pomes

I held her hand
We held her hand in shifts
And she called us by the names of long-dead children
"Is that you?" she asked, and we all answered "Yes,
"Yes, it's me, Ma, me, Rita, me, Nana, yes."
I don't know who she knew we were but she
Knew we held her hand and answered yes.

We have loads of stargates in our house
They are in the children's eyes
And we travel through space to a time and a place
Of perpetual joy and surprise

We have all our very own Tardis
With worlds without end 'tween its walls
And we roam unafraid through the night and the day
Where ever we hear the dream-calls

We make each our personal story
Create and destroy our own sun
And the worlds all around where adventures abound
Live within us, thousands as one.

In the mornings twins
Big twin one and small twin two
Rioting over the pillows
Roaring with laughter as I call you

"I'm twin one, a baby!"
The big twin rolls and shouts
And the small twin grins and burbles
Like she knows what it's about

Some days there are twiblets
And the biggest twib of all
Is almost as big as your mother
For whom all three are baby-small.

Stretch legs
Lock knees
Lean forwards
Rise

Wave arms
Grin mouth
Light up
Eyes

The dawn will dry you
Coming up over the houses
Spreading out across the low fences
Where conversations spread yard to yard in summertime
And barbecue smoke makes us hungry
From six houses down the street.

The dawn will dry you
Rising up above the chimneys
Casting shadows across the street
So our chimneypots sweep the neighbours' doorstep
And the trees backing onto our garden
Fall into our dining room.

"You'll miss the baby days," they used to say -
"So short and sweet and then all gone away,"
But I don't miss those days at all, I find,
While I am witness to your unfolding mind.

I loved the baby days: delight
And joy, us wide awake at night,
But now the baby girl is gone,
And you were in there growing, all along.

I love the child you are now so much more
Than ever I could love the girl before
And daily grows my joy, as you do grow,
That ever-changing you is who I know.

When they die, they are not gone -
I think of them, and they live on.
I call to mind their voice, or face,
Reminded by a song or place,
And they live on inside my head -
Still with me, though they are now dead.

Young and beautiful fun-filled people
Pouring on the bus in crowds
Laughter bubbling in the back seats
Smiles and banter, not too loud -
Flushed and tired and out of breath
Busty, angry, shrill, grey-haired
She wants to see some tickets, now!
The driver climbs the narrow stairs
Of course, they don't have tickets ready
(Paying fares won't make you rich!)
They passed one ticket through the window
Sharing's friendly! "You FAT BITCH!"
The thieves were younger, far more pretty,
Mostly no-one checks, that's true,
But I wish I'd spoken slightly louder
Though all I said was "How dare you?"

I teach my children
The little things of please and thank you
Spending money, making change,
"This is my name, who are you?"

I teach my children
Not to nag and not to whine
That "How are you?" is answered "Fine,"
I teach my children

I teach my children
To modulate their tone of voice
To choose and live with their own choice
And I teach them to apologise

Some people learn this stuff with ease
But for me it has always been impossible
Desperately confusing, frightening, alienating
All impenetrable forest, no trees -

So I teach my children,
Though perhaps they don't need to be taught
Perhaps they'd absorb all the rules they ought
If I did not teach my children?

On the understanding that I count the self-published books as already done, what would you like to see next?

I have already shown a publisher six poems and a couplet -
The Laughing Day,
Lion Girl,
Untitled (Inch by inch),
Toddler,
Do No Harm,
That Which Doesn't Kill Us Doesn't Kill Us
and Eyebrows Up And Noses In The Air.

Not that I've actually found out what the publisher wants yet. But they want to talk to me, so that's a start! Please, intarwebs, tell me what to think?