At Home, Sunday Afternoon Poem by Daniel Brick
At Home, Sunday Afternoon
Her black hair bounces
as she dances through discarded papers,
kicking the Metro section into the corner
where she houses a baby doll with bright clear eyes.
She was once such a baby
housed in a faraway house,
before us.
Her doll's hair bounces, too,
when our child walks her,
step by step,
a marionette without strings attached,
each foot in turn
awkwardly carrying the weight of the child's body, too,
pressing into the soft red carpet,
soft color and soft texture,
a cushion for both doll and child,
as they waver across the room,
rebalance their steps and then plop down.
'O, wow! she walks fast, Daddy.
Look out. Here she comes! '
I look at them and laugh
because I'm expected to.
There are strings attached now,
binding me and doll and daughter.
And I notice tiny lines
crease the carpet, bent fibers looking white,
where she dragged herself and doll
along the only available road toward family.
all of our sakes.
It takes matured and smart brains like yours to poetically narrate the play of a daughter. This poem suggests a very deep implication. Indeed, we must see the well-being of our children as a collective responsibility. Nicely written!
Beautiful picture of a baby girl who practises her doll to walk! (something of a marionette without strings attached!) Her daddy is watching her action with curious interest! He is bound by strings tying him, his daughter and the doll! It suggests so much! 'And I notice tiny lines crease the carpet, bent fibers looking white, where she dragged herself and doll along the only available road toward family.' Very meticulous observation!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/18/2024 3:36:04 AM # 1.0.0.1119
A beautiful poem on the growing years of a child and how a parent gets attached to strings of the heart. A wonderful advice to a parent to be. Fatherly, I would say. The bouncy hair....the walk...the excitement of the child...the child talk...the fathering....a wonderful picture weaved with words! An experience of being a parent cleverly told. Thanks for the poem, Daniel!