Don’t Be Hasty

Ha! I should follow my own words with the title to this poem. But I have been stuck trying to come up with a conclusion for it (I seem to want one), and for the time being have lost the vision and voice I had when I started this. I don’t know how long it will take me to come up with a decent ending, and maybe this just really should be the end (gotta stop sometime, right?), so….I’m just going to post it anyway. I’m not a paid or professional writer/poet, anyhow, so it’s no big deal to me.


Dad peers out the kitchen window,
takes a check of the path –
Children will amble up it soon,
demand supper, avoid the bath.
Grabbing wood, smelling the squash,
dad bending to the stove –
Children meander up the path winding,
long through the grove.
The duck is seared, and mushrooms sliced,
the plates and mugs are settled –
Mom scoops squash, grabs butter and bread,
and tea bags for the kettle.

The children fly in, hats and gloves in the air –
dad yells “Hats on their pegs!”
Sleeves of coats, whipping ’round the front hall –
makes dad yell “Coats on their pegs!”
“And put your boots on the mat!” hollers dad,
when they pull them off their legs.


“Easy! Get down! Before we set round,
you know there are things to do!
Outside with the worms, snails, rotted mushrooms –
And no half-frozen snakes, too!
Go blow your noses and wash your hands –
then there’s a plate for you!”

J. Casey, Blackbirds Above The Marsh, ©2013.