Words said to children may be healing, or harmful. Inspiring or spirit-squelching. Today, we have three options to inspire our poems:
1. A memory of something said to you when you were a child
2. Something you’ve overheard said to a child
3. Words you’ve said to a child
Choose one or more, and share your words with us. We look forward to being inspired by you, as always.
Marie’s Poem
Eleven
Mature well beyond her years and big for her age, she is not a girly girl. She looks very much young adult, and is sometimes mistaken as such. Those her age can’t relate to her, nor she to them. Yet in the midst, her kindness for all, shines. Her laughter comes easily. She faces young adult assumptions, expectations, misperceptions, and uncertainties. She seeks clothing and hair styles in an effort to make her more comfortable in her own skin. Today, we are at her Christmas-gift hair appointment. Appointment complete, her stylist says, “Pretty. What do you think?”
Eyes in mirror smile
while unexpected soft voice
slips, “I am pretty.”
© Marie Elena Good 2023
Walt’s Message
Our youngest daughter came home from Ottawa to visit. The whole family got together for dinner, including my three years old granddaughter Brooklyn. What I will relate to you is not a poem, but a story she relayed to me. She climbed up on my knee and very seriously she said:
“Poppi? (Me) My Papa died. (Her other grandfather) He fell down and hurt his head. He was in the hospital and he’s an angel now. He watches me. That makes me happy and sad. I miss him. I sit in his chair because he doesn’t sit there any more.” She paused and looked up at me. “Poppi…? Don’t die. You can watch me from your chair.” The tables were turned. She provided the words of wisdom. From the mouths of babes… I promised myself to live for her until the day I do die. So far, so good. *** Her grandfather Michael was a casualty of the Blizzard of 2022. What she understands amazes me.
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
So cute!
“Stop crying, before I really
give you something to cry about.”
That was the angered old mantra
of a single mother dangling,
by a strand of thread.
Stop crying—as if the pain
already inflicted, wasn’t worthy
of tears is what she said.
Perhaps the multitude of fears,
viper’s stings from momma’s belt,
were all in my head?
But that was momma.
A tougher-than-nails Ol’ bird who could
no longer fly.
Perhaps she suffered wounds
as a child, that clipped her wings,
and she knew why?
Perhaps, momma just passed along
the family’s heritage of scars—
we bear them now.
©️Benjamin Thomas
Sigh. I feel this. Well written.
I’m sorry for those words. Heard them many times myself.
Thanks. 🙏🏽
Yes, the curse of learned behavior!
Sad
I have heard this said… and you are right about scars being passed on.
This aches.
Benjamin, I know so little of your story. Only what you have chosen to share with us out here over the years through your poetic heart and words. This poem strikes the heart. Especially the last stanza, for me. Hugs to you …
Since she was no longer able to fly, everyone around her became a victim.
So sad, Benjamin.
It’s been a really rough week. That’s not poetic. It just is.
Last Words on My Last Day
Before the class I stood
I knew it was the last moments
Of my very last day
Did they?
With a heart full of pain
And tears flowing free
I announced
“Today is my last day.
I don’t know who intended
To cause me physical harm
But let me clearly say,
You are deeply loved.
You have value.
I forgive you.
I am praying for you
That one day
You find Jesus.”
I spoke a lie
I knew who he was
I’ve prayed for him
Everyday
Since Tuesday
Asking Jesus to heal him
To take his hurt away
To give him ears to hear
A heart to understand
The love of the Man
Who died and rose again.
Amen. Sorry to hear about a rough week.
Thank you.
Shelly, my sister, I love you and I love your heart. This poem barely scratches the surface of what you have been through, but it shines your love for all and heart for Jesus brilliantly. ❤
Thanks, Marie. Still prone to tears.
Oh as a retired teacher I can do feel this and empathize with the tears that won’t stop. So sorry you’re having to go through this. Reminds me of my student teaching experience
Thank you. It’s been a rough road.
How terribly sad, Shelly. May the weeks that follow be easier.
