Tag Archives: poems about children and parents

Woinshet by Sarah Dunster

Woinshet

Bud of the vine, you came to me.
They named you Woinshet.
Let me see your hand; it is a sweet
soft shadow on mine. You brown ibex, leaping;
your dark eyes will laugh and roll to the side
when a stranger passes,
and your small throat is beating.
A coil, a doodle on my fingertip,
a card of silken fibers standing out on your crown.
You dart away with a quick high skip.
My yearning, and my hand that almost touches–
so close; an inch away, with the promise
of velvet, and the smell of fertile lands
that never lost their families–
They knew your throaty laugh.
Your toes–ten little nubbles–
dug in. You balanced twenty
sticks of firewood on your hip.

Now mine, you run on pavement.
You wear your hair with yellow candy
that clicks with every skip.
You take your weight in water;
water for the vine, my bud. My daughter.

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Sarah Dunster is the  mother of six children, age eight and under. They are adorable, and they bring light to her life, but writing is what keeps her sane.  Poetry has always been the essential way that Sarah connects to her own emotions through writing. In addition to poetry and fiction, Sarah’s hobbies and interests include (but are not limited to), singing, skiing, guitar, piano, environmentalism, psychology, and Toblerone.

For other poems Sarah has published on WIZ, search on her name in the search bar at the bottom of the navigation column on the left-hand side of the screen.

Photo: Emily Dunster, Sarah’s sister, took the above portrait photo of Sarah’s daughter Woinshet to accompany this poem.  Definitely click into the picture for a larger view.

Her Father’s Critique by Steven L. Peck

She painted herself
into the landscape. On
a canvas she had
magicked from deep-self,
April sunlight streamed
from the clouds
in spectacular, uncanny, rays—
immaterial matter,
soul stuff made flesh.

She brought it to her
father who pointed out
how she should have
painted the sunbeams with
more yellow—
pointing to a maudlin
mountain scene,
hung ceremoniously on
a well-manicured wall—
an oil anyone could have techniqued
with hackneyed accuracy. That’s
how it should be done he said, then
turned away.

He missed the remarkable
enchantment of his
little girl capturing light mixed with
quintessence and vital
spirits
spilling onto canvass.

Unable to penetrate
his cataracts,
she spread Platinum White
over the surface
and put down her brushes.

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To read Steven’s bio and more of his poems published on WIZ go here, here, here, here, and here.

*contest entry*