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The Poetry of...

Ellen Louise Bartlett





--NARRATIVE--

HAPPY SCHMAPPY


Calling this one by that name,
and whozit by whatzit,
but it doesn't mean a thing.
Now the phone rings and
the doorbell dings,
and through the air
a toy gets a fling.
I close my eyes slowly
and ever so boldly
turn and yell out STOP.
This one's cheating,
now my strength is fleeting.
And this one is jolly , and
"who stole my dolly" and
it's all just folly for me.
"why can't we?" they beg
while I turn on one leg
just to see someone get clobbered at bay.
And I wish, oh how I wish I were Miss Julia Roberts today.






DREAMS


Where do dreams go that never grow?
Back in the deep woods where the moon never glows?
Do they find a quiet stream winding trees quite slow?
Or do they hop on a star like a horse on the go?
Do they find a new owner, who will share what they sow,
Or simply just give a grin and keep hiding within?





SILLY LOVE


There are books galore on the floor.
The blankets are strewn to the door.
The dishes are stacked like a circus act,
and my nerves are all out of whack.
The piano is never still,
trinkets line my windowsill.
The toilets always flushing,
the Pastor comes and I am a blushing.
The washer is jumping, the dryer is bumping
and the love in my heart is a pumping.
Though the walls may have cracks,
the love never lacks.
And the holes in the floor have never before
held such music and dirt, such beauty
and duct tape, as it does in my house,
evermore.




Copyright © 2001 Ellen Louise Bartlett


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