Poems by my big kids

Erin has a membership to the kids science club run by the CSIRO and gets the bi-monthly magazine.  The most recent one has a competition for kids to win a plush toy if they write a poem about the Kakapo - a critically endangered ground dwelling parrot from New Zealand.  Anyone who knows Billy will know that he has a strong adoration for plush toys!  So he and Erin have written the following poems with very little help from me (I asked Billy what rhymed with 'much' after he wrote the first two lines and he took it from there).  The result of many afternoons reading poetry over tea and biscuits I think!  A couple of the many reasons I am proud of my two big kids.

The Kakapo

By William “Billy “ Steven Guest (age 5)

The Kakapo is nice to me

I love him so very much

He hides in plants and things

He would be soft to touch

They take care of their chicks

They climb into trees with their claws

That is so very true

Until cats come with their paws

 

The Cute Kakapo

By Erin Guest (age 7)

The Kakapo is very cute

And it has a green feathery suit

Even though it’s a flightless bird

The male makes a boom that can always be heard

The kakapo is very nice

Until a cat comes up to slice

We should protect the kakapo

And so

We should keep our cats indoors

To keep mischief from their paws

My Arms Are Tired

A poem I wrote while Kaylee was in hospital.

My arms are tired

from holding on to you

It's been seven and a half weeks now

since you were born

since I have slept in my own bed

since I have eaten a meal with your brothers and sisters

around our table

since I have scolded them to pick up their toys

or finish their dinner.

or tucked them in with bedtime stories and prayers

For seven and a half weeks

I have slept in strange beds

on couches

and on chairs next to your warmer

the beeps and bleeps of monitors

weaving through my dreams

I have seen a world I never knew existed

and though you hardly way a thing,

my etherialy beautiful daughter,

my arms are tired

from holding you

I am pressed in at every side

by the pained souls of others

as we watch our children

struggle and fight for life

I have prayed until my voice was just

a solid lump in my throat,

I have sung with my voice cracked

my hand touching your hair

wondering if you could hear me

I have tried to breathe for you

just to keep you going.

My arms are tired

from holding you

and though my arms are tired

and my heart is breaking

and my soul has shattered

into a thousand shards

and the world is now viewed through

the prism of my tears

I have never felt stronger

and the world has never looked

so beautiful

You Fart In Bed

You fart in bed


Then pull the covers over my head


You leave your socks on the bedroom floor

You NEVER close the bathroom door

You're late for tea and never call

You leave your work boots in the hall

You never get up and settle the baby

When I ask for a date you shrug and say "maybe"

I ALWAYS put the kids to bed

do the dishes and get us all fed

You frustrate me beyond all reason

especially during the football season


And yet...


There's something.


Something I cannot, dare not, name.


Something that makes me not quite the same


Something that makes me lighter and freer

when watching you kick back with a beer

Eve's curse? Perhaps. Downtrodden? Maybe.

but with you I am a better me

There's something about you I cannot define

But whatever it is, I'm glad it is mine.

And when I am in your arms, in our room

When the house is quiet as the Taj Mahal tomb

When you whisper words of intimacy

And every woman wishes she were me


Then you fart and pull the covers over my head.


Even then, I am glad it is you in my bed.



Just so you know, my husband has NEVER done this to me (I threatened before we were married to bite him if he did). Also he never watches football, often settles the baby and is more than willing to take me out! It is FICTION. But I am sure many married women can relate

My Birthday Poem

This year is supposed to be of significance, the thirtieth I've spent on this earth
And it is customary to give someone gifts to celebrate the day of their birth
The very thought, it fills me with dread! More things to store and to clean
it takes a way from my time with my brood, the very idea's obscene!
So this year I implore you, rather than gifts, pass a blessing to where it is needed
and leave me to play with my babies that day, enjoying my waifs unimpeded.
A card or an e-mail or a phone call's enough to let me know of your good wishes
(or if you are so inclined, perhaps come and do my dishes!!)
From this year on, rather than stuff, please feed a hungry child
or give clean water to a thirsty land and make my heart truly smile

Christmas and birthdays are filled with stuff
of chocolate and baubles I've had enough
please pass on the blessing to one living tough
Happy Christmas, Merry Birthday, mazeltov!


Getting in early, my birthday isn't 'till April, but if any of you were planning to give me presents this year for my Birthday or Christmas, please donate to your favourite charity instead or if you don't have a favourite charity, donate to ADRA. I would rather you change a life forever in my name than any gift you could buy me!

