Wednesday, December 31, 2014

The collection from my first attempt (2013) at National Poetry Writing Month


I have a friend named April,
at least that's what she's called online.
She wants to be a novelist,
Also a dream of mine.
I got her writing in Novembers,
My favourite month to sit and type.
She wrote a book, of novel length,
It lives up to its hype.
Now it's "April", two years on,
And its her turn to inspire me.
You see, her month to write is now,
It's a month of poetry.
They call it NaPoWriMo
A poem a day, not much, that's it.
It's not prose, it's hard to do,
I'm crazy to attempt it.
So here you go, my April pal, 
My first poem, it's pretty chic,
For our month of creative writing...
I'll probably fizzle out next week!

 - Laura Freeman -
April 1, 2013

Dear Lily

You meow and meow, my indoor cat.
You pace across the floor.
The birds outside, they beckon you,
You crouch beside the door.
The kids come home, and you slip out,
I swoop and bring you in,
You cry at me,
So pitifully,
Imprisoned once again.
You sit at our front window,
Scowling at the chirping prey.
I remind you that, last time you roamed,
You ended up
At the SPCA.
So you'll stay inside, we'll keep you safe,
You'll probably resent us.
But Lily, dear, you had your chance,
Before you even met us.
I wouldn't let my cats run loose,
With all the hazards that await.
Please understand, the indoor life,
For a cat, it can be great! 
You perch upon my counter,
When I sleep, you walk across my hair.

You trip me in the hallway,

You steal my warm spot on the chair,

You sleep all day, you play all night,
You go randomly berserk,
You can be the biggest sweetheart,
Or act like a selfish jerk. 
You are waited on, both hand and foot,
Food at your beck and call,
You sleep right on our pillows,
Leave hairballs in the hall.
So when we tell you, "Stay inside,"
I really wish you could,
Understand that we're not being cruel,
It is for your own good.

- Laura Freeman -
April 2, 2013



It Doesn't Have To

What is that?
He asked
sneering.
A poem,
She grins.
No.
It doesn't rhyme.
It doesn't have to.
It's free-verse.
A poem?
A poem that doesn't rhyme?
Free verse.
I don't like it,
He grumbled.
You don't have to.
It's mine.
Make it rhyme!
No.
Please?
No.
It doesn't have to.
I don't like it!
Scowling.
She laughs.
You don't have to.
I don't get it.
It doesn't rhyme.
Glaring.
It doesn't have to!
He pleads,
one more time.
Make
It
Rhyme!
It's free verse,
It doesn't have to.
He
S
T
O
M
P
S
away.
She smiles.
Tomorrow,
A Haiku.


- Laura Freeman -
April 3, 2013

Bright Eyed

Big brown eyes that light,
Sweet excitement from within,
Wiggling, kicking legs,
Cooing, drooly grin
Alert and ready to begin.

She wants to play with me,
She tries to tempt me in,
She flaps her arms, calls to me,
Except, it's two a.m.
Caffeine, you'll be my friend,

- Laura Freeman -
April 4, 2013

Mother Nature

Mother Nature is a cruel mistress,
Who taunts then takes away,
At nightfall, dusts the world in white,
The spring promise of today.
Winter throws us one last backwards glance,
As we watch him finally go,
And leaves us in his awful wake,
A Spring of ice and snow.


- Laura Freeman -
April 5, 2013

It's Grocery Day!


Two of them vote pizza,

One wants mac and cheese,

One suggests spaghetti,

How `bout Fruit Loops, please?

Candy, cake, and cookies

The fourth just smiles at me.



Two suggest waffles,

Grilled cheese shouts the third,

One suggests PB and J,

Fruit Loops, again, I think I heard.

Three agree on crackers,

The fourth one doesn't say a word.



Pizza is now unanimous,

Rice Krispies would be fine,

Please can we have ice cream

Chocolate milk is so divine.

Pasta, bagels, tacos,

The fourth one starts to whine.



