Sandra Brennan (08/07/65 / Omaha Nebraska)
He carries an umbrella if there is
More than a fifty precent chance of rain.
If it pours, I just get wet,
And stomp in mud puddles for good measure.
He thinks his words out carefully
Before he ever opens his mouth,
Where I am ruled by emotion and say things
Without thinking at all,
Then find myself constantly making amends.
He is linear and I am abstract.
Sometimes I wish I could be more like him,
More sensible, logical, realistic-grounded.
But I think with my heart, and react from my gut,
And my head usually has little to do
With any of my major decisions.
I wonder sometimes if he looks down on me,
Thinks I'm insane, being the way I am.
Yeah-he probably does.
I can't say I blame him.
As a child, while my classmates
Were learning equations, I was busy,
Gazing out windows, and letting
My imagination run wild.
I still do that. All the time.
But...poetry doesn't make him weep,
And great art doesn't send his heart racing,
The way it does mine.
And I wouldn't trade that,
Not for all the common sense in the world.
So there it is, when it comes down to it,
I like who I am just fine,
And I respect, and admire who he is too,
Very much so, and I don't want to change him,
I just wish...I just wish...
He'd stomp in a mud puddle now and then.
Comments about this poem (Mud Puddles by Sandra Brennan )
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley