Saturday, March 31, 2012

Teachers Taught

For Nicea, my nice; Falcon at heart. 

When I wake, fear takes a grasp on my heart,

For I know that I missed my place, my part,

My duty to wake for those I do love,

Oh, May I not be late, heavens above!

My children are all unsure, I am sure!

They most likely don't understand, and were

Their more time I would stop to think on this,

How fortunate we are at times to miss

The chiming of the clock, the ticking fiend,

That does cause us to walk in fettered dreams.

But for the simple fact, this simple task,

That we must wake and so put on the mask

Each and every one day, without fail.

Lest what we have should wither away. Pale

As I am, I put on my gown, I do

Fly as the gale, a tempests blast, rue

The day you stood in my way, do so fast

As the Catholics do on that day I past

On my way to wake my children at last.

But what is this that I hear? Downstairs there

Is such commotion, cheerful sounds on bare

Floors of marble and stone. Can it be so?

What do I see here but, oh heavens, oh!

How strange it is to see such a sight; my

Daughter changing the baby with delight.

To see her feed him with such loving care,

Tender and kind, as was mother bear to

Her young cubs, no baby doll that was bought

At a store with stuffing, as dolls are wrought,

But a child, my child, her brother;

Such mild sight as this, for a mother,

Is one some parents miss for another

Sort of sight, that of wealth of fortune, fame!

I'd rather see this, then play such a game.

She looks up, my daughter, and she smiles,

The way most girls do, those infantiles!

She brings my son straight over to me

Through the straits that are our living room floor,

And raising him high she gives him to me,

Her mouth spreads wide in a grin to adore

The mother that taught her through pains to love

Others with such tender glove, from above. 

                                                                    Teachers Taught, (c) Luke Bennette, March 2012

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