Harmony Loved to Race
Harmony never liked to catch or swing,
dolls or toys that dance, fight or even sing.
But you see, she simply runs and chases
with her friends to the ends of foot races.
Her short hair, cut around to there, bounced in the passing breeze,
as she darted when she started to raise her knobby knees.
She felt their eyes so utterly surprised
as she'd zoom by. “Does she even try?”
the boys would wonder, shout and even cry.
“I’ll never beat those quick ol’ feet,” they whined.
The boys, jealous and mean, began to tease
the winner of their races. Girls' faces
turned away preferring pearls and their teas:
every face but one. That’d be Therese's.
Therese didn't care about their giggles
every time Harmony would take her hand
and lead her around the prairies and hills
and along the beaches bursting with sand.
But her poor slow feet just could not compete
and began to stall. So on knolls of grass,
they’d lay and watch the clouds of pillows pass
and share their dreams so simple and so sweet.
And by her side, Harmony didn't mind
what the other children said. But instead
only Therese could fill her heart and head
as the friend she had always wished to find.
But there came a day when Therese met Blade
who shared with her the games and toys he brought,
and playing house, Therese all but forgot
the world that she and Harmony had made.
And one day when Harmony raced into
the bends that hugged the pasture and prairie,
she ran across Sam, Erin and Mary
who just like Harmony loved racing, too.
So Therese and Harmony grew apart
as their new worlds began to split their heart.
But soon Therese’s legs grew weary
and her back became too weak
she could no longer run or walk
but only moved by wheel’s squeak.
Harmony grabbed her hand like once before
and tried to drag her friend right out the door
But Therese just said, “I’m sorry, old friend,
but even races have their times to end.”
So Harmony’s new friends got her to go,
and they raced into the old brook meadow.
“Come along with us,” said the running bands,
“and we will race into the far-off lands.”
Harmony thought of the times gone by,
when she and Therese dreamt under the sun.
They all told her to forget: say good-bye.
And so she did and then began to run.
Through the heather, the petals, and the trees
the peaks of mountains and the summer breeze,
her legs dashed faster than they had before
as they carried her to Therese’s door.
There Blade and Harmony each took her side
and helped their friend Therese along her way,
for although our hearts can be awfully wide,
there’s time to race but there’s a time to stay.
The Trouble with Words
I always seem to find myself in pickles, but I wouldn’t go so far,
because though it gives me a tickle, I won’t fit in any jar.
So you can see my trouble: the way some people talk
and how it makes me stumble when they start to mock.
My dad is bald, and so they say, he’s going through some baldness;
but with my furry cat, there’s no way he’s going through the furness.
In boxing rings, I heard them shout, “Counterjab!” as they brawl,
but my mom never lets me boogie on the table with my counterdance at all.
Why do they call Mike and why is he so hot,
whenever they strike the microphone and it screeches an awful lot?
Why does Dad say my uncle’s filthy rich,
when his name is Uncle Jay and he’s not dirty—not a bit?
And coach yells at Mark when he’s not in place, but I once caught
some dogs do differently in the park when they mark their spot.
My teacher says, “You’re mistaken,” but I would reply,
“There’s no need for Ms., thank you, and it’s not Taykin, but nice try.”
Worst of all, there’s pizzerias I’ve spied all across the town,
but when I want to buy some some dye, why is there no dyeria to be found?
Brunch at the Delacroix's
There was once in the household of Tim Delacroix
a tradition so sweet it might soon be outlawed
that took place every Sunday around eleven or noon
when Tim’s father would serve his most favorite platoon.
He would call up his ranks, from his wife to his son,
and serve each one three pancakes, that glistened—each one!
And around their small table, as the sun would pour in,
they gave thanks for the fluffy sensation within.
For their hearts were so light and the pancakes were, too,
and they knew this was Heaven. Oh, they just knew
that whatever should pass if Tim’s dad goes away,
they would have this memory of brunch on Sunday.
To remember the recipe, Tim heard this spiel
that his dad would recite to prepare their great meal:
“One cup of buttermilk: that will start us off right.
Then in goes two flour cups, all sandy and white.
Next we'll crack in three eggs, and we're just about through.
With just four spoons of sugar, it's sweet like you two.”
But the kitchen phone would ring as the moon poured in her beams,
and his dad had to pack duffel bags that stretched at the seams
and then go far away to a land he’d not known,
where the sea could not reach and street lights had not shown.
Yet his dad would return and surprise them both so
with the meal they hadn't had in what seemed years ago.
But the time was as short as it was just before,
for soon he'd have to leave to the land with no shore.
But one time when Tim’s dad had been gone a long while,
when the tresses of vines on the house climbed a mile
and had faded and greened and then back four times more,
and snowflakes turned to raindrops like tears to the floor,
Tim’s dad did not return, nor would he anymore.
Tim and his mom were alone from here on.
He was the man of the house from now on.
Following his dad’s old recipe Tim tried a lot
baking the pancakes that only his dad could pull off.
“One cup of buttermilk: that will start us off right.
Throw in two cups of flour, all sandy and white.
Next we'll crack in three eggs, and we're just about through.
With just four spoons of sugar—oh, Dad, I miss you.”
Try as he may, though, he still could not make
pancakes like Dad’s. They were heavy like steak.
That is till he had found in a bag of his dad’s,
that old duffel he’d take when in green he was clad,
a small picture of him and his mother, as well,
and a note on the back that would make his heart swell:
“Too often we crave only the sweet as our prize,
but only with the bitter can we ever rise.”
So he then tried once more to make the pancake meal,
and gathering the goods, he then started the spiel:
“One cup of buttermilk: that will start us off right.
Throw in two cups of flour, all sandy and white.
Next we'll crack in three eggs, and we're just about through.
With just four spoons of sugar, I’ll remember you.”
Then he put baking powder, baking soda, too,
and with a pinch of salt, he said, “I think that’ll do.”
So the pancakes rose so that they were twice as tall
as they had ever been before. They ate them all
and thought about the father that they loved and lost,
the father who had loved them, no matter the cost.