Musings by The Poet Loriet
Toil And Trouble
"Young man,"
I say with finger wagging.
You hang your head,
lips pouting and trembling,
eyes glistening with tears.
You are aware of my disappointment.
Good, I think!
Egged on by your peers,
you felt powerful today,
played the part of the bully:
No son of mine will be a hooligan!
I dispense a lukewarm hug and kiss,
sending my bad little boy to bed...
Later, a persistent noise
stirs me from my deep slumber;
a non-relenting wheezing cough.
I throw back my covers,
run to your room,
put my head on your chest...
and scrunch my face up with a
worried frown.
I watch your chest muscles tug and pull,
hearing only a whistle of air
forcing its way through.
I hurriedly assemble
bottles, droppers, tubes, wires...
Having done this so many times,
I know the routine.
Here I am...
I'm your mama, your nurse,
the one who saw you through
your colicky infancy, major abdominal surgery,
nights that pale this one by far in comparison...
I am here...
I know you
and how to care for you.
On instinct, I slide behind you
in your tiny bed,
spooning you, shaking you gently awake.
"Sweetie, you need your breathers...
come on, time for our peace pipe."
I prop you up, leaning you into my chest
where you can hear my heartbeat.
You sigh deeply as your mouth closes
around the apparatus.
Medicinal smoke encircles us,
calming your breathing
into a deep, heavy rhythm again...
your soft, downy head becoming
pleasantly warm and heavy.
I feel that maternal instinct stirring,
tugging at my heart...
You are still my special one.
I need to hold you more often like this.
You are growing up so fast,
yet still so small and vulnerable.
It feels good to be needed.
I smooth back your hair,
planting light kisses on your forehead
and give in to sleep,
keeping my "mom ears" tuned in.
I am here. Shhhhhhhh...
You are still my baby boy...
We'll sail this night together,
you and I.
Lori Beal
I say with finger wagging.
You hang your head,
lips pouting and trembling,
eyes glistening with tears.
You are aware of my disappointment.
Good, I think!
Egged on by your peers,
you felt powerful today,
played the part of the bully:
No son of mine will be a hooligan!
I dispense a lukewarm hug and kiss,
sending my bad little boy to bed...
Later, a persistent noise
stirs me from my deep slumber;
a non-relenting wheezing cough.
I throw back my covers,
run to your room,
put my head on your chest...
and scrunch my face up with a
worried frown.
I watch your chest muscles tug and pull,
hearing only a whistle of air
forcing its way through.
I hurriedly assemble
bottles, droppers, tubes, wires...
Having done this so many times,
I know the routine.
Here I am...
I'm your mama, your nurse,
the one who saw you through
your colicky infancy, major abdominal surgery,
nights that pale this one by far in comparison...
I am here...
I know you
and how to care for you.
On instinct, I slide behind you
in your tiny bed,
spooning you, shaking you gently awake.
"Sweetie, you need your breathers...
come on, time for our peace pipe."
I prop you up, leaning you into my chest
where you can hear my heartbeat.
You sigh deeply as your mouth closes
around the apparatus.
Medicinal smoke encircles us,
calming your breathing
into a deep, heavy rhythm again...
your soft, downy head becoming
pleasantly warm and heavy.
I feel that maternal instinct stirring,
tugging at my heart...
You are still my special one.
I need to hold you more often like this.
You are growing up so fast,
yet still so small and vulnerable.
It feels good to be needed.
I smooth back your hair,
planting light kisses on your forehead
and give in to sleep,
keeping my "mom ears" tuned in.
I am here. Shhhhhhhh...
You are still my baby boy...
We'll sail this night together,
you and I.
Lori Beal
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Toil And Trouble
Toil And Trouble
