THERE WAS A YOUNG MOTHER WHO LIVED IN A SHOE

There was a young mother, who lived in a shoe,
She had so many children she didn’t know what to do,

They hung from the rafters; they swung from the trees,
They jumped on their beds; they skinned up their knees,

They slid down the stairs; they played hide and seek,
They caught lots of critters while down at the creek,

They pulled the dog’s tail and chased after bees,
She asked them to stop; she even said please,

She cried and she ranted; she prayed and she pleaded,
She told them their silence was all that she needed,

They found lots of dirt and made some mud soup,
Then tried to get kitty to gobble the goop,

They locked all the doors, then hid all the keys,
They found lots of rope and made a trapeze,

And just when poor mother was ready to drop,
The children’s mad antics came to a stop,

They jumped in the tub one after another,
Then skipped off to bed, each kissing their mother,

She sang them a song about sunshine and grace,
Then walked through the room kissing each tender face,

She brewed a hot cup of peppermint tea,
Then sat in a chair where she found a lost key,

She sighed and she laughed at the odd life she led;
With love in her heart she headed for bed.

HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!

Thank you, Mother Goose, for providing the inspiration!!

Poetry by Rita Bourland © 2014

LETTERS FROM HOME

The hand-written letters arrived
Each week in an envelope
Stuffed with neatly trimmed
Newspaper clippings,

Hometown stories of
People I knew, places I knew,
A reminder of family,
A reminder that roots existed,

Just as I was growing wings,
Filled with new ways
Of thinking,
New ways of being,

It was the 70’s,
A time for questioning things,
Much like now,
Much like every generation,

But the letters still arrived,
Knowing I needed a tether
So I didn’t go drifting off
Inflated by all my heady thoughts,

It was many years before
The roots took hold
Somewhere deep
In my soul,

It might have been the day
I addressed a letter to my oldest son,
A gentle reminder
That roots can offer strength
When wings grow weary
From taking flight.

Photo by Rita Bourland:  Letters from home – 1970’s

FINDING THE ART

The man mows his lawn
In perfect rows,
Then trims the edges
With a sculptor’s eye,

His work of art
A departure from the days
He spends
Managing numbers,
Filling spread sheets,
Twirling a pencil
Behind an oaken desk,

He stops to admire his work,
Taking time to breathe
In the fresh spring air,
To hear a pair of cardinals
Discuss the birdhouse in the yard,

It’s not so hard,
He thought,
To free the mind and find the art
In a perfectly sculpted lawn,

Yet even in a spread sheet
There is an art
To the lines and lists,

An art
That DaVinci himself
would have loved.

The picture is a page from DaVinci’s notebook.

Soothing Music in my Head

The endless clatter of dishes,
banter of diners,
jaunty music,
projects a mood
that exists in the confines
where I dine
most nights,

yet even at home I succumb,
turning on music
to turn down the
spinning thoughts in my heads,

Instead of being with others
I speak to no one,
and live with the mood
I choose,

going to bed
with soothing music in my head
vowing to be a brighter, lighter
version of myself in the morrow.