every 7 years

When Haley was born 14 years ago
She wasn't the sweetheart she is today
She woke up bawling every hour on the hour
Just when I had just nodded off to sweet slumber.

In my zombie, sleep-deprived state all that month,
I vowed never again will I be withchild.

Then 7 years later

The memory of hourly feedings became a blur

Even my recollection of labor pain

Surprisingly did not remain.

So out came Riley
And there I was again
Doing hourly feedings

Through the pain of my C-section.

Yet again that whole month,

I vowed never to be withchild again.

Then 7 years later

I felt it was time

For the kids to own a puppy

and learn some responsibility.

And so I found myself that night

Waking up to the howling

Of our poor little puppy,

Her mommy's cuddle she was craving

Yet again I lose sleep and wonder

What the heck is it with 7 years that my life lessons are torn asunder?!

Inspired by Sonya Sones' amusing free verse in The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus. For my previous attempts at free verse, click here and here.

Photos from blondiensc and here. 

R.I.P., Typewriter

From the Atlantic Magazine comes this sad bit of news that the typewriter will no longer be produced, with the recent shutdown of the last typewriter factory in the world - in India.

A company called Godrej and Boyce sold 50,000 typewriters a year until the early 1990's. Up until 2009, it still produced up to 12,000 units, serving courts, the military, and other government offices. That inventory went down to 200 before the shutdown, the lowest point for a company that had been around for 6 decades.

Goodbye, Typewriter. While pressing the backspace key several times to type Joyce Kilmer's poem Trees into the shape of a Christmas tree (see related post here) is an utterly useless skill nowadays, I still appreciate the things I learned from my old manual ribbon typewriter: (1) You taught me that something so small, like my pinky, can gain strength - with exercise. (2) You taught me that mistakes leave scars with the occasional whiter speck on my paper where the liquid paper blots were. (3) When I typed too fast and pressed several keys simultaneously and the typebars got tangled, you taught me that if we don't take turns, nobody gets a good turn and nothing gets done. (4) You taught me about the importance of personal space which your carriage return so demandingly required. And finally, (5) you taught me that I CAN fix things myself - by pushing down the typebars that get entangled with impatient typing, or by reinserting the ribbon on its hook when suddenly my paper turns blank despite my perfect typing strokes. In fact, all the fix-it learning I got from other things was to depend on a bang here or there. You, dear typewriter, taught me that I can understand how something like you works, making it easy for me to fix you.

You taught me several life lessons and it's sad that you are now officially endangered species. Makes me look forward to catching a glimpse of you at my next government office visit. Rest in peace, dear old Typewriter.

Photo from Kate Spade.

the fairytale of marriage

Most young people think
marriage is happily ever after.
I'd never been one to believe that
Fairytale? I said, "Never!"

But right after the I-do's
as soon as my honeymoon ended,
I was proven wrong,
Marriage is a fairytale indeed.

John came home from work
and by the clothing trail,
from our bedroom door to our bed,
he had turned into Hansel, or even Gretel.

Shoe here... Shoe there.
As if Cinderella just fled.
Sock... Belt... Shirt... And other sock...
Trousers strewn across the floor and bed.

And that evening, around midnight
With his incessant huff and puff
it seemed the man beside me
had turned into the Big Bad Wolf!

When finally the snoring came to an end,
I felt a wave whenever he tossed and turned.
Seemed so much like a big Pea
on the bed of the sudden Princess in me.

And when our little one came,
during every midnight feeding,
John turned into Aurora
and just wouldn't stop sleeping.

Truly I was mistaken
because marriage has really turned out,
despite (and because of) these, to be
a fairytale I really CANNOT live without.

Inspired by The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus by Sonya Sones

As with Sones, my husband is NOT
the husband in this free verse.
Really, seriously,
this wife unequivocally swears.

Photo from theessentialist.

Unpoetic Poetry

I've never been a lover of poetry. I prefer prose. But I do love Dr. Seuss' books as bedtime stories for my son because the rhyming makes it much more fun to read out loud.

I'm not much of a fiction-writer either. I tried when I first discovered Willow Love. I was enthralled by the poetic bits of stories she imagined from a single beautiful photograph. But when I got myself a photo to write about, I ended up spending 30 minutes staring at either the photo or a blank computer screen.

But just a few pages of The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus by Sonya Sones inspired me to push my boundaries and try again. This time, I tried to rhyme without being poetic. And this time, I tried to write fiction without being profound.

Here's my first attempt:

We both knew it was over;

even before this one:

this latest fight

about gum.

Does it mean something

when I look back

at all we've been through

And think...

Boy, I will really miss

(maybe a bit of his hugs)

But more, so much more,

borrowing his beautiful bags.

Will not win a Pulitzer, I know. But hey, the point is I pushed my boundaries. And that was really all I wanted to do. :)

Photos from theessentialist.