Tag Archives: funny verse

Sweet Dreams Little One



Dreams can seem so real to us that sometimes it is momentarily difficult to tell the dream from reality. I have had that happen a few times in my life. Usually it is when we have a nightmare and wake suddenly and we are confused by the emotional state we are in at the moment. We wonder if what we dreamed is real because it feels real. But in the end we understand the difference because we are adults and we have learned from the experience of life  to know the difference.

I enjoyed a visit with my little nephew Joshua all on his own the other day. He is three, and we played throughout the morning, both of us having a lot of fun. At one point he started telling me about what seemed to have been a frightening dream he had experienced. He seemed to know that it wasn’t real but he wasn’t really sure how to describe it so that I would know that it was more than just something that he had just been thinking about. He just didn’t have all the necessary vocabulary yet. When I asked him if it was a dream he must have remembered his Mummy or Daddy explaining dreams to him before and he said with much relief  “Yes it was. It was a dream”. He relaxed when I reassured him that dreams aren’t real, that they are something our brain does on its own, like a movie it plays for us. They are sometimes about the things we might have been thinking about before we went to sleep, or sometimes the things we are afraid of. And sometimes we do remember those dreams when we wake up.

Having these little moments with children, and to actually watch them process so much information so rapidly as they learn about the great wide world and their place in it is a real joy to me. Thank you, dear nieces of mine,who share your little ones with me. I am blessed by it.

This poem is for Joshua. Never fear Joshua, you don’t need to be embarrassed when someone reads this to you, or even when you read it yourself  when you are older. It is not based on true fact. I just imagined it up, which is kind of like dreaming with our eyes open, where we get to decide what the pictures are going to be in our stories. You can do this too, as long as you tell people that it is a story. Because a story is just a story, a dream is just a dream, but

the truth is always the truth.

An Exciting Night At Grandma’s House

Last time I stayed at Grandma’s house,

Just before I said “Goodnight”

She patted my covers all over me,

Then she tucked them in real tight.

Right under my chin she doubled them up

And rolled them under my pillow;

She said “You know it gets cold at night

And you don’t want to get a chill –Oh!

Don’t forget to count some sheep!

And don’t let the bed bugs bite!”

And then she tip-toed out of the room

And turned out the bedroom light.

My arms were pinned down by my side

My feet were hemmed in too.

I felt just like a mummy must,

Or a pouched-in kangaroo.

That’s when I felt a little twinge!

Was that a bed bug’s pinch?

I tried to throw my covers off

But they wouldn’t give an inch!

And then I dreamed of Egypt

And a mighty pharaoh’s tomb—

Of being in a sarcophagus

In a dark and airless room.

I dreamed that my sarcophagus

Was loaded onto a plane;

I flew all the way to Australia

And was loaded onto a train—

Then suddenly the train derailed!

And I was thrown into a river—

A river so warm and peaceful and calm

That I didn’t even shiver.

Then grandma swam up with a joey

Who was free from his mummy’s pouch,

And they helped me to change into dry mummy wraps—

Then we all fell asleep on the couch!

Ghandi Would Have Understood My Gardening Dilemma



It’s that time of year again when Rolly and I lean over the white picket fence that surrounds our vegetable garden and argue. Ghandi knew the kind of arguing I’m talking about.  A  famous quote of his describes it from the perspective that one of  us has— “First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.” I’ll leave it up to you to guess who usually wins.  Let’s just say, that it is not uncommon for a box of plants to sit for several days before it gets planted, because somebody believes that it isn’t worthwhile to take up their valuable garden space with it because  ”Nobody will eat leeks!” or “Nobody will eat eggplant!”

Well, this year there will be leeks again, and eggplant too, and Patty Pan squash, for harvesting the tiny ones that we love to stuff and bake. We will also be growing cucumbers, melons, zuchinni, and tomatoes. However, there will be no Green Heritage tomatoes this time round because last year we were afraid to harvest them.We never knew  when they were ripe—how could we? They never changed colour! Neither will there be any more chocolate tomatoes. I’m not talking about some crazy idea somebody had for dipping them in Swiss chocolate, like strawberries; it was a variety that was called “Chocolate” because they were very dark brown.They also all fell to the ground before we picked them, because not only did we not know when they were ripe,  but we couldn’t even tell when they were rotten! The little yellow pear-shaped tomatoes, and the tiny currant tomatoes, as small as blueberries, were both delicious, but the small striped variety  were not as good for eating as they were to garnish with.

Actually, the most amazing thing we grew was planted not far from our back deck, rather than in the enclosed garden.It was a very common Sweet 100 tomato plant, which yielded so heavily, and over such a long period of time, that we handed every visitor who came some kind of recycled container(s) and told them to pick all they wanted. I’m sure, that one lonely plant gave every visitor who  liked tomatoes, all that they wanted to munch on as we visited, and enough for salads and snacks for a week. It likely yielded a bushel basket- full of cherry tomatoes over the summer months. Something else we will not ever grow again is garden huckleberries. Likely even Huckleberry Finn wouldn’t have stolen them from our garden if he had come by our way starving; they were so blah! For the first time in our garden’s history we will not be planting peppers; last year we waited, and waited, and waited, and finally harvested a bushel of peppers bitter enough to make potato bug spray! Nor will there be tomatillos for salsa verde, because they became such a  pest from the seeds that fell to the ground in the preseeding years (not a typo, just a super dual- purpose word.) that we were yanking them out all summer.  As we are feverishly scraping our hoes over every square inch of dirt to get rid of our garden’s  thick dill lawn this week we will exempt a one inch wide by twenty-foot strip. That  will save us the time it would take to plant  another row of it. Or maybe we could just hoe it all out, and buy our dill it at the market this summer, to save having to do the same job all over again next spring. So much dill and so little thyme!