I envisioned broccoli,

Maybe chicken, rice or fish,

So much for group consensus,

On the weekly grocery list.

Next week I`ll plan it myself,

The family nutritionist.


- Laura Freeman -
April 6, 2013

The Indigestible Truth

Three short months of working hard,
And the mind wants what it wants,
A reward for twenty lost pounds,
Dinner at the local restaurant.
Wholesome out the window,
We called it our cheat meal.
Laughter, games, desert,
A lovely family deal.
With the spirit of a teenager,
A cheeseburger, fries, and pie,
Now the body of an older woman,
Utters its punishing war cry.
In the wee hours of the morning,
My stomach rebelling from the score,
I come to the sobering conclusion,
I can't eat like that anymore.


- Laura Freeman -
April 7, 2013

No Regrets

My four, my children are my legacy,
The worn jewel in my crown, that shines bright,
A mark of that which is the best of me,
No regrets have I; I have done this right,
I live for them, and they exist for me,
Dreams unachieved, my four children still might,
Accomplish all that they set out to do,
Pursue their talents, true happiness, too.

Alex, our first, nine before summer's close,
The bud of an artist runs in his veins,
Quick with numbers and a new love of prose,
Sensitive, carefully we hold the reins.
Connor, six now, his social circle grows,
Daring, he trusts, collects bruises and stains,
Creative, he sketches with clarity,
Gentleness beneath the fire that is he.

Kirstin, big sister, feminine, and sweet,
At four, a dancer, a singer, friendly,
Verbally blessed, Affectionate, and neat.
Baby Brooklynn, completes our family,
Bright and alert, gummy grins are our treat,
Skills undiscovered, my fourth prodigy.
To watch my heart beat on in another,
No regrets have I to be their mother.


- Laura Freeman -
April 8, 2013

To Play the Classics

An honourable opponent,
She chose the thimble, I the shoe
She lived for the moment.
She rolled the dice, her roll was true,

She chose the thimble, I the shoe,
Thimble moving in a blur,
She rolled the dice, her roll was true,
The dice, they favoured her,

Thimble moving in a blur,
Properties collected,
The dice, they favoured her,
It was as I suspected.

Properties collected,
She played the banker, too
It was just as I suspected,
As her hotels and houses grew,

She played the banker, too,
I watched from my spot in jail,
As her hotels and houses grew,
Roll doubles; epic fail.

I watched from my spot in jail,
Gleeful, she grabbed Park Place,
Roll doubles; epic fail,
Smug grin upon her face.

Gleeful, she grabbed Park Place,
My heart sinking lower every roll,
Smug grin upon her face,
Her stack of money flush and whole,

My heart sinking lower every roll,
I slowly approached the blue,
Her stack of money flush and whole,
What was one to do?

I slowly approached the blue,
So close was I to losing,
What was one to do?
A final act of poorest choosing.

So close was I to losing,
I stood and tipped the table,
A final act of poorest choosing,
The legs must have been unstable.

I stood and tipped the table,
She knew what it really meant,
The legs must have been unstable,
For, I'm an honourable opponent,



- Laura Freeman -
April 9, 2013

Post-Partum

Weathered
Stretched to limits
Ungodly and profound
Skin deflated, silver road map
Sagging

Navel
Once an innie,
Then became an outie
Never restored former glory
Taunting.

Skin clear,
Eyes less tired,
Movement easy, restored
Sleep comes quick now, it refreshes,
Pain-free

Hair loss
Alarmed at first,
Falls out in thick handfuls,
Clogs the shower drain and the brush,
Thinning

Nursing,
Now established,
Efficient, quick, wiggly,
She loses interest, the world calls
To her

Trophy,
Of sorts, scars tell
Stories of a decade.
Bringing forth life, seeing it grow, 

Family

- Laura Freeman -
April 10, 2013

Midnight Exchange

In the dark of night,
She slips in to my bedroom,
Promising pleasure,
She is satisfied and she
Leaves money, the Tooth Fairy.

- Laura Freeman -
April 11, 2013

A Poem in Twelve Frames

The first ball thrown,
Warms the lane,
Sets the
Tone.

It hits its target,
With a crack,
The pins
Upset.

The screen flashes bright,
Displays its “X”
Team applause
Polite.

The pins want to,
Fall in sets,
The strikes
continue.

The team is pleased,
Now there've been
Nine. Flawlessly
Released.

The crowd falls silent.
The lanes quiet,
Attentively watching,
Expectant.

As the first ball,
Hits its mark,
Ten pins,
Fall

All eyes on him,
The alley silent,
Strike eleven,
Jubilation.

With coolness, he inhales.
Wipes his palms
And slowly
Exhales.

He checks his feet,
Eyes the lane,
Steps forward
Neat.

Release. His throw distinctive,
The ball navigates
It knows
Instinctive.

Loudly, the crash came,
announcing, he bowled
another perfect
game!

- Laura Freeman -
April 12, 2013

A Supplication to Spring:
(In the form of a Shakespearian sonnet)

Oh Spring, once here, have you forsaken us?
Shunning our corner of this northern world,
This morning, covered in a white canvas,
Serenely, our houses in snow, lie furled.
A robin, bright, calls from the covered tree,
Paradoxical and out of place here,
We hear, too, the trill of the chickadee,
Signs that once foretold of your being near.
The sun, now out, shines on the cold morning,
And warms; The land now sheds its winter coat,
The last trace of Winter, out with warning,
It turns to slush; Now Spring, do take a note,
Hope returns to this winter wonderland,
We ask of thee Spring, are you now at hand?

- Laura Freeman -
April 13, 2013

#14 A - The Sound of Silence

Silence Fills the air,
No hum of background,
Groaning in my ears,
Just the coos of a babe awake,
An absence of noise,
Recharging me.

Dim light, naturally
Through the window illuminates the morn,
And it is adequate.
The air is cool, but not cold.
Natural fibres warm,
Recharging me.

Chores can wait,
Unable to run appliances,
Books and toys to rediscover,
Unplugged family time,
A spring walk perchance?
Recharging me.

Random uncertainty,
When the air will come alive,
We wait, candles ready,
We entertain ourseves,
Eat foods raw and whole,
Recharging me.

An absence of noise,
An absence of responsibility,
In the early morning hours,
Of a crisp spring day,
The absence of power,
It recharges me.

  - Laura Freeman -
     April 14, 2013

#14 B - Restoration

The sudden hum,
A return of white noise,
Background fills my ears,
Children awake now, require care
The house, buzzing currents
Draining me.

Artificial light restored,
The house comes ablaze,
Excessive it seems.
The furnace hums, smells of heat
Layered clothing, heavy with warmth,
Draining me.

Suddenly,
The carpet needs vacuuming,
The laundry, utters its beckoning call,
Children need bathing.
The treadmill calls to me.
Draining me.

Less than two hours,
And the air comes alive,
The children, relieved
Electronics restored,
Cooking for them again,
Draining me.

The return of noise,
Means the return of responsibility.
Weekend oppression,
I'll tackle my to-do list,
The return of power,
It drains me.

- Laura Freeman -
     April 14, 2013

What She Does Instead

The laundry collects on the bathroom floor,
A hamper, over full, spews clothes.
In the morning she writes just one poem more,
In her evening hours she writes prose.

The food in the fridge is a guessing game, 
Weekly grocery shopping undone.
Her photos and pages call out her name,
Scrapbooking another passion.

Vacuum unused, there's crumbs on the carpet,
They're tell tale signs that don't lie.
She's learned to crochet; a baby blanket,
The nephew is due in July.

Layers of dust indicate furniture age,
Fingerprints, like the scene of a crime.
Currently in a "Jodi Picoult" stage,
She's reading three books at one time.

Outgrown clothes, boxes in various states,
Some to donate and some to pitch.
She sits and she wonders, while she creates,
When did she last do her cross stitch?




