Poetry

I am NOT a poet.

If truth be told, I don't even like poetry.

The only poetry I've read is what was forced on me in high school and a college lit class. And it was torture. Like, poke your eyes with toothpicks to stay awake, or gag myself with my mechanical pencil with all the lovey-dovey, tortured soul poet stuff, kind of torture.

Robert Frost is not my friend and I'm not inspired by Emily Bronte or the like. However, give me a great Dr. Seuss book and I'm good to go. (I don't call his work poetry out of principle.)

Call me simple minded, that's okay.

I've never written a single poem in my life. So when I sat down to write my little "Ode to the Soda Can" a while back I wasn't thinking of poetry. I was thinking of Dr. Seuss and how to complain about my husband without sounding like a nagging, bitter housewife who is airing her dirty laundry on the information super-highway!

So it is in that vein that I write about our beloved middle child and his problem with socks. Yes, socks.

A wee tiny babe with bright orange hair
A mother's delight that made others to stare.

You've had stitches and super-glue
To mend your deep wounds
And you only eat food with self-titled "Owen spoons."

Angelic and peaceful you seem to appear
But under the smile is a sinister sneer.

You have a dirty secret,
An obsession so great
That rehab and hypnosis would be needed to break.

You refuse to eat bread or things of the like
A muffin, a roll, Sacrament bread...Not one bite!

But one thing you will have
And plenty, you do!
Socks! Socks! and more Socks!
A strange passion....who knew?

You love them, its true
You've made that apparent.
But why can't you listen to me?
I AM YOUR PARENT!!!

Put them, oh, put them, oh
PUT THEM AWAY!
I'm tired of just finding one dirty lost stray.

It must be genetic 'cause it is no joke.
You're just like your Dad and his wandering Coke.

You leave them on driveways and porches and grass
On counters and tables and in the gross trash.

My room and your room and Kai's room and Drew's
It would be nicer if you could just choose!

I've given you baskets and buckets and bins
Containers and cubbies to keep your socks in.

Old Navy and Target and Wal-Mart we go
In search of accoutrement's to cover your toe.

I've spent my life's savings (which wasn't that much)
To feed your obsession- Your 3 year old's crutch.

You've lost your inheritance. It pains me to know
That one day you'll ask me,
"Mama, where did it go?"

I'll answer sincerely, no sarcasm here.
(Well, maybe a little wee motherly jeer.)

"Look down and you'll find it! It's not hard to see."
My boy, you are wearing it so....

DO NOT BLAME ME!!!"