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Toby Lucas Jul 2016
Prowling through the undergrowth
In our barging juggernaut,
Ploughing the rolling hills of water,
Which crease as the narrowboat sluggishly gliding past,
Brushes the bulrushes like a tiger in the reeds.

For four intrepid days
Our film and photographs are empty to show,
No sign, only missed whispers,
Of the hummingbird blue blur.

A darting flash cresting the morning chill,
Regal turquoise stealthily steals
Our attention, our focus, and our tiller
Noses toward the bank hugger.

And we have him.

Small amber-royal fisherman,
Eclipsing his heron heralds
And the swans silent vigil
In majestic lapis lazuli.
Swift and sure he graces the water,
Fisher King,
Which bends beneath his dive.
Resurfacing, his golden breast
Mottled with silver minnow.

There recluse in his exclusive spot,
Fish foundering still in the ******,
The kingfisher's poise frames his catch
Aperture, shutter, captured shot.
Spotting a kingfisher from a canal boat - Summer 2016
Through the vales to my love!
  To the happy small nest of home
Green from basement to roof;
  Where the honey-bees come
To the window-sill flowers,
  And dive from above,
Safe from the spider that weaves
  Her warp and her woof
In some outermost leaves.

Through the vales to my love!
  In sweet April hours
  All rainbows and showers,
While dove answers dove,--
  In beautiful May,
When the orchards are tender
  And frothing with flowers,--
  In opulent June,
When the wheat stands up slender
  By sweet-smelling hay,
And half the sun's splendour
  Descends to the moon.

Through the vales to my love!
  Where the turf is so soft to the feet,
  And the thyme makes it sweet,
And the stately foxglove
  Hangs silent its exquisite bells;
  And where water wells
The greenness grows greener,
  And bulrushes stand
Round a lily to screen her.

Nevertheless, if this land,
  Like a garden to smell and to sight,
Were turned to a desert of sand,
  Stripped bare of delight,
  All its best gone to worst,
For my feet no repose,
  No water to comfort my thirst,
And heaven like a furnace above,--
  The desert would be
  As gushing of waters to me,
The wilderness be as a rose,
  If it led me to thee,
  O my love!
--To C. M.


Fountains that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Pools that the breezes crinkle;
The wheel beside the mill,
With its wet, weedy frill;
Wind-shadows in the wheat;
A water-cart in the street;
The fringe of foam that girds
An islet's ferneries;
A green sky's minor thirds--
To live, I think of these!

Of ice and glass the ******,
Pellucid, silver-shrill;
Peaches without a wrinkle;
Cherries and snow at will,
From china bowls that fill
The senses with a sweet
Incuriousness of heat;
A melon's dripping sherds;
Cream-clotted strawberries;
Dusk dairies set with curds--
To live, I think of these!

Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves a-twinkle
With windlets clear and still;
The feel of a forest rill
That wimples fresh and fleet
About one's naked feet;
The muzzles of drinking herds;
Lush flags and bulrushes;
The chirp of rain-bound birds--
To live, I think of these!

Envoy

Dark aisles, new packs of cards,
Mermaidens' tails, cool swards,
Dawn dews and starlit seas,
White marbles, whiter words--
To live, I think of these!
I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way,
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,
And gentle odours led my steps astray,
Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
Its green arms round the ***** of the stream,
But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,
Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flower that never sets;
Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets—
Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth—
Its mother’s face with Heaven’s collected tears,
When the low wind, its playmate’s voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
Green cowbind and the moonlight-coloured may,
And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine
Was the bright dew, yet drained not by the day;
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,
With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;
And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold,
Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.

And nearer to the river’s trembling edge
There grew broad flag-flowers, purple pranked with white,
And starry river buds among the sedge,
And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowers
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
That the same hues, which in their natural bowers
Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours
Within my hand,—and then, elate and gay,
I hastened to the spot whence I had come,
That I might there present it!—Oh! to whom?
Edward Coles Mar 2015
You push me under
the river water,
the rumble strip,
the war-torn manger.

Appear on the small screen,
you slow me down
in this inch-drawn recovery.
We are still human.
Still human.

You pin me down
to distant dreams,
to the patient quick,
the train-stop silence.

Appear in the doorway,
the hangman's wedding;
homeless ribbons and bows
for the missing persons of the world.

