poetry Archives - Kristen Anne Glover

A Day at the Sea

The ocean is the first thing I see every morning when I come downstairs to make my morning coffee. Some days, it is sleepy-eyed under the covers of the clouds, or restless and wild with the wind.

But today, it is radiant with the sun and full of all the beauty of the sky. The clouds themselves have been lured into the waves, and held there, contented prisoners of the blue.

It is hard to stay inside on the days when the ocean looks so lovely, and is so loved. Something in me is compelled to stand on the shores and delight in the union of sun and sky and sea.

So we put the school books away and pack a bucket and a trowel and a bit of lunch, just in case.

We bare our toes to spring sunshine

and embrace the possibility of sandy footprints

and saltwater kisses.

We find the particular joy of wave-tumbled rocks,

fresh from the deep,

and the sharp welcome from barnacle domains,

crusted high.

We are embraced by the sea, which understands the briny adventure that is boyhood,

and the singular beauty of little girls, who in all their moods, are ever more captivating with each turn of the waves.

There is something sacred here, and we drink it in,

here where sun and sky and sea meet

in a kind of holy trinity,

and each member is made more magnificent

by of the magnificence of the others,

until I do not know which I like best,

the sun,

the sky,

or the sea.

Breathless is the beauty that makes us more beautiful, this ocean,

full of a loveliness that makes us more lovely.

You cannot be ugly at the sea.

It is full of the poetry of Creation,

and all around I see the hand of the Creator,

who presses His fingerprints into the shells on the shore,

and burns His glory onto the waves of the sea.

It is as if Heaven has come down,

a rush of eternity into the depths of the sea,

and all of its glory has been broken open

by the thorns that pressed in

in their attempt to hold it back.

But those sharp shards of hate and sin and death,

pressed too hard.

They pricked Heaven and burst it open

until the sacred rained down

all over thirsty earth,

which waited, parched and trembling,

for such a salvation.

We find it here–heaven–right here where sun and sky and sea come together,

in a kind of holy trinity.

We gather up the bits of it,

like manna,

and let it feed and fill and drench us,

until we are altogether changed.

*100 Days of Motherhood, 36

Dining with Dragons

A dragon who is at all polite

Finds table manners a delight.

He washes up before he eats,

And waits for others to take their seats.

It is evident he knows the rule

Of using a napkin to catch the drool.

He tucks it underneath his chin,

And waits for dinner to begin,

Though he can hardly wait a minute

To eat the stew with three boys in it!

Or bite into the Princess Tart

(Dragon wants a juicy part)!

He does not grab, push, or whine;

That’s not the way good dragons dine.

He waits his turn and takes a little

Of every kind of tasty nibble.

And even if it’s not his fave,

He doesn’t ever misbehave,

And throw his food against the wall

Or refuse to open up at all.

(Mom lets him pick the eyeballs out

So really, there is no need to pout).

If he happens to burp a flame,

And doesn’t apologize, to his shame,

Dad simply says, “What a light!

Save it for a fearsome knight.”

But Dragon’s manners are so refined,

His father rarely must remind.

He never lets his wings stick out

Or blows milk bubbles with his snout.

He chews each and every bite

Quietly, with fangs sealed tight,

So Mom can’t see the food inside,

Partly chewed and liquified.

When he has eaten every crumb,

Dragon doesn’t dash off and run,

But stays until the rest are through,

Gives Mom a kiss and says “Thank you!”

He takes his cup and clears his dishes

Just like any mother wishes.

He is the pride of every dragon cave

Because he eats like a gentleman, not like a knave.

Perhaps you think only Dragon is able,

But even you can eat nicely at the dinner table.

The Bottom of the Hamper

At first I thought it was a dream,

A fairy-tale, or so it seemed—

A thing that happens on TV,

To moms more glamorous than me,

The kind who wear designer dresses,

And never pony-tail their tresses.

Yet there I was in sweatpants blue,

Running loads of laundry through.

When beneath some underwear

A glimpse of plastic did appear—

The Bottom of the Hamper.

It took a moment to realize

The significance of this great surprise.

“It really does exist!” I said,

And touched my fingers to my head.

Not a single sticky shirt remained,

Or dirty pair of pants, grass-stained.

All the socks were put away,

“There is nothing left to wash today!”

I basked, I gloated, I even cried.

When a child coming close I spied,

With both arms full of play clothes vile,

And on his face, a little smile.

“Wait! Give me just a minute,

To stare at it with nothing in it!”

But if he heard, he did not stop.

A jersey landed with a plop,

On the Bottom of the Hamper.

And there I stood as if awakened,

From a dream, like one mistaken.

Did I see it? Was it true?

It was real, that much I knew.

And though I haven’t seen it since,

Of this one thing I am convinced—

There really is a Bottom of the Hamper.

*Disclaimer: No actual hampers were emptied during the writing of this poem.

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