A poem is a lovely thing
A soft and gentle winnowing
Of duty's spoil; a poem smiles
Like flowers on life’s mundane miles
A poem is a tender touch
Between life’s lumps of dirt and such
It meanders through our thought
In twirls and swirls in winsome jot
A poem is a little light
A beacon beaming, brave and bright
It twists those tiny ticks of time
To lilting melodies of rhyme
A poem is sweet word-spun bliss
A pleasant pause, a kindly kiss
A poet’s sudden unveiling
A poem is a lovely thing
© Janet Martin
Sometimes, while I'm shining up the house I think of this poem that I memorized as a child and it makes me sing... thank-you to the poet's who took the time to print their rhyme.
"The Shiny Little House" by Nancy M Hayes
I wish, how I wish, that I had a little house,
with a mat for the cat and a hole for the mouse,
and a clock going "tock" in the corner of the room,
and a kettle, and a cupboard, and a big birch broom
To school in the morning the children off would run
and I'd give them a kiss and a penny and a bun.
But directly they had gone from this little house of mine,
I'd clap my hands and snatch a cloth and shine, shine, shine.
I'd shine all the knives, all the windows and the floors,
all the grates, all the plates, all the handles on the doors,
every fork, every spoon, every lid and every tin,
till everything was shining like a new bright pin.
At night by the fire, when the children were in bed,
I'd sit and I'd knit, with a cap upon my head,
and the kettles, and the saucepans,
they would shine, shine, shine,
in this teeny little, cozy, little house of mine.
I wish, how I wish, that I had a little house,
with a mat for the cat and a hole for the mouse,
and a clock going "tock" in the corner of the room,
and a kettle, and a cupboard, and a big birch broom
To school in the morning the children off would run
and I'd give them a kiss and a penny and a bun.
But directly they had gone from this little house of mine,
I'd clap my hands and snatch a cloth and shine, shine, shine.
I'd shine all the knives, all the windows and the floors,
all the grates, all the plates, all the handles on the doors,
every fork, every spoon, every lid and every tin,
till everything was shining like a new bright pin.
At night by the fire, when the children were in bed,
I'd sit and I'd knit, with a cap upon my head,
and the kettles, and the saucepans,
they would shine, shine, shine,
in this teeny little, cozy, little house of mine.
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