A Bucket Of Esteem

She grew up a happy child…in a happy home…
her own wonderland.
She loved nothing more than to walk the beach and play with her bucket in the sand.

Her parents allowed her to be happy, to play, to think…to dream
and turned her bucket in the sand…
into a bucket of esteem.

They began too fill her bucket with things they thought worthwhile.
In it they would drop a touch…a hug…a kiss…a smile…

Every moment spent together…doing nothing…having fun
watching clouds, counting stars…playing in the sun.

And everything they ever said to her…meant to make her smile
meant to make her dream…
seemed to find a home…in her bucket of esteem.

Wow! I'm proud of you! Great job! …You're reaching for the sky!
I knew you could do it! I trust you! Congratulations! …Nice try!

As her bucket began to fill up…and then to overflow
the smile never left her face and her esteem began to grow.

Today her parents look at her and smile…
and if you happen to ask them why…
they'll say: We're confident whatever happens…
Her bucket will never run dry.

And so I wonder:

As we think about how to raise our children…
how to help them to be happy…
how to help them dream…
Perhaps the best gift we could give them…
is a bucket of esteem.

by Jim Yerman

Comments (2)

Great poem displaying fantastic flight of imagery.
............an intriguing write... In Youth I have Known One How often we forget all time, when lone Admiring Nature's universal throne; Her woods - her winds - her mountains - the intense Reply of Hers to Our intelligence! I. In youth I have known one with whom the Earth In secret communing held - as he with it, In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth: Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth A passionate light - such for his spirit was fit - And yet that spirit knew - not in the hour Of its own fervour - what had o'er it power. II. Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought To a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er, But I will half believe that wild light fraught With more of sovereignty than ancient lore Hath ever told - or is it of a thought The unembodied essence, and no more That with a quickening spell doth o'er us pass As dew of the night time, o'er the summer grass? III. Doth o'er us pass, when as th' expanding eye To the loved object - so the tear to the lid Will start, which lately slept in apathy? And yet it need not be - (that object) hid From us in life - but common - which doth lie Each hour before us - but then only bid With a strange sound, as of a harpstring broken T' awake us - 'Tis a symbol and a token - IV. Of what in other worlds shall be - and given In beauty by our God, to those alone Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven Drawn by their heart's passion, and that tone, That high tone of the spirit which hath striven Though not with Faith - with godliness - whose throne With desperate energy 't hath beaten down; Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown. Edgar Allan Poe