English 218

I was so excited for this semester for two reasons: 1) there are far less people on campus during Spring/Summer than there are in Fall/Winter and 2) this was the first semester that I could take the first Creative Writing class. I love writing, and I really wanted to take this class because I felt that I needed a little help to make my writing the best it can be.
We do writing exercises almost every class period. We have begun studying poetry, and for one of our writing exercises we had to write a poem entitled "Happiness". This is what I came up with.

Snuggled deep under the duvet,
I hear the noisy whispers of my
nieces and their brother.
I peek out and see them
coming in. They crawl to
the very edge, peering and giggling--
sometimes they dare to poke the
sleeping bear that is their aunt.
As stealthy as giant tractors,
they climb onto the bed frame,
test the ocean on top of me, and finally
they leap.

My nephew stares at me,
the stare of a little wise-man.
I have tried everything--he
blinked at peek-a-boos,
yawned at tickles, and
turned away from silly faces.
The boy still stares, boring holes
into my soul until
I am ready to tell him my sins
and weep on his shoulder.
I smack my lips together,
and there it is--the soft smile
that turns him back into a babe
of six months.

There they sit,
the oldest sisters,
crowned by their families,
the glow of motherhood surrounding them
like dust shaken from angel's wings.
As they chatter about diaper brands,
potty training, and baby food,
I ache to belong to that secret circle,
while my younger sister begs me to play.
They turn and smile,
inviting me, and even the youngest, in.
We all four laugh together,
recounting memories from
far away places and
long ago times.

Our giant, our protector--
the man who could crush a hopeful
young man merely with his presence
even as he lovingly carries little ones
on his shoulder--bellows a lion's roar
from outside. Suddenly we are
ants scurrying from here to there,
patiently waiting for
the picnic to be set.
The sweet smell of smoked meat
is tantalizingly strong, and
our father stands amid his
smoldering kingdom.

With a the grace of a swan on a lake,
Mother glides around the house.
Upstairs and downstairs she goes,
gliding from kitchen to living room,
living room to back porch and
back again.
The glow of motherhood does not
simply surround her. She is
steeped in it; it comes from her very pores.
She is benefactress, counselor, wise woman,
comforter.

I am curled up in the armchair,
a blanket tucked around my legs,
an open book in my lap.
Everyone is gone, and
I am encased in silence.

So that's it--that's my poem entitled "Happiness". I've decided that it could also be called "Fourth of July". Tell me what you think!