- Published on
Searching for Gold
Look beneath the freckles
Look beneath the grin
Look for that which sparkles
Buried deep within.
Look beyond the whining
Look beyond the tears
Look beyond the runny nose
The frowns, the mess, the fears.
Search for that which glitters
Treasures to unfold
Search beneath the surface
Search and find the gold!
by Jean Warren
Look beneath the freckles
Look beneath the grin
Look for that which sparkles
Buried deep within.
Look beyond the whining
Look beyond the tears
Look beyond the runny nose
The frowns, the mess, the fears.
Search for that which glitters
Treasures to unfold
Search beneath the surface
Search and find the gold!
by Jean Warren
- Published on
Footprints
“Walk a little slower daddy,”
Said a child so small.
“I’m following in your footsteps,
And I don’t want to fall.
Sometimes your steps are very fast,
Sometimes they’re hard to see;
So walk a little slower, Daddy,
For you are leading me.
Someday when I’m all grown up,
You’re what I want to be;
Then I will have a little child
Who’ll want to follow me.
And I would want to lead just right,
And know that I was true;
So, walk a little slower, Daddy,
For I must follow you.”
by Author Unknown
“Walk a little slower daddy,”
Said a child so small.
“I’m following in your footsteps,
And I don’t want to fall.
Sometimes your steps are very fast,
Sometimes they’re hard to see;
So walk a little slower, Daddy,
For you are leading me.
Someday when I’m all grown up,
You’re what I want to be;
Then I will have a little child
Who’ll want to follow me.
And I would want to lead just right,
And know that I was true;
So, walk a little slower, Daddy,
For I must follow you.”
by Author Unknown
- Published on
Twins
Two to wake up in the morning
Two to dress and start the day.
Two to help you with the work
Two forever in the way.
Two to smile or laugh or shout,
Two to jump and play or sing.
Two to kiss away the tears,
It’s always two in everything.
Two to wash and put to bed,
Two to pray to God above.
Two to tuck in and kiss good-night,
But best of all . . . there are two to love!
by Author Unknown
Two to wake up in the morning
Two to dress and start the day.
Two to help you with the work
Two forever in the way.
Two to smile or laugh or shout,
Two to jump and play or sing.
Two to kiss away the tears,
It’s always two in everything.
Two to wash and put to bed,
Two to pray to God above.
Two to tuck in and kiss good-night,
But best of all . . . there are two to love!
by Author Unknown
- Published on
Blue Flowers
I bumped into a stranger as he passed by.
“Oh, . . . excuse me, please,” was my reply.
He said, “Please excuse me too;
I wasn’t even watching for you.”
Oh, we were polite - this stranger and I.
We went on our way and we said our good-bye.
But at home a different story is told,
How we treat our loved ones, young and old.
Later that day, cooking the evening meal,
My daughter stood beside me very still.
When I turned, I nearly knocked her down.
“Move out of the way!” I said with a frown.
She walked away, her little heart broken.
I didn’t realize how harshly I’d spoken.
Later that night wide awake in my bed,
God’s still, small voice came to me and said,
“While dealing with a stranger, common courtesy you use,
But the children you love, you seem to abuse!
Look upon the kitchen floor,
You’ll find some flowers there by the door.
Those are the flowers she brought for you,
She picked them herself - pink, yellow and blue.
She stood quietly not to spoil the surprise,
And you never saw the tears in her eyes.”
By this time, I felt very small
And now my tears began to fall.
I quietly went and knelt by her bed;
“Wake up, sweetheart,” I whispered and said.
“Are these the flowers you picked for me?”
She smiled, “I found ’em, out by the tree.
I picked ’em because they’re pretty like you.
I knew that you’d like them - especially the blue.”
I said, “Daughter, I’m sorry how I acted to you today;
I shouldn’t have yelled at you that way.”
She hugged me and said “Mommy, that’s okay.
You know I love you anyway.”
I said, “Daughter, I love you too!
And I do like the flowers - especially the blue.”
by Author Unknown
I bumped into a stranger as he passed by.
“Oh, . . . excuse me, please,” was my reply.
He said, “Please excuse me too;
I wasn’t even watching for you.”
Oh, we were polite - this stranger and I.
We went on our way and we said our good-bye.
But at home a different story is told,
How we treat our loved ones, young and old.
Later that day, cooking the evening meal,
My daughter stood beside me very still.
When I turned, I nearly knocked her down.
“Move out of the way!” I said with a frown.