Thanks!

A love poem

I've been reading a few Shakesperian sonnets lately and that man new how to write REAL love! I'm not talking Romeo and Julliet (which was more about gang warfare than love in my opinion!) but the sonnets - ah the sonnets! Here is my take on sonnet 141

Oh, and if you have delicate sensibilities and are offended by toilet humor,
skip it.

You Fart In Bed

You fart in bed

Then pull the covers over my head

You leave your socks on the bedroom floor
You NEVER close the bathroom door
You're late for tea and never call
You leave your work boots in the hall
You never get up and settle the baby
When I ask you to go out you shrug and say "maybe"
I ALWAYS put the kids to bed
do the dishes and get us all fed
You frustrate me beyond all reason
especially during the football season

And yet...

There's something.

Something I cannot, dare not, name.

Something that makes me not quite the same

Something that makes me lighter and freer
when watching you kick back with a beer
Eve's curse? Perhaps. Downtrodden? Maybe.
but with you I am a better me
There's something about you I cannot define
But whatever it is, I'm glad it is mine.
And when I am in your arms, in our room
When the house is quiet as the Taj Mahal tomb
When you whisper words of intimacy
And every woman wishes she were me

Then you fart and pull the covers over my head.

Even then, I am glad it is you in my bed.

Just so you know, my husband has NEVER done this to me (I threatened before we were married to bite him if he did). Also he never watches football, often settles the baby and is more than willing to take me out! It is FICTION. But I am sure many married women can relate

Let the mother

Let the mother of many celebrate her numbers
and glory in the ornaments which decorate her life.
Let her not be swayed by the scoffers,
nor riled by the ignorant.
Let compassion be her way
and humility guide her thinking.
Let her pin her badge of many blessings
to her breast and be known
for what the Lord God has called her to do.

Let the mother of some celebrate her bond
and relish the closeness that more time permits.
Let her not feel scorned by Leah or Hagar,
nor be jealous of their cup.
Let diligence be her walk
and contentment lift her prayers.
Let her perceive what is hers
and freely pursue wonderful things for the dear ones
that the Lord has entrusted to her care.

Let the mother of one celebrate her treasure
and delight to invest her whole self in this one.
Let her be convinced of the harvest to come
from this Isaac, this John.
Let fear be her beginning
and wisdom be her trail.
Let her seek the Lord
and proceed with awe in raising up for Him
this blessing so special as to demand her all.

Let the mother of none worship the Lord
and praise Him for drawing her close to His heart!
Let her rise up and look beyond her gate
and make her good works available to others.
Let trust in His plan be her sustenance
and service to His will be her drink.
Let her revere the gift He has given
that she should have liberty to love Him
with a love freer from distraction.

Composed by Grafted Branch of Restoring the Years

Thank God For Dirty Dishes

Of all the jobs around the house, dishes is the one I HATE with a passion. I would rather clean out the cat's litter, iron or vacuum any day. I am going to print out this poem and stick it up on my fridge!

Thank God for Dirty Dishes
Author Unknown

Thank God for dirty dishes;
They have a tale to tell.
While others may go hungry,
We're eating very well.
With home, health, and happiness,
I shouldn't want to fuss;
By the stack of evidence,
God's been very good to us.

To My Own Master

To my own master
I stand or fall.
Not you.
A fellow servant.
A comrade in the trenches,
not privy to the
whispered instructions
I receive direct from HQ

By all means,
speak,
if you see me walking to certain death.
But leave not your own post
to chase me down.
hold.
stand firm
because,
if you chase me,
you,
my friend,
may get us both
shot.


written by me, Inspired by Romans 14

A slightly more serious poem to round of poetry month.

Another one for Poetry month!

“Mike Teavee…”

The most important thing we’ve learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set –
Or better still, just don’t install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we’ve been,
We’ve watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone’s place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they’re hypnotised by it,
Until they’re absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don’t climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink –
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK — HE ONLY SEES!
‘All right!’ you’ll cry. ‘All right!’ you’ll say,
‘But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!’
We’ll answer this by asking you,
‘What used the darling ones to do?
‘How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?’
Have you forgotten? Don’t you know?
We’ll say it very loud and slow:
THEY … USED … TO … READ! They’d READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching ’round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it’s Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How the Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There’s Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They’ll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start — oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They’ll grow so keen
They’ll wonder what they’d ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

Roald Dahl

In honour of Poetry Month

How to Read a Poem: Beginner's Manual
by Pamela Spiro Wagner

First, forget everything you have learned,
that poetry is difficult,
that it cannot be appreciated by the likes of you,
with your high school equivalency diploma,
your steel-tipped boots,
or your white-collar misunderstandings.

