My Son John
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My son, John, was an engaging fellow, who was barely ten years old;
And liked frogs, marbles and playing ball, in luscious, noontime gold.
My son, John, was rather a dreamer, like the lazy cloud, sky features.
My son, John, was a leader, like a plum sky moon, flying by meteors.
John was our youngest child, very loved by his sisters, father and me;
Like the richest time of day, when cobalt sea, and mirrored sky agree.
John loved hot, stuffed dumplings, oftentimes sold by street vendors;
Who would cry, 'Diddle, diddle, diddle dumpling!' Delicious splendors!
Fall faceted a pretty, false face, in its old guise of hot, Indian summer,
As John and his fellows frolicked in its fields, near red, rose stunners.
Family was familiar, like moonlit fireflies, in flashy hours of berry sun,
As all paused for the fierce, flaming encore, like wildflower confusion!
We lived in the house of sunlit afternoon, like shadows growing long.
Without, pink jays flew to evergreen rest, midst their manic birdsong.
Sweet Williams sashayed with sultry wind, on our starry, street of jade;
And juicy, red strawberries grew plump, as clouds caused sun to fade.
Nearness facilitated nice neighborliness, in our locale of southern charm,
Where visits were a part of nebulous night annals. Also pies, still warm!
Spring cuckoo flowers, weary of noting gold hours, let minty summer in,
When creamy, sneezewort caught fervid chills, inside the green mansion.
Shaggy soldier blooms were marching, to the beat of tangerine breeze,
While little sapphire flowers were sparkling, beneath tall, mossy trees.
One day, we woke to find, John was missing from vivid home, and chores.
We fretted and searched, to no avail, like scarlet, shooting stars of yore.
We found his chores all done, much later! Then I found him asleep in bed.
He looked funny lying thus, dumpling on his table, crumbs on his spread.
My son, John, was a winsome, happy lad, who'd walked for miles to town;
After saving money he'd earned. His heirs learnt the tale, at red sundown!
My son, John, was responsible and caring-he hadn't neglected his chores;
As butterscotch sun doesn't tend to neglect, the violet blooms he adores!
My son, John was our youngest, yet on goals, he'd learnt to stay focused;
Like feeling moon's gaze, before you have noticed, powdery with stardust.
'Diddle, Diddle Dumpling, My son John, went to bed with his trousers on,
One shoe off and one shoe on, Diddle, Diddle Dumpling, Diddle, Diddle Dumpling, My son John.'
Copyright © Evelyn Judy Buehler | Year Posted 2024
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