Mark Hudson took the November challenge in a totally unexpected direction. Instead beginning with a minor change in his personal life, he raises a much broader question. He assumes there is a God, and writes about the possibility of there being no God. He moves from that question to other theological speculations. Here is Mark's winning poem.
If there was no God
If there was no God,
would things be even worse?
Did we create our own problems,
or did the Devil make this curse?
If there never was a God,
would nothing exist at all?
Would particles not even be?
Would nothingness just sprawl?
If I was created by the master,
should I feel guilt over sin?
Will God give me his mercy
or is punishment about to begin?
Is it hard to get into Heaven,
and easy to get into Hell?
Is the Bible a bit too harsh
when it shows us men who fell?
What about other religions?
Doesn't God love them, too?
Aren't we all children of God?
Did Jesus die only for a few?
If I am a child of God,
can't I just be myself?
Am I actively seeking God,
or do I just want his wealth?
This may open up questions;
it may even sound like a quiz.
But the answer to the question:
Is there a God? Yes,there is!
~ Mark Hudson
Mark Hudson retains copyright to this poem.
Hudson submitted a bio: Mark Hudson is a member of Evanston Writers Workshop and Rockford Writers Guild. He is currently working on a novella for http://nanorimo.org/, national novel writing month.
Check in on December 1 for the new poetry challenge.
© 2001 Wilda Morris
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
November 2011 Challenge
As you read the following three poems (one by Thomas Hardy and two of mine), you may wonder what they have in common. They do seem very different in content, theme and style.
The Man He Killed
Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!
But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.
I shot him dead because—
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That’s clear enough: although
He thought he’d ‘list, perhaps,
Off-hand-like—just like I—
Was out of work—had sold his traps—
No other reason why.
Yes, quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You’d treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half-a-crown.
~ Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
NOTES:
A "napperkin" is a half-pint cup.
The word "'list" is a shortened form of "enlist."
"Traps" might be literally traps, if the soldier had been a hunter and trapper, but more likely are the tools of his trade as a plumber, tinker, carpenter, or whatever.
This poem is in the public domain.
From Time's Laughingstocks and Other Verses. Thomas Hardy. London: Macmillan and Co. 1909.
Six Years in Sri Lanka
A little luck and the money
from my father’s will
and I was touring the world.
I settled down for six years
in the Sri Lankan highlands,
married a Sinhalese artist.
We carried paint
and canvas to the rainforest,
painted bromeliads, epiphytes,
and the purple-faced leaf monkey.
At Yala, we watched a leopard
limp off the dirt road,
followed him into the jungle
till he hid himself in underbrush.
Each year we hiked to Kandy
for the Esala Perahera.
On the day of the full moon
we watched dancers, drummers,
whip-crackers, torch-bearers,
and caparisoned elephants
parade the streets, bowed
when Maligawa Tusker passed by
with the canopied reliquary
containing a replica of Buddha’s tooth.
When Tamil fighters came,
I hid my love beneath coconuts
picked from our palm trees,
told them he’d gone to India
to paint the Taj Mahal.
These are just a few
adventures in that other life
I never lived.
~ Wilda Morris
NOTES:
The purple-faced leaf monkey exists only in Sri Lanka, and is one of the most endangered species in the world. You can see pictures of these monkeys at http://www.edinburghzoo.org.uk/animals/individuals/PurpleFacedLeafMonkey.html
The Yala National Park in Sri Lanka is home to one of the largest concentrations of leopards in the world.
"Esala Perahera" = the Festival of the Tooth. The tooth of Buddha is considered the most sacred relic in Sri Lanka.
"Maligawa Tusker" is the elephant who carried the golden casket containing the tooth of Buddha in the celebratory parade from 1937-1988. After his death, his body was preserved by a taxidermist, and it is kept at the Temple of the Tooth in Kandy.
First published in Frostwriting, 2009 (http://www.frostwriting.com/issues/authors/Wilda%20Morris/).
On Dad’s Demolition Crew
It’s not that I minded helping Mother.
I liked hanging laundry and taking it down,
weeding the garden, slicing carrots
and stirring stew. I was mad,
though, when dad took my brothers
to work and left me behind.
No place, he said, for a girl.
Donnie described the elevator
they rode to the top after Dad
demolished the outer walls
of an office building,
the view across St. Louis
when the elevator door opened
at what had been the fourteenth floor.
