Posts Tagged ‘poem’

Ode to Seuss

Monday, March 29th, 2010

One poem, two poem
Read poem, blue poem
Black poem, blue poem
Old poem, new poem
This one has a little star.
Say! What a lot of
Poems there are.
Some are read
And some are blue.
Some are old
And some are new.
Some are sad.
And some are glad.
And some are very, very bad.
But I like Seuss
And this is why:
He makes me laugh
Instead of cry.

With Seuss I eat green eggs and ham
With someone nicknamed ‘Sam I Am,’
And while my mom goes out to shop
I’ll play a game of Hop on Pop.
And then I might just go out back
And play a game called Ring the Gak.
Then maybe it will start to rain,
And Cat in the Hat will come again.
And though it’s wet and it’s not sunny,
We’ll have lots of fun that’s funny.
He’ll show me some tricks ’til that fish starts to shout,
“He should not be here when your mother is out!”
Then he’ll balance that fish, and a cake, and some balls
‘Til everything wibbles and wobbles and falls.
Thing One and Thing Two will fly kites in the hall,
Making messes my mom wouldn’t care for at all!
Then after we clean up the last little spill
We’ll all call on Horton who lives in Who-ville,
Where a person’s a person no matter how small–
Their town was once saved by the smallest of all!
And after he hatches his egg we’ll head back
To our home riding high on the back of that Gak.
My mom will come home from her shopping and say,
“It’s time for bed, dear; now how was your day?”
And then in the shower, all soapy I’ll sing
With a musical character someone named ‘Ying.’
All clean and sung out, I’ll hop in a bed
Too short for that long-legged, big-footed Ned.

Yes, Seuss is a poet who’s never a bore,
And reading his poetry’s never a chore,
(Except when you’ve read it ten times in one night,
By the beam of a flickering, faulty flashlight).
So Seuss, I salute you, you’re a master of rhyme,
And a lover of children and fun for all time!

©2007 by Patricia S. Baker
First printed in Kwil Kids, (Autumn 2007)

In the Cleft of the Rock

Monday, March 29th, 2010

(Psalm 91)

In the mountain of His majesty
My God has carved a cleft–
A secret place where I might hide
When soul is lost, bereft.

Dwelling in this Most High place
I find a refuge sure;
Abiding in His shade becomes
My resting place secure.

Though cares descend with dark’ning cloud
That Providence may bring,
There is no safer place to dwell
Than the shadow of His wing.

In the shadow of His presence
All dark is filled with light
When saturated by the One
Whose glory shines so bright.

©2007 by Patricia S. Baker
First printed by Live, (Winter 2007-2008)

Pride Comes Knocking

Monday, March 29th, 2010

Pride comes knocking at my door,
“Let me in,” smooth voice implores.
Relentlessly he knocks and pounds;
His noise throughout my house resounds.
I stand at peephole and debate,
Should I let him in my gate?
He’s dressed so fine, he’s known quite well,
And with such persistence rings my bell…
Yet I know that once invited in,
This guest is loath to leave again.
He’ll want to stay and sip some tea,
And fill my ear with pleasantry.
He won’t inquire how I have been,
Observing I look fine to him.
And leaning close he will confide
That he belongs here by my side.
He likes to say that we’re the best,
Comparing us to all the rest;
He whispers that we’ve done quite well,
And, oh, the stories he can tell!
His words like sugar in my tea,
At first seem rather sweet to me;
But as he shares these morsels free,
A quiet Voice breaks reverie:
“Whatever goodness you might find
Is dealt by hand of God so kind.
I find our teatime quite a bore–
It’s time to show this guest the door!”

No, I’ll not let Pride in today;
I think we’ll send him on his way…

©2006 by Patricia S. Baker
First printed by The Deronda Review, (Fall/Winter 2007)

Pride Comes Knocking (Again)

Again I heard persistent knock;
I peered through peephole, then turned lock–
For on my porch was wounded Pride,
Pierced through with arrow in his side!
I quickly opened wide the door;
He staggered in, collapsed on floor.
I gasped, and knelt down, horrified,
“Oh, tell me, who has hurt you, Pride?”
And as I tended bleeding wound,
I listened, thoroughly attuned
To tale of woe so sad I cried;
How could they do that to poor Pride?

I asked him if he thought that he
Might like to sip some healing tea.
He, smiling, got up off the floor–
Already he was not so sore.
And as we sat and sipped our tea,
He shared more tales of pain with me.
I wept some more; he sighed, and said,
“You know, I guess I’m better dead.”
“Oh, no!” I answered, “You’ve been wronged!”
And so he bled, with sighs prolonged,
On tablecloth and napkins white
While we both pondered his sad plight.

Then, suddenly a whisper stirred
The silence and these words I heard:
Though wounded, he is still no friend
Who bids your favor without end.
The heart that entertains this guest
Finds neither service nor My rest.
If I would be your focus poor,
We’ll need to show this guest the door.

Pride groaned once more when we got up,
Pointing to his empty cup;
But once again that Voice and I
Showed Pride the door, and bid goodbye.

©2009 Patricia S. Baker