Just Weird Really

I saw a young baby out walking one day
And asked him to tell me the time.
He looked at his wrist, then he pulled out a coin
And flipped me a nonchalant dime.
"Time for you, man, to be getting along
And cease from impertinent queries.
Go buy yourself a pound of hard candy;
I'm off to spend time with my dearies."

Arrival

We now have a baby
He's finally come.
He's crying and pooping
All over his bum.
He's cuter than buttons
And the knees of a bee.
My son is a keeper,
My first progeny.

Kyrie eleison.
Christe eleison.
Kyrie eleison.

Rip Van Baby

"Oh my, it's nice in here.
How pleasant just to rest.
Maybe I'll just hunker down
And make myself a guest.
Now I'm getting sleepy;
I think I'll close my eyes...
...
...
Oh my! Past due! Gotta go!
Goodness, how time flies!!!"

Clarification

As my wife so wisely clarified in the comment section of the previous post, everything is fine.  The baby is fine.  But the baby is still in the womb.  And that was the subject of the poems.  Voila.

Hope

There is a time
When hope starts to feel flimsy in your fingers.
"Maybe it's just a wish?"
Wishes are paltry things
Fit for movie screens,
But not for real hearts
Prone to breaking.


But hope, however flimsy,
Is much stronger 
Than every resource you can muster.
For it depends not on you
And wispy vicissitudes,
But on One who has promised.


And so I hope.
I hope that one day he will come,
Look up
And change everything,
A gift, 
A lesson,
God's love in human form.

Ache

It's never going to happen.
We've been suckered into thinking 
That a baby will arrive 
At or around a particular date, 
When in fact there is no baby. 
There is only the idea of a baby. 
Always and ever the idea, 
But never the reality. 

We will wait for him 
And hope for him, 
Take walks and talk of him. 
We have gathered up clothes 
And items to testify. 
But they are still clean 
And there is no smell of baby on them. 

We will be prepared to love, 
But never have the chance 
To hold, to kiss, to dote, to gaze. 

My heart is starting to ache.

The Step

I'm really not feeling poetic.
My mind is all elsewhere instead.
My thinkings are lightly frenetic,
And also quite solid like lead.
I'm looking off into the future
While pott'ring about in the now,
Getting brief glimpses of what I'm not sure
And wondering 'bout why? where? and how?
A step is about to be taken.
Is it scary or blissful or true??
Clearly these elements wrapped up in one;
And I'm taking that step now with you.

London Thoughts

London taxis
Fly around,
Leaving two wheels
On the ground.
Flags are draped
Along the way,
Celebrating
Queen Mum's day.
Clouds with sprinkles
Threaten us
As we ride
The tall red bus.

The Peculiar Merit of Branston Pickle

Of the many things I remember from my youth,
A virtue of my dilettante memory,
Branston Pickle is the one that most pleased my tooth,
Though, strictly speaking, not for its flavor only.
Because of its rarity, Branston always came
With moments to be treasured forever,
Family trips to Yorkshire or along the Thames.
Dearly loved ones together, laughing, happy and clever.
Pickle is a symbol, or a key one could say,
Of happiness past, living forward to greet a new day.

Erma

Erma the rat
Is begging for fun.
"Please, please, please hold me!
And then let me run!"
She is so eager
And earnest to boot.
Give her some food
And she'll hide it like loot.
She may be vermin,
Plague on four paws,
But her uber-cuteness
Makes up for those flaws.

Baseball

The clouds don't care much;
They just want to get elsewhere,
Wandering off to Wisconsin
As fast as their wisps can carry.

But the sunlight is curious
About the goings-on in Target Field.
And after passing by,
He peaks.
His luminosity making a dozen eyes
Disguised
As ballfield lights.

No fooling me.
I know you Mr. Sunlight
Don't you worry, you're welcome.

The Waiting Is the Hardest Part

Mamma is waiting
She's got baited breath
For baby to "Voila!"
To finally appeareth.
But he's being stubborn
And holding position.
"Get yer mind right"
Is what we're all wishin'.

The Devil of the Road

I was driving late one night,

With bleary eyes and not much light.

All the shapes got twisted up

And gave my heart a twinge of fright.

Blurry numbers danced and laughed

Making wonder for my eyes.

Peering close to verify

All the scene did change in size.

"What the devil!" I cried out,

Longing now for peace and bed,

"Surely he is playing tricks.

He can go to Hell instead!"

So I drove on through the night,

Hoping not a ditch to meet,

Safely I arrived at home

Quitting that infernal street.