Ronnie’s pockets bulged
with buffalo nickels and copper pennies
from the site of an old pub
Dad pulled down. I begged
till Ronnie shared his loot
of found treasures.
I demanded, Dad, take me, too!
till he told me one morning
to tie my shoes and hop
into the back of the truck
with my brothers.
Dust and dirt were my paradise.
The crash of falling girders,
percussion to the organ music
of tumbling timber; prisms of glass,
my cathedral windows; and Dad,
the priest preaching mysteries
and wonders of this world
so new to me.
~ Wilda Morris
Copyright to the last two poems is retained by the author. Please do not reprint without permission.
These three poems are all reminders that the reader should not assume a poem in first person is autobiographical.
Several years ago, I came across an intriguing prompt for a poem. Imagine that something in your life had been different—maybe you were born in a different state or to different parents, or went to a different college. If you are married, you might imagine yourself single or married to a different person; if you are single, you might imagine yourself married. There are endless possibilities.
Hardy’s title may be a bit of a give-away that although the poem is in first person, the poem is not autobiographical. You may have realized that Hardy is not literally the “I.” He doesn’t tell us who “He” in the title is, “The Man He Killed.” But it is not the poet himself. Hardy did not enlist, and was never a soldier himself. Nor did he ever kill anyone.
Hardy’s poem could be considered a persona poem (see the blog entries for February, 2010). However, the persona in this case is not a named individual. Rather, he is an anonymous soldier, one who was poor, and enlisted largely because he was out of work and didn’t know what else to do. Hardy himself was born, and spent much of his life, in Dorset, one of the poorer, more rural counties of England. He interviewed soldiers who survived the war with Napoleon, and spoke out against aspects of the Boer War and World War I.
The poem gains strength from the fact that Hardy puts it in first person. It is as if Hardy had imagined himself as a poor workingman, out of a job, signing up to fight—and discovering the irony that he has shot someone just like himself, except for the fact that the man he shot was on the side of the enemy. This poem, though rather light and in colloquial language, is a serious poem, a commentary on the irrationality of war.
“Six Years in Sri Lanka,” was my first use of the prompt of imagining something in my life being different. I always have wanted to travel. I studied Sri Lankan politics in graduate school, and really wanted to go there. Money was always an issue, though, and I still have not made it to South Asia. I have been in rain forests, and have become familiar with bromeliads and epiphytes, and I read with interest about the Esala Perahera, when the tooth of Buddha is brought out in solemn and joyous procession. I also read about the long-lasting civil war between the Tamil Tigers and the Sinhalese people of Sri Lanka.
With poetic license, I imagined that I had inherited some money and was able to travel around the world, stopping off in Sri Lanka (“the pearl o the toe of India”), where I fell in love and married.
“On Dad’s Demolition Crew” had a different source of inspiration. My parents were divorced when I was two, so I never knew my birth father. A couple years ago, through the Internet, I got in touch with—and got to meet—two half-brothers and a number other relatives I had not known existed. I learned that my birth father had had a demolition business, though not when I was a young child (as in the poem). I loved hearing his grandson (my nephew) tell about going to work with his grandfather. The elevator story is his, though I think it was, in reality, the 9th floor, not the 14th. The coins probably made their way into the poem because I was told my birth father always had coins in his pockets. They fell into the cushions of the sofa when he napped, and his grandchildren would gather them up so they could buy snacks at a nearby store.
Remembering the prompt, I put myself into my birth father’s family, changed the timing of his demolition business, and wrote “On Dad’s Demolition Crew.”
Challenge for November:
By now, you have probably figured out that the challenge for November is to use your imagination and think about how your life might have been if just one or two things had been different. What if you had enlisted? Married or not married? Inherited some money or won big on Jeopardy? If your book had won a Pulitzer Prize? If you’d been an only child, or the youngest of nine children? Or . . . . well, you decide what might have been different and where that might have led you. The poem is not to be a persona poem speaking for some famous person, but an alteration of your own life story.
Your poem may be free verse or rhymed and metered. If you use a set form, please include the name of the form with your submission.
The deadline is November 15. Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.
Due to formatting restrictions on the blog, all poems should be left justified. Unfortunately I am unable to publish indentations, shaped poems or even extra spaces between words or phrases.
Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data. Poems submitted after the November 15 deadline will not be considered.
