Category Archives: Poetry

Pinch Me to Let Me Know I’m Alive

Weekly Writing Challenge: A Pinch of You

Sugar & Spice

Sugar & Spice (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

How does the old saying go — girls are “sugar and spice and everything nice,” and boys are “snips and snails and puppy dog tails”?

Aside from not knowing what a “snip” is, I don’t buy it; we’re much more complex than lollipops and unicorns and toy trucks and frogs. This week, we want a window into the complexity that is you. We want your best recipes.

ooh, ooh… I know what a “snip” is.  It means a little bit, a sliver of something.  Could be a snail OR a puppy dog tail.  I did not look that up, but it’s good enough.  I’ll have you know that the window into my mind has the shade pulled down.  You do NOT want to go there.  The complexity of me is the stuff of whirlwinds and headaches.

I am everything

and I am nothing.

I am your wildest dream

and I am your blackest nightmare.

I am soft and gentle

and I am hardcore without mercy.

I am dainty and pretty

and I am comfortably rustic.

I am a perfectionist

and I am the slob.

I am the unconditional lover

and I am the wall just outside infinity.

I am the calm before the storm

and I am the Perfect Storm.

Just because.

Just Playing

I actually just needed something to post in order to try out something, but this poem has a special place in my heart.  I was honored to be chosen to read it to the PTO luncheon gathering at the end of Gabe’s first year of pre-school.  It swelled my heart to the point of bursting then, as it still does today.

Just Playing
By Anita Wadley

When I’m a building in the block room,
Please don’t say, “I’m just playing”
For, you see, I’m learning as I play
About balance and shapes.

When I’m getting all dressed up,
Setting the table, caring for the babies,
Don’t get the idea I’m “just playing.”
I may be a mother or a father someday.

When you see me up to my elbows in paint,
Or standing at an easel, or molding and shaping clay,
Please don’t let me hear you say, “He’s just playing”
For you see, I’m learning as I play.
I’m expressing myself and being creative.
I may be an artist or an inventor someday.

When you see me sitting in a chair
“Reading” to an imaginary audience,
Please don’t laugh and think I’m, “just playing”
For, you see, I’m learning as I play.
I may be a teacher someday.

When you see me combing the bushes for bugs,
Or packing my pockets with choice things I find,
Don’t pass it off as “just playing.”
For, you see, I’m learning as I play.
I may be a scientist someday.

When you see me engrossed in a puzzle,
Or “plaything” at my school,
Please don’t feel the time is wasted in “play”
For, you see, I’m learning as I play.
I’m learning to solve problems and concentrate.
I may be in business someday.

When you see me cooking or tasting foods,
Please don’t think that because I enjoy it, it is just “play”
For, you see, I’m learning as I play.
I’m learning how my body works.
I may be a doctor, nurse, or athlete someday.

When you ask me what I’ve done at school today,
And I say “I played,”
Please don’t misunderstand me.
For, you see, I’m learning as I play.
I’m learning to be successful in work.
I’m preparing for tomorrow.

Today, I’m a child and my work is play.

Think About Me.

Think about me when your arms are around my brother.
I could have been there to teach him about the world.

Think about me when you see children in the park.
I could have been there walking beside you.

Think about me when you want a hug.
My hugs are unending and filled with love.

Think about me when you’re in doubt.
My eyes trust you unquestioningly.

Think about me when you marry.
Think about me if you don’t.

Think about me when you love.
I love you unconditionally.

I am your greatest student.
I am your greatest teacher.

Think about me
Think about me.
Just think.

~Debra Sedita-Kosiarski

copyright April 12, 2010

I was inspired thinking about all the what-could-have-beens.   I was also inspired by my son, Little Drake who is five years old this year.  When I think about what my life could have been without him and what it’s been since he’s been in our lives.  I am just sitting here bawling my eyes out.  So much I could have missed had God not deemed us worthy to care for a life.  Motherhood is an experience that I am so grateful for and I simply was not an individual who was mother material…. yet here I am.

Babies are a gift from God, plain and simple.  He graces us with these little bundles of unconditional love.  Think about it.  Children are the very embodiment of God’s love for us.  He sends us a very real, a very touchable manifestation of His love… we can touch it, people!  How blessed it that when so many of our brethren need physical evidence like Thomas the apostle to believe.  What more can we ask for, and so many of us are destroying this innocent gift from God by aborting their pregnancies.   It’s our responsibility to be grateful and to protect and nurture our children.  I don’t care if it’s what some would call instinct or some biological function.  I don’t care…. it’s there, I can see it and I accept it willingly.  A rose is still a rose by whatever name.  Yes, I was nervous and yes, we are not the richest couple in the world and we never will be.  Life is much richer for us because of this child.

Thank you, God!

Your Angel’s Angel

I wrote this for The Drake when we were courting. He so inspired me to write love poetry. I guess my creative heart benefited from abstaining from each other sexually. So, you people I dare you to try it!

I know that I’ve hesitated posting my poems, but I got the urge today and will go with it before I relent.

Your Angel’s Angel…

Looks for you in the night
Eyes powerless but spirit willing
She reaches for you with her very soul
On a thread of time

Exquisite recognition flutters through her being
So faint and frail yet a clear, roaring trumpet
Making no mistake
Senses so alive, so awake
Breath does not come

You call her from within
She can almost touch you
Almost taste your
Your Sweet Lips

Oh Lord, I pray
May that You would carry me home
I yearn for you so
For us

copyright 2003 Debra M. Sedita

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