Do not assume meanings hidden from you:
the best poems mean what they say and say it.

To read poetry requires only courage
enough to leap from the edge
and trust.

Treat a poem like dirt,
humus rich and heavy from the garden.
Later it will become the fat tomatoes
and golden squash piled high upon your kitchen table.

Poetry demands surrender,
language saying what is true,
doing holy things to the ordinary.

Read just one poem a day.
Someday a book of poems may open in your hands
like a daffodil offering its cup
to the sun.

When you can name five poets
without including Bob Dylan,
when you exceed your quota
and don't even notice,
close this manual.

Poetry

Reprinted from a post I made on the aussiehomeschool.com discussion boards in honour of poetry month.

I love poetry and always have. I read and write it myself and I want to pass that on to my kids.

The only 'formal' things we do is our 'refined afternoon tea' on Wednesday afternoon. It is the only time we have afternoon tea and we have something special to eat and cups of peppermint tea with honey at the table with a table cloth and POETRY. I have several books of it and we will each take it in turns selecting a poem - even Christopher. At first they selected the illustrations that interested them (being non-readers) but now, after doing this for over a year, the older two are starting to ask for some of the poems by name.

Nonsense verse and nursery rhymes are a large part of our poetry reading and sometimes the 'refined' nature of our afternoon teas go out the window with toilet training accidents, upturned tea cups and detours into "manners training" and sometimes we just take a quilt outside and make it a picnic. What I want to pass on in this session is a love for the art of putting words together. Nursery rhymes are the river stones of our language, smoothed and refined in the mouths of generation after generation. Nonsense verse makes us laugh and evokes vivid imagery. My own favourites make appearances even though they are "above" the children's understanding, but the sensation of the words still speaks to all of us. Each afternoon tea starts with a special grace where we thank God for beautiful things and beautiful words and pray that all beauty will point us toward Him.

If my children love poetry, they will want to do the work later on to understand it, both the words and the historical context.

If you can read and write poetry effectively, you can read and write anything. And reading and writing is all about communication. And communication is all about reaching the hearts of another. That is why I love poetry!

Check out more stuff on poetry and homeschooling at Aussie Homeschool

a favourite poem

perfect for those refined afternoon poetry readings that all us homeschool mums do.

Ode to a fish

O wet pet

-anon



made me giggle anyway :P

a poem of longing

there is a place
inside my heart
where I plan
a very special
dance
of joy
for the day
when I don't have to
say

no
don't do that
hands to yourself
don't touch your sister
put that down
pick that up
put it away
stop
sit up
sit down
use your fork
stop that noise
not your fingers
not in your mouth
speak up
be quiet
down
now

and

the toilet is not a toy

I will update soon!

We have been fairly busy lately and Beloved has been using his lap top a fair bit - lessening MY chances to pilfer it! I am typing this quickly while he is in the bath just to let everyone know I'm still alive! This is a poem (I think by Elizabeth Elliot?) that touched a nerve for me at the moment :)

Do The Next Thing

At an old English parsonage down by the sea,

there came in the twilight a message to me.

Its quaint Saxon legend deeply engraven

that, as it seems to me, teaching from heaven.

And all through the hours the quiet words ring,

like a low inspiration, ‘Do the next thing.’

Many a questioning, many a fear,

many a doubt hath its quieting here.

Moment by moment, let down from heaven,

time, opportunity, guidance are given.

Fear not tomorrow, child of the King,

trust that with Jesus, do the next thing.

Do it immediately, do it with prayer,

do it reliantly, casting all care.

Do it with reverence, tracing His hand,

who placed it before thee with earnest command.

Stayed on omnipotence, safe ‘neath His wing,

leave all resultings, do the next thing.

Looking to Jesus, ever serener,

working or suffering be thy demeanor,

in His dear presence, the rest of His calm,

the light of His countenance, be thy psalm.

Strong in His faithfulness, praise and sing

Then, as he beckons, do the next thing.

