A Pocket Full Of Kisses

[the mad mare]

Hi everyone, well I'm about to do something I've never done before ... Glenny always used to say not to post a draft, and I only wrote this in the last hour, but I'm going to post it anyway.  Who cares?  I feel that after those silly chook and bee poems, I need to redeem myself in everyone's eyes ...


A Pocket Full Of Kisses
by Kym Eitel

His eyes were full of wonder as he held his newborn child.
He showered her in kisses and the baby gently smiled.
The years flew by so quickly and his little girl turned three.
She blew the birthday candles from her seat upon his knee.

His eyes were full of laughter and he tugged her ribboned braid.
She hugged and kissed her Daddy, then a birthday wish she made,
“A pocket full of kisses for my Dad that never ends -
a million special kisses, ‘cos we’re bestest, bestest friends!”

His eyes were full of loving as she kissed her tiny palm
with special pocket kisses filled with innocence and charm.
“Give kisses out to everyone, for every kiss you share
will spread a little happiness and loving everywhere.”

His eyes were full of sadness when her smallest goldfish died.
Her little lip was trembling, teardrops trickled as she cried.
She watched the lonely, living fish.  “He looks so sad like this.
Please Daddy, can you give my fish a special pocket kiss?”

His eyes were full of sorrow as he saw his daughter’s pain.
He told her, “Darlin’, that won’t make the dead one live again.”
“I know that Dad.  His friend has gone to Heaven up above,
but kisses make him happier and fill his heart with love.”

His eyes were full of sympathy - his little girl was wise.
The living need the comfort when their special loved one dies.
He watched his daughter skip away, then dance and spin and twirl.
He said a silent prayer of thanks for Daddy’s little girl.

His eyes were full of terror as his world turned upside down -
the squeal of brakes, the smash of glass, a drunkard sped through town.
He held his dying daughter and he knew they soon would part.
“Your pocket’s full of kisses Dad, they’re right beside your heart.”

His eyes showed no emotion as they held the coffin high,
but friends were there to ease his pain, to help him say goodbye.
They reached inside his pocket, placed a kiss upon their lip,
and smiled as they remembered how she’d dance and laugh and skip.

His eyes will never sparkle like they did when she was here,
but one day he will smile again, his laugh will re-appear.
The living keep on living, though his little girl, he misses,
but always, he will have her gift – a pocket full of kisses.



   waahhhh, where's those tissues?  Empty box, sleeve will do ... 

[therese]

     i'd give you some of my tissues kym ....... if i wasn't using them myself, lol
  its a beaut poem!  *sob, sob!

[Babe]

Dear God, Kym! You have a gift that is beyong compare.

Alright, it's a bit shmaltzy, but the rythm is fantastic, and the flow is great.

Wench! I love it.


Babe

[the mad mare]

Hey Babe, I'm curious - what the heck is SHMALTZY?     I reckon you made that up, because my dictionary doesn't know what it means either.  Could you please translate?


I'm glad to hear you say it flows well, because that poem was bit of an experiment.  As you have probably noticed, I tend to write long-ish poems, explaining every minute of the story, so this time I just described scenes, like snapshots, and let the reader fill in the gaps.  I was worried it would be disjointed, but you seemed OK with it?  I think, since I don't know what shmaltzy is??

La, la, laaaaaa

[Babe]

Schmaltz... how does one describe it....

Syrupy sweet, excessively sentimental. (It's also rendered chicken fat, but we won't go into that here. Maybe the Chook poem...?)

For me, reading this poem instantly threw up an image of my husband with one of our own children. In not "explaining" each step, the imagination is left free to become the characters described in the poem. In that, when the child dies, it cuts to our own hearts. Hence, schmaltz. And yes, I'm very okay with it.

Dis-jointed? How so? It reads very well, with no skipping about. Each verse follows the next beautifully. Especially this:

He said a silent prayer of thanks for Daddy’s little girl.

His eyes were full of terror as his world turned upside down -

Having just been in an accident - and I swear, I'll hear my kids screaming for the rest of my life - it can happen just this unexpectedly. The idea of being thankful every day for our kids doesn't occur to us until we either a) have a close call; or b) read a piece like this.

Again, wench (and I mean that in the most affectionate way possible), I love it.


Babe

[the mad mare]

Ahhh, schmaltzy with a "C" - yes, the dictionary knows about that word!  Thank you for the vocabulary lesson 

Yes, straight after a car accident, it would impact on you more.  When my Mum read it, she didn't think of a car accident - she thought it was a hit and run - and that works too.  Leaving details out lets the reader interpret it how they want - perhaps more effective than describing it anyway! 

Thanks for the comments, I appreciate feedback.

See ya',

Kym.

 

[tomchap]

Great write Kym,

Well perhaps a draft is not necessarily the best and final offering - most poetry benefits from some sort of revision, but the emotion of the moment is a powerfully creative driving force too. I wrote 'The Passing' within hours of the news on my father's death last month. I've looked at it since and have not changed anything.

Your poem expresses great emotion which brings a lump to the throat of anyone who has been even close to that kind of experience.

I probably couldn't recite anything like that in public for fear of losing control.  OK, I'm a 'softie', but I am moved.

Cheers

Tom.

[Irene]

Kym,
Loved your poem! Like Babe, I found it flowed really well, and the rhythm and rhyme excellent!

Again, like the others, I like the idea of putting your own interpretation between the lines - I didn't find it detracted at all from the poem.
I found myself imagining her at a different age at each event, and as an older child or a teenager maybe when she died.

Great work
Catchya
Irene