The Sestina: Pick Up a Pen by Patricia Theriot

I stare off, daydreaming about my future,
As I sit by the rushing river.
There are so many unfulfilled dreams,
And a wish for my kids to brag about my name.
Will I see pride on their usually immovable faces?
I need to begin, so I pick up a pen.

A clouded brain keeps my hand from using my pen.
What is the first step when working on the future?
I look at my classmates and see their baggy jeans, graphic tees, and young faces.
My head is lower than when I sat by the river.
All I can do is pick up a pen and scribble my name.
This is my shaky first move to reach distant dreams.

It is too early to think about dreams.
Uncertain fingers fumble with blank paper and an old pen.
There are long nights, unwritten papers, and flashcards left to do to prove my name.
Dedication and dark under-eyes come before a better future.
One day I will freely dangle my feet in that same river,
Because I will have heard, “That’s my mom!” and see the respect shown on their faces.

I can barely lift my head in between yawns to notice anyone’s faces,
As I chug black coffee to awaken from my dreams.
If I could just sleep in the soft grass by the soothing river,
But I cannot sleep, I must cross out mistakes from first drafts and revise with my pen.
I can almost hear the congratulations of that sought after future,
That creates a new meaning to my name.

I am in my long robes, and my tassel hangs in anticipation as I hear them call my name.
I look in the celebratory stands and see my family’s familiar faces.
Every whispered “Yes, I can” pushed me toward this future,
And now my children have new achievable dreams.
They will also decide to use a pen,
Once they finish thinking by the river.

Now I swim in that rejuvenating river.
And students repeatedly call my name.
I model and teach with my pen,
I never imagined so many inspired faces.
I watch the start of new, realized dreams,
That will cause a once discouraged kid to consider a different future.

Many of your faces will be reflected in the river.
You will have beautiful, vivid, and achievable dreams about your name.
When you are ready for the future, I can hand you a pen

I Have to be Honest (Anaphora) by Patricia Theriot

I have to be honest, I was thinking about the argument.
I have to be honest, I wasn’t paying attention.
I have to be honest, I didn’t think of you
as I closed my car door
and walked into the store.

I have to be honest, I strolled down the aisles.
I have to be honest, my eyes skimmed over the books, taking nothing in.
I have to be honest, I stood rigid and turned in circles.
Where had I left your stroller?
Did I leave you sleeping in an aisle?
I have to be honest, I wouldn’t do that,
I thought.

I have to be honest, I dropped the books on the floor.
I have to be honest, I sprinted to the car.
I have to be honest, I almost paused,
with wide, animalistic eyes,
at the idea of what I would find.

I have to be honest, it was a smoldering day in July.
I have to be honest, I knew I wouldn’t recover if you weren’t alive.
I have to be honest, I sped through red lights with you in my arms.
I have to be honest, you had tiny white dots on your skin.

I have to be honest, I screamed through the phone.
“I FORGOT her!”
“In the car…”
“20 minutes…”
“Meet me at the hospital!”
Click.

I have to be honest, he told me to lie.
“Don’t tell them you forgot.”
“I have to be honest,” I said back to him
with gritted teeth
and eyes filled with heat.
“I won’t cover this up with a lie.”

I have to be honest, I pleaded with the nurse.
“I forgot she was with me.”
“It is mandatory to call CPS,” the nurse replied.
I have to be honest, I wanted to die.

I have to be honest, they said you were fine.
They cooled you off and gave you juice.
I have to be honest, I clung to your dad and repeated apologies
through sobs and snot and a splotchy face sinking into guilty hands.
I have to be honest, he was kind.
He said, “It was just a mistake.”

“I have to be honest,” I belted out to our family at dinner.
“I have to be honest, I left her in the car.”
The loud silence was only broken by clanking of silverware
and squeaking of chairs.

I have to be honest, I read a post online
about a man in my town who did the same thing that week.
I have to be honest, I read the comments.
“What kind of parent forgets their own kid?”
“What a piece of shit.”
I have to be honest, I sank into a hole of hatred,
that I dug for myself.

I have to be honest, every night your dad woke up to watch me.
“You have to stop this,” he would say.
I would wake up in a sweat,
run to the crib,
search for you in the sheets.
I have to be honest, every night I replayed my mistake.

“I have to be honest,” I say to an older version of that baby.
Your innocent blue eyes and long lashes blink back at me.
“I have to be honest about when I forgot you,
In a car…
In the heat….
I have to be honest. I am the only one to blame.”

“I have to be honest,” she said.
“This is harder on you than it is me.”
“I’m fine.”
It’s okay, Mom.”
“It was just a mistake.”
I have to be honest, those were words I needed to hear.

I have to be honest about the haunting truth…
That we were just lucky…
Unlike that man in my town who buried his child.

Stepdad Sonnet by Patricia Theriot

(CLOSED)

He drove an old scratched-up maroon Chevy.

Twenty years now, but I check to see who drives.

I block the thoughts with my internal levee.

But my shrink says who talks is who survives.

He would slither into the room at night,

And touch a child he thought was fast asleep.

Protect yourself and pull the blanket tight.

