Hectic Schedule

A hectic schedule
Almost ev-e-ry night
Seems its my lot
With no end in sight

I've signed up for college
To improve my mind
Three hours with scouts
Add to the grind

Visits to friends
at least one night a week
My wife keeps her hobbies
Its her sanity seek

The yard needs attention
The weeds multiply
A faucet is leaking
and I am the guy

Six kid a clammerin'
for my attention
One more on the way
gets honorable mention

A date with my wife
Will come if I'm lucky
Best not neglect it
Or else she'll get plucky

The dishes are waiting
they won't clean themselves
How did that shoemaker
merit those elves?

Spare minutes are rare
They'll come if you look
An hour playing games
Or reading a book

Lest you think I'm complaining
Don't pity my plight
My life holds no bordom
And that seems just right.

School is almost out for the Summer

The kids have just a few more hours left in class. Then the school doors open and they'll be set loose.

And so, a poem for the occasion:







Little orange moth
you flit from flower to weed
Six children lithely chase you
All the fun they need

One would pinch your wing off
The other makes you drown
One holds you like a crown jewel
You're both simple and profound

Come spend the summer evening
Flitting through our weeds
Please come kiss the flowers
And see our growing seeds

Storm last night

A little poem about the storm last night

The thunderstorm last night
Shook us from bed
If my eyes seem to be blodshot
Its the gum in my head

Actually, the worst part of the storm was that it woke up our Bam-bam who then proceeded to wedge himself in perpendicular to mom and dad, all the while crying and protesting. I'm betting mom feels the same way I do.

Getting out of bed

Most mornings I wake up one of the children a little before six and we make breakfast together. Waffles were supposed to be on the menu this morning; however, when I went to wake Miss M (who is one of my true larks) she let me know that she was too tired to wake up and make breakfast. I stumbled back to my bed for twenty minutes more.

I had a good chuckle at the girls expense too. Lucy had her head on Miss M's chest like she was a pillow.

Unfortunately, I did miss my normal time with Miss M. With six kids you don't get a whole lotta 1 0n 1 time with each kid.

So... Here's a short poem for my Miss M

Bleary eyed and incoherant
Not a good time
to make a decision
I head back to bed

So looking forward
when opportunity returns
I'll let my convictions win
and some sleep be lost.

Someone Else's Blog

If you read my blog you know I like poetry. I recently posted one of my grandfather's poems.

Last night as we cleaned our room my wife tossed me a poem she had written. Its one of her best. So, while this is hardly my blog, today I'll blog for my wife.

Elixir

Weariness furrows my brow,

frustrations fill my view.

Daily toiling takes its toll

Upon my heart and spirit.

.

The joys of our lives

Bring sorrow too,

angry words and looks,

disobedience and defiance.

.

Amid the daily struggles,

One bright light can cut through any trial...

Your voice, your touch, your smile,

Renews my waning tolerance.

.

Renews without requesting anything,

No demands of selfish nature here,

Just joy, complete and whole,

As our day ends...within each others view.

.

KMJ 2006

.

I love this poem. It could so easily come from me to her. She is my Elixir.

***I can hear the Austin Powers voice in my head saying, "Yeah, baby!"***

Working on the poem

So,

The second stanza of the poem in my last blog has bugged me for a couple days. Lets try this version:

One builds it up
One tears it down
One more does nothing
Just one gains renown.

Not that fame is what we're after, but lets face it. When you get stuff done people notice. That applies to just about every endeavor.

My headstone won't say, "I wish I had spent more time at the office." But I hope my obituary reads: "He was a hard worker (not a hardly worker.)"

The Construction Gang

My grandfather Barlow was a prolific poet. When he died my grandmother spent more than a year compiling and editing his poetry. She gave a copy to all of her children and grandchildren. My favorite poem of his is this one:

A good thing to remember
A better thing to do
Is be part of the construction gang
And not the wrecking crew.

I've been thinking about it a lot lately.
Since I have a propensity to procrastinate I've decided that the poem needs a second stanza. I hope my grandpa would approve.

One builds it up
One tears it down
One more does nothing
Only one is renowned.

I can remember as a child, teaching myself how to braid by playing with a pine needle. When I had finished the braid I felt like I had created something wonderful. Not that the braid was fantastic, the point was: I had created. That feeling of accomplishment was/is so wonderful. I love being part of the construction gang.

What makes you feel that way?

A love poem

I would have posted yesterday but there were some technical difficulties.

Read the Large text first, then you can go back and read the small text to find out what I was thinking.

Two eyes that sparkle, emerald and blue
*wait a second, that sounds like she has one green eye and one blue eye*
Skin o'er her face, soft like the dew
*read no reference to acne or otherwise, I just like her skin*
Two lips plump and pouting
*Not that she's sad, I like it when she pouts for me*
Gentle her touch
*I'm not into the rough stuff*
I reach to caress her
*You know, like a back scratch or a foot rub*
I need her so much
*Not just because you make my lunch for me and wash my socks*
My soul feels with longing
*A word that here doesn't apply to the length of something but rather the desire for something*
My heart skips a beat
*Don't worry, I don't have an arithmia or any other heart conditions*
Forever I'm with her
*Bwa Ha Ha, you'll never get rid of me*
Come share my VD
*That's shorthand for Valentines Day*