Tag Archives: adoption

A Pink Bundle with Price Tag – (Continued)


Pink Bundle with Price Tag – Poem

PaperArtist_2016-03-20_22-32-12
Artwork by JK.Leahy©

Poem – JK.Leahy©

(See verse one in the last post – This is a short story I tried writing in this format)

Pink Bundle with Price Tag

Arms to hold her first baby, folded on her crossed legs.

Suppressed in her expression, wrapped was her excitement.

I remembered Aunt on the phone telling,

“we are going to have a baby” while laughing at her husband.

A young school girl wanted to adopt her unborn baby.

Aunt said, “she would be beautiful like you, lady.”

The gossip; baby’s father was white and the mother was black.

The baby could own loose locks on a melted caramel tan.

My aunt had fought and climbed trees, just like a man

Not to happen, she would bear children like a woman

 

(To be continued in a book of short stories)

A Pink Bundle with Price Tag – Poem


A Pink Bundle with Price Tag is a poem I wrote about an incident that occurred some 20 odd years ago. I was trying to write my exercise in a prose form (for my Creative Writing Workshop), and after much confusion, I had gone down this path with the exercise, so I just went with the flow. With 700 odd words later, I told the whole story in a poem, by accident. I spoke with the workshop facilitator and confused her too, but she has forgiven me, she said. I think it’s because she wants to hear the rest of the story tomorrow. This is the opening of the story and hopefully, it will be part of my collection of poems and short stories book later. I hope you like it.

PaperArtist_2016-03-20_22-32-12
Pink Bundle artwork – Paper artist, 2016. JK.Leahy©

 

A Pink Bundle with Price Tag – Poem

JK. Leahy Memoir

The house was low, a brown brick hole with blue shades.

Through the open windows, the inside was newborn stained.

A littered table of copious nappies and toys in rainbow frame.

On a ruffled bed, a small centre-piece, wrapped in a pink bundle.

Outside, my aunt sweats on a hardened dry brown lawn.

Desperate time calls for a monsoon, but none had come.

The sward had suffered Port Moresby’s arid time.

Aunt had waited to have babies, years these many,

that patience had become her virtue and time, her company.