Regurgitating Monster

“What’s happened to my socks?” he said,
his face flushed red.
“There’s not a match
in this whole batch.
All five of them have lost a mate!”
“A monster ate
them–I can tell–
phew! what a smell!”
He pitched them back into the tub,
turned knob to scrub.
He dried them, then
and found all ten.

 

© 2014 Freeda Baker Nichols

Calendars are for . . .

Freeda Baker Nichols, writing on porch of the Pfeiffer House at Hemingway Writers' Retreat

Freeda Baker Nichols, writing on porch of the Pfeiffer House at Hemingway Writers’ Retreat

keeping notes. For reminding you of places to go and places you have been. They tell you that time is marching on . . . does not stand still.

I suppose no one really wants it to.
 

I wish I would use my time to write poetry and stories that would bring peace, happiness, joy and all good emotions to people who read my creations.

I wish I could write humor.

Freeda Baker Nichols

Laughter and Lemonade

Recalling my first taste of lemonade

from tall, cold glasses served from patio

to me in hammock deep in leafy shade

of tree that held Mom’s swing long years ago,

I grinned and thanked her for such gentle care.

The years were rolling silver dollars spent.

My mom and I lived our lives unaware–

it seemed–that change could come without a hint –

one day it happened instantly in time.

How strange! I did not notice right at first –

when hands of kindness ceased their pantomime,

and shook until my world collapsed, then burst.

When bands of angels flew from Heaven’s shade

they took the one who poured sweet lemonade.

© 2014 Freeda Baker Nichols

Mother's Day Card from Tammy