Family PoetryJohn

    I am an Orange  (Erik Widholm, 1987)

    I am an Orange
         I have appeal;
    You observe me from without
      Sensing shape, smell, color
        And the texture of my seal
        But do you know me? How I taste?
      If I'm bitter, bland or sweet?
    Only those who go beyond
          Through the toughness of my skin
    Can ever find what flavor
          There really lies within.
HOME   Family Poetry






John The Baptist (Motherhood Musings)
(Gina Widholm, 1999)

I am John the Baptist - I am a mother
I have a calling, I am a voice
In the desert, in the valley
Surrounded by wilderness and rugged places of the untamed heart
Making level and straight paths for my people - my little people

I am John the Baptist - I am a mother
A visionary, a boisterous prophet
Eating honey moments that are sweet
And sometimes locusts - a most unsavory choice!
Confronting and entreating, I speak comfort
and warn of impending judgements to my people - my little people

I am John the Baptist - I am a mother
And most misunderstood!
With well worn, outdated fashion I am clothed with my trade
Attracting crowds by my purposeful eccentricity,
yet despised for my cause
This generation questions my vocation, my methods and even my sanity
But then, what did they expect?

I am John the Baptist - I am a mother
And to my people the embodiment of truth & justice
A guide, a teacher - a messiah to their untrained eyes
But I am only a baptist, and that, only for a time
With hopeful yearning, I wait and watch for revelations of His glory
Now dawning on the understanding of my people - my little people

I am John the Baptist
And I know my time is near
Upon the announcement of His arrival - "Behold Your God!"
I fade into the background, a mere observer of all that is done
But to this I was called
A preparer of roads, a highway construction worker - a mother
For His people - Our little people


HOMEPAGE   Family Poetry





    FORGIVENESS  (Erik Widholm, 1980)

    When I offend the commitment made to you
        Is there no forgiveness reserved for me there then?
    It is as though I'd broken not one, but ten
        And you lack willing mercy then for two.

    But is it not as Christ has spoke' to you?
        As God forgives, we must our fellow men?
    For one offense, nay five, nay seven, nay ten
        Mercy in God find we to fill these too?

    I look to you and find not in your breast
        Forgiveness great enough to cov'r my wrong.
    But search, I say, from Him to fill your nest
        With grace complete to f'give your whole list long.
    Else search you of your own accord your best
        Then ne'er will you forgive of me my wrong.


HOMEPAGE   Family Poetry







    PREGNANT WITH TIME
    (Gina Widholm, 1998)

    Under the watchful eye of credentials and paragraphs you were conceived
    A finger's imprint marks your beginnings
    Implanted hope, I am pregnant with time.

    I rejoice!
    Yet my body does not blossom with proof
    Letterhead paperwork, a doctor, a stamp of approval
    Notarized and Apostiled your growing begins.

    Pregnant with waiting, of years before and months to come
    Morning sickness of expectation
    I count the weeks by tasks as you grow fuller in me.

    Pregnant with questions and answers I do not know
    Though a learner - I teach,
    and assure those wondering of my joy.

    Anecdotal advice of food and drink passes me by
    Yet I crave the knowledge of the experienced
    And a pat of approval... though on my shoulder.

    Pregnant with yearning
    I am bloated with impatience
    Awaiting images of your existence:
    A name, an age, a sex
    Of eyes: sparkling or dim with grief?

    I am pregnant with time, and
    Your date is undetermined, though not in God's mind.
    If sooner, you are not premature for you already were,
    If later, you are still young.
    Your days have been counted carefully under His watchful eye
    Though I could not feel them ticking inside.

    You are a shadow in my mind as I wait expectantly for reality to arrive
    And though I will not greet you lying down
    Pangs of hope contract with faith:
    that your untimely birth was for my sake, and my barrenness for yours.
    I am not ashamed either way.

    (Published in Roots & Wings Magzine, 1998)

HOMEPAGE   Family Poetry











    OWEE, A BOY WE ONCE KNEW (Written For My Children: Breakfast Fun Reading)
    (Gina Widholm, 2001)

    Owee is the name of a boy we once knew
    He groaned every morning and all the day through
    As he held up a finger high for inspection
    and worried he’d gotten a nasty infection.


    An elbow, a shin, a knee or a thigh
    his wrist, his ankle, his cheek or an eye
    a knuckle, a hip, a toe, ear or nose
    his forehead, his chest and his neck we suppose.


    All had problems and deserved quick attention
    and demanded bandaids to cure the infection
    His mother ran ragged to cuddle and soothe
    the hundreds of owees he’d happen to use
    to keep her in shape and tip top condition
    convinced he needed a personal physician.


    Interjecting loudly to grab such attention
    were AH, YEOW, and OUCH all used with inflection
    but if, perhaps, his cries were to fail
    he’d whimper, cry, scream, and fall down to wail
    He loved the control some new injury would bring
    Convinced in his mind, the boy thought he was King.


    Then, one fateful day, he heard amongst whispers
    his mother and father and one older sister
    "Enough is enough and he’ll just have to take
    a medicinal potion for the ailments he makes
    and attention and doting he’ll no longer receive
    until he is trustworthy and can be believed."


    Just then a big THUD and a squeal of disaster
    which normally brought feet running faster than faster
    Slowly paced to the spot where the child now lay
    "What? There’s no blood?" and they all turned away


    But the child ever strengthen by past good intentions
    continued to wail for his parents affections
    to which they brought forth a disturbing concoction
    a medicinal potion prescribed...by the doctor?
    Of garlic, vinegar, pepper or worse?
    a teaspoon of this and no owees will hurt!


    His favorite blue spoon was used to deliver
    the blessing that caused his poor stomach to quiver
    He matured 2 whole years from that lesson they said
    and that day his name changed from Owee to Fred.



HOMEPAGE   Family Poetry