Category Archives: Poetry

Feb 26, 2013

The Little Blue Truck

Posted by Daddy on Feb 26, 2013 at 8:57 am

The little blue truck brought flowers to the grave
and returned to me empty, but full of sadness.

The little blue truck sits by my side,
and reminds me of a boy who doesn’t anymore.

The little blue truck reminds me of a stolen dream.
I have others, but each is priceless to me.

The little blue truck carries my harmonica
Sometimes I play songs to a boy who cannot hear them anymore.

The little blue truck belongs to a boy
who never knew its ceramic comfort.

The little blue truck is one of my most treasured possessions,
and I wish I’d never seen it.

The little blue truck rides on streets of gold,
driven by a golden-haired boy
through the goldest of my daydreams.

2 Comments | Category: Poetry
Feb 20, 2012

To Lose a Child

Posted by Mommy on Feb 20, 2012 at 11:36 pm

“To lose a child … was something that could end one’s world. One could never get back to how it was before. The stars went out. The moon disappeared. The birds became silent.” – Alexander McCall Smith

No Comments | Category: Poetry
May 2, 2011


Posted by Daddy on May 2, 2011 at 11:53 pm

Troy Eckhardt

I whisper his name
but it’s not a prayer.
It’s and ache and a hope.

I study his image
but it’s not worship.
It’s a longing and a joy.

I stoop to touch one
once beside me
and feel,
yawning where he stood,
as bottomless as time.

Holes are meant to be filled.

But not now, not yet.

I honor his absence.
I cherish the vacuum.
It’s a grief and a comfort.


Nothing but him will fit in it.

1 Comment | Category: Poetry
Apr 28, 2011

God’s Lent Child

Posted by Mommy on Apr 28, 2011 at 10:43 pm

Jesus with a Small Child

“I’ll lend you for a little while
A child of mine” God said –
For you to love the while he lives
and mourn for when he’s dead.
It may be six or seven years
or forty two or three
but will you, till I call him back,
take care of him for me?

He’ll bring his charms to gladden you
and, should his stay be brief,
you’ll have his nicest memories
as solace for his grief.
I cannot promise he will stay,
since all from earth return
but, there are lessons taught below,
I want this child to learn.

I’ve looked the whole world over,
in my search for teachers true,
and from the things that crowd life’s lane
I have chosen you.
Now will you give him all your love,
nor think the labour vain,
nor hate me when I come to take
this lent child back again?

I fancied that I heard them say,
“Dear Lord Thy Will Be Done”
for all the joys thy child will bring
the risk of grief we’ll run.
We’ll shelter him with tenderness,
we’ll love him while we may,
and for the happiness we’ve known
forever grateful stay.
But, should thy Angels call for him
much sooner than we planned,
we’ll brave the grief that comes
and try to understand.

No Comments | Category: Poetry
Apr 26, 2011

Oh, Say Not That Your Little Son Is Dead

Posted by Daddy on Apr 26, 2011 at 11:15 pm

“Oh, say not that your little son is dead;
The word too harsh and much too hopeless seems,
Believe, instead,
That he has left his little trundle bed
To climb the hills
Of morning, and to share the joy that fills
God’s pleasant land of dreams.

“Nay, say not that your little son is dead.
It is not right, because it is not true.
Believe, instead,
He has but gone the way that you must tread,
And, smiling, waits
In loving ambush by those pearly gates,
To laugh and leap at you.

“No knight that does you service can be dead;
Nor idle is this young knight gone before.
Believe, instead,
Upon an envoy’s mission he hath sped
That doth import
Your greatest good; for he at heaven’s court
Is your ambassador.”

— T. A. Daly —

No Comments | Category: Poetry
Apr 26, 2011

Baby’s Grave

Posted by Daddy on at 11:14 pm

Amid all the whirl and dizziness of life’s tragedy, in which creation seems to be but one great cloud, I find myself suddenly brought to a sweet baby’s grave. A gray old church, a gurgling stream, a far-spreading thorn tree on a green hillock, and a grave on the sunny southerly side. That is it. Thither I hasten night and day, and in patting the soft grass I feel as if conveying some sense of love to the little sleeper far down. Do not reason with me about it; let the wild heart, in its sweet delirium of love, have all its own way.

Baby was but two years old when, like a dewdrop, he went up to the warm sun, yet he left my heart as I have seen ground left out of which a storm had torn a great tree. We talk about the influence of great thinkers, great speakers, and great writers; but what about the little infant’s power? Oh, child of my heart, no poet has been so poetical, no soldier so victorious, no benefactor so kind, as thy tiny, unconscious self. I feel thy soft kiss on my withered lips Just now, and would give all I have for one look of thy dreamy eyes. But I cannot have it.

Yet God is love. Not dark doubt, not staggering argument, not subtle sophism, but child-death, especially where there is but one, makes me wonder and makes me cry in pain. Baby! baby! I could begin the world again without a loaf or a friend if I had but thee; such a beginning, with all its hardships, would be welcome misery. I do not wonder that the grass is green and soft that covers that little grave, and that the summer birds sing their tenderest notes as they sit on the branches of that old hawthorn tree.

My God! Father of mine, in the blue heavens, is not this the heaviest cross that can crush the weakness of man? Yet that green grave, not three feet long, is to me a great estate, making me rich, with wealth untold. I can pray there. There I meet the infant angels; there I see all the mothers whose spirits are above; and there my heart says strange things in strange words — Baby, I am coming, coming soon! Do you know me? Do you see me? Do you look from sunny places down to this cold land of weariness? Oh, baby, sweet, sweet baby, I will try for your sake to be a better man; I will be kind to other little babies, and tell them your name, and sometimes let them play with your toys; but, oh, baby, baby, my old heart sobs and breaks.

— Dr. Joseph H. Parker —

No Comments | Category: Poetry
Apr 5, 2011

The Day

Posted by Daddy on Apr 5, 2011 at 2:01 pm

The Day
Troy Eckhardt

A day like many others and horribly unique
amid the other seven: an ordinary week.

The family was busy, engaged in weekend tasks
and building childhood memories just as in weekends past.

The toil was fulfilling. The company was great.
Each member had a purpose in the duties on that date.

A task not on the checklist, completed on that day
has filled our hearts with sadness since the time you went away.

Our feeble hearts were broken but you also made us proud
as your journey took you northward past the treeline and the clouds.

We know that you are happy and you’ll never be alone
for you met the Great Redeemer when the angel bore you home.

Very soon we’ll be there with you – in a circle holding hands,
when the last of us finds shelter far beyond the Shadowlands.

No Comments | Category: Poetry
Mar 20, 2011

Weeble Be Good

Posted by Daddy on Mar 20, 2011 at 11:26 pm

Weeble Be Good

Weeble Be Good
Troy Eckhardt

Deep down Louisiana
        Do you remember, Weeble?
close to New Orleans
        That trip we took
Way back up in the woods
        in that beautiful blue Cadillac
among the evergreens
        with the shiny chrome?

There stood a log cabin
        The wind in our hair
made of earth and wood
        and the Burma Shave signs?
Where lived a country boy
        Our warm flannel shirts flapped
named Johnny B. Goode
        and the friendly bridge tender waved.

Who never ever learned
        Life was fine and the nostalgia was sweet.
to read or write so well
        Though not as sweet as it is to me now.
But he could play the guitar
        Now I live for the future time
just like a-ringin’ a bell.
        when we’ll ride together again.

Go Weeble Go.

No Comments | Category: Poetry