  - Laura Freeman -
     April 15, 2013

How Long?

The six o'clock news, full of despair,
Reports another bombing attack,
The country responds, in stunned disbelief,
How long 'til they call to "Fight back?"



Children go hungry, their parents unemployed,
Families losing the clothes off their backs,
The wealthy get richer, the poor stay oppressed,
How long 'til they call to “Fight back?”

Yet another school shooting, a class
Young children will no longer come back,
The gun-lovers lament their right to bear arms,
How long 'til they call to “Fight back?”


A doctor is killed for his pro-choice belief,
The babe's born addicted to crack,
A life is a life, no matter the cost,
How long 'til they call to “Fight back?”


Two men fall in love, not free to express it,
Judging zealots, mud-slinging attacks,
A youth takes his life, he just can't embrace it,
How long 'til they call to "Fight back?"

A violent sexual assault,
Young men, at the front of the pack,
The victim is blamed, the boys are consoled,
How long 'til they call to “Fight back?”

How many innocent people must die?
Or suffer traumatic attacks?
Violence assured when you live the beliefs,
Of a nation whose cry is “Fight back!”
  - Laura Freeman -
     April 16, 2013

#16 B – Family
This is what makes us a family,
When first you pledged your love to me,
Two sons came first, a family of four,
Then our girls, we added two more,
And now we're six, gendered equally.

A smaller branch of a larger tree,
Our parents still living in P.G.,
Siblings we wish we could see more,
This is what makes us a family.

A nephew and niece in Southern B.C.
Another expected in Calgary,
Reunions chaotic, more so than before,
A sister next summer, the wedding in store,
Sisters and brothers, friends are we,
This is what makes us a family.

- Laura Freeman -
April 16, 2013

A Spring Villanelle

The robins call out in cheerful refrain,
Hopeful of a new start, they welcome in spring,
The morning air is cool, promising rain.

Snow covered patches of sodden terrain,
Dotting the landscape, thaw in full swing,
The robins call out in cheerful refrain.
The sky is dreary, wears a white wash stain,
Brooding, unfriendly, what news will it bring?
The morning air is cool, promising rain.

The call of the geese as they form up their chain,
From their riverbed perch, the swans also take wing,
The robins call out in cheerful refrain.

To wash away winter, let green grow again,
With anticipation, my heart starts to sing,
The morning air is cool, promising rain.
The peal of the moose, signs that prove certain
Restored optimism, of seasons changing,
The robins call out in cheerful refrain,
The morning air is cool, promising rain.

- Laura Freeman -
April 17, 2013


Genetics

Trying to guess, as our children's quirks shine,

Is that trait from him, or is that one of mine?



Alexander James, full of creativity,

Sharp mind and quick wit; he must take after me!



Connor Nicholas, loves Kindergarten,

Daring and social, must be a Martin.



Kirstin Elizabeth, sweet as a flower,

Chatty and charming, full of “Girl Power!”



Brooklynn Christina, what a delight,

Inquisitive nature, takes in every sight.



The best of each one's personality,

Look at that, they get them all from me!


- Laura Freeman -
April 18, 2013

The Fog

The Fog settles in and makes plans to stay,

How long since the way was clear and bright?
Slowly swirling, it steals from the day.


A half-life; It rolls in with the night,
Every task attempted, sluggish and slow,

The Fog torments daily, no end in sight.


The Fog stretches and further it flows,
And fills every corner with heaviness,

Weighs down the weary, continues to grow.


How long until clarity's due caress,
Comes to replace Fog's sleepy decay,
And cleans up the dregs of the weariness?


Still, the Fog fills my head, intent to stay,
Damn, am I ever tired today!
- Laura Freeman
April 19, 2013 -

When Inspiration Strikes

One handed while her infant feeds,
In quiet hours, she chooses to write,
A stolen moment meets her needs.
One handed while her infant feeds,
Or when children, in sleepiness, recede,
She stays up far too late at night.
One handed while her infant feeds,
In quiet hours, she chooses to write.
- Laura Freeman -
April 20, 2013

A Limerick Quartet

Alex enjoys playing games with his siblings,
He's helpful when they need entertaining,
He's quick with the puns,
Talented with crayons,
But his lack of sportmanship remains challenging.

