A Poem About My Other Girls

So, I was reading my poetry textbook today, and I felt like writing another poem. As it usually goes, I couldn't think of anything to write, so I asked Sarah for a topic. She told me to write about my daughter's hair. It got a bit off track, but Sarah and I compiled a fairly decent poem, I think. I'd love to hear any of your thoughts.

My firstborn daughter, just-turned-three,

Strolls near enough to reach.

With words and touch, I praise her locks,

Then suffer through her screech.

"I hate my hair, it's dumb!" She swears,

Abhorrence fills her eyes.

Cautious, I withdraw my love

And, meek, apologize.

Then second daughter, nearly two,

Climbs up into my lap.

"You're beautiful," I say to her,

And get a grievous slap.

"I a' no' bewful!" She asserts.

Then, gracelessly she flees.

Stunned, I wonder how my girls

Learned so much Disagreese.

Looking Up

I recently realized that I misrepresent myself. There are few people who understand me well enough to know when to take me seriously and when not to, and I've been failing to take responsibility for that. I'm happier than I think most people guess, so I want to share some positive things.

I don't imagine that I'm super fascinating or original enough to intrigue, but I have a few friends, and if I can put something positive in their days once in a while, then that's worth a few minutes at a keyboard.

So, let me start with a poem I wrote yesterday. It is a series of six couplets (pairs of lines) written in iambic tetrameter. That means that each line has four iambs. An iamb (pronounced "I am") is a two-syllable step in poetry in which the first syllable is unstressed and the second syllable is stressed. It sounds like "te TUM". I recommend reading the poem aloud and purposefully stressing the syllables; I find that it makes the experience more pleasant.

And now for the poem:

My dogs seemed dead upon the floor,

Until someone knocked on the door.

Then up they sprang with teeth in view

While letting out a bark or two.

Their hackles raised, they issued growls.

Ferocity burned in their bowels.

And at their lips, I pictured foam.

These dogs would die to save our home.

But all their stridence was in vain

And made me forcefully complain:

"Shut up, you mutts, and let it go.

That knock came from my TV show!"

I wrote this poem for a class I'm taking. It was just an exercise, but I thought anyone who's ever had a dog bark at television doorbells would think it was cute. I would love to hear any feedback you have, especially critical feedback.

Thanks for reading. Have a great day.

-Mickey