The Magic Rocker

The Magic Rocker


At our house at the base of the stair sat an old and creaky rocking chair.
My father said it was old as could be, his best guess one hundred and three.
It was wide and high you see and big enough for my sister and me.
We’d rock each day and sing our songs and other kids would sing along.

I guess that I was maybe four when father brought it through the door;
He parked it in the living room and proceeded to tell the tale:
“Oh this great chair is one of a kind, Go search”, he said’ “you will not find another like her, no siree. And now this chair belongs to me.”

Owned by a Queen, in a far away land, carved for her by the King’s own hand.
Only the Queen dare touch it then, only her throughout the land.
The cushions where sewn of plush red velvet and the legs tooled into lions claws.
But now the springs are pushing through, among the other flaws.

Continuing with his wild charade while mother stared in doubt.
She crossed her arms and tapped her foot as father spoke right out.
“This chair is magic, wait and see; it can be anything you want it to be.
Climb aboard and take a trip; why it could be a rocket ship!”

We sat in the rocker and watched TV, did homework or read poetry.
At any given time of day someone rocked their cares away.
Now we’re grown and life goes on, but I’ve never forgotten the times
when rocking in the rocking chair would ease my troubled mind.

As years rolled by we all grew up and went our separate ways,
now and then I find myself yearning for those special days,
when life was simple, hardly a care, aboard the magic rocking chair.
It was wide and high, you see, and big enough for my sister and me.
We’d rock each day and sing our songs and other kids would sing along.


John Patrick Moss
5 Dec 2008