Connor is impulsive and daring,
But mostly he's just sweet and caring,
He'll draw pictures you ask,
And help out with most tasks,
But he sometimes lacks skills in sharing.

Kirstin loves everything that's princessy,
She likes to wear clothes that are dressy,
She dances and twirls,
And sings as she whirls,
Despite the fact that her castle is messy.
Brooklynn, the baby's, one dear little child,
She likes watching her siblings go wild,
She shrieks and she wiggles,
And occasionally giggles,
Getting herself quite adorably riled.
- Laura Freeman -
April 21, 2013

On Earth Day


Nature, in all her glorious beauty,
Innocent, believes her faith to be true,
She chooses them to take on the duty,
To care for her world as she needs them to.
A work of art, of pristine wilderness,
Rich with life, and her bounty resplendent,
They receive the gift of her blank canvas,
Then consume her stores, over dependent.

 They grow stronger with Nature's nourishment,
Taking power, which turns to resource greed,
Spreading out; A plague of development,
Turn their backs from her in her time of need.

Death and decay in technology's wake,
Hungry, they consume every living space,
Nature, too late, comprehends her mistake,
In trusting her care to the human race.

Laura Freeman
April 22, 2013

#23 - The Ballad of the Unfinished Novelist
It started so small, just five years ago,
And idea that spread like a weed,
Or like a young seedling,
It started to grow,
Writing filled in her, some unanswered need.
She wrote it in spurts, over the years,
Mid-life crisis, perhaps? Perhaps not?
In spare moments,
With blood, sweat and tears,
All that's left, one tiny bit of the plot...
How does one kill off a character,
Who's a fine make-believe friend?
How does one kill off a character,
The only thing in the way of “The End.”
It's finally done, at least the majority,
Long in planning and longer to pen,
Babies were birthed,
Her job a priority,
The book completely ignored, months on end.
The problem now is she's become attached,
To every flawed character,
And she's avoiding the plan,
The one she once hatched,
That would wrap up the story for her.
How does one kill off a character,
Who's a fine make-believe friend?
How does one kill off a character,
The only thing in the way of “The End.”
She likes to write scenes that are fluff,
The happy, the funny, romantic,
But she also avoids,
Puts off everything tough,
Conflict, apparently, not her best schtick,
JK Rowling can kill, she killed off a Weasley,
And that other “Martin” author can, too,
Old Yeller, Charlotte,
They make it look easy,
For other writers, the death tolls accrue.
How does one kill off a character,
Who's a fine make-believe friend?
How does one kill off a character,
The only thing in the way of “The End.”
No one wants to read claptrap anymore,
Where the prince, at the last moment, rides in,
And swoops in to save,
From certain horror,
Unless you're a fan of the ol' Harlequin.
So sometime this week, she'll just have to do it,
Bite the proverbial bullet and then,
Sit down and flesh out,
All the conflict unwrit,
And finally tie up all the loose ends.
How does one kill off a character,
Who's a fine make-believe friend?
Just do it, you sap, it'll suck of you don't,
It's the only thing left 'fore “The End.”
- Laura Freeman -
April 23, 2013


A Bug Sonnet
Today I sat and watched some children play,
Wood chips became rafts, sailing run-off streams,
Dammed up to divert water's preferred way,
They conquered nature with their playful schemes.
I see a lone bug and it fascinates,
It floats in the stream, aware of its plight,
And catches their eye; Their game terminates,
Now they wager on its survival fight.
The dam looming up so perilously,
The bug flutters helplessly upside down,
Ripples spread as he flaps vigorously,
Swirling ever nearer the makeshift ground.
The children watch and wait with baited breath,
He hits the dam, he rights, and conquers death.

