Poem: Born Contrary

Born contrary

Born happily free
to play
to feel
to question?
Not so certain.

Born with a will
to be
to learn
to want?
You must be joking.

Born in a time and place
to abide
to concede
to submit?
But why? I ask.

Why do I feel I should learn to concede
If I'm born free to be me and only me?
Why is it a task for me to abide?
Maybe I'm born all wrong
to think I'm free but not at all
to feel I'm brawn when truly I'm meek
to be contrary rather than concede.

Why do I need to stir up the scene?
To want to remind
that I'm born free just to be?
As I think, I can see
that I'm born free to protest
when anyone seems
to be born to contest.

~ Mabedie ~

Poem: A dream of little fingers.

The night comes with it gloom
Brings dreams of my outstretched arms,
That long to touch, to hold,
To brush a forlorn tear.
To skate, to fuss with tiny little frocks.
So gentle yet firm to coax
Four restless feet to rest.

Where eyes yet gleam with dwindling light
And eager ears sharply spike
To soft whispering delight
Which tell of made up places,
Adventure and sidestepped traces.
Though arduous unrehearsed
Before frivole deserves
The strained tale often serves
For want of cherub rest.
Softly cuddled in their nests
Giggling eruptions happily turned
To hushed tranquil breaths.
The sound of a dismal hoot
The faintest evening chirps
The close of day affirms.

I hover yet a moment
A mother's heart appeased
That reverie regarding captures
Sleeping babies warmly tucked
With dampening of dark ringlets
Draws blows of affectioned draught.
Though sweet but painfully ladden
The dream reality gets
It spurs the heart to hasten
To fly from idle pacing.
And yet to solace seek,
where little fingers peek.

~  Mabedie ~