PoetryDecember 21, 2006 9:48 pm
Your mother called you
a weasel on the basketball court.
She said it with love.
You were a small boy.
Fast on your feet,
you darted between them,
homed in on the basket.
No one would have pegged you
as a star,
yet you shone
when given the ball.
Today you’re
still a weasel
slipping stealthily
into my heart.
I owe a big thanks to my favorite poetry editor for whacking this poem into shape.
Readers, I apologize for the double-spacing of my poem. Ever since I installed a WYSIWYG add-in, the software forces a blank line when I push the ENTER key.
Oh excellent, that’s lovely.
Comment by Crafty Green Poet — December 22, 2006 @ 2:58 am
This is a sweet piece of work! Delightful! Children are like that, aren’t they?
Comment by Dennis — December 22, 2006 @ 7:57 am
This is a nice, concise, sharp piece of work. I like the sparseness and the energy of it.
Comment by twitches — December 22, 2006 @ 10:42 am
Simple and poignant poem. Love the rhythm her:
Today you’re
still a weasel
slipping stealthily
into my heart.
*And I don’t mind the doule spacing… helps me take a pause. A smell the roses kind of pause.
Comment by Michelle — December 22, 2006 @ 11:11 am
This is great! Works so well…send this one out!
Comment by fatcharlatan — December 22, 2006 @ 2:19 pm
I really like that last stanza. Very nice.
Comment by Emily — December 27, 2006 @ 9:29 pm