Posts Tagged ‘Dad’



My doll was made from scraps of wood

Dad carved in fine detail.

Her head was polished to a sheen,

And swiveled on a nail.


Her limbs were carved from sassafras,

Then  loosely wired in place.

Her hair was made from yellow yarn.

Mom’s art work made her face.


Her clothes were made from muslin scraps.

The belt, a ribbon braid.

Her shoes were made from slippers

Of softest doeskin suede.


She even had a nice wardrobe

Mom made with greatest care,

Including coat, and matching hat,

To top her yellow hair.


Hours were spent in make-believe,

Just the doll and myself,

And now this memory from my past,

Sits high upon the shelf.


She may have been just polished wood,

Without a heart or soul,

But I felt warmth when cuddling her . . .

‘Twas her intended role.


12/13/91     Phyllis DeWitt VanVleck

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          GOLDEN CURLS


Golden curls upon the floor,

He’s not a baby anymore.

His baby look went with that gold,

And Mama wept when she was told.


‘Twas Dad’s surprise for Mom and child,

To cut that hair and have it styled.

And when she saw her little lad,

She may have smiled but still felt sad.


If she could glue those curls in place

She’d frame them ‘round his little face,

Instead she puts them in a book,

And smiles at her small son’s new look.


3/10/96         Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

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He doesn’t hear his Mother call

When he’s engrossed in play.

He doesn’t hear a thing she says,

Like, “Clean your room today.”


But when she whispers to his Dad,

“McDonald’s where we’ll eat,”

If he’s a block away he’ll come

Like fire’s at his feet.


When Mother asks, “Is homework done?”

Or, “Did you break this vase?”

It seems the child has gone stone-deaf.

No clue’s upon his face.


But when there’s secrets to be told

Mom hopes he has not heard,

His hearing is acute, of course,

He heard each whispered word.


When Mom commands, “Go wash your hands,”

Or, “Please pick up that mess,”

The fact of does he hear or not

Is anybody’s guess.


Then, rooms away, in muffled voice,

Are words , “The Ice Cream Store.”

His hearing’s back, I guarantee;

He’s waiting at the door.



8/20/93       Phyllis DeWitt VanVleck


5’th … Indiana NPD 1994

1’st … Arkansas NPD 1997

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Just old boards and rusted chains

The old swing hanging there

It’s hardly ever used now

But saw its time of wear


‘Twas there Dad held hands with Mom

As groom and lovely bride

And through the years it also held

Six children at their side


There I rocked my dolls to sleep

Or so I would pretend

And there I giggled endlessly

With Crystal, my best friend


Whenever I was punished

And thinking life unfair

I’d swing awhile in its arms

While seeking solace there


On moonlit summer evenings

My Mom sat in the swing

And as it moved back and forth

I’d hear her hum and sing


Then I would sit beside her

Being quiet as could be

And listen to her sweet soft voice

Singing old-time songs for me


My Grandpa often sat there

As he sprinkled the grass

Chewing wads of Granger Twist

And spitting with rural class


The swing was witness to my muse

Yes, almost every time

It was the perfect place for me

And my attempts at rhyme


So fertile seeds of poetry

Were sown in that old swing

As sitting there, deep in thought

I rhymed most everything.


Initials are carved on its arms

In hearts that entwine

Symbols of my first romance

(A hand grooved valentine)


And as I entered dating years

I’d sit with current beau

Saying things that sweethearts say

While swinging to and fro


There I received a diamond

On a warm starlit night

For such a romantic evening

The old swing seemed just right 


Three generations of infants

Were cuddled on the swing

Memories recall for each of us

The lullabies we’d sing


It often held our neighbors

Who came to chat a spell

If the swing had a memory

What stories it could tell


The old boards and rusted chains

Will soon be tossed away

But I’ll remember throughout life

That swing of yesterday



6/18/88        Phyllis DeWitt VanVleck

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Shane’s Declaration

This is a true story of a relative, who shall remain nameless. RIGHT!




The children stood upon the stage

Each holding words upon a page

In turn they read a line or two

On what their Daddy’s always do


One Dad fought crime, and one fought fires

One farmed land, and one sold tires

Shane was nervous when his turn came

And couldn’t remember his own name


Poor Shane’s courage was almost gone

So the congregation clapped him on

But he’d lost the paper that he had

So the Preacher prodded the little lad


What does your Dad do every day?

Shane thought a bit on what to say

Then the little boy in Sunday clothes

Yelled out, “My daddy picks his nose!”

Phyllis A. DeWitt-VanVleck

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