To The Heartbeat Under Mine

I will touch your skin

I will know you as my familiar stranger

You will delight me

You will surprise me

You will break me into a thousand pieces

And scatter me to shine as brilliant as the stars

I will be a better person for knowing you

In your eyes, I will find a treasure

I will tarnish it

I will need to beg your forgiveness

I will love you

I will scar you

I will mould you with my touch

Who you are will be completely unexpected to me

You are my enigma

The puzzle that I never want to fully solve

For then I would miss the joy of learning you

In your eyes are a thousand lessons

That you will teach me

Simply by being

Simply by dancing

Your dance will be your own

But our steps will be delicately entwined

Slow, quick, quick-quick, slow

We will dance our way through

Together

Apart

There will come a day

You will dance those steps without me

You will stumble

You will soar

And I will be your greatest fan

I will pray for you, child

I will cheer for you

But for now,

You are the heartbeat under mine

And our delicate dance

Is just beginning

I'm Busy, Lord!

I'm busy, Lord. Surely You can see
The thousand things that wait for me!
The dishes still lie in the sink-
I cannot stop to pray and think.

Lord, I know You understand.
For You gave these children to my hand;
And now they cry and need me so,
Lord, You understand. I'd better go.

Now I've got them all to sleep,
I'd better dust and mop and sweep.
I must thaw out the meat for stew,
And the ironing is long overdue!

And kindly my Lord answered me,
"Why do you from my presence flee?
I have so much for you today.
My child, I want to hear you pray.

"I love you, child; I want you here
To rest and listen- to shed a tear.
What if Paul had stopped to say,
'Lord, I'm too busy to write letters today!'?

"No, my child, I'm what you need,
Through household duties you can speed,
Yet when you're through, there's emptiness
If this quiet time you miss."

Oh, thank You, Lord, for showing me
How much I need to wait on Thee.
For what's an undone dish or two
Compared with sharing time with You?!

-Nancy Stitzel

A season of rest

Who Loves the Trees Best?

Who loves the trees best?

“I,” said the Spring;

“Their leaves so beautiful,

To them I bring.”

Who loves the trees best?

“I,” Summer said;

“I give them blossoms,

White, yellow, red.”

Who loves trees best?

“I,” said the Fall;

“I give luscious fruits,

Bright tints to all.”

Who loves trees best?

“I love them best,”

Harsh Winter answered

“I give them rest.”

by Alice May Douglas

(quoted in A Joyful Keeper)

Never Been Unloved

I'm not a huge Michael W Smith fan, but I heard this song playing on a blog with a music player and the lyric just hit my heart. It could have been written about me.


I have been unfaithful
I have been unworthy
I have been unrighteous
And I have been unmerciful

I have been unreachable
I have been unteachable
I have been unwilling
And I have been undesirable

And sometimes I have unwise
I've been undone by what I'm unsure of
But because of You
And all that You went through
I know that I have never been unloved

I have been unbroken
I have been unmended
I have been uneasy
And I've been unapproachable

I've been unemotional
I've been unexceptional
I've been undecided
And I have been unqualified

Unaware
I have been unfair
I've been unfit for blessings from above
But even I can see
The sacrifice You made for me
To show that I have never been unloved

It's because of You
And all that You went through
I know that I have never been unloved

It reminds me of the book of Hosea. Just as Hosea would go after his wife, time and time again, to buy her from the slave market where she was selling herself after whoring to the lowest she could go. Just as he took her home, bathed her and dressed her. Just as he anointed her and gave her all she could ever want - knowing she may well do it all again.

This is how my Lord pursues me.

Beauty

A Poem by Sam Levenson, oft-recited by Audrey Hepburn :

For attractive lips, speak words of kindness.

For lovely eyes, seek out the good in people.

For a slim figure, share your food with the hungry.

For beautiful hair, let a child run his/her fingers through it once a day.

For poise, walk with the knowledge that you never walk alone.

People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed; never throw out anyone.

Remember, if you ever need a helping hand, you'll find one at the end of each of your arms. As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.

The beauty of a woman is not in the clothes she wears, the figure she carries, or the way she combs her hair.

The beauty of a woman must be seen from her eyes, because that is the doorway to her heart, the place where love resides.

The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mole, but true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul.

It is the caring that she lovingly gives, the passion that she shows.

The beauty of a woman grows with the passing years.

~Sam Levenson

Our New Favourite Nursery Rhyme

Moses supposes his toeses are roses
But Moses supposes erroneously
For nobodies toeses are posies of roses
As Moses supposes his toeses to be


Erroneously is Erin's new favourite word. It rolls of the tongue deliciously don't you think?!

Proper blogging back next week. I am expecting to share some Big News!