Friday, January 11, 2013


Found this poem, "Momma, Who Will Bake Us Some Bread," while digging through my old files.

By Roni Bell

One day I was thinking of an ego spree,
something fancy free.
You know,
no responsibility.
So I decided to cop-out, plop out, block-out,
the work-in, discipline, situation,
I felt I was in.
Quit bakin' the bread,
to make some bread.
Put away the crock-pot,
started smokin' pot.
Forgot about the good deeds,
to get high on the in-speeds.
Striked for higher pay,
My union, built a new hall today.
Robbed another man
of the money he made.
So I could continue
my identity search way,
I hitch hiked through life
like a burr on a dog.
Scratching and prick'n
my own free ride.
To get some  praise,
I lectured on the ecology faze.
My children were whisked off,
on another to raise.
The voice of my tiny tot,
brought me to a stop,
when she tearfully said,
"Momma, who will back us some bread?"
Then I realized,
as I looked in her eyes,
that an ego spree,
simply wasn't for me.
Play dough for the children,
is the kind I'll make.
Weeds I'd rather pull,
`cause smokin' `em
takes its toll.
It's fun to be
the little one's heroine,
than dead,
on the pushers heroin.
My children,
they laugh and color,
swing and sing,
hug their mother.
They loose teeth by degrees,
learn ABC's,
scrape their knees,
all of which,
I'm there to see.
Teach them to thread a needle,
sooth an ego,
pray for ALL people,
they then will be,
the citizens we need.
So do your thing.
Burn your bra if you must.
No one whistles,
at an angry bust.
You've come a long way baby.
Who's tending your home?
My monuments will be living,
yours carved out of stone.

Roni Bell   (c) Copyright March 3, 1977

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