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Orphans no more...

Thank you.


HomeschoolingBOYS.com
""
-- a member



Read about the Octa-Tetra club!
Our Members Share Poems


These are some poems that we shared one year on the email group. Enjoy!



"You don't raise heroes, you raise sons. And if you treat them like sons, they'll turn out to be heroes, even if it's just in your own eyes."




From Deanna -- "Here's one about a dad of 3 boys...(I used it in my scrapbook & just used 'mom' in place of 'dad'.)"

My Boys

How dear to me you are, my boys!
How good, how sweet, how fine!
How dear to me you are, my boys,
I'm awfully glad you're mine.

How dear through all the years you've been,
since you were babes, you three.
Through tears, skinned knees, black eyes and all,
you've meant so much to me.

I'm really proud to be your dad,
I'm pleased in all you do.
I'm sure you three would be surprised
how much I brag on you.

Know beauty, truth and honor, boys,
know love and laughter, too.
Know all the joys that life can hold,
to God and self be true.

How dear to me you are, my boys,
and always will you be.
My greatest joy, my greatest pride:
my sons - now men - all three!

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And from Debbie...


God made a world out of His dreams,
of magic mountains, oceans and streams.

Prairies and plains and wooded land,
Then paused and thought "I need someone to stand

on top of the mountains, to conquer the sea,
explore the plains and climb the trees,

someone to start out small and grow
sturdy, strong like a tree" and so...

He created boys, full of spirit and fun
to explore and conquer, to romp and run

with dirty faces, banged up chins,
with courageous hearts and boyish grins.

When he had completed the task He'd begun,
He surely said, "That's a job well done."

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Heather in Arizona offered these for us!
2 1/2 Year Old Boys

Hold him a little longer,
Rock him a little more,
Tell him another story,
(You've only told him four),
Let him sleep on your shoulder
Rejoice in his happy smile,
He's only two-and-a-half,
For such a little while.

___________________________________________ 户户户户户户户户户户 

My Sons
by Ruth Joy

Sticky fingers,
dirty face
rugs and pillows
out of place.
Cars and tractors
here and there,
blocks and boats
everywhere.
Gold and silver
have I none,
but worth a million
are my sons.

___________________________________________ 户户户户户户户户户户 

My dishes went unwashed today
I didn't make the bed;
I took my little one's hand & followed
Where those eager footsteps led.

Oh yes, we went adventuring
My little one and I....
Exploring all the great outdoors
Beneath the summer sky.

We waded in a crystal stream,
We wandered through a wood
My kitchen wasn't swept today
But life was gay and good.

We found a cool, sun-dappled glade
And now my small one knows
How Mother Bunny hides her nest,
Where Jack-in-the-pulpit grows.

We watched a robin feed her young,
We climbed a sunlit hill...
Saw cloud-sheep scamper through the sky
We plucked a daffodil.

That my house was neglected,
That I didn't clean the stairs,
In twenty years, no one on earth
Will know, or even care.

But that I've helped my little one
To noble adulthood grow,
In twenty years, the whole world
May look and see and know.


A Mother's Wages

If I would charge one cent each time
I washed my children's clothes,
Or tied a shoe or gave a bath
Or wiped a runny nose,
Or made a bed or acted as
Their judge or referee,
It would be possible that I
Could live in luxury.

If I were paid a nickel for
Each diaper that I've pinned,
For every Band-Aid I've applied
When arms or legs were skinned,
For every toy that I've picked up
And put back in it's niche,
There wouldn't be a single doubt--
Why, I could be quite rich.

If just one dime would be my fee
For giving them a pill,
For making meals and wiping up
The milk they always spill,
For darning scores of tiny socks,
For fixing things that break,
It wouldn't be too long before
A fortune I would make.

Although it's true I don't receive
A solitary cent,
I'm repaid in many ways
For all the time I've spent.
Their smiles, their love is my reward
For this unending care,
And I am richer, yes, by far
Than any millionaire!

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A Kiss
by Nancy Moore Kelsey

He finds a pencil and marks on the walls.
He climbs on the piano and then he falls.
He upsets the garbage and plays in the ink.
He spills the milk he refuses to drink.
He crawls in the sandbox and plays it's bed.
He refuses to bathe and cries instead.
In short, he wishes to do what he wishes.
He breaks your heart as well as your dishes.
But all is forgiven, all is bliss.
When he comes and gives you a big wet kiss.

___________________________________________ 户户户户户户户户户户 

What is a Boy?

Between the innocence of babyhood and the dignity of manhood, we find a delightful creature of a boy.

Boys come in assorted sizes, weights and colors. But all boys have the same creed: to enjoy every second of every minute of every day and to protest with noise (their only weapon) when their last minute is finished and the adult males pack them off to bed at night!