She walked away, her little heart broken.
I didn’t realize how harshly I’d spoken.
Later that night wide awake in my bed,
God’s still, small voice came to me and said,
“While dealing with a stranger, common courtesy you use,
But the children you love, you seem to abuse!
Look upon the kitchen floor,
You’ll find some flowers there by the door.
Those are the flowers she brought for you,
She picked them herself - pink, yellow and blue.
She stood quietly not to spoil the surprise,
And you never saw the tears in her eyes.”
By this time, I felt very small
And now my tears began to fall.
I quietly went and knelt by her bed;
“Wake up, sweetheart,” I whispered and said.
“Are these the flowers you picked for me?”
She smiled, “I found ’em, out by the tree.
I picked ’em because they’re pretty like you.
I knew that you’d like them - especially the blue.”
I said, “Daughter, I’m sorry how I acted to you today;
I shouldn’t have yelled at you that way.”
She hugged me and said “Mommy, that’s okay.
You know I love you anyway.”
I said, “Daughter, I love you too!
And I do like the flowers - especially the blue.”
by Author Unknown
- Published on
Handwriting on the Wall
A weary mother returned from the store,
Lugging groceries through the kitchen door.
Awaiting her arrival was her 8 year old son,
Anxious to relate what his younger brother had done.
While I was out playing and Dad was on a call,
T. J. took his crayons and wrote on the wall
It’s on the new paper you just hung in the den.
I told him you’d be mad at having to do it again.
She let out a moan and furrowed her brow,
Where is your little brother right now?
She emptied her arms and with a purposeful stride,
She marched to his closet where he had gone to hide.
She called his full name as she entered his room.
He trembled with fear - he knew that meant doom
For the next ten minutes, she ranted and raved
About the expensive wallpaper and how she had saved.
Lamenting all the work it would take to repair,
She condemned his actions and total lack of care.
The more she scolded, the madder she got,
Then stomped from his room, totally distraught
She headed for the den to confirm her fears.
When she saw the wall, her eyes flooded with tears.
The message she read pierced her soul with a dart.
It said, “I love Mommy,” surrounded by a heart.
Well, the wallpaper remained, just as she found it,
With an empty picture frame hung to surround it.
A reminder to her, and indeed to all,
Take time to read the handwriting on the wall.
by Author Unknown
A weary mother returned from the store,
Lugging groceries through the kitchen door.
Awaiting her arrival was her 8 year old son,
Anxious to relate what his younger brother had done.
While I was out playing and Dad was on a call,
T. J. took his crayons and wrote on the wall
It’s on the new paper you just hung in the den.
I told him you’d be mad at having to do it again.
She let out a moan and furrowed her brow,
Where is your little brother right now?
She emptied her arms and with a purposeful stride,
She marched to his closet where he had gone to hide.
She called his full name as she entered his room.
He trembled with fear - he knew that meant doom
For the next ten minutes, she ranted and raved
About the expensive wallpaper and how she had saved.
Lamenting all the work it would take to repair,
She condemned his actions and total lack of care.
The more she scolded, the madder she got,
Then stomped from his room, totally distraught
She headed for the den to confirm her fears.
When she saw the wall, her eyes flooded with tears.
The message she read pierced her soul with a dart.
It said, “I love Mommy,” surrounded by a heart.
Well, the wallpaper remained, just as she found it,
With an empty picture frame hung to surround it.
A reminder to her, and indeed to all,
Take time to read the handwriting on the wall.
by Author Unknown
- Published on
Only a Baby Small
Only a baby small,
Dropped from the skies,
Only a laughing face,
Two sunny eyes;
Only two cherry lips,
One chubby nose;
Only two little hands,
Ten little toes.
Only a golden head,
Curly and soft;
Only a tongue that wags
Loudly and oft;
Only a little brain,
Empty of thought;
Only a little heart,
Troubled with naught.
Only a tender flower
Sent us to rear;
Only a life to love
While we are here;
Only a baby small,
Never at rest;
Small, but how dear to us,
God knoweth best.
by Matthias Barr
Matthias Fritschler Barr was born on 6 December 1831 in Edinburgh, Scotland. He became a poet and a publisher. Matthias Fritschler Barr passed on at 80 years of age on 21 December 1911 in London, England.
Only a baby small,
Dropped from the skies,
Only a laughing face,
Two sunny eyes;
Only two cherry lips,
One chubby nose;
Only two little hands,
Ten little toes.