Do not open your eyes or make a peep.

The phone then rang and filled the people’s ears.

He then slithered away to find new prey.

The man denied the claims with empty tears.

I have not seen him since that freedom day.

I’ve had daydreams about bashing his head,

But God will send him soon to Hell instead.

(OPEN)

He used to drive a Chevy truck that was maroon and all scratched-up on the side.

It has been twenty years, but I still look to see if it is him inside the ride.

Sometimes at night I wake up in a sweat to flashbacks I want to forget.

But you “have to talk about it” says the shrink, if you want to conquer it.

He would slither into the room at night,

In the darkness, and out of my mother’s sight.

And touch a child who pretended to be asleep.

Keep your eyes closed, Patty, and don’t make a peep.

The phone rang and every fact was now known.

“She is confused!” and “I would never!” I heard him say through cries.

He slithered away to find another woman to fool into getting her children all alone.

To act like the perfect new dad, to a small child with trusting eyes.

Randomly, as I walk through the aisles at the grocery store,

I think about bashing his head in with a bat.

Then I decide, not today.

 I will let God handle that.

I drag myself out of the house.

I trudge down the dirt path

using protruding roots as footholds.

The moss drips down from the sky.

Marshy waters lurk on each side of my path

and I scan for hungry eyes.

The rooms in my home have shrunk

and all the air has been pushed out.

It has pushed me outside.

I need to go talk to the trees.

But what do trees say?

The Texas heat swarms around me like air escaping an oven.

Flowers of pink and purple bloom all around.

Bushes push out plump blackberries

as black snakes slither underneath.

The hailstorm inside my mind has caused me

to flee out of my house.

I need to speak to the trees.

But what do trees say?

I reach the creek.

It is crystal clear, cold, and babbling.

Turtles dive from their logs as I approach.

I step one foot in front of the other,

balancing across a fallen trunk with the creek below.

Cardinals flutter back and forth to nests.

Squirrels run up trunks and chatter to each other about the stranger.

Deer stand like statues with large eyes and strained necks

as I pass by.

In an open field I lay down

in soft grass.

I stare at the tall reaching giants above me.

I feel the warm breeze on my skin and face

and watch the branches sway back and forth.

Beams of light poke through the shade creating a pattern on the ground.

I came to talk to the trees.

But what do trees say?

They say,

“Hello, little one.

Be strong like us.

Be still like us.

Look up. Look around.

Stay under our shade until the hail stops

And all you hear is the rustling of our leaves.”

After a while,

I stand up and stroll back home.

If I Had Rabies by Patricia Theriot

If I had rabies,

and everyone knew,

I would yell and shake my trembling fists.

If I had rabies,

what would I do?

I would sob, wipe away snot, and have flailing fits.

If I had rabies,

and their eyes glistened with pity,

I would kick and scream and act extra shitty.

If I had rabies,

and it wasn’t my fault,

I would tell every idiot exactly what I thought.

If I had rabies,

I’d let my teeth show.

But I don’t have rabies,

So, no one will know.

Hello. I am in my first graduate class. Our latest assignment was to write a poem that we turned into a song. I actually had to sing it and turn it in. Yikes! Luckily for yall I used an AI site to turn it into a song. If anyone has a teen then maybe you will relate. This is a song for my son. enjoy! and let me know what you think.

https://suno.com/s/pnT5QMgzIpZdGTzA

My mothers eyes were green

But mine are sad and blue.

Her eyes were the color of ivy, hummingbird

wings, and the sea…

Memories of those eyes looking back at me.

My mother smelled like perfume

When I hugged her hi and bye.

I spray it when I miss her…

 things to do, I will not cry.

My mother’s house was spotless;

Nothing out of place.

I manuever around my living room,

Stepping over things where there is space.

My mothers clothes were always perfect;

No wrinkle, snag, or tear.

She picked things off my shirt, maybe lent or

fuzz or hair.

My mother laughed at my jokes.

She smiled and patted my hand.

She sipped coffee while we talked,

Our toes digging in the sand.

She saw me as a mother

And we didn’t always agree.

But she stood by my side

With mob mentality.

Her laugh replays over and over, constantly in

my mind…

When I’m wishing she was near and I could

hug her one more time.

I miss her every day and my heart will be

gripped with grief

Until I see her again one day and I breathe a

sigh of relief.

She wrote me one last letter

And the last line breaks my heart in two.

She simply wrote one line.

She said: “One more I love you”.

My Mothers eyes were green

But mine are sad and blue.

You will never know how much I love you.

My first baby, who made me a mother.

You are my first born, I am here to turn to.

We spent so much time with just us two.
I loved you unlike I had ever loved another.
You will never know how much I love you.

Some days were long, but the years just flew.

Your true self you are learning to discover.

 You are my firstborn; I am here to turn to.

When you move away, I know I will be blue.

But don’t worry, your space I won’t smother.

You will never know how much I love you.

But if you ever find yourself not knowing what to do

My heart and shoulder can be your cover.

You are my firstborn; I am here to turn to.

As you get older, always know it is true.

You are an amazing man, friend, son, and brother.

You will never know how much I love you.

