Category Archives: Poetry
In the wee hours of the morning I watched you sleeping;
relaxed, contented, softly dreaming.
I wondered what thoughts your beautiful head was keeping.
I saw you stretch, reach and search for my arm.
You wondered if I was there to keep you safe and warm.
Fear not, my love, I’ll keep you safe from harm.
I feel our days softly waning, soon you’ll sleep with me no more.
I’ll miss your sweet, soft cuddles – and yes, even your snore.
These words I’ll read in my diary one day and they will read like lore.
But right now, Sweetheart, we’ll cuddle and sleep.
I’ll enjoy your sweet sighs, stretches and gentle night-peeps,
forever grateful you’ve shown me love this deep.
Mother, oh Mother, come shake out your cloth
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing and butter the bread,
Sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.
Oh, I’ve grown shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(lullaby, rock-a-bye, Lullaby loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(pat-a-cake, darling, and peek-peek-a-boo).
The shopping is not done and there’s nothing for stew
And out in the yard there is a hullabaloo.
But I’m playing “Kanga” and this is my “Roo.”
Look! Aren’t his eyes the most wonderful hue?
(lullaby, rock-a-bye, lullaby loo).
The cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
For children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down cobwebs. Dust go to sleep.
I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.
~Ruth Hulburt Hamilton, 1958
For a lovely instant I thought she would grow mad
and end the reason’s fever.
But in her hand she held Christ’s splinter,
so I could only laugh and press a warm coin
across her seasoned breasts:
but I remembered clearly then your insane letters
and how you wove initials in my throat.
My friends warn me
that you have read the ocean’s old skeleton;
they say you stitch the water sounds
in different mouths, in other monuments.
“Journey with a silver bullet,” they caution.
“Conceal a stake inside your pocket.”
And I must smile as they misconstrue your insane letters
and my embroidered throat.
O I will tell him to love you carefully;
to honour you with shells and coloured bottles;
to keep from your face the falling sand
and from your human arm the time-charred beetle;
to teach you new stories about lightning
and to let you run sometimes barefoot on the shore.
And when the needle grins bloodlessly in his cheek
he will come to know how beautiful it is
to be loved by a madwoman.
And I do not gladly wait the years
for the ocean to discover and rust your face
as it has all of history’s beacons
that have turned their gold and stone to water’s onslaught,
for then your letters too rot with ocean’s logic
and my fingernails are long enough
to tear the stitches from my throat.