This poem
This baby is a poem,
a haiku on the verge of an epic
with an abundance of vowels
and no punctuation.
No multi-syllabics,
no footnotes.
Just something simple
that arches its back
and lets out a squeal.
This baby is a poem
on strike against sleep.
You try everything, ply
what's left of your brain with
motivational, instructional texts.
In bed, it huddles
its needs against you as it sucks
life's juice from you,
a tiny long-lashed vampire
you can't throw off a cliff
because every cry
tears a scab
off your heart.
This poem is a baby
whose face is the face
of everyone in your blood.
Seal-sleek, it swims the air
with limbs eager for destination.
You want to cuddle,
but it just wants to climb
toward jubilation,
flashing lightning grins
all the way up.
© 2002. Educational Insights - Poet's Corner