Marie, and Walt… marvelous responses to a challenging prompt. Marie, your pretty angel speaks a beautiful truth we all must see. Walt, your grandchild’s plea resounds with the essence of love, “stay with me!”
Certainly, poetry is a canyon in which the love of life echoes from heart to tongue to ear to heart and back again.
❤
SEVENLING WISHES AND SWISHES
When I was a kid and was cooped up inside,
I wished for some pals in whom to confide
or a trip to the White House with Ike as a guide
or driving a car with two-speed Powerglide
with the girl from next door, who’d become my dear bride.
But then I’d remember, as Dad used to chide:
“If wishes were horses, beggars could ride.”
Oh my. I just read this poem to my husband. I love how your poems often point to days of old, and have deep messages contained … sometimes the depth of the message is hidden in humor or simplicity, and sometimes starkly seen. Love you work, as always, Bill.
This is wonderful, William, as is your rhyming.
Walt, the Rochester area missed those blizzards, but this piece of yours brought them home anyway.
Marie, I’ve never been in a beauty shop, till now. What a powerful piece.
Thank you, sir. It was an extraordinary moment.
A Question
I don’t know why
my oldest sister said it,
what I did
at about eight years old
or what the situation was.
But she said it.
“Where is your common sense?”
Ever after, those words haunted me
and I felt I was destined
to bumble through life
while my common sense
had hidden itself
or packed up and went on vacation.
Perhaps that’s why
I’m so hard on myself
when I do dumb things.
But I’m learning
that, like my writing muse,
common sense comes and goes.
It’s part of the human condition.
Aww, Connie … I hear ya, my friend. I hear ya.
Spot on
I get it!
Jesus Said
Children
I love you all
as My Father loves you
so much that I came down to earth
to bring a message from Him
Listen
to what I say
these words of love and truth
words that point to eternity
about the Way, Truth, and Life
Believe
and follow Me
you are not of this world
your destination is above
you have but to accept Me
For proof
the day will come
when I am rejected
I’ll be crucified on a cross
for all the sins in the world
Father
Forgive them all
They know not what they do
But one day they will realize
Hopefully before they pass
The pastor of the church we tuned into this morning talked about the awe and wonder of little children, and how Jesus taught we need to be like them. Thank you for this poem.
Grandpa’s Wisdom
Mama named me after my grandpa
Then when life turned against her
And she realized she couldn’t cope
She accepted Grandpa’s request
To take me and raise me as his own
I thank God for mama’s understanding
For Grandpa was a wise and Godly man
The example I needed the most at the time
He was calm, hard working, and manly
Unlike any adult that had been in my life
Grandpa was the perfect replacement
For the father who had abandoned me
Grandpa taught me how to bait a hook
When we’d fish off the old iron bridge
He taught me to respect his .22 Savage
And hold my breath as I pulled the trigger
I learned about tools and how to fix things
And the importance and rewards of hard work
Grandpa showed me what a man should be
Respectful and kind and a friend to so many
He rarely got mad or even slightly upset
And even in poor health he managed a smile
But most of all Grandpa loved the Lord
And I wanted to be just like him
Grandpa told stories of his younger days
Growing up during the Great Depression
The lessons he learned in those poverty days
He passed on to me through his stories
Those lessons have helped me be who I am
And I am thankful that I paid attention
But while still in my youth Grandpa passed
Heart attack number three took him away
But the stories he told and the lessons learned
Still reside in the creases of my brain
I’ve tried my best to pass them down the line
In hopes they help my children through life
Earl, this is heartwarming. What a life story you have. Your grandfather sounds amazing. God bless him for all he did for you. That must have been a horribly hard loss for you.
He sounds like an extraordinary man, Earl.
Oh, Walt … be still my heart …
Teach Your Children Well
Don’t hide life’s lessons from your children
Don’t hold back wisdom that they might need
Tell them stories of where you came from
Those stories could help them to succeed
Don’t be afraid to let them know
The times you failed throughout the years
For failure is a necessary evil
That clears their focus through their tears
Teach your children that life is crushing
That they’ll need God in all that they do
Tell them about the straight and narrow
And pray for them your whole life through
❤
To a Child Who Asks Why Stars Shine
They were born of stillness and dreams.