Boys are found everywhere: on top of, underneath, inside of, climbing on, swinging from, running around, or jumping to. Mothers love them, little girls hate them, older sisters and brothers tolerate them and adults ignore them. A boy is truth with dirt on its face, beauty with a cut on its finger, wisdom with bubble gum in its hair, and the hope of the future with a frog in its pocket. When you are busy, a boy is an inconsiderate, bothersome, intruding jungle of noise.

When you want him to make an impression, his brain turns into jelly or else he becomes a jungle creature, bound on destroying the world, and himself with it. A boy is a composite. He has the appetite of a horse, the digestion of a sword swallower, the imagination of Paul Bunyan, the energy of a pocket-size atomic bomb, the curiosity of a cat, the shyness of a violet, the audacity of a steel trap, the enthusiasm of a fire cracker, and when he make something, he has five thumbs on each hand. He likes ice cream, movies, Christmas, comic books, the boy across the street, woods, water in its natural habitat, large animals, trains, Saturday mornings, and fire engines. He is not much for Sunday school, composing, music lessons, neckties, barbers, girls, overcoats, adults or bedtime.

Nobody else is so early to rise or so late to supper. Nobody else gets so much fun out of trees, dogs, and breezes. Nobody else can cram into one pocket a rusty knife, a half-eaten apple, 3 feet of string, 2 gumdrops, a five-cent slingshot, a chunk of unknown substance, and one supersonic code ring with a secret compartment. A boy is a magical creature--you can lock him out of your workshop, but you can't lock him out of your heart! You can get him out of your study, but you can't lock him out of your mind! Might as well give up! He is your captor, your jailer, your boss, and your master. But when your dreams tumble down and the world is a mess, he can put together the broken pieces in just a twinkle with a few magic words...I LOVE YOU!!

___________________________________________ 户户户户户户户户户户 

Nobody Knows but Mother
by Mary Morrison

How many buttons are missing today?
Nobody knows but Mother.
How many playthings are strewn in her way?
Nobody knows but Mother.
How many thimbles and spools has she missed?
How many burns on each fat little fist?
How many bumps to be cuddled and kissed?
Nobody knows but Mother.

How many hats has she hunted today?
Nobody knows but Mother.
Carelessly hiding themselves in the hay --
Nobody knows but Mother.
How many handkerchiefs wilfully strayed?
How many ribbons for each little maid?
How for her care can a mother be paid?
Nobody knows but Mother.

How many muddy shoes all in a row?
Nobody knows but Mother.
How many stockings to darn, do you know?
Nobody knows but Mother.
How many little torn aprons to mend?
How many hours of toil must she spend?
What is the time when her day's work shall end?
Nobody knows but Mother.

How many lunches for Tommy and Sam?
Nobody knows but Mother.
Cookies and apples and blackberry jam --
Nobody knows but Mother.
Nourishing dainties for every "sweet tooth,"
Toddling Dottie or dignified Ruth --
How much love sweetens the labor, forsooth?
Nobody knows but Mother.

How many cares does a mother's heart know?
Nobody knows but Mother.
How many joys from her mother love flow?
Nobody knows but Mother.
How many prayers for each little white bed?
How many tears for her babes has she shed?
How many kisses for each curly head?
Nobody knows but Mother.

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Monica writes, "After my second child (also a boy) was born six years ago, my mother gave me a small book of poems by Jayne Jaudon Ferrer called I Am The Mother Of Sons. I really like it and go back to read it now and again."
Forgive me,Lord,
for all the tasks
that went undone today.
But this morning when my child
toddled in and said,"Mommy play?"

I simply had to say yes.
And between the puzzles and trucks
and blocks and dolls and old hats and
books and giggles,
we shared a thousand special thoughts,
a hundred hopes and dreams and hugs.

And tonight,when prayer time came
and he folded his hands and softly whispered,
"Thank you,God,for Mommy and Daddy and
toys and French fries, but 'specially
for Mommy playing,"

I knew it was a day well wasted.
And I knew You'd undestand.

--- Jayne Jaudon Ferrer

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I'd Rather
Meredith Gray from The Beauty of Motherhood

I'd rather be a mother
Than anyone on earth -
Bringing up a child or two
Of unpretentious birth

I'd rather tuck a little child
All safe and sound in bed -
Than twine a chain of diamonds
About my foolish head.

I'd rather wash a smudgy face
With round, bright baby eyes -
Than paint the pageantry of fame,
Or walk among the wise.

___________________________________________ 户户户户户户户户户户 
A very special mom, a dear friend from our list, wrote this last one that I share with you all now.
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Today my son wanted to cuddle
-- the laundry went unfolded.

Yesterday we raced through the house playing
"You can't catch me -- yes I can"
-- my floors went unvacuumed.

Tomorrow a friend is coming over, what will she see...

This week my husband is sick
-- I love him

My baby girl needs arms to hold her and a shoulder to rest her sweet head
-- the dishes are piling up

There is wood to heat and fuel the fire in our home

but if there were not

at least our home would be found with warm arms

to catch

to cuddle

and to love

-- and a shoulder to lay your head.


by Brenda Posobiec

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