I never write poetry and am not much of a poet but in the spirit of trying. . . her is my slice from today. From those poets out there I'd love some very HONEST feedback.
The worry gets held inside
like a cake of yarn. Rolled up neatly
freshly off the ball winder
but some days it unwinds.
My love rode ahead. Out of my
The cake unraveled
just a bit. My mind twisted the handle
rolled it back together, neatly.
The conversation lulled and
the unraveling began
Consciously rolling it back up.
The adults are with her.
With each step and bend
Will they send a kid back to tell
Will they race to get
can comfort and quell the pain?
Surely. Wind it back neatly.
Each piece tucked next to the rest.
There they are. Under the overhanging tree.
Playing. I don't see her.
Surely she isn't too close to the river.
Where is she?
Tucked up next to. . .
A daredevil you say?
Tears -- baby why? You fell
from there? From up above?
C'mere baby. It's OK
You caught her head. Thank God. Thank you.
Mama needs to quit using the ball winder
her hands will do.