You are my firstborn; I am here to turn to.

By: Patricia Theriot

League City has an interesting history. It got its name in 1893. It was named after J.C. League, a rich businessman who bought and donated the land. In the 1850s it was called Clear Creek. Our city centered around ranching and agriculture. The Butler family has been around since the 1890s. Milby Butler is known for keeping the Texas Longhorns from going extinct. The Butler Longhorn Museum is still here in League City to visit. In 1907 J.C. League and Milby Butler brought in Oak trees from Louisiana to plant near the main road. They were referred to as the “Butler Oaks” and they are still there today lining Main Street, loving known as “Old League City.” You can visit the statue of J.C. League and his beloved dog, scout, in the League City Park.

When I moved to League CIty at 3 years old it was a mystery. Very different from a quiet dirt road and a house in the country. We moved to south shore harbor, behind the gates. In this neighborhood I would run around with friends and get yelled at by the golfers if you went on the course. This is where happy childhood memories were made. I went to Ferguson elementary. This I where I met Mrs. Pendergast, my magical kindergarten teacher. This is where I stared as Mrs. Ricks entertained us all with fake swords. Where we had field day and school carnivals. When we would wait in line to see Delva, the famous realtor, with her floppy hats and limousines, our local celebrity. We took a field trip to the one-room schoolhouse where I wore a bonnet and wrote with a quill pen. My mom took us to get our very own library cards at Helen Hall Library. We were big and important with our very own cards. We spent these formative years playing in BAYBA, CCYB, and many other League City sports programs. We were on the League City swim team, the barracudas. We were in girl scouts and delivered cookies all over League City. This city and its citizens created a very happy childhood for us.

As I grew older and got into teenage years, we hung out at the movie theater, Kemah, the Baybrook mall. We would spend Friday nights at blockbuster looking for the next Freddy Krueger movie. Oh Blockbuster, I miss you. Life isn’t the same. I welcome your last-minute candy purchase at the register and your late fees. I spent my high school years in the setting of good old league city. I fished and rode jet skis in the bay. My first job was a waitress at Joe’s Crab Shack in Kemah and then at bay creek animal clinic. The same receptionist is still there when I go in. I learned to drive in the parking lot of Clear creek high school. I almost hit the yellow gates. I attended clear creek high school and Bay Area Christian. My friends and I would go to Shipleys before school. You know the one. The one on Main Street that isn’t the easiest parking lot to enter. But the people made it so cozy. You knew the same employees there for years. No one better ever mess with that shipleys. I had my first real date at Melys Mexican Cantina near Randall’s. I spent summers at south shore hotel pool. We took prom pictures at Helen’s gardens.

After college, I moved back to League City. It was home. I bought a house here, had three children here. I got married at Butlers courthouse in League City. It was League City’s first commercial bank built back in 1909 by George Washington Butler. It is rumored to have been visited by Bonnie and Clyde. My husband and I took pictures in the vault on our wedding day and now the photos hang on our living room walls. When my kids were little, I took them to Helen Hall Park. We had picnics in the gazebo. One of their favorite restaurants to go to was and still is the Holly Berry Tea room. The cozy atmosphere is one of a kind. Each of us gets a different tea pot and sips tea or lemonade while we eat the Wild Rose special. Those little houses near the railroad tracks that have been turned into stores are nostalgic for our family. Every time we need to buy a gift, this is where we go first. We bought my mom coffee from Nana’s every Christmas. Speaking of Christmas, if you live in League City you know about the Christmas parade and festival: Holiday in the park. We don’t miss it. We get there early, eat all the food, shop the local vendors, and we don’t leave until Santa ends the parade.

My mom lived in League City for over 30 years, until she passed away. Before she died, she lived for several years in The Village 55+ neighborhood. She found friends and hobbies there. My children went to Hall, then Campbell, then Creekside, and now they are moving into Clear Springs High School. We are members of Clear Creek Community Church. This is foundational for us. My kids go to student ministry and my husband and I volunteer there. Many times in my life I have seen how the citizens of League City help each other in times of need. This could be seen during Harvey as complete strangers cut out drywall and cleaned houses for each other. This could be seen during Covid where people waved from cars and made homemade masks. League City is filled with big hearted people.

I wanted to write about this city that has watched me grow up. It provided a home for most of the people that I love. It gave me community, safety, and I truly love it. If you are lucky enough to live in League City, I hope you know it is a blessing. If you need a reminder, drive down Main Street through old league city and let the sun scatter across your windshield as it shines through the massive trees that were here way before us and will be here long after.

Works Cited

Kleiner, Diana J. “League City, TX.” Texas State Historical Association, Texas State Historical Association, https://www.tshaonline.org/handbook/entries/league-city-tx. Accessed 19 May 2026.

“Who Was J.C. League?” League City, Texas, City of League City, https://www.leaguecitytx.gov/4276/Who-Was-JC-League. Accessed 19 May 2026.

“Cheers to 20 Years: The Butler Building.” Butler’s Courtyard, Butler’s Courtyard, https://butlerscourtyard.com/cheers-to-20-years-the-butler-building/. Accessed 19 May 2026.