Baking Day

When I was very young
I loved to watch mom on baking day
baking day was a good day
full of warmth and nice smells
and wonderful things to eat.

I remember her flying fingers
as she kneaded the dough.
punching and pounding the unwilling mixture
into compliant submission.
slipping it's smooth texture
into black-burnt tins to rise.
her sweet, careworn face, ruddy with heat,
and the delicious smell of new-baked bread.

Please forgive me this one time
For where's the meter, where's the rhyme?
A poor attempt at rhyme that's free,
Yet which has memories fond for me.

My old Mom has long since gone
But baking days still linger on
I'm not real sentimental - yet,
I wonder why my eyes are wet?

But Hey! I think that's quite enough
Of all this corny, serious stuff,
I'd best return to rhymes I find,
Will better suit my addled mind.

The Many Lives Of Currant Man

Currant Man is round and fat,
from side to side, not front to back.
From front to back he's now quite thin
squashed flat by my mom's rolling pin.
Do you think a man once stout
quite enjoys being flattened out?

Mom prepares and shapes the dough
arranges arms and legs just so,
while I press in the wrinkled fruit
to sculpt the face and make a suit,
with lot's of buttons I admit,
'cos I like currants quite a bit.

Currant Man prefers a spot
where the oven's nice and hot
and he emerges in a while,
with his great big currant smile,
looking brown and very fit
that shows he has enjoyed the trip.

Currant Man knows I don't hate him
just because I went and ate him.
As he goes down I hear him say,
"See you again next week young J."
...but memories dim, now was it that?
or, "You should choke - you greedy brat!"

Kids

One at a time, all kids are fine,
And there's no doubt I love all mine,
But when one's getting on in years
Kids in heaps are hard on ears.

They scream and shout and leap about
And turn the whole house inside out,
And I don't know who'll be the first
To make my poor old ear-drums burst.

You'd think these days that one could fit,
A knob to turn them down a bit,
Or better still, is there a hitch
In fitting in an on-off switch?

I sometimes have this crazy thought,
Could I but shrink them down real short,
No bigger than a persons hand,
(Like Alice was in Wonderland)
Then I could pop them in a drawer
And close it up and hear no more.

The Gift

Its dips and planes and curves that rose,
To crab like claws that vainly strove
To find a parabolic base
Which foundered suddenly to trace
Vague paths through non-existent hole,
Down which they quick and smoothly stole.

This gift she gave with pride and love,
Inspired perhaps by heaven above.
Carved and polished by herself
Has sat for years upon my shelf,
And yet it grieves me so because
I've never known just what it was.

.. That might have been the final line
To bring a smile, but not this time.
This time I also want to say
The gift she gave to me that day,
Is my most precious work of art
And carves her place deep in my heart.

Rocking Chairs

First born grandson as a nipper,
Says, "Grandpops can you push me quicker" ?
And I reply, "Yeah son - okay,
Let's make this push chair rock today."

We climb the hill, top fast the crest,
Zoom down the slope with speed and zest
Our smoking wheels screech sudden turn
And hairpin bend makes stomach churn.

Grandson screams in joyous glee,
"Faster, faster," urges he,
We zigged and zagged to happy squeals
On racing, redhot, rocking wheels........

I see myself in wheel-chaired age,
Moving slow on future's stage,
Where adult grandson says, "Hey pops,
Here's where your wheelchair really rocks."

We climb that hill, top fast that crest,
I know the way and fear the rest.
Those smoking wheels, heart-stopping curves,
The slope that freezes tight strung nerves.

Skidding, screaming 'round that bend
My old, gray hair stands up on end,
And hurtling headlong down the straight,
I think I feel my water break.

Grandson laughs aloud, says then,
"Up the hill and down again?"
"No way I croak, you're on your own,
Jus' lemme out - I'll walk it home."