How to Submit Your Poem:
Send your poem to wildamorris[at]ameritech[dot]net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot]. Be sure provide your e-mail address. When you submit your poem, add a note indicating where you took poetic license with the facts of your life. The poem should be in first person, as if it actually happened to the speaker in the poem. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog if it is a winner, so be sure that you put your name, exactly as you would like it to appear if you do win, at the end of the poem.
© 2011 Wilda Morris
The Man He Killed
Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have sat us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!
But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.
I shot him dead because—
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That’s clear enough: although
He thought he’d ‘list, perhaps,
Off-hand-like—just like I—
Was out of work—had sold his traps—
No other reason why.
Yes, quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You’d treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half-a-crown.
~ Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
NOTES:
A "napperkin" is a half-pint cup.
The word "'list" is a shortened form of "enlist."
"Traps" might be literally traps, if the soldier had been a hunter and trapper, but more likely are the tools of his trade as a plumber, tinker, carpenter, or whatever.
This poem is in the public domain.
From Time's Laughingstocks and Other Verses. Thomas Hardy. London: Macmillan and Co. 1909.
Six Years in Sri Lanka
A little luck and the money
from my father’s will
and I was touring the world.
I settled down for six years
in the Sri Lankan highlands,
married a Sinhalese artist.
We carried paint
and canvas to the rainforest,
painted bromeliads, epiphytes,
and the purple-faced leaf monkey.
At Yala, we watched a leopard
limp off the dirt road,
followed him into the jungle
till he hid himself in underbrush.
Each year we hiked to Kandy
for the Esala Perahera.
On the day of the full moon
we watched dancers, drummers,
whip-crackers, torch-bearers,
and caparisoned elephants
parade the streets, bowed
when Maligawa Tusker passed by
with the canopied reliquary
containing a replica of Buddha’s tooth.
When Tamil fighters came,
I hid my love beneath coconuts
picked from our palm trees,
told them he’d gone to India
to paint the Taj Mahal.
These are just a few
adventures in that other life
I never lived.
~ Wilda Morris
NOTES:
The purple-faced leaf monkey exists only in Sri Lanka, and is one of the most endangered species in the world. You can see pictures of these monkeys at http://www.edinburghzoo.org.uk/animals/individuals/PurpleFacedLeafMonkey.html
The Yala National Park in Sri Lanka is home to one of the largest concentrations of leopards in the world.
"Esala Perahera" = the Festival of the Tooth. The tooth of Buddha is considered the most sacred relic in Sri Lanka.
"Maligawa Tusker" is the elephant who carried the golden casket containing the tooth of Buddha in the celebratory parade from 1937-1988. After his death, his body was preserved by a taxidermist, and it is kept at the Temple of the Tooth in Kandy.
First published in Frostwriting, 2009 (http://www.frostwriting.com/issues/authors/Wilda%20Morris/).
On Dad’s Demolition Crew
It’s not that I minded helping Mother.
I liked hanging laundry and taking it down,
weeding the garden, slicing carrots
and stirring stew. I was mad,
though, when dad took my brothers
to work and left me behind.
No place, he said, for a girl.
Donnie described the elevator
they rode to the top after Dad
demolished the outer walls
of an office building,
the view across St. Louis
when the elevator door opened
at what had been the fourteenth floor.
Ronnie’s pockets bulged
with buffalo nickels and copper pennies
from the site of an old pub
Dad pulled down. I begged
till Ronnie shared his loot
of found treasures.
I demanded, Dad, take me, too!
till he told me one morning
to tie my shoes and hop
into the back of the truck
with my brothers.
Dust and dirt were my paradise.
The crash of falling girders,
percussion to the organ music
of tumbling timber; prisms of glass,
my cathedral windows; and Dad,
the priest preaching mysteries
and wonders of this world
so new to me.
~ Wilda Morris
Copyright to the last two poems is retained by the author. Please do not reprint without permission.
These three poems are all reminders that the reader should not assume a poem in first person is autobiographical.
Several years ago, I came across an intriguing prompt for a poem. Imagine that something in your life had been different—maybe you were born in a different state or to different parents, or went to a different college. If you are married, you might imagine yourself single or married to a different person; if you are single, you might imagine yourself married. There are endless possibilities.
Hardy’s title may be a bit of a give-away that although the poem is in first person, the poem is not autobiographical. You may have realized that Hardy is not literally the “I.” He doesn’t tell us who “He” in the title is, “The Man He Killed.” But it is not the poet himself. Hardy did not enlist, and was never a soldier himself. Nor did he ever kill anyone.