You gave us our depression.
We wore it as a badge of honour.

You keep me far
to relinquish confusion,
a hall of mirrors-
empty basket in the bulrushes.

Appear as a melody
spinning loops through my wrists,
a one-way confession-
loose confetti, falling ash;
ash after ember,
warmth after rain.
C
st64 Feb 2014
in the silver of morn, little bird joyful trills
five lines remain blank
the notes won't play on
its breathe lies below the sand
where tranquil bulrushes grow


1.
in the hue of sombre afternoon
    knees drawn up to chest
    memories intent on knocking loud
cold harbour between these sheets
   no blotting out that light -- it has to be faced
there's no silver in the clouds.. so bulbous and so there
only a tie on the path


2.
can you please let me be?
need to be left alone a while
while I clean up the righteous-mess of this dread
           hours to make me presentable before that
which must be lived through

smiles can be pasted on.. by old-habit, so well-mastered
it's an old tale caught in a twist by its own wick'd-tail
perhaps some gale to shake up the roster
and relieve from parallel track.. liberate
surely, they can hear the stylised bass-chords inside me
             leave their odd-resonance
boom.. boom

3.
treble is missing..
your laughter, I can still hear your tinkling-laughter
         even as I see you being lowered slowly, slowly, slowly
s l o w l y
down into the bowels of where we all go to rest one day
you take with you.. the *one clef
needed for clarity to live

shut eyes tight against that bright-red insolence
        struggle with the process of accepting the impossible
reliving anguish through swollen eyes in a clip of vision
imposing terror.. grips tummy-muscles and twists
eternally deforming galaxial-dust in my eyes


4.
in the grey of eve.. no hunger, no thirst
    place food in mouth - must
    shove fluids down constricted-throat - must
..baking sun waves at me, setting in gilt-smiles

clean out the navy-attic of my overdrawn-mind
find your blue bubblegum on the counter
and suddenly, my arms are clad in shivers-cold
                       head is spinning
I pick up the morsel, turn it over and unwrap
stare at it, discovering you.. again
tears well but never fall..
         I place the gum inside
         chew and chew and chew....................
it is you.. not lost
place the bubblegum on silver wrapping
'cause the clouds.. they offer no solution

I have to eat, my hunger grew
my sanity is toast


5.
yes, smiles can be pasted on.. by old-habit
        but not this time
why let love be secured so.. then harshness steps in
to wrench away.. leaving such monstrous-gaps?
perhaps it's safe to just.. not love..
close up the heart - pack away in congelator

(weird.. a heart is just a piece of meat)
love-letters and sweet-poems are for the eyeless
hearts for eyes.. render blind-suite
tenderly hack out these.. hack, hack!



the only remnant now.. a hard-ball of gum found stuck
      hid as a half-moon under the pedestal


still.. earth turns again
          birds sing on

your laughter never lost.. completes the score
        the symphony unfolds
as sage doth reveal..
one step at a time :)



S T -  14 Feb 2014
hello, earth.. can you dig it?
I so like the smell of Eden.




sub-entry: pedestal

when these toes finally quake
feed my heart and brains to the birds
that way, I become useful.

developing allergies to this century's din
erstwhile kings and counts climb on
today, pedestal is.. a false-friend.
topaz oreilly Feb 2014
Memories of my  beautiful Summer
walks down Blendennis lane with
my Mother Brug, Aunts  Kate and Maggie
and my beloved  sheepdog  Shep.
The smell of the new mown hay
cornfields reaching maturity,
the whiff of wildflowers and heather everywhere,
breathtaking on a late summers evening.

Never to be experienced, anywhere in the World
Those were the bygone days, past the bog of bulrushes,
the cattle chewing their cuds in the fields beyond.
I wish my Shep could race and meet me  now
like he did on my  way home  from school
when I appeared at the white  spot in the  Lane.
a half moon rises
as the sun sets over
a golden Charles

the Fens
luminescence
guide scullers
chasing the days
ebbing light
shimmering
upon near
stillness,
as dancing
black ripples
push silver
splashes of
floating sheens
toward the
gentle slopes of
grassy banks

fisherman cast
the day’s final
hopes upon
gracious waters
as shad fry
breech to
proclaim
a promise
of a dutiful
return to fulfill
a future bounty

this accessible
river, the pulsing
heart conjoining
two cities;
flows as a  
democratic spirit
drawing all to its
hospitable shores

my eyes remain
transfixed on
the glowing ember
of a twilight Charles
drifting under darkened
portals of the
Harvard Bridge,
while the rise
of a sunset breeze
whispers a cool
end to the
summers day