The following is a little poem I wrote about vegetables, in  appreciation to my mother. Quite early in our lives, she taught us to eat a wide variety of vegetables, prepared in just about every way you could imagine. In large farm families, where finances were generally an issue, babies usually ate the mushed- up version of whatever the big people were having. This happened long before they had a chance to become picky. Ask around among your friends and you’ll quickly discover that the more siblings there were,the wider the variety of foods they usually enjoy now.While this doesn’t always hold true for young people today, whose Mom’s  may have brought them up on fast food, it is likely so for the older ones among us.

Artichokes, Beets and Chard

Artichokes, beets, and chard,

Even their names sound bad!

If they sprung up in our yard

My mother would be mad.

She’d stomp them to a mush!

Or chop them with hoe!

She’d kill them in a rush!

She’d never let them grow!

But since they cost a lot

When she buys them at the store

She cooks them in a pot,

Then makes me eat some more.

Artichoke sounds like “Ought to choke”

’Cause that’s what I think of doing.

I think sometimes I’m going to croak,

But I have to keep on chewing.

And beet is a nasty word, I’d say,

Like “They beat us in a game.”

Or “I got beat up the other day.”

Eating them feels the same.

And the last time Dad was cooking,

When the hot dogs got all hard

And burned when he wasn’t looking,

He called the black parts “charred”.

Artichokes, Chard, and beets,

I thought they were the worst!

But now that I have to eat these leeks,

I think I’m going to burst!

Great Expectations


It’s the time of year when excitement over the approach of the first day of summer is definitely in the air. Though the June 21st summer solstice here in the Northern hemisphere, might be exciting for Wiccans and Wiccan wannabes, there is one date that has far greater significance in the universal scheme of things for every classroom impounded school kid I know. To them, the first day of summer is their last day of school, and each of them is becoming more and more whirligig-brained with each passing day. It must be the return of the warm spring breezes with their promise of even better days that has them all awhirl with expectation.

Three or four days a week I meet the bus after school at my next door neighbours’  house. Their three children are the last ones off, and despite my motherly admonitions, their book bags which once made it as far as the mat in the mud room are now feverishly pitched at the door step, or kicked just far enough off the gravel driveway not to be run over by their returning parents. They tear off towards their bicycles, within seconds of catapulting off the school bus steps. Their face to face time with me is now limited, unless I choose to hang upside down with them from the monkey bars, or sit across from them in their twirling tractor tire swing. (So, let’s just say it’s limited! )Their calico kitten now claws his way up into a tree almost daily just for some much-needed rest far from the madding crowd; meanwhile, their pet gold fish in his bowl inside the house has only his reflection to keep him company.

The stacks of papers, posters, notes, and forms announcing upcoming school track and field competitions, fun fairs, class excursions, and fund-raising drives that the kids bring home from school, now occupy half the space on their Mom’s desk. It is apparent as the weeks pass, that teachers all over Canada are being swept furiously along like tree branches in a torrent towards their final resting places—the hammock at Lake Kashagawigamog, or the Muskoka chairs at Manitoulin Island. They can only hope and pray that this tumultuous rush of solar-powered kids, in all their sunscreen scented frenzy, can keep them buoyant until they reach the other side of yet another school year!

I know the excitement of little kids always gives me such a lift,( especially at the corners of my mouth) when they tell me of the grand adventures they have planned, with that sweet combination of naivety and enthusiasm that can still be found in the under ten set. It makes me want a big summer adventure of my own some time soon, maybe something a little risky, one with no reservations!

The following poem I wrote in remembrance of  a few teachers I had who struggled a lot with the boys in their classes, the boys who were definitely so full of beans that Boston couldn’t hold a candle to them—or probably shouldn’t!

What Came Out Of  The Teacher’s Desk?

What came out of the teacher’s desk?

The rules from the game of Pirates’ Quest,

A voodoo doll and a crochet hook,

Twelve hockey cards, and a game of Rook,

Four jelly worms, and a rubber frog,

A steering wheel, and a pink stuffed dog,

Fly sticker paper, and a box of tacks,

Big red lips made out of wax,

Thirteen notes from angry mums,

A fountain pen and a roll of Tums,

A mean cartoon of a lipsticked goat,

A velvet rose and a Thank You note,

A pair of pants with elastic waist,

Five little bottles of hardened paste,

Two gum balls as hard as rocks,

A coloured poster of chicken pox,

A four- roll package of toilet paper,

A giant comb, and a big black stapler,

The metal leg off a broken table,

A jar with skull and bones on the label,

A splintered broken baseball bat,

A rubber raft, all folded flat,

With a tag on the side that said “PULL HERE

Oh! No! Is that high heels I hear?

Clomping and clattering down the hall?

No one’s supposed to be here at all!

You said they’d all be out in the yard!”

Oops!”  Ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss!

“Uh- oh!”