Hardy’s poem could be considered a persona poem (see the blog entries for February, 2010). However, the persona in this case is not a named individual. Rather, he is an anonymous soldier, one who was poor, and enlisted largely because he was out of work and didn’t know what else to do. Hardy himself was born, and spent much of his life, in Dorset, one of the poorer, more rural counties of England. He interviewed soldiers who survived the war with Napoleon, and spoke out against aspects of the Boer War and World War I.
The poem gains strength from the fact that Hardy puts it in first person. It is as if Hardy had imagined himself as a poor workingman, out of a job, signing up to fight—and discovering the irony that he has shot someone just like himself, except for the fact that the man he shot was on the side of the enemy. This poem, though rather light and in colloquial language, is a serious poem, a commentary on the irrationality of war.
“Six Years in Sri Lanka,” was my first use of the prompt of imagining something in my life being different. I always have wanted to travel. I studied Sri Lankan politics in graduate school, and really wanted to go there. Money was always an issue, though, and I still have not made it to South Asia. I have been in rain forests, and have become familiar with bromeliads and epiphytes, and I read with interest about the Esala Perahera, when the tooth of Buddha is brought out in solemn and joyous procession. I also read about the long-lasting civil war between the Tamil Tigers and the Sinhalese people of Sri Lanka.
With poetic license, I imagined that I had inherited some money and was able to travel around the world, stopping off in Sri Lanka (“the pearl o the toe of India”), where I fell in love and married.
“On Dad’s Demolition Crew” had a different source of inspiration. My parents were divorced when I was two, so I never knew my birth father. A couple years ago, through the Internet, I got in touch with—and got to meet—two half-brothers and a number other relatives I had not known existed. I learned that my birth father had had a demolition business, though not when I was a young child (as in the poem). I loved hearing his grandson (my nephew) tell about going to work with his grandfather. The elevator story is his, though I think it was, in reality, the 9th floor, not the 14th. The coins probably made their way into the poem because I was told my birth father always had coins in his pockets. They fell into the cushions of the sofa when he napped, and his grandchildren would gather them up so they could buy snacks at a nearby store.
Remembering the prompt, I put myself into my birth father’s family, changed the timing of his demolition business, and wrote “On Dad’s Demolition Crew.”
Challenge for November:
By now, you have probably figured out that the challenge for November is to use your imagination and think about how your life might have been if just one or two things had been different. What if you had enlisted? Married or not married? Inherited some money or won big on Jeopardy? If your book had won a Pulitzer Prize? If you’d been an only child, or the youngest of nine children? Or . . . . well, you decide what might have been different and where that might have led you. The poem is not to be a persona poem speaking for some famous person, but an alteration of your own life story.
Your poem may be free verse or rhymed and metered. If you use a set form, please include the name of the form with your submission.
The deadline is November 15. Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.
Due to formatting restrictions on the blog, all poems should be left justified. Unfortunately I am unable to publish indentations, shaped poems or even extra spaces between words or phrases.
Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data. Poems submitted after the November 15 deadline will not be considered.
How to Submit Your Poem:
Send your poem to wildamorris[at]ameritech[dot]net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot]. Be sure provide your e-mail address. When you submit your poem, add a note indicating where you took poetic license with the facts of your life. The poem should be in first person, as if it actually happened to the speaker in the poem. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog if it is a winner, so be sure that you put your name, exactly as you would like it to appear if you do win, at the end of the poem.
© 2011 Wilda Morris
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Winning Poem for October
Congratulations to Peggy Trojan, for her poem honoring teachers. Growing up in Iowa City, Iowa, I had a mostly teachers who lived up to the standards in this poem, especially including: Miss Blessie (Mrs. Orlando, after she married), Miss Humphrey and Mrs. Moon at Longfellow School; Mrs. Heller at Iowa City Junior High; Mrs. Yearnd, Mr. White and Miss Winbigler at Iowa City High School. There were others, too. Right now, I can't remember the name of my Junior High speech teacher, but she was special, too.
My grandmother attested to the impact of teachers on her life by the fact that even when she was in her 70s she could name every teacher she had. Growing up in a small Kansas town when she did, she had the same teacher for multiple years; that gave each one more of an opportunity to impact her life. Still, I was impressed that she could name all of them.
Children with devoted teachers who love and respect their students and are excited about the subject matter they teach generally do well in school and learn a lot.
The Test
So, this is the last day.
I watch you,
anxious for the bell
that frees you into summer.