I imagine
Luna blowing
a goodnight
kiss to a
yawning Sol,
as she winks to
young *****
lovers embracing
the long shadows
and sweet fragrance
of tall bulrushes

a slight puff of wind
anoints my minds eye
as lazy water rolls
toward me, lapping
my feet, lollygagging
along, slowly strolling
towards the bay
as I salute pilots
navigating this
most friendly
course

Music Selection:
Grant Green, Moon River

Cambridge MA
7/7/91
jbm
R Saba Jun 2014
black sky, black road
yellow lines like warning signs
i turn my head away
from those flashes of colour
and look out the window instead
at the grey fields of evening

grey fields, grey grass
bulrushes like sentries
and one bird that calls to me from beyond
as if it understands this feeling

some days it mocks me
other days, it lets me speak
and i hear it often late at night
telling me to dry my eyes
and sleep

black sky, soft wind
that creeps through the netting across my window
and sweeps the salt water from my cheeks
while the coyotes howl, voicing what i cannot
and the crickets play their violins
as if i needed a soundtrack to this

and the next morning, my door opens
revealing brown skin and a summery smile
and when the sun hits my face
i feel the cold embrace me once again
feelings washed from my body and escaping
back to my bed, waiting
for the sun to set and for my body to hit the sheets
and for my mind to remember a day full of nothing

and nothing sinks into my tear ducts, opening up
the river, and i cannot for the life of me
remember why i am doing this, but i am
and the black sky watches without comment
as i take the bird's advice, drying my eyes
and sleeping

the sun rises again each morning
and so do i
Jim Kleinhenz Feb 2010
These pictures trouble sense: the abject walk,
A frontispiece of misery and dejection.
Just chintz and prints, my buddy Ray says.
We are supposed to be in Egypt, I guess.
But this Pharaoh, he’s, like, the king of all
The known world? I don’t think so. It’s beyond fake,
The faux Pharaoh, the ersatz Dynasty,
Put together in Las Vegas or something.
Then a picture of the Nile comes up:
Bulrushes, a felucca…could
That be Baby Moses floating down steam,
His head up, smiling at the camera,
A big toothy grin? Giving us the thumbs
Up sign? Well…
The last picture is a hollowed out log,
A ghost emerging from the stump, a fog
That is about to flow and coat the known world:
It seems to smell, foul and bog-like, like it
Would smell outside the frame, spilling off
The trompe-l’oeil, to fool the eye. And nose?
And stink up Pharaoh’s Pizza Emporium?
‘The World’s Best Pizza. This side of De-Nile.’
A groan from Ray, as he gets change for music.
And when the pie finally does show up…
After like 40 minutes of jukebox
—Wooly Bully and 96 Tears—
…my God, ambrosia, thin, crisp crust,
Just the right cheese…and real tomato paste…
Hey, no denial here. Pharaoh, my man,
This is great stuff, I say. Great pie. A pause.
Why, I could write a poem about this, I say.
You know, pyramid pies and Cleo’s calzones…
Naw, says Ray, don’t do that…
Besides, it’s late.
Lewis Bosworth Mar 2017
Cain slew Abel –
Thus began the parade of
Characters whose dynasties
We remember, who decorate
Our memories.

Abraham –
He gave us all the stars
In the sky, a greater lineage
Than the grains of sand
Slapped by seas.

Moses –
The babe in the bulrushes,
The prince turned traitor
Whose whiplashed back
Parted the Red Sea.

Tempus fugit –

Geo Washington, Thos
Jefferson, Alex Hamilton –
Madison, Adams, Franklin –
Minds who created, who
Dreamed, who begat.

How many names we find
In those first tumultuous
Years – warfare and love,
Duels and decadence,
Politics and party.

Scant years later, across
The pond – revolution is
Catching on – les français
Waged a ****** scene,
Ousting the régime.

What would become a
Baby democracy – birthed
More than one new flag
And song – yet lived to
Fight again and bleed.

