where the writers are
Written With Children

At last they're all in bed.
I try to clear my head.
My pen and paper beckon.
It's time to write, I reckon.

Alone at last, I scribble
to get beyond the drivel.
My thoughts might coalesce,
if I release my stress.

And then the children scream,
it's all a comic dream.

"Can I have a snack?
Can you scratch my back?"

"It's time to go to sleep?
Don't let me hear a peep."

My poetry is rough.
The metre is so tough.
I need to be alone,
ignore the telephone.

How does my lover know
what sentiment will grow?
He leans in for a kiss--

"Mom! I need to piss!"

This poetry is rot
My bedroom is too hot.
Why can't I have a break?
I can't afford mistakes.

"Can we have some drinks?
Our bedroom really stinks.
These pj's are so itchy.
Inside my nose is icky."

"Can't you go to sleep?
Don't you make a peep."

How can I make a rhyme?
I never have the time,
not ever undisturbed.
It has me quite perturbed

Verse rolls inside my mouth
I say the words aloud.
I try to find the time
to write out any rhyme.

He looks into my eyes
I know he's full of lies
And then I start to cry.
Oh no, is that a stye?

And while I write it out
my children start to shout.

"Will you tuck us in?
A pimple's on my chin!
Danny went and farted.
It's not my fault, he started!"

The harder that I try
The more my children cry,
To write is my diversion,
but they feel an aversion

Are they really jealous?
Am I being heinous
to need some mommy time?
It really is sublime.

When evening turns to night
I'm tired of the fight.
I trudge up to their rooms
My poetry is doomed.

I climb into their beds
And rest my weary head
Hear shallow breathing deepen
Why would I want to cheapen,

Such ecstasy as sweet?
My writing can't compete.
with children such as these.
I promise to appease.

Let them know they matter,
to quiet all their chatter.
I fall into a slumber.
In sleep I'm unencumbered.

In dreams, my poems rhyme,
My syllables align.
The metre flows like honey
Publishers offer money.

At five I bolt, awake
I know the course to take,
The verse flows like fine wine
I don't require time.

My soul pours out so sweet.
The poem is complete,
and then the upstairs shakes
My children are awake.

"My underwear is wet.
Is breakfast ready yet?"

I begin to smile.
and feel calm for awhile.