The Cautious Princess - A Parable

Once upon a time in a faraway land there lived a young princess. Princess Milaeca was a cute little thing, who loved to play, to run, to dance, to sing, and to talk. Her older Princess sisters loved her dearly, as did the King and Queen, her parents. They loved her so much, in fact, that they never wanted to see her get hurt. Whenever she would approach danger of any kind, big or small, they would overreact in order to protect her.

As she grew into childhood, she herself became very fearful of getting hurt, because those around her had always taken such care in attending to her safety.

When she played with other children, she would stand and watch when they did the fun, but potentially dangerous, things that children do. On a trampoline, her feet would barely leave the ground before she had had enough. She feared swings. She wouldn't jump into the fun foam pits that would be set up for children's play during the Kingdom's many festivals. She would always hold hands with a grown-up, and never stray off more than a few metres when they went to the local market.

The people around her began to think of her as cautious, but always acted with her as if she were very, very brave when she would go on a swing and let them push her (just a bit), or stand on a trampoline and carefully lift one leg at a time in a pantomime of jumping, or step gingerly into a foam pit with a look of great accomplishment. So despite being very, very cautious, Princess Milaeca never thought of herself thus.

In fact, in those times when she pushed herself to overcome her fears and get onto the trampoline, the swing, or the edge overlooking the ball pit, she thought of herself as the bravest Princess ever.

And only her father, the King, who was equally cautious as a child understood this. And sure, the King had to live with the memories of having scorn heaped on him by his sisters and his parents and his wicked brothers-in-law (one of whom tried to get him to jump into the pool once for 7 weeks and gave him wedgies), but he nevertheless became a great and accomplished King. (And it never bothered the King that even his mother, his dear, dear mother, the former Queen, who loved him dearly, once called him a 'chicken' to his face. Nor did he remember the incident or refer to it ever again. Even though he sometimes wondered how she could do that to him. How could you? I WAS YOUR SON. YOUR SON...)

Um.

So Princess Milaeca was always safe, always happy, and never ever got hurt. The end.

Learn About 11 Interesting Poetry Forms

In David's continuing quest to enlighten and educate his readership, he today provides information and examples that illustrate eleven fun poetry forms. Information about the poetry forms is from shadowpoetry.com.   

To illustrate the forms, I use the same common and simple verse as an example for each, so that the instructions are as accessible and clear as possible.
 

Acrostic Poem

(where the first letter of each line spells a word)

For Gene, who made the machine, it was a blow
And Joe who made it go, felt some woe
Resulting from Art's part in what came to pass:
The machine's choking end from poison gas.

Ballad

(a short narrative poem with stanzas of two or four lines and usually a refrain)

The Balled of Gene's Machine

Refrain:
Oh Gene, he worked so long
To build his brave machine
And Joe, he made it go
And brought a smile to Gene.

(I)
One day into their town,
Came Art, a steamy lad.
Unbeknownst to Gene and Joe,
His arrival boded bad.

(II) 
A machine's but wires and cogs
And assorted other parts.
It will last for years and years,
Lest exposed to young men's farts. 

(III)
The story's widely known
How Art wrecked Gene's machine.
But what's never been made plain
Is how he also wrecked his jeans.

Cinquain

(a short, usually unrhymed poem consisting of twenty-two syllables distributed as 2, 4, 6, 8, 2, in five lines)

Machine
Young Gene made it
Joe set it in motion
Art passed gas to blow it apart
That stinks

Epitaph

(a brief poem inscribed on a tombstone praising a deceased person, usually with rhyming lines)

Here lies Genes' machine.
Without brain, nor lung, nor heart.
Yet brought to life by Joe,
And destroyed by passing Art.

Haiku

(a Japanese verse consisting of three unrhymed lines of five, seven, and five syllables)

Soul of nuts and bolts
Made to go by Gene and Joe
Blown apart by Art

Lanturne

(a five-line verse shaped like a Japanese lantern with a syllabic pattern of 1-2-3-4-1)

Gene's

machine.

Joe pushed go.

Art's fart made it

stop.

Limerick

(a rhymed humorous or nonsense poem of five lines and a set rhyme scheme and syllable structure)

Gene designed a machine from some parts
His friend Joe was the guy who pushed 'start' 
Art, a sometimes third pal
Wasn't feeling so well
And blew Gene's work apart with his farts.