- Laura Freeman -
April 24th, 2013

The Morning Routine

She gets up at the crack of dawn,
At least it feels that way,
Nurses the voracious one,
Begging sleep come her way.

Nay, babe's up, and ready to play,
It's time to start the day!

She slips out of bed, babe in arms,
No one else woken up,
Change a diaper, enjoy babe's charms,
Belch! She's covered with spit up.

Aye, she's dripping in milky spray,
It's time to start the day!

The six year old pads out, blinking,
Can I play before school?”
Maybe. It's early, she's thinking,
So she breaks their usual rule.
Aye, computer on, she let's him play,
It's time to start the day!
She smells like barf, a quick shower,
She hands the babe to Dad,
In and out, shined and scoured,
But her son's day has just turned bad.

Nay, computer froze, it won't play,
It's time to start the day!

He bursts in to deafening wails,
You said my turn to take!”
His bonus computer time fails,
Now everyone's awake!

Aye, thanks to Connor's obnoxious bray,
It's time start our day.
Don't comb through my hair!” Screeches one,
I hate jeans,” says another,
Where's my socks?” Look for them,
What am I, your mother?

Everyone's finally dressed, Oy Vey!
Time to start the day.

The babe is crying “pick me up!”
As toast goes on the plate,
Put toys down Connor, do eat up!
We're going to be late!
Aargh, we're not going to make it today,
Time to start the day!

Babe on hip, needing love from someone,
She struggles with one hand,
To quickly get school lunches done,
If you made them at night, it'd be grand (dumbass!)

Well, I guess we'll go with PB and J...
It's time to start the day.

Your nose is bleeding, go wipe it now,
No, no, not with your shirt!
You still need to wipe it, do you not know how?
Here, I'll do it. “Ow, that hurts!

Ugh... filthy, slimey little vertebrae...
Time to start the day.

Hurry up and finish eating,
We're running low on time,
Put the toys away, she's pleading,
As baby screams in her ear  
(I know, that doesn't rhyme!)
  
(Insert a lapse into free-verse here)
  
Connor, time to go and brush your teeth,
Where's my toothbrush? 
On the counter.
Where on the counter.
Right in front of your nose. You know, the one that's still bleeding.
Put that toy down, brush your teeth...
BRUSH YOUR TEETH!
If you don't brush your teeth I'm going to brush them for you!
Okay!

And here comes tantrum number four,
She's made everyone's day. Great!
The eight year old falls to the floor,
Mad that he's going to be late.
Oh c'mon, why are you crying now?
Time to start the freakin' day!


Okay, boots and jackets.
Connor, put your coat on.
Where's my coat.
Where did you leave it last night?
The closet.
Check the closet.
I don't see it. Where's my coat.
In the closet.
Where.
RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR NOSE!
(The one that is still bleeding!)
Oh. There it is.
They arrive at school, the bell has rung,
They're just a wee bit late,
You'll still be on time if you run!
So Connor walks at a snail's gait.

Now everyone's crabby  and grey,
Way to start their day!
Today was not atypical,
Although this morning sucked,
Can't get to school before the bell,
When I go back to work I'm....
... in big trouble!

April 25, 2013
Laura Freeman

Erased

Once I, weary, and curious
nodded
as I muttered nothing.

Distinctly I remember
Dying upon the morrow
vainly;
lost, rare, and radiant.
The angels nameless,
sad,
uncertain.

Filled with terrors
before the beating of my heart
entreating late
entreating nothing.

Presently my soul no longer,
said truly forgive
the fact I gently
And so faintly
scarce heard.
Darkness.
Deep into that darkness
fearing,
doubting,
mortal before.

The silence broken,
darkness whispered;
Whispered an echo,
nothing.

My soul burning,
louder than before,
then nothing.

Here in saintly obeisance
above nothing more.

Then sad smiling,
grave and stern countenance,
Ghastly, grim and ancient.