I wonder.
What will you,
in five, ten, twenty years
remember from this room?
That nouns are names
of persons and things?
That paragraphs need
topic sentences?
That Shakespeare dared
mix sadness and beauty
in one line?
I tried to teach you
more than this.
Something to help solve
the enigma of living.
Will anyone of you,
I wonder,
ever guess I gave
my heart,
and all I knew?
~ Peggy Trojan
The copyright on this poem is owned by Peggy Trojan. Do not copy without permission.
Watch for the new challenge for November.
© 2011 Wilda Morris.
My grandmother attested to the impact of teachers on her life by the fact that even when she was in her 70s she could name every teacher she had. Growing up in a small Kansas town when she did, she had the same teacher for multiple years; that gave each one more of an opportunity to impact her life. Still, I was impressed that she could name all of them.
Children with devoted teachers who love and respect their students and are excited about the subject matter they teach generally do well in school and learn a lot.
The Test
So, this is the last day.
I watch you,
anxious for the bell
that frees you into summer.
I wonder.
What will you,
in five, ten, twenty years
remember from this room?
That nouns are names
of persons and things?
That paragraphs need
topic sentences?
That Shakespeare dared
mix sadness and beauty
in one line?
I tried to teach you
more than this.
Something to help solve
the enigma of living.
Will anyone of you,
I wonder,
ever guess I gave
my heart,
and all I knew?
~ Peggy Trojan
The copyright on this poem is owned by Peggy Trojan. Do not copy without permission.
Watch for the new challenge for November.
© 2011 Wilda Morris.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
October 2011 Poetry Challenge
A community is made up of a variety of people with different functions and occupations. Each occupation can serve as a prompt for poems. One of the most famous poems in English paying tribute to an occupational group is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem, “The Village Blacksmith.” I remember my grandmother reciting this poem, with some wistfulness in her voice. By the time I was born, she was living in Iowa City, Iowa, and most families had automobiles or got around town on the foot or on the bus. So far as I know, there was no blacksmith in town. My grandmother had grown up in Lincoln, Kansas, a small, rural prairie town. There still was a blacksmith in Lincoln when my grandmother took me to visit. Today, though most of us know about the blacksmith only from reading Longfellow’s poem or historical novels.
The Village Blacksmith
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And bear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his haul, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
John Greenleaf Whittier wrote long, rhymed poems in honor of “The Ship-Builders,” “The Shoemaker,” “The Drovers,” “The Fishermen,” “The Huskers” and “The Lumbermen.” Some of these occupations have largely disappeared from the American scene. For instance, though there are still some shoe repair shops, most of the shoes we wear were made in factories—and often in factories abroad.
Whittier’s book. Songs of Labor, and other poems, is available on-line in the Google book, Songs of Labor and Other Poems by John Greenleaf Whittier, which can be downloaded at http://books.google.com/books?id=y2ERAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false.
There are links to several more contemporary poems about work and workers at http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/09/06/labor-day-poems-the-poetr_n_705337.html.
Other examples:
* Donald Hall, "The Ox Cart Man," in White Apples and the Taste of Stone: Selected Poems 1946-2006 (Houghton Mifflin Company, 2006), p. 94.
* Edward Hirsch, "The Custodian," The Atlantic (October 2011), p. 88.
In each community today—in any nations—there are people in a variety of occupations or professions. The challenge for October is to write a poem in tribute to persons who function in a particular occupation. It may be written about the occupation in general, as Whittier’s “The Drovers,” or you may use the singular, as Longfellow did, using his village blacksmith as an example of the best of the profession. The poem should not be a nostalgic look back, but deal with today’s reality. Pick an occupation that contributes to the welfare of your community today.
Your poem may be free verse or rhymed and metered. If you use a set form, please include the name of the form with your submission.
The deadline is October 15. Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.
Due to formatting restrictions on the blog, all poems should be left justified. Unfortunately I am unable to publish indentations, shaped poems or even extra spaces between words or phrases.
Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data. Poems submitted after the October 15 deadline will not be considered.
How to Submit Your Poem:
Send your poem to wildamorris[at]ameritech[dot]net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot]. Be sure provide your e-mail address. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog if it is a winner, so be sure that you put your name, exactly as you would like it to appear if you do win, at the end of the poem.
© 2011 Wilda Morris
Post script: I've added several new links to poems of mine on the Internet.