History is ours to hear –
We respect the honorable,
Honor the drama, revere
The prudent and refight
The battles.

The District of Columbia
Paints a new canvas – she
Sings off key, her promises
Begging for whitewash, her
Patrons vice and folly.

What offspring will such as
These sire?  Are they fathers
To found a new nation – to
Garner worldwide pride, or
To slay the abled?

Let the wings of victory
Carry us back to the days
Of greatness – let us exceed
In probity and virtue – let
Freedom succeed again.


*©  Lewis Bosworth, 3-2017
Chris Jibero Nov 2010
(Dedicated to Eric Onyebuchi Jibero)

What an excruciating blow
You have dealt me!
A brute's uppercut offloaded
A smashing hit delivered
Like a monstrous boxer
Desirous of fame
With an amateur to tame
At this one bout too many
Wherein you have hit me below
The belt as a sadist deriving joy
From my anguish
And relish
From my enormous loss

Oh mower,
Nay hewer,
Can't you feel anything?
Can't you see?
Can't you reason for a while
With your prey?
Can't you pause to ponder
Just for a brief moment
So you can take a good decision
Choosing the right tree to fell
Instead of bringing down a mere
Sapling with your obedient saw?

Why deal sweeping blow
On a mere rookie?
Can't you distinguish
Between the ripe and the unripe?
Between the hen and the chick?
But hawks like you can pick
Meat amidst bones as Moses
In a basket amidst bulrushes
Of Nile to spare from Pharaoh's
Infant-eating sword
And in wisdom did you wait
Patiently to visit Methuselah
At the zenith of hoary hair

Master of double standards
Eyes gorged
Conscience seared
Heart cold like frozen chicken
******* dry and drooping
Like a hag's
A ruthless scorpion
That stings even babes

Rampaging ravager
Notorious brigand
Marauding machinery
Eliminating without scruple
Whoever you choose
Whose hireling are you?
God's or Satan's
Or both?
A blank cheque you flaunt
To cash as you wish
But can't you condescend to a negotiating
Table when a mere sapling is marked
For a cutting down?

Being a professional boxer
Long in this senseless trade
You should have seen the heap
Of pain you would leave
In my heart by this cruel blow
Against a budding amateur whom
You have served voracious earth
Whose stomach is a leaking tank.
(C) Chris Jibero.2010.
Edward Coles Dec 2014
The snow piles up and is then washed away
like the change in an alcoholic's wallet,
appearing too briefly to instate a memory,
whilst the world remains unchanged, come morn.

Last year I smiled with tears in my eyes
as the snow fell and I waited for the bus.
I could feel the onset of a great transition;
but I had to lose my mind, before I found myself.

It has been a long year of beer bottled ash
and months spent catching up on lost sleep.
The pills came to take a weight from me,
until I gained the strength to carry the rest.

Songs have appeared with omniscient timing
to carry my breath through the bulrushes
of the river that never seemed to reach a source.
I am still looking for the ocean blue, the view

that will take me from these seasonal lows,
to a place where I can thaw out and live.
C
brandychanning Nov 2023
my name is brandychanning the writing drips over the side of the coffee mug,
dripping stains upon its ceramic clean whiteness,
making me love the perfection of its perfect~rounded simplicity
even more…to love even more

what a great thing
that is, must be, to love beyond loving, even more,
makes me morning giddy at the possibility that at
anytime, or even at any any you will offer me an
elixir to turn dross into injectable gold, thrilling me
for real down to my tingling toes that I laugh at my
very own foolishness and immensity of possible that
this
poem spilled out when I spilled my coffee and was born
in totality, and received like an infant in a straw basket
floating down the Nile, where a princess (yeah, yeah,
was a princess before becoming a Queen, no nitpicking),
pulled me from the bulrushes flanking a wide snaking
powerful river, aged in its own right, dress in a hurry,
out, out  with no destination other than LA sun on my
face, a calming force to my warnings of rapid heartbeat
Apple Watch informing on me, so yes, I need your comments,
need your knowing attention to reassure this sharing is
worth something to you, that this too
is a possibility immensity.

so here’s that poem:

even more,
even any,
any any
for real
my
very own
possibility immensity
Andrew Rymill Jun 2014
In the house of death the old ones chant
strange couplets & mysterious narratives-
that like the tumble-weeds wisp through the picket fence....
& flows, sweeping down the dark byways & pathways.....
echoing out over the empty lawns-
they hold sway, beckoning otherworldly beings.

