[stylist] Bill's poem prompted me

[Lynda Lambert]

Barbara, I really liked this very much. You cover a lot of time and ground 
in this poem, with grace. Lynda

-----Original Message----- 
From: Barbara Hammel via stylist
Sent: Thursday, January 22, 2015 3:49 PM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] Bill's poem prompted me

I don’t even remember what the name of the poem was, but it skipped through 
a year and compared it to life.  He must have posted it in the beginning of 
December or so because mine sat around for a bit before I finished it on 
Christmas Day whilst feeling miserable with the flu and sinus junk that this 
little family spent the holidays with instead of family.
I’ll post it here in case you can’t open it.  It’s my typical quatrain but, 
surprisingly, I have NOT used rhymes.  It’s a metered thing.

     CIRCLE OF LIFE
By Barbara Hammel

Thus does March begin the life,
A baby brought to the birth,
Gusting winds are but her cries,
Rain and mud her needs to meet.

The toddler days of April
Are chockful of all the firsts,
April storms are toddler fits,
(God bless the terrible twos.)

In May she's joy and sunshine,
Sweet as the flowers that bloom,
Precious as the mild weather.
Who really wants May to end?

The hot and cold of June days
Are that dreaded preteen time,
The storms -- the hormones raging.
Blooms brightly, the rose of youth.

July doldrums pass her by,
Love we so, those teenage years,
Hot and steamy crushes, they.
Sometimes fits of jealous rage.

August brings maturity,
A cooling of youth's passion --
Mellowing that comes with age --
Rip'ning of a parent's dream.

Wedding bells ring in a time
Of perfect nights for cuddles
And sweet, steamy afternoons.
New beginning, September.

October brings the harvest,
Such a busy time it is.
The fruits of love are brought forth,
The house is filled with children.

November's spent preparing
For the bounty that's to come,
You've cut and pruned and molded.
Now to enjoy the rewards.

December is full of joy!
The kids are grown and married.
Now little ones go elsewhere
When the busy days are done.

The days of January
Tug -- old thoughts of winter-play.
Will the streets of gold glisten
With icicle's inner fire?

The heart has lost its color,
And February fades out.
The year has reached her end now ...
Or is it just beginning?

Thus does March begin the life ...


Writing free verse is like playing tennis with the net down.--Robert Frost





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