Poet, Not

No,she isn't turning two, in fact, she's closer to turning ten. But, she and her sister have long been my muses and today, this just popped into my head as I prepare for a meeting of my writers group.  The prompt is "anything to do with poetry".  I really have a hard time with poetry.  I do love it and interestingly, I find that poems are among the very few things I can recall from my years of schooling.  I always wanted to become a teacher and "playing school" was one of my favorite past times.  Poetry was part of my imaginary curriculum and little Stevie Honneker was an excellent student. I used to march home with him, he lived up the street, an show him off to his parents, so proud of my accomplishments until the day I realized that they were not speaking Hungarian, that they were not calling me "Cubbina", something that I mistook for a word of praise in their language.  They were calling me "Chub-ina" because I probably was. Story over.

So, here it is,

Lucy Turning Two

It’s National Poetry Month and I am feeling the tug to do something about it

I know I am not a poet

I cannot write anything that is not true; my curse

I feel responsible as if it were up to me to rescue a cause that might be forgotten

to give it life, to breathe into it as if in my hands rested a balloon waiting for a birthday party to begin, for the children to enter, all dressed in their fancy clothing, ready for cake and ice cream and party favors at the end

And as I do this, I ruminate in and out of my conscious thoughts, waiting for the signal for the party to begin, and I am transported back in time

I see a beautiful little girl, cheeks rosy, eyes wide in anticipation, a room filled with balloons

a party atmosphere, stage all set

a little heart beating rapidly, wiggles and giggles

 a little girl, just turned two, about to welcome her entourage of bestest-ever friends, also two

I see them giggle and wiggle as they enter; eyes, like little torches, awaiting the feast about to unfold, cake and ice cream

the stuff  toddler dreams are made of

Through eyes clouded from my tears, I watch the child, drifting dreamily in her party dress, as she delivers to each of her little guests, a token of her appreciation

 the words, “thank you for coming to my party” pass through a tiny valentine

 sweet pink lips, too sweet to bear

Lights out, I see the room softly illuminated by the glow of two candles set upon that field of dreams and I hear a tiny chorus of happy birthday to a princess

as I watch as the first heiress to the family fortune of love push her tiny finger into the foamy sea of white butter cream as the rest of her days, still just a vision in the eyes of her proud parents, await their turn to become memories