& on the porch my girlfriend sits
swinging on the lover’s seat
with her long glimmering hair radiant
more luminous than fireflies a glorious raiment-
& as she swings the floorboards creak their own riddle.

A unicorn from the world next-door prances up the gravel road.....
& places his soft enigmatic head upon her lap...
& as she strokes the snow-white curls of his mane.
carresing his horn with her long fingers.
The unicorn closes his eyes & falls asleep-
Trusting in their affinity........

The elms & chestnuts sing
as the stars & moon skinny-dip.
In the throats of their branches
the limbs of the trees begin to leaf....
Surly the world is coming to an end.....

As the huntresses pull up
in the driveway in their pickup trucks.
Humming with their sharp spears:
“so many unicorns from the world next door
are eating up the antique roses of civilization
in the flower beds of providence
Unicorns are emptying our dying fountains.”.
They whisper through the spaces of their teeth....

& as the sky unfolds with alien constellations.
the brook behind the house cries itself bitter-
the bulrushes & the tangleberies,
the rumpleleworte & rhubarb wither
next to the apiary of treachery
& then our the fountains die.....
Perig3e Jan 2011
Your basket of words
were in the bulrushes.
I'm holding them,
still moist from your pen.
All rights reserved by the author
Lora Lee Jul 2016
Take me
to the river
where bulrushes
silently stand
   Slip your fingers
inside my mind
as we lay back
on the alluvium's
pale, gold sand
Touch those thoughts
whirling 'round
as they're
caught up
      in the tide
Feel up
my soul's desires,
inhibitions-- cast aside
whirling like slick,
smooth algae
          our mouths
show more
than they say
gentle otters check
                        us out
inviting us to play          
Take the fragrance from
those water lillies
rub it on me
instead of clothes
Cup your hands into
                     cool water
and pour it on my toes
Then slake it over
my burning heart,
to soothe its  
         torrid beats
Then let's sprinkle pollen
from the cattails
until we are
covered head to feet
all rich yellow-hued powder
so ready for the bees
and now the time
                      has come, my sweet
to explore
what freedom
          really means          
So take my heart
into your hands
(sorry if it burns)
throw it to the
whirlpool, now gentle
             in its churns
Give me your heart in turn,
thank you kindly
for that gesture
I am not letting go
                 despite its
active embers
My fingers were made,
                          you see
to hold its dark, live coals
kiss its blood-pumped rhythms
love your pain out
if it grows
Now let's jump
into the current,
and echo laughter
through the
      shoals
Feelin kinda passionate and whimsical at once. Plus, that burning. Ouch.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ICnlyNUt_0o
Antony Glaser Mar 2016
We metaphor rivers
as the flow of life,
mindful of willows who
cast shadows on furlong banks.
Riverboats with tilting berths
temporarily knock stability.
But focus strengthens the steadfast.
Bulrushes hide the deeper pain
from our eyes
dark algae de-oygenates currents,
and as a metaphor again
I begin to feel
the up wind carrying
us to our rightful destiny
Warren-Johnson Apr 2017
How those we care about must feel so neglected !
For we live our lives like a rambling whirlwind, and only the whispering tail ends brushing past through theirs momentarily reminding them who we are, and how much we mean to each other, this whispering wind that softly rustles through the bulrushes and reads making sweet music from nature itself is no less important than its great big brother, but if we slow down we can hear their sweet music if we'd just listen,
Make time for those you care for! Even if it's just a quick hi or a silly joke let them know you there and haven't forgotten!
Before our lives are gone and and we just memories to be blown away by the whirlwind TIME !


I CARE !
YOU MATTER !
YOU ARE SO AWESOME !
I MISS YOU !
bright coloured jewels
racing through bulrushes on
cellophane rainbows
Haiku
alwaystrying Jun 2015
How I dream of walking among the reeds
and the whispering bulrushes
and holding onto the reins of tomorrow
Do you imagine anyone could slide out of
today and down into a chosen moment?

Take it and cradle a dream and make
half a universe wish come true
for me.

And count on Mercury to land some sweet spoils
in all the mess embroiled
in the middle of wintry thoughts
We can find a pinned butterfly to a tree
but it will never fly.

