Community, Unity
Parenting Shares
The Offspring
Of Another Poem
Is This One
Born of
Wiping mouths
Matts and Shelas
Borne to Playgrounds
Dance jams
Prayer meetings
What good is a gathering
With no Potluck?
Cream cheese brownies
Delights all around me
Being small and
A star amidst
Adults
Who always seem to see you
Though they're beyond your
Range of sight
All is fright
Too many
Too much
Chaos, hectic
Why do all my poems
Turn so south
Just when things were
Getting perfect?
Forgetting,
That nothing
is Perfect.
No parent was, or is
The interpretation
That she 'didn't like me'
Was incorrect
Was doing her best
To correct
Behavior so small,
So starry-eyed
And mistaken
in the ways
of Adults.
She called them dolts
Because Roald Dahl
Said so.
And I was offended,
No!
I liked my dolts.
Mes parents,
Ils sont parfaits,
Pour moi.
And he thinks I
Can't speak French
Unless I'm inebriated
But it isn't true!
I just got off to a bad start
Or a false one.
Beaucoup de faux amis,
Tres triste.
Here I go once more, with
Southern dialects
Fixing the denotation which is
Perfect,
Yet circumspect.