Monorhyme 

(a poem in which all the lines have the same end rhyme)

A guy named Eugene
Built  himself a machine.
His friend Joe joined the scene,
To hit the 'start' on its screen.
It roared to life nice and clean,
With a glowing proud sheen.

Art, also there, but unseen,
With distress in his spleen,
Caused by one extra bean,
In his Southwest cuisine,
Made a fart most obscene,
That best fit a latrine.

One can't intervene,
Once parts start to careen,
Here, there, and between,
Like a child on caffeine.
So soon naught stood where there'd been
The device so pristine.

(So said the news magazine)

Nonet

(has nine lines. The first line has 9 syllables, the second line 8 syllables, the third line 7 syllables, etc...)

Young Gene made a really nice machine
Friend Joe spent time to make it go
Art flatulated with zest
Thus rendering Gene's work
Out of commission
Until such time
Gene can fix
It all
Up.

Palindrome Poetry

(a poem that reads the same forward or backward)

Art
Is farting
Thus blowing machines
Blowing thus,
Farting is
Art

Tyburn

(a 6 line poem consisting of 2, 2, 2, 2, 9, 9 syllables. The first 4 lines rhyme and are all descriptive words. The last 2 lines rhyme and incorporate the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th lines as the 5th through 8th syllables)

Glowing
Flowing
Knowing
Blowing
Gene devises glowing, flowing part.
Art breaks without knowing, blowing fart.

If Soft Parenting is a Crime, I am Guilty Guilty Guilty

I'll be the first to admit that all three of my daughters have suffered needlessly and silently as a result of
soft parenting.

My wife and I are soft parents. There. I said it. I'll leave it to my better-half to confirm or deny.

My older daughters, now off in University, bear the scars of having been raised by softies. Sure, they're intelligent, confident, hard-working (when they feel like it), kind, fun-loving, generous and all-around good people (not to mention beautiful, but that might be less about the parenting and more about the parentage). But they're also

• a tiny bit - and I do mean just a tiny bit - sensitive, in absolutely the sweetest way possible;
• a smidge competitive (not the kind that makes you compete hard; the kind that makes you dislike not winning even when you didn't compete hard);
• a wee bit fond of being pampered (at least around their parents). 

On that latter point, I will say this in defense of my inclination to pamper the women and girls in my life: I pamper with a purpose. It's part of a very well thought-out strategy. I pamper, I cater, and I indulge - and in return I get to have not let them down. A fair trade indeed.

Once, when my eldest was little, she wanted eggs. She felt like eggs. We had no eggs in the house. Her eyes started to water. She really wanted eggs. I went out and bought eggs from the grocery store. End of story. The hurricane raging outside, as it turns out, did not kill me. The thought of my little daughter, who really really wanted eggs and was close to tears, nearly did.

My second daughter probably got pampered too, although I can't remember any specifics. (Like grains of sand on the beach, who can recall but one of them?)

And I'm fairly sure my five-year old is feeling the effects of soft parenting as well. I don't really have the will (or the space) to list all the examples, so I'll instead share a few symptoms:

• We play ALL the time (thanks to whomever told her that her work is play) and when I don't want to play anymore she explains to me that that's not really an option;
• When she has to go to bed, she's genuinely puzzled and troubled by the fact that I get to stay up later than she does;
• When we do the 1-2-3 thing, while it works, she'd be hard-pressed to explain why;
• When we give her a time limit on something, she's okay with it as long as we don't set a timer (timers follow-through, her parents not so much); 
• When she's at the dinner table and needs something, rather than getting up to fetch it herself, she simply makes her needs known and expects me to go get it for her (no wait...that's her older sisters I'm thinking of...but how could I have attributed something they used to do so long ago to Micaela......no wait...)

Point is, I'm a soft parent. I know it. They know it. The two or three people who read my blog now know it too.

But lest you leave here today thinking that I'm completely spineless I will tell you that there are three times when I am not a soft parent:

• At bed time. That's when Daddy gets stubborn. That's when tears don't work. That's when bargains cannot be struck. Don't bother fighting Daddy at bedtime.
• When something matters to me. Very, very occasionally, something matters and I dig in my heels. I get angry. I get stubborn. Those are the times when all of the women I live with know to just back away. It doesn't happen often - because it usually involves the Leafs and the playoffs - but when it does...
• When there's a spider that can't be ignored. Daddy won't do that for you. Don't even ask.

Just remember, soft parenting may be why today's children feel so entitled and are so ill-prepared for the harshness of life outside the nest, but at least it keeps them coming back to the nest. Soft parents like that.