A Special Joy

A Special Joy

I felt joy when I looked at my firstborn son,
who arrived during a deep Kansas snow.
I called him “Little Precious”
when a nurse brought him to me. He was
my first and three other children came after him,
each bringing its own beaming joy to my young
heart; their first smiles were reasons to be glad;
their first blowing of spit bubbles from tiny
puckered lips made me laugh; they could sound
like cars or airplane engines accelerating for missions
like those that took their daddy halfway around the
world from us. I felt joy when he returned safely to us;
happiness beyond explanation when he winked his
way back into the graces of the wee ones who had
forgotten him in those long months.
Love is joy and joy is love.
God is love and He is in all the joy I have known,
causing my heart to refresh because of past joyful times.
Complete joy comes from weaving threads of laughter
onto a background of love-patched fabric in such a way
that only the brightest colors show.

© Freeda Baker Nichols

Red Geranium


Turquoise waters,
the color of my eyes, you said,
that day when tardy winter came
filling the trees with snowflakes.
My bare arms were cold against
your warm hands as you wrapped denim-clad
arms about me, your Hemingway Cap pulled
over your ears.  “I love you,” you said. “Me,
too,” I replied.  You laughed, but I cried,
releasing a tear that cracked the
moment it touched my cheek and shattered into crystal
pieces. I awoke and hugging me were green muslin sheets;
caressing my cheek was a goose-down pillow, soaked cold
with tears.  Your plane, the uniformed men had said,
went down . . . in the . . . Atlantic . . . nose-dived into the
deep, turquoise waters.

© 2000 Freeda Baker Nichols
Third Place, Rosa Zagnoni Marinoni Award, Poetry Day 2000
Published in Poets’ Roundtable of Arkansas 2002



Look at the Stars
See them, my son,
high above your head,
embedded in dark, like diamonds
against black velvet?
Look closely, my son, for this
may be the only chance
I’ll have to show you the Milky Way
which I watched often
when I was your age.I’m so busy, my child.
I hurry so — not knowing
for certain why
I must rush headlong
through life but realizing,
there is no other avenue.
Do you see the big and little dippers?
They’re there, aren’t they?
Just as always? Oh, child!
Take time somewhere between cartoons,
football and music to look for them.
They were beautiful,
once . . . .
I’m sorry.
What shall you tell your son?
© 2014 Freeda Baker Nichols


I like summer
when days are long,
when easy winds whisper
a sweet and tender song,
when cool rains fall gently
and soft dust becomes damp,
when lightning bugs flicker
like an out-going lamp,
when the whippoorwill’s call
echoes through the night
and my heart knows
that everything is all right.

© Freeda Baker Nichols


End of 2K14 National Poetry Month

This poem was written in January for the Month of Poetry 2014 and shared on Kathryn Apel’s blog at katswhiskers.wordpress.com. I dedicate it now to poets everywhere.

Flaming Candles

So Long, farewell,
goodbye, my friends.
Keep the
candles of poetry
If by chance, they
do not be discouraged.
Bring them back
to brilliance
with words
only you can create.

© Freeda Baker Nichols