Tell me much,
I marvelled plainly,
its answer meaning little.
Living was blessed.
Lonely soul,
nothing further uttered
scarce.
Leave me my hopes then!
Stillness broken,
caught from some unmerciful disaster;
One burden,
melancholy burden,
my sad soul cushioned
then sinking.
Ominous.
Grim.
Ghastly.
Ominous.
No expressing the fiery burn in my core.

Divining ease that gloated,
gloating.

Unseen by God,
these angels sent memories;
Forget evil,
or devil sent desolate horror;
Haunt this soul with sorrow.
Rare, parting,
a black soul.
Loneliness broken,
pallid dreaming.
My soul floating
Shall be lifted !
- Laura Freeman-
April 26, 2013

An ABECEDARIAN Mess

Ample toys my children own,
Because we're idiots,
Cluttering up every surface,
Damn, what rhymes with idiots?

Everything is all about,
Fu...dge, there's dishes in the sink!
Garbage needs to be taken out,
Heaping piles are starting to stink!

In crevices or under beds,
Just get it out of sight,
Keep it or throw it out,
Let's start the weekly fight.

Messy messes, everywhere
Nary a tidy spot, I'm reeling...
Oh wait, that's not entirely true
Please stop to admire the ceiling!

Quickly pick up all this crap,
Really need to wash the floor,
Shove the laundry in the hall,
Toss the rest behind the door.

Unless we go on one of those home makeover shows,
Verily, this is how every Saturday goes.

We're raising little hoarders,
X'actly like us, hanging on to shit,
Yes, we can't keep our house in order...
Zoos would even have a fit!
            - Laura Freeman -
               April 27, 2013

Happy Birthday

It's the twenty-eighth of April and I know

that on this day, thirty-seven years ago,

a couple had cause to celebrate

the birth of someone great.

First the babe became a daughter then

she next became a sister when,

Tegan was born. Through the years, a Guide,

a scholar, a friend, and a bride.

She's a mother of two. And the list

goes on; Shes's an environmentalist,

a writer, a teacher, a gamer, a leader,

even a backyard chicken breeder.

I hope that on this birthday, my old friend

knows what she means to all she's met. In the end,

what matters most is that one always gains,

by having known the likes of April Raines.



  • Laura Freeman -
    April 28th, 2013

#29 - April Showers Bring May Flowers (A Pantoun)


April, as a month, is dreary,
The earth is dank and spoiled,
The sky opaque, the air is bleary,
The snow, too slow, recoiled.

The earth is dank and spoiled,
Green growth yet to appear,
The snow, too slow, recoiled,
An undecided time of year.

Green growth yet to appear,
Trees still proudly bare,
An undecided time of year,
A chill pervades the air.

Trees still proudly bear
Leaves, grow lush and bright,
A warmth pervades the air,
The sun shares its precious light.

Leaves grow lush and bright,
Grass sprouts green and nourishes,
The sun shares its welcome light,
Life abounds and flourishes.

May as a month is sweet.
- Laura Freeman -
April 29th, 2013
# 30 – To My Handful of Blog Followers


The challenge to write thirty poems,
Seemed like an arbitrary one,
But I learned a lot of new techniques,
In this poetry 101!

I tried my hand at sonnets,
Free-verse, tankas, and pantoums,
I threw in a couple ballads,
But skipped those pesky short haikus.


Turns out I like my poems to rhyme,
I like consistent metre too,
Some took me quite a bit of time,
Others, I whipped off in a few,


Minutes, that is. While my baby naps,
Or after she's in bed at night,
Or while I'm feeding her; turns out
There's lots of stolen time to write.


Some poems were silly, some were sweet,
Some just bad, I'm sure that you agree,
But I hope that I amused you,
While I blogged my poetry,


National Poetry Writing Month,
A challenge to write creatively,
No prize except the awakening,
Of a long dormant part of me!


If you liked reading all my poems,
Then please check in again back here,
I might post a few more, once in a while,
And I'm signing up again next year!


  • Laura Freeman -
    April 30, 2013