They shone for you long before you were born.
They will shine long after you’re gone
but don’t be afraid-
they’re looking after you.
In them your fortunes are told
as the sun we know
dances with the moon.
They scatter
in darkness,
and they are more
than they seem
but our minds’ eyes
draw lines between them
to create archers and horses,
our heroes in the sky.
As they burn with passion
they create all we know-
the earth, the moon
endless sky so blue.
And every night we peer
deeper and ever deeper
into the universe’s soul
infinite stories to behold.
How gorgeous this is, and how deep. I could not begin to write like this, Mike.
Thanks, Marie. It was a surprise to me, as well.
Those are the best kind. 😉
Nodding in agreement here.
Thanks, William.
“They scatter
in darkness,
and they are more
than they seem”
So much more. Beautifully written, Mike.
I Hear Echoes
When holiday lights begin
to twinkle and shop windows
glitter with tempting offerings
carols filtering through grocery aisles
But I have my own recordings
filtered through set jaw
down turned disappointed eyes
unsmiling face
go take two straws
from the manager in the crèche
on second thought, take three
the baby will be cold
at the rate you’re going
In town I see the life-sized crèche
in front of the Presbyterian church
on the square straw strewn
to cover the drifted snow
the manager bursting with
what must be a bale of gold
straw and my stomach clenches
legs like jelly as I hear echoes
of my badness my disrespect
the specifics still pretty vague
even now but then it’s mostly
every time I open my mouth
so after that one magical year
before it all went to hell and
I turned into the whipping boy
I began to hate
the whole season and those
hourly trips to remove straws
from the tiny empty manager
stacking the brittle pieces on
the growing pile
along side the ancient stable
where I hoped the sheep and camels
might bed down and at least
animals could enjoy it
so now I leave the family set
of figurines in its battered box
where I’ve tried to tape up
memories, echoes; simply set out
the tall angel shaped from wood and bronze
holding her filigree harp
the slender windblown Madonna
clutching her baby, its trailing blanket
no doubt loomed in expectation
the last figure her carpenter husband
striding with his staff through the
mantle of evergreen scented stars
echoes almost, and yet never, fading.
Pat, I feel I am running out of ways to describe how I admire your poems. Every single one you write is moving, visual, professional, engaging, awe-inspiring … every single one …
And I’m so sorry for this experience you describe. 😦
Thank you! Thought I sent earlier but disappeared? Loved your sweet poem of self-realization… so special the story and the poem!
Thank you, Pat. It was an extraordinary moment.
Kind of a lingering gut punch, this.
Bad experiences always seem clearer than good ones. Beautiful, Pat.
AIM HIGHER
compassion
for my children
ran strong
all along
I wanted them
to aspire
to always aim higher
try
to fly
see that sky
and just keep going
I’d certainly listen
glisten at their accomplishments
but whenever
they got stuck
in muck
lacking any luck
I’d remind them
aim higher
out of the daily
mire
nothing too dire
feel their fire
and always keep moving
grooving
proving
to themselves
they could get there
now that they have
I can smile
knowing all the while
maybe they heard me
I see
clearly
they did aspire
to aim higher
and I’m guessing
that when my time comes
to go
they’ll both know
Mom has also
aimed high
touching
that endless
ever lasting
loving
sky
(c) Janet Rice Carnahan 2023
This warms my heart, Janet. Good for you! I’m sure your “kids” see and appreciate the mother they have. This is awesome!
Reminds me of kettling hawks, this does.
They heard you, Janet.
Walt and Marie – Howdy from an old straggler. Love your work as always.
Sticks and Stones
It was an English grammar assignment in 5th grade. We were to correct the purposely placed mistakes in the workbook’s paragraph about an ill feeling child.
