Killing melancholy
The child killed his melancholy out of doors.
I heard voices that told me likewise to turn,
told me to talk with a knave,
told me to give.
Poems on the topic: child
Poems on the topic “child” on Poets.by.
Grace
buzzing on the autumn mountain
an amber alert
a child gone missing
in the middle of my daydream
railroad workers 400 feet below
pause and look at their phones
every morning now
it’s a different landscape
i go home and cut my hair
the missing girl is found
two notes from a wren
get lodged in my inner ear
Off spring
Standing outside my front door on this rainy night is the closest thing to a son or daughter I’ll ever have: an eastern red cedar tree, which I found and transplanted when it was one or two years old back in 1993, and has since grown into a bit of a monster, towering over the house. The old place in Maine where we lived till I was five had a number of juniper bushes in the former pasture, where I used to play a lot, and I think that’s what appealed to me about having a closely related species right by the door. And sure, I knew it would turn into a tree rather than a bush, but I still thought it would stay on the small side. It hasn’t — much to the delight of roosting songbirds. I have to prune branches that rub against the roof, but still, on stormy nights, I hear it thump, thump, thumping against the house.
* * *
Waziristani
children fear a clear blue sky,
the buzzing of bees
Purlieu
The art museum’s smallest room
is filled with miniature landscapes.
We stop in front of each,
& my 8-year-old niece waits for me
to hoist her up by the armpits
for a five-second look.
I learn a new word from the exhibit’s title: purlieu. “A frequently visited place, an outlying district,” says Merriam-Webster’s New Collegiate. In the plural, “Confines, bounds” as well as “Neighborhood, environs.” From the French, “to go through,” it came into use in the Middle Ages, when it had a fairly specific denotation: “ME purlewe land severed from an English royal forest by perambulation.”
Later, she watches from
the back seat of the car as
a ten-dollar bill change hands. Giggles.
“They hold the money
Existential museuming
a blown-glass sculpture
of the HIV virus—
loud children swarm past
Primary school
Children in the woods:
at first I mistake their distant yelps
for coyotes.
When did I stop climbing trees?
Views are best when seasoned
with a little terror.
Once I found a dead cicada,
stuck half-way out
of its former self.
Almost
As I sit by the fireside,
I remember the times, the good and the bad.
Those many years ago,
When we meant something to each other.
I'm probably knitting a woollen sweater,
Or perhaps watching a mother cat lick her younglings.
And somehow, everything reminds me of you.
Because I just can't get over you,
Though I have moved on, it is not the same.
And now I have children,
Who have children.
And I can't help think of everything that we almost had.
Together.
Almost.
* * *
because you shouldn't worry
about mommy and daddy not being home
because you should feel love
because mommy and daddy stay home
because you shouldn't be scared
because the dressers hit the floor and the banging gets louder
because you shouldn't cry
because mommy and daddy can't do anything but fight
because you should be a little girl
not worrying if daddy is ever going to come home
little girl
* * *
Pain cuts like a knife,
Hard for me to breathe.
Knowing what happen,
Enable to believe.
Losing almost everything,
When he walked out the door.
Heart shattered to pieces,
Smashing to the floor.
Picking myself up,
After laying on the tile.
Overcome with hatred.
Feeling so vile.
Thoughts racing fast,
Zooming right by.
Many points in my life,
I wanted to die.
At Rosa Parks Commons
I could have sworn
the child was not
going to cry
when I told her
to stop chewing
on her fingers
and stay close so
I can see her
but yeah she cried
and yeah she screamed
and she stood on
the equipment
of the playground
looking like she
wanted to hitch
a ride out of
* * *
Why?
Mother,
Whys is the grass green?
Why is the sky blue?
Why is the world big?
Why do people say its small too?
Why do people die?
Why are babies born young?
Why are there taste buds?
In my tongue?
Why do I weep?
When I cut my knee?
Why does one and one make two and not three?
And why, mummy,
Just one more,
When father left,
Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem
Or try: