Inside a box that hadn't been touched in years I found a time capsule of 1989. Some toys, some hair clips and a small notepad in which I had scribbled poetry and other thoughts from mid 1989. Here, with some slight editing, is one of them.
Mom's Poem 1989
After Eight
After eight, the magic fades,
as children pass in slow parades,
protesting sleep with loud tirades —
this repeats every night.
After eight, I'm getting shrill,
my patience level drops to nil,
can't wait another minute 'til
these children go to sleep!
After eight, at last they dream,
their peaceful faces gently gleam,
reflecting back a pale moonbeam—
I tiptoe past their beds,
and kiss their sleeping heads.
©2013 Noreen Braman
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