Only a golden head,
Curly and soft;
Only a tongue that wags
Loudly and oft;
Only a little brain,
Empty of thought;
Only a little heart,
Troubled with naught.
Only a tender flower
Sent us to rear;
Only a life to love
While we are here;
Only a baby small,
Never at rest;
Small, but how dear to us,
God knoweth best.
by Matthias Barr
Matthias Fritschler Barr was born on 6 December 1831 in Edinburgh, Scotland. He became a poet and a publisher. Matthias Fritschler Barr passed on at 80 years of age on 21 December 1911 in London, England.
- Published on
All on Account of the Baby
An ache in the back and an ache in the arms,
All on account of the baby.
A fear and a fright and a thousand alarms,
All on account of the baby.
And bottles and rattles and whistles and rings,
From cellar to attic a clutter of things,
From morning to night and to morning again
More fuss and more fume than an army of men.
And a head that is stupid for lack of its sleep,
And a heart where a flood of anxieties leap -
All on account of the baby.
A joy in the heart and a light in the eyes,
All on account of the baby.
A growing content and a growing surprise
All on account of the baby.
And patience that conquers a myriad frets,
And a sunshiny song that another begets,
And pureness of soul as a baby is pure,
And sureness of faith as the children are sure,
And a glory of love between husband and wife,
And a saner and happier outlook on life,
All on account of the baby.
by Author Unknown
An ache in the back and an ache in the arms,
All on account of the baby.
A fear and a fright and a thousand alarms,
All on account of the baby.
And bottles and rattles and whistles and rings,
From cellar to attic a clutter of things,
From morning to night and to morning again
More fuss and more fume than an army of men.
And a head that is stupid for lack of its sleep,
And a heart where a flood of anxieties leap -
All on account of the baby.
A joy in the heart and a light in the eyes,
All on account of the baby.
A growing content and a growing surprise
All on account of the baby.
And patience that conquers a myriad frets,
And a sunshiny song that another begets,
And pureness of soul as a baby is pure,
And sureness of faith as the children are sure,
And a glory of love between husband and wife,
And a saner and happier outlook on life,
All on account of the baby.
by Author Unknown
- Published on
Kids Are Like Kites
Kids
are like
kites. You
spend a lifetime
trying to get them
off the ground. You
run with them until you
are both breathless ~ they
crash ~ You add a larger tail
~ they lift the rooftop. ~ You
pluck them out of the spout ~ you
patch and comfort, assure them that
someday they will fly! ~ Finally they
are airborne, but they need more string.
~ You keep letting the string out but
with each twist of the ball of twine
there is some sadness along with
the joy. The kite becomes more
distant and somehow you know
it will not be long before
your beautiful child will
snap the life line that
bound you together
and soar as he
was meant to
soar . . .
Free
and
alone.
based on Erma Bombeck’s “At Wit’s End” (15 May 1977) newspaper column
Kids
are like
kites. You
spend a lifetime
trying to get them
off the ground. You
run with them until you
are both breathless ~ they
crash ~ You add a larger tail
~ they lift the rooftop. ~ You
pluck them out of the spout ~ you
patch and comfort, assure them that
someday they will fly! ~ Finally they
are airborne, but they need more string.
~ You keep letting the string out but
with each twist of the ball of twine
there is some sadness along with
the joy. The kite becomes more
distant and somehow you know
it will not be long before
your beautiful child will
snap the life line that
bound you together
and soar as he
was meant to
soar . . .
Free
and
alone.
based on Erma Bombeck’s “At Wit’s End” (15 May 1977) newspaper column
- Published on
On Being the Mother of a Little Girl
A careful woman I ought to be
a little lady follows me.
I do not dare to go astray
for fear she’ll go the self-same way.
Not once can I escape her eyes:
Whate’er she sees me do she tries.
Like me she says she’s going to be,
that little lady who follows me.
I must remember as I go
through summer sun and winter snow.
I’m molding for years to be
that little lady who follows me.
by Author Unknown
A careful woman I ought to be
a little lady follows me.
I do not dare to go astray
for fear she’ll go the self-same way.
Not once can I escape her eyes:
Whate’er she sees me do she tries.
Like me she says she’s going to be,
that little lady who follows me.
I must remember as I go
through summer sun and winter snow.
I’m molding for years to be
that little lady who follows me.
by Author Unknown
- Published on
What Is a Girl?