We had what seemed to be a giant for a teacher, wearing a tent for a dress, who knew her strength and wasn’t afraid to use it. Intimidation was her ruler against a child’s frame of mind. Muddy shoes in the room caused her to snap and you’d soon be dangling from her grip on your shirt at the neck with your head smacking the wall. All the while looking down her throat and smelling her breath as she yelled out your punishment.
The assignment I carefully finished came back, marked in bold red marker. But what hurt most is when she laughed and said to the entire class; “one of you was so stupid you got this wrong”. The you, was me, and I cowered in shame as the class laughed along. I didn’t know the difference between a cold-chest and a chest-cold. How stupid of me. This redhaired, freckle-faced kid of immigrants. What I really got wrong was the bullies were not just the kids from town that picked on the ones from the country, it was the bullying teacher that never should have been. I learned to hate school and dread school. Mornings I would be sick, until it was too late, and the bus was past. As a child I thought I had been in the wrong. Crazy as it seems, this still haunts my memory. Afraid to speak, to write, to be, a child.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me – is a lie. What is true? Pleasant words are like a honeycomb, sweetness to the soul and health to the bones. (Prov. 16:24)
Poignant and do well told I feel like I’m in that terrifying classroom
What pain and hurt words cause. This is so well-written I can picture the scene in my mind’s eye.
And by the way, it’s so good to see you out here again! As I’ve read everyone’s poems regularly (I rarely comment), I’ve wondered what became of you. I always appreciated your poetry.
How wonderful to see you here, David!
What an awful, hurtful experience you describe so painfully. I hate this for you. But here is the reality that warms my heart and points me to our Father: You write. You write gorgeously. You didn’t let this stop you. You use your words in a way that is obviously a gift from God. Wow … praising Him! ❤
This brings back memories of my own, with a teacher who sounds much like yours.
At The Clinic
Clinic setting
children crying
waiting room filled.
A name is called.
Frightened 4 year-old
looks at her mother,
who is chomping noisily
from a bag of pretzels.
Mother says, ‘Well get
your ass in there.
They called your name,
didn’t they?’ Knees
knocking together,
eyes downcast,
the little girl
follows the nurse
down the hall
alone.
Oh This one really hurts. You gave it to us so well I can feel the room, the raw pain.
It is heartbreaking to see a little child so alone in the world.
Wow, that’s a sad story.
Yes, and there are so many of them.
How sad. I often wonder how we can expect children to not bully when so many of the adults in their lives do.
Good point, Shelly.
Oh my goodness, this one has my eyes misting in heartache for this little one who should never, ever have to face this.
Sara, you have used so few words to touch deeply …
Thanks, Marie. My niece worked in a clinic for a time, and the stories were unbelievable.
Knee-buckling work, this. The format accentuates the child’s lonely walk. Superb, in my opinion.
Thanks, William!
Childish Thoughts
So they told me, trying to be kind,
that my mother, who I’d just seen die,
was in a better place now,
not seeing the pain of a youngster’s mind.
I use that memory to this day,
speaking to children, always with truth,
often while kneeling, eye to eye,
knowing they’ll grasp what I have to say.
So when a neighbor’s kiddo, smart and tough,
asked me around the pool about my scars,
where’d I get them, did they hurt,
I thought the truth would be enough.
Mom was embarrassed, let it show,
but I waved her off, kept explaining,
until the kiddo saw my memories flowing,
said thanks, that’s more than I need to know.
Your poem, your story, your life, YOU … all extraordinary, Daniel. All extraordinary.
Absolutely
Mine is here.
Commented on site, Misk. THANK YOU for sharing this with us. You are amazing.
Thank so very much!
Love it, and the last line is the perfect squelch.
Thank you, William!
[…] for Firebloom Wordgarden and Poetic Bloomings. AI Digital Art is mine and created using Midjourney’s bot (v4). Image and poem ©Misky 2023 […]
Marie, love your poem for so many reasons. That she sees herself as she is – a gift! ❤️
Walt, I can’t express the way your poem affected my heart.