The Village Blacksmith
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And bear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his haul, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
John Greenleaf Whittier wrote long, rhymed poems in honor of “The Ship-Builders,” “The Shoemaker,” “The Drovers,” “The Fishermen,” “The Huskers” and “The Lumbermen.” Some of these occupations have largely disappeared from the American scene. For instance, though there are still some shoe repair shops, most of the shoes we wear were made in factories—and often in factories abroad.
Whittier’s book. Songs of Labor, and other poems, is available on-line in the Google book, Songs of Labor and Other Poems by John Greenleaf Whittier, which can be downloaded at http://books.google.com/books?id=y2ERAAAAYAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=onepage&q&f=false.
There are links to several more contemporary poems about work and workers at http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2010/09/06/labor-day-poems-the-poetr_n_705337.html.
Other examples:
* Donald Hall, "The Ox Cart Man," in White Apples and the Taste of Stone: Selected Poems 1946-2006 (Houghton Mifflin Company, 2006), p. 94.
* Edward Hirsch, "The Custodian," The Atlantic (October 2011), p. 88.
In each community today—in any nations—there are people in a variety of occupations or professions. The challenge for October is to write a poem in tribute to persons who function in a particular occupation. It may be written about the occupation in general, as Whittier’s “The Drovers,” or you may use the singular, as Longfellow did, using his village blacksmith as an example of the best of the profession. The poem should not be a nostalgic look back, but deal with today’s reality. Pick an occupation that contributes to the welfare of your community today.
Your poem may be free verse or rhymed and metered. If you use a set form, please include the name of the form with your submission.
The deadline is October 15. Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.
Due to formatting restrictions on the blog, all poems should be left justified. Unfortunately I am unable to publish indentations, shaped poems or even extra spaces between words or phrases.
Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data. Poems submitted after the October 15 deadline will not be considered.
How to Submit Your Poem:
Send your poem to wildamorris[at]ameritech[dot]net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot]. Be sure provide your e-mail address. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog if it is a winner, so be sure that you put your name, exactly as you would like it to appear if you do win, at the end of the poem.
© 2011 Wilda Morris
Post script: I've added several new links to poems of mine on the Internet.
Friday, September 30, 2011
September Blog Winner
There were several excellent children’s poems submitted this month, so I asked a 4th grade teacher, Sally Dayton, if she and her class would select the winner. This is the poem they chose:
The Woman Who Weaves In The Sky
See how she spins, see her fingers fly,
that mysterious lady who lives in the sky.
She makes sunsets and oceans, and babies that cry;
makes tigers and ligers and chicken pot pie.
Hooray for the lady who weaves in the sky.
She’ll play with you too if you never ask why.
For she hates to explain whatever she does.
She is what she is, and will be what she was.
~ Judith Bernal
Copyright to this poem remains with Judith Bernal, the poet. Please do not copy and distribute it without permission.
I must admit that I learned a new word when I read this poem: “liger.” If you don’t know what it means, you can go to my favorite source of definitions and synonyms: www.onelook.com.
I suspect that the children liked the mysterious qualities of this poem, as well as the rhythm and rhyme. Also most children hate to explain what they do, and could identify with that characteristic of “the woman who weaves in the sky.” They may also identify with the last line, and want to say the same thing about themselves.
Watch for a new prompt coming soon.
© 2011 Wilda Morris
The Woman Who Weaves In The Sky
See how she spins, see her fingers fly,
that mysterious lady who lives in the sky.
She makes sunsets and oceans, and babies that cry;
makes tigers and ligers and chicken pot pie.
Hooray for the lady who weaves in the sky.
She’ll play with you too if you never ask why.
For she hates to explain whatever she does.
She is what she is, and will be what she was.
~ Judith Bernal
Copyright to this poem remains with Judith Bernal, the poet. Please do not copy and distribute it without permission.
I must admit that I learned a new word when I read this poem: “liger.” If you don’t know what it means, you can go to my favorite source of definitions and synonyms: www.onelook.com.
I suspect that the children liked the mysterious qualities of this poem, as well as the rhythm and rhyme. Also most children hate to explain what they do, and could identify with that characteristic of “the woman who weaves in the sky.” They may also identify with the last line, and want to say the same thing about themselves.
Watch for a new prompt coming soon.
© 2011 Wilda Morris
Thursday, September 1, 2011
September 2011 Poetry Challenge
It is September and in the United States that means the children are going back to school. As children walked by my home to the nearby elementary school, I started thