Hypoglycemic Monster Mom

Poems and Things

I’m a hypoglycemic monster mom,
wading through mind sludge, an active bomb.
Just keep the kids living, and I’ll eat what I can.
Beware the hypoglycemic monster mom.

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Worth Untold

Poems and Things

Be true to you.
There’s nothing to prove
in the worth that you brew,
but that my dear, you already knew.

You’re just fine
with worth sublime,
even just sitting sometime
with nothing but rhyme.

But with even less,
you’re not even dressed.
Your house is a mess,
and life is distressed.

All is out of control,
but the truth of it all,
inside your soul
is worth untold.

Anyway

Poems and Things

Make art anyway.
Though buyers are away
and your drawings look gray,
Make it anyway.

Draw a little bird,
and paint with rosy hues.
Release away your blues,
draw a little bird.

Hang it on your wall
to lighten each passerby.
If only you, then that’s okay.
Hang it on the wall.

Write a little line
if just to make you smile.
It only lasts awhile,
but write a little line.

The Parting Heart

Poems and Things

Quiet, baby, go to sleep;
I’ve much to do and more to think.
My life has turned forever yours,
but please go to sleep, I do implore.

Yes, grow up faster and leave me be,
so one day I’ll wake to only me.
You’ll find me when tables have turned at last,
crying and pining for years past.

Here with a tear and a ruddy face,
I’ll be wishing back years for a second glance.
Gone with a smile, you’ll adventure new. 
Gone with a prayer, for you haven’t a clue.

You’ll be gone, I’ll pray on, that I’ll see you soon.
But today I’ll remember to see you bloom.
The parting heart in a mother runs deep,
that in baby and mother, we both weep.

Through Grasslands Blowing

Poems and Things

Like cattle my poems are lowing,
Tender words through grasslands blowing.
Where in the world will they possibly go?
I love that I will never know. 

What beautiful creatures, my poems of mine
whose syllables often rhyme.
Here they are, standing tall.
Here, or not at all. 

Stoic and noble, in the field standing sure,
simply passed by are my creatures pure.
Their beauty is sweet tranquility,
peaceful, unknown antiquity. 

But my words are fragile and glass-like,
I don’t want them up in the limelight.
They’re beautiful, changed if by some seen,
turning into what I don’t mean.

My courage wanes keeping them up on the wall
with the faintest dab of Elmer’s at all.
It’s my place, my land of poems;
It’s just me here though they roam.

Strangers pass through but don’t know me;
Space between us nurtures solidarity.
What a fragile, weak, yet beautiful thing
the hope of a someone to hear me sing.

Like cattle my poems are lowing,
Tender words through grasslands blowing.
Where in the world will they possibly go?
I love that I will never know.

Ravioli

Poems and Things

It’s good to eat hot ravioli
and homemade pasta sauce.
Use herbs from the window sill, my darling! Eat up before the warmth is lost.

Sprinkle atop the parmesan
and say a little prayer.
Thank our God in Heaven for
a blessed table and a chair.

Such eating chases storm clouds and replaces kind thoughts lost.
What we need is simple.
It’s ravioli and homemade sauce.