A gift, indeed. Thank you, Shelly. And thank you for sharing your poem with us here. It always thrills my heart to see your name in our garden.
What a gift to see several poets we haven’t had the pleasure of rubbing elbows with here in too long. Love and admiration to you all!
I DON’T RECALL THEIR WORDS
I don’t recall their words—
but their blunt force trauma
I know.
The effect of each savage blow
still renders the same kind of
anguish.
The bruises and indwelling scars
nobody knows except
the bearer.
Like a soul rent, torn in two,
it slowly mends
by threads.
©️Benjamin Thomas
Goodness sakes, this is a powerful poem. So thankful these times are now in the past. friend.
“Blunt force trauma.” Perfect.
It must take a long time to mend by threads.
Who knows what was said
to a child in the early days when
they were just clay?
In the formative years of bright green
youth; when they were full of sap
and small impressionable chaps.
We always know by their finished vessel.
After they’ve been shaped and fired
in the unrelenting heat of the kiln.
It always bears the particular mold
of the potter who
made it.
©️Benjamin Thomas
Excellent analogy, and strongly presented. Wow.
ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER
What happens when there are no words,
but actions that speak much louder?
When your own flesh and blood speak—
but with stinging, swinging clenched fists?
When the use of swift slapping hands
seize the moment and do not miss.
And the developing brain is perplexed,
confused, and says, what is this?
Is it friend, family, or foe? All the above?
One or the other? I do not know.
©️ Benjamin Thomas
Disturbing, this. The gist of your poem is succinctly stated in the final stanza, and it is a whopper of a realization.
You are a person of value…
Maybe because there were people,
Who chose not to value me,
I chose to say to each child,
“You are a person of value.”
It is such a simple statement, but
Within those words
Was that I believed their tears mattered,
And they should be comforted.
I believed that their smiles
Brighten my days,
And that I believed
Their questions should be heard,
And when they said,
“Listen to me.”
I would listen.
I believed that their hearts and minds and bodies mattered…
Not whether society called them names
That broke their belief that they are valuable,
Or they were unwanted
And abandoned alone to face the world.
I whispered to the babies,
“Don’t ever forget no matter
What the world does,
You are valuable.”
When a broken six-year-old sat in my lap crying
For all those people and places
Had wished her goodbye.
I held her close and rocked her
Giving her all the love I had to give,
Knowing full well my heart would break
When I had to say goodbye, and
In a calm voice I said,
“Remember my words.
Don’t let anyone take them from you.
You are a gift and a person of worth.”
The battered teenage boy
Had more anger than love-
Beaten, abandoned, and scared.
He got in my face and screamed…
No one cares.
But I did, and I told him so…
Still broken as a man
He sought me out and said,
“I try to remember the words you said,
That I was valuable.”
I told him that he still was.
A young teen mother,
Barely making it,
And living in a rough neighborhood,
I would stop at her home on my way to work
And remind her she was a person of value,
And not to give up.
She told me as a grandmother.
Those words took root and she changed her life.
She thanked me for telling me I could do better
And believing in her.
Such simple words
I said to them.
It was something
I felt I must do
In hopes it would carry them forward
In the days after I was no longer there.
Mary Elizabeth Todd
January 24, 2023
This world needs more like you, Mary. Thank you for your kind heart for all of humanity, and for sharing it with us in your poems. God bless you.
Thank you so much….
Calls to mind the phrase, “woman of valor.”
Thank you
How wonderful to know you have had a positive impact on children’s lives.
— A Muttering
There is no one speaking
There is no one seeking
No one living a dare
Is it enough to stare
Is it enough to care
Enough to follow
Do you feel hollow
Do you feel shallow
Feel anything at all
Get out of the hall
Get out of the stall
Out with the people doing
by Bob Dombroski
Marvellous poem. Marvellous construction; akin to a blues.
Thank-you
Marie, Oh, to have that comfortable confidence. Love this!
Walt, So amazing when all the things you thought you’d have to say
to a child, comes from their own mouth.