Petulant Poem

I left her in her room
to stew
on her own syllables,

but she’s still bent
on bugging out
instead of hugging
it out, and no doubt

any moment now
she’ll run away
and I’ll be putting
up posters and milk
carton faces of some
-thing (-one) I haven’t
yet seen.

She’s mean, and mighty
ticked off at the world
and all swirled up in
her own tornado of
doubt. It’s about time
I just moved on, but
just when I think she’ll
be gone for miles and
miles, she peeks
around the corner
again and ever
so slightly

Prompted by Poetic Asides.


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6 Responses to Petulant Poem

  1. Oh my – this is life with a toddler – or any young one – or for that matter even when they get to be teens and have all that tornado of doubt surrounding them (at all times). And just let me tell you, as the parent of 2 adult children, there is no way to “move on.” Not really. They are always and forever ours, no matter the syllables!

  2. Oh, this made me smile!

  3. Shawna says:

    This is secretly about your muse. 🙂

    • whimsygizmo says:

      Yes, ma’am. Really, about the poem itself. I was tryin’ to be subtle, but I feel like I need another line or two in there along the lines of “syllables,” that helps the reader know where I was really going…

  4. whimsygizmo says:

    Haven’t been over there in ages, so…apparently?

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