Like the wishes we refuse to relinquish
Nothing will step out dream state
until it takes to flight.
Andrew Rymill Jul 2018
first you
            must imagine
                                  a shiny poem
           new born
           printed
like moses  between
          two-pages
          of bulrushes.

Somewhere in a chapbook,
peruse the scattered leaves
in some independent book seller.
Where they treated their books like
prospero’s books at the end of The Tempest.

You will find –
only the young
buy from amazon
the old
    long addicted
           to poetry’s  
   chimera-hallucinogenic-elements
          of ink and paper
must touch the chapbook;
        Run down the isles
        with their finds
careful not to make the gaze
        of all the unread
                                  poetry books.



How dreadful
       the unspoken wail of unread poetry
they snort like chained dragons
       speaking fiery sonnets.

If you  should  go that route
       be careful never gaze directly
into their  burning  orbs
        of controlling  metaphors.
Then the poet
        in you will turn to stone
like the gaze  of basilisk.

Claim you treason-treasure
wrap it in your burlap bag
and juggle it home
not stopping
at a kansas city fountain
to  eat a couple pages--
how crisp is the book
in your messager bag.
for poetry is
a fix for   lotus-eaters
that graze between the stanzas
and  when you get home
you climb
into your bed
and take  that mysterious chapbook
and hold it  
tenderly as the moon arises
in the window
of your apartment
and  read deep
as all your candles
recede toward their bases
                           descending
           as the flickering of flame
                            and wax
                        begin to pool on   candle stands.
still you read
as metaphors  kiss you
like boundless winds
for the poem unfolds
                      before you  all
                                    its tropes
                                    sing-like sparrows
                       and  then its images  
                       build new stairs
                                                  in your inward mind
                                                                ­                    as lines proceed  
                                                       ­                                                   up the  sky-stained                          sky of infinity…
..and still the words speak
                                       and you must obey
                                                            ­        and follow
                                                          ­             until
                                                           the last page turns
     and luminous  ink letters
         emerge
                                     from all your
pores.
alwaystrying May 2015
Really wanna hold you, tell you sorry
Wanna split the rose in you
and the bulrushes rustle  
till the morning dawns over the hillside.

Just as the one in your arms tells you
the right words at the right time
dint make mine
the wrong ones.
Jerry Howarth Feb 2022
THE BRTH OF MOSES
                       Exodus 2:1-10  
    "I don't care what that new King commanded" said Amran(Ex. 6:20) God has entrusted me us with two boys, (Aaron and Moses) we are not going to **** them."

"But Mom, I agree with you  about not killing either of them, especially this last baby boy, but someone will turn you in
for not killing him" said her daughter

"I will nurse him as long as I can, then figure out something else to do after that" she replied.

Amram nursed him for three months, then made a FAITH decision to build an ark made of bulrushes, sealed it with pitch, and hid him in the flags by the rivers bank.

"Now I want you to go with him and hide yourself so no one can see you, but you can keep your eyes on him." said her mother.

It wasn't too many days after, that the Paroah's daughter came to the river to freshen up, and she saw the ark, and the baby was crying.

God's timing is always perfect. Just at the precise time that Pharoh's
daughter came to bath, God pinched Moses and made him cry.

"Oh what a cute little baby" she said to one of her maids. "Go and bring it to me. Oh what a little sweety!"

"Oh my! Is this your little baby? He sure is a cutie! exclaimed his big sister.

"No, he is not my baby. I think he is one of the Israelite boys. He is too cute to ****. My dad won't approve, but I am going to keep him and raise him as my son."

"I know a Hebrew nurse that would probably be glad to nurse him for you until you are able to care for him yourself! Would you like me to do that?"

Now Amram didn't raise any dumbings and so she brought her mother and introduced her to Pharaoh's daughter who made a verbal contract with her to rear him until she was able to care for him herself.

Remember Amram's FAITH DESICION? God not only protected
Moses from death, He made it so that his birth mother not only got to rear him until Pharoah's daughter could take over, but got paid for doing so

"Oh, I forgot to ask you what did you name him?" ask Amram
"Well, I drew him out of the river, so I will name him
                                MOSES    
From Jerry Howarth's Book of Old Testament Applications

— The End —