Baby Pond Options

[Ali zonak]

The Baby Pond
(a poem for inquisitive children and adults)

A stork flew over hill and dale
To bring these words from lands beyond;
Of birds and bees is not this tale,
But little babies in a pond.

It is the womb of unborn babies.
This fertile pool gives life to man;
The stork takes one—or more—to ladies,
Who then must do the best they can.

I learned, by way of lengthy talk,
This feathered, stilt-legged, flying friend
Brings babes to folks with pleasant squawk,
And runs his errands without end.

Cute babies sleep on water lilies;
(They care not about egg or sperm—)
Attended by three fairy dillies
Who want to see them reach full term.

Pretty, Dawn, and Awful are their names.
It’s up to them who leaves the pool
(No one to blame but those three dames,
Should you be parent of a fool).

Pretty and Dawn are sweet and lithe;
Beneath their feet fresh flowers grow,
But fungus trails that Awful sprite—
Each boot conceals one extra toe.

“Awful” she’s called, and so she feels.
An apple makes her mean, at best,
But like a maddened boar she squeals—
When she bears grudges in her chest.

The first two glide along the pond,
But Awful—she just clumps along.
Now Dawn scoops up the cutest blond,
Without a flaw, plain nothing wrong.

While Pretty and Dawn have gifts prepared
With which they’ll send the girl away,
That Awful sprite is love-impaired—
She chomps her apple for the day.

“I have a gift for you,” said Pretty.
“A life that’s rich in love and beauty . . . .”
(“A slap,” so growled the awful biddy,
“Nothing more; we’ve done our duty!”)

She told that babe, fresh off her patch,
“I hate to be the raining cloud,
But beauty? That, I will not match;
With all ten toes—you’re well endowed!”

Her apple splashed into the pool—
She shook the babe and yelled out loud,
“You made me drop it, little fool;
I wish it were stuck in your mouth!”

This was the fairy’s curse, and—lo,
The girl was ‘dressed’ in roast pig fashion;
But Dawn cast forth some fairy glow
And spoke with fervent passion:

“Now hear me, Awful, let me speak:
Cursed apple, leave that mouth—right NOW!
It is my wish that you should seek
The snout of a well-roasted sow.”

Dawn wrapped that bundle of sweet joy,
Tied it with ribbons, a pink bow
(Yes, pink; ‘cause blue goes with a boy).
The stork was ready, set to go.

His wings were strained, but not the will;
He shivered, but stayed true on course
Across the lands in wintry chill—
Oh, it was cold, but sleet is worse.

Through frosted window he could see
A quite old pair (she at the stove).
The stork hailed them and smiled with glee—
Behind the couch that couple dove.

Though tired, the stork still would not rest.
“Madam, has there been dilatation?”
(That is his one maternity test;
He knows nothing about gestation.)

“What? What!” she asked the feathered guest,
Her wailing bringing down the wall.
The man called out, “Is this a jest?
We haven’t planned for this at all!”

“Well,” said the stork, “this babe must stay!
You think I froze my tail for fun?
It’s yours; take care, I’m on my way.
Farewell, good luck, what’s dun is dun.”