Robert Frost’s Misread Poem

The poem isn’t a salute to can-do individualism; it’s a commentary on the self-deception we practice when constructing the story of our own lives. — David Orr

Time Passes

Time passes and few will notice. Until its passing becomes a comfort, A reminder, this life is not eternal, Our trials and triumphs not forever. Tears fall and few will miss them. Until their falling from cheeks of others, Heralds…

Monsters Under My Bed

There’s monsters under my bed daddy, I keep my eye on them, That’s why I’m sleeping on the floor, So they don’t get out again. They keep me up all night sometimes, Fighting until the morn, They can’t decide how…

Little hands

I love their fingers, their tiny little hands, The way they fiddle or fumble or illustrate commands. Soft and gentle, they delicately sway, Or dirty and sweaty or sticky from play. Lines so fine and nails so clear, Digits so…

Plink, plink!

Plink, plink, plink, plink Water drips into the sink It’s hard for me to think and think With water dripping, plink, plink. Drip, drip, drip, drip I’m going crazy, I’m going to flip Into a sleep I’ll never slip With…