The Write Mom

Once more I am perched in front of my screen
Staring at blankness that’s almost obscene

My baby boy rolls, yearning to crawl—
Will he, I wonder, scuttle into the hall?

Toys scattered everywhere; but what does he do?
He grasps grimy papers, snarled wires—my shoe!

Whine, groan, oh-help-me-moms bellow my way
As I endure a futile search for perfect words. Some say,

Read a book about writing for stay-at-home mothers
“You can be both!” they claim; but I listen to others

Who cry, “It’s impossible!” who state, “It’s not true!”
And others with negative thoughts to imbue

Phew! What a stench! Do I smell a stink bomb!?
Sweet infant eyes utter, “What do you think, Mom?”

Stopping for changing and feeding and rocking,
Some fellow writers might find it quite shocking

To deem that I wish to write thoughts on a page,
Accomplish ambitions, yet persist to engage

My son in a life of adventure and fun
Where learning and loving remain number one

“Twinkle, twinkle … bitsy spider … life is but a dream,”
With stacking rings and letter blocks; forget, forgive, redeem;

I snap grand shots of bitty feet, huge steps, and silly smiles—
And add these tender moments to my shaky memory files;

Then striving to earn the riches we "need"
I acquire dull bargains that only impede

Impressive visions of progress and joy
Of life’s fine simplicities, to live and enjoy;

At nap time, who knows? One hour might bring
A chance for imagining, a hope that might sing?

But an eye remains open, all fancies must go;
My boy sleeps ten minutes for three days in a row!

Alas,

Parenting plus prose mix to make mayhem
And what is created? This ridiculous poem!