him now, old coot,

Who never bent to our pursuit

But took it all in patient stride,

The way we liked to chap his hide.

The fact is, he loved us until

He was no more, old Underhill.

It’s dull down on the farm these days,

Except when a peculiar haze

Will sometimes gather in the field

And there his shade may be revealed

To grin, complicit with us still,

Old Jacob Johnson Underhill.

photo