Little girls are the nicest things that can happen to people. They are born with a little bit of angel-shine about them and though it wears thin sometimes, there is always enough left to lasso your heart - even when they are sitting in the mud, or crying temperamental tears, or parading up the street in mother’s best clothes.
A little girl can be sweeter (and badder) oftener than anyone else in the world. She can jitter around, and stomp, and make funny noises that frazzle your nerves, yet just when you open your mouth, she stands there demure with that special look in her eyes. A girl is Innocence playing in the mud, Beauty standing on its head, and Motherhood dragging a doll by the foot.
Girls are available in five colors - black, white, red, yellow, or brown, yet Mother Nature always manages to select your favorite color when you place your order. They disprove the law of supply and demand - there are millions of little girls, but each is as precious as rubies.
God borrows from many creatures to make a little girl. He uses the song of a bird, the squeal of a pig, the stubbornness of a mule, the antics of a monkey, the spryness of a grasshopper, the curiosity of a cat, the speed of a gazelle, the slyness of a fox, the softness of a kitten, and to top it off He adds the mysterious mind of a woman.
A little girl likes new shoes, party dresses, small animals, first grade, noise makers, the girl next door, dolls, make-believe, dancing lessons, ice cream, make-up, going visiting, tea parties, and one boy. She doesn’t care so much for visitors, boys in general, large dogs, hand-me-downs, straight chairs, vegetables, snow suits, or staying in the front yard. She is loudest when you are thinking, the prettiest when she has provoked you, the busiest at bedtime, the quietest when you want to show her off, and the most affectedly innocent when she absolutely must not get the best of you again.
Who else can cause you more grief, joy, irritation, satisfaction, embarrassment, and genuine delight than this combination of Eve, Salome, and Florence Nightingale? She can muss up your home, your hair, and your dignity - spend your money, your time, and your temper - then just when your patience is ready to crack, her sunshine peeks through and you’ve lost again.
Yes, she is a nerve-racking nuisance, just a noisy bundle of mischief. But when your dreams tumble down and the world is a mess - when it seems you are pretty much of a fool after all - she can make you king when she climbs on your knee and whispers, “I love you best of all!”
by Alan Marshall Beck: as published in “New England Mutual Life Insurance” (1949) house magazine
Little girls are the nicest things that can happen to people. They are born with a little bit of angel-shine about them and though it wears thin sometimes, there is always enough left to lasso your heart - even when they are sitting in the mud, or crying temperamental tears, or parading up the street in mother’s best clothes.
A little girl can be sweeter (and badder) oftener than anyone else in the world. She can jitter around, and stomp, and make funny noises that frazzle your nerves, yet just when you open your mouth, she stands there demure with that special look in her eyes. A girl is Innocence playing in the mud, Beauty standing on its head, and Motherhood dragging a doll by the foot.
Girls are available in five colors - black, white, red, yellow, or brown, yet Mother Nature always manages to select your favorite color when you place your order. They disprove the law of supply and demand - there are millions of little girls, but each is as precious as rubies.
God borrows from many creatures to make a little girl. He uses the song of a bird, the squeal of a pig, the stubbornness of a mule, the antics of a monkey, the spryness of a grasshopper, the curiosity of a cat, the speed of a gazelle, the slyness of a fox, the softness of a kitten, and to top it off He adds the mysterious mind of a woman.
A little girl likes new shoes, party dresses, small animals, first grade, noise makers, the girl next door, dolls, make-believe, dancing lessons, ice cream, make-up, going visiting, tea parties, and one boy. She doesn’t care so much for visitors, boys in general, large dogs, hand-me-downs, straight chairs, vegetables, snow suits, or staying in the front yard. She is loudest when you are thinking, the prettiest when she has provoked you, the busiest at bedtime, the quietest when you want to show her off, and the most affectedly innocent when she absolutely must not get the best of you again.
Who else can cause you more grief, joy, irritation, satisfaction, embarrassment, and genuine delight than this combination of Eve, Salome, and Florence Nightingale? She can muss up your home, your hair, and your dignity - spend your money, your time, and your temper - then just when your patience is ready to crack, her sunshine peeks through and you’ve lost again.
Yes, she is a nerve-racking nuisance, just a noisy bundle of mischief. But when your dreams tumble down and the world is a mess - when it seems you are pretty much of a fool after all - she can make you king when she climbs on your knee and whispers, “I love you best of all!”
by Alan Marshall Beck: as published in “New England Mutual Life Insurance” (1949) house magazine
