By: Marlene Oxender
Montpelier, Ohio
A few months after I began sorting through my parents’ estate, I found an old black-and-white photograph I’d never seen before.
It was a picture of my dad, my older brother Don, and myself playing on the living room floor. My dad was lying on the floor with his feet propped up on a chair, and I was the baby daughter he was holding close.
I found the photo while sitting on my own living room floor, sorting through cardboard boxes I’d brought home from my parents’ house. It was a moment in time I will never forget – the moment I found a photo of my dad spending time with two of his children.
One of the first things I noticed about the image was the fact that the photographer had snapped the camera at the perfect moment – the moment when a little girl’s baby toes were in her big brother’s face.
In the weeks and months that followed, I began living in a sea of synchronistic moments which led me to write my “Baby Toes” story as well as “A Baby Toes Prayer.”
Oddly enough, I didn’t know my baby toes prayer was a poem. I needed a reminder from members of my writers’ group: Poems don’t have to rhyme.
Like most of us, I don’t know much about poetry. I never knew that song lyrics are poetry. When you listen to music with lyrics, you’re listening to a poem. And the words inside greeting cards are poems.
Poetry can be used to write a story or to teach a lesson. It’s often found in children’s books. And a poem is a good place to leave a hidden message.
My friend Jim, a fellow columnist, mentioned to me he wished he could write poems. His words prompted me to write a few thoughts about not being able to write poetry.
I Cannot Write a Poem
Oh, I cannot write a poem.
This I know.
I’ve tried and tried to write it right
but words – they won’t cooperate.
Although I’ve told them what to say,
they keep refusing to obey.
Don’t ask them if they’ll stand in line.
Don’t ask them if they’ll rhyme.
Oh, what’s a poet to do?
Shall I write about an animal?
I’d tell a tale about its tail.
Or maybe pick a flower –
what would you like to know?
Don’t ask about the fragrance.
You must smell it for yourself
for a poet has no words to tell
what a smell smells like.
And the blossoms –
please give me your thoughts
and anything you’ve got
for words – they escape me.
If only they knew the clever
things they could do –
they’d make an appearance
at the end of our pencils and pens.
They’d line up just right
and help a poor writer
who cannot write a poem!
———————–
Marlene Oxender is a writer, speaker, and author. She writes about growing up in the small town of Edgerton, her ten siblings, the memorabilia in her parents’ estate, and her late younger brother, Stevie Kimpel, who was born with Down syndrome. Her three published books, Picket Fences, Stevie, and “Grandma, You Already Am Old!” are available on Amazon. Marlene can be reached at mpoxender@gmail.com