Poem: Seamstress


by June Nash


Seamstress sits in chair

Other’s clothes repair

While dressed in old rags

Of good deeds she brags


It tears at her heart

When they fall apart

Her family and friends

Their ailments must mend


Takes thread from her soul

To make others whole

Creating a run

In own fabric spun


Takes no time to darn

Repairing the harm

Stays a wee bit frayed

Her peace for theirs trade


Until a mere rag

Across own rips sag

Seamstress sits in chair

Other’s woes repair

Poem: Dumb Blonde

Dumb Blonde

by June Nash


Here’s a story of a girl named June

Cute little blonde, a bit late to bloom

Got attention flaunting empty head

Though brain alive, she feigned it was dead


Started quite young, all said it was cute

Made people smile, she thought it a hoot

Dumb blondes aren’t born, they are created

Raised to be cute, later berated


“You are stupid,” several friends would blurt

Though knew not true, left her feelings hurt

Set out to prove that she wasn’t dense

Went back to school, studied for some sense


Years of acting, hard habit to break

Airhead antics, difficult to shake

Path not easy, but got her degree

Thought that enough, but still wasn’t free


Impress her worth on others she tried

Pains unnoticed, in silence she cried

In time she learned that which she needed

Believe in self, care not how treated


Poem: Too Busy for Fun

Too Busy for Fun

I was busy, lots to be done

No time for hobbies or things fun

So I put aside crafts and things

Focused on loftier doings


I’d sit and ponder tasks at hand

Sit and sit, but never to stand

I started up a game or two

Of solitaire, that’s all I’d do


No time for games, I need to quit

But vague forces drive me to it.

Eventually, eyes crossed and sore

I’d take a break, tackle a chore


Why can’t I focus on my work

Why from commitments do I shirk

To self responded, to self said

If can’t have fun, rather be dead

 June Nash


Working on a project that I needed to complete, I put aside my various hobbies that allow me to shut down my mind.

Deprived of my hobbies, I found that I was drawn to solitaire.  What starts out as a quick game, becomes compulsive.  Playing first one game, then two, then twelve.

My hobbies allow me to focus on a repetitious task, similar to playing solitaire.  The difference is that I feel renewed and have something to show for my time when occupied with a hobby.  Solitaire does nothing except eat up time.

When deprived of normal pastimes, I become driven to other means of relaxation.

Poem: I’m A Weed

Self Portrait
Digital Self Portrait, using SketchBookExpress

I’m A Weed


I’m a weed, hearty and strong.

Went to school, didn’t belong.

Teachers want us pruned and tamed.

Tried to heed.  To sit still aimed.


I’m a weed.  My roots grew strong.

Teachers said ‘Doing it wrong!’.

Pushing through, inquisitive.

Weeds, it seems, quite intrusive.


I’m a weed, once a flower.

Over beds, my leaves tower.

In today’s garden, don’t fit in.

Is being different such a sin?

June Nash

We seem to live in an era where everyone is expected to fit into a mold.  Children who do not fit easily into these molds are often wonderful kids.  They are like weeds.  Wild flowers, they grow strong, even if a bit out of control.  These kids are our future.  We cannot pluck them out of our schools and toss them in the compost pile.  Or worse yet, spray them with poison to keep them under control.