Teen daughter recently said, your writing is sanguine but serious,
She suggested, I write something simple and spontaneous,
Not didactic, yet delicious,
Preferably funny and humorous.
I promised to try.
But mostly to get by.
She has given me a task tough,
As if my writing is not enough.
Our children are our biggest critic,
Some say, they, us mimic.
I think they develop their uniqueness,
In some traits we might see likeness,
In others, clear individualistic starkness,
But surely, unabashed perkiness.
Our dear children that we have had the privilege to rear,
Soon become harbingers of new ideas from far and near.
Not on everything do we see eye to eye,
But fresh perspectives open new doors by and by.
As our children grow,
One wishes time would slow.
Yet, like a river, in a rapid flow,
Time takes no holiday to halt or know.
To its wishes we can just bow,
Memories and moments are all we can stow.
As parents, we slowly learn to let go,
Though, this field is not easy to plow.
Since no one can slow or cease time,
And cannot buy or barter with precious dime.
One learns-every day is prime,
The unknowns are too sublime.
Every year, as the candles on the cakes rise,
And milestones mold and surprise,
I flashback from infancy to toddlers to teens and more,
Years have had pleasures and pains, like any story and lore.
Since many events are without a reason or rhyme,
Happiness is not for another season or clime.
Here and now is the only time,
Before the game ends in grime.