Repeat Performance

Repeat Performance

My little angel dressed in shades of brown.
My granddaughter with ringlets hanging down.
You bring delight each time I see your face.
Your mother grew too big for lightning bugs
but now your laughter seems to fill her place
as you run after them and bring me hugs.
My granddaughter with ringlets hanging down.
My little angel dressed in shades of brown.

© Freeda Baker Nichols


Remembering Daddy on Father’s Day 2014

Walter Baker, Tammy & Greg 1958  -1

My dad, Walter Baker, in this picture, is showing new kittens to my children, Tammy and Greg. Daddy was a kind and loving father, who was proud of his seven children and all his grandchildren. He and Mama gave us a wonderful home life, a secure childhood, and instilled in us a love for God, family and country. I’ll always be thankful for my daddy.

Daddy’s Felt Hat
The hat of felt my daddy wore was bent
around the edges of its sweat-soaked brim;
my daddy wore it everywhere he went.
I keep it now in memory of him.
Inside a box it sits on closet shelf.
I often think I should discard it now,
and yet I simply cannot bring myself
to throw away the hat he wore to plow.
My daddy’s strength, his heart, his steel-blue eyes
made straight my path and edged my walk with pride
and gave me hope beneath bright sun-filled skies,
gray-dimmed and damp the day my daddy died.
The hat of rich worn felt looks out-of-place
away from daddy’s deep-lined, humble face.

Copyright 2012, Freeda Baker Nichols

NaBloPoMo#28 Runs in the Family


granddaughter (Photo credit: anothernamedrose)

Runs in the Family

An appliqued red apple in the corner
of the scarf caught my eye.
The scarf covered the scratched
walnut finish of the pie-cooler that
was Grandma Lizzie’s hand-me-down
from her mother. The apple looked
good enough to eat.

“How do you write poetry?” Grandma
asked, the spring I visited her in the Ozarks
when dogwood blossoms appeared
like snow across the hillside.

“Oh,” I began, wondering how
serious she was.  “I start with a word,
or phrase maybe–” I stammered.
“Then I persist until something                                                                                                                                                                                                         
clicks and sentences tumble out, as
though they’ve broken free from a
locked cell.  They land on the page–”

“As gently as the baby quail
you found?” she asked.

The baby quail! Orphaned, it had
come running to me, hungry and thirsty.
I gave it too much water, and it died.

“Yes, Grandma. Like the baby quail.”

itty bitty baby quail

itty bitty baby quail (Photo credit: cskk)

Poems, too, need the right amount of words,
or they die.

“But tell me, Grandma, how did you make
the apple look so real?”

© 2013 Freeda Baker Nichols

Grand Champion Prize -Day 19- NaPoWriMo

wedding ring quilt

wedding ring quilt (Photo credit: pinprick)

English: Wedding rings Português: Anéis de Noi...

I quilted a quilt for the fair
made every stitch by hand
but I didn’t win a blue ribbon
as I had so carefully planned.

They placed a white ribbon on it
and called it a third place prize.
The pattern was a wedding ring
of many colors in king size.

“Beautiful,” my granddaughter said.
“I’ll save it for my wedding day.”
She pinned a blue ribbon upon it
and carefully packed it away.

Last week at her garden wedding,
a hot sun caused roses to wilt.
But hanging there by the roses
was my king size, blue-ribbon quilt!

Copyright 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols

Smiles in Stripes of Pink

Cotton candy, cloud-soft,
melts against the tongue,
as a swirl of laughter begins
somewhere within the heart
bubbles against the rib cage
until sides threaten to split
in half.  First day at the fair
for Sally, with her grandma
who had almost forgotten
how laughter sounds
and how it feels,
all sticky,
like the best glue
for holding hearts in place.

c Copyright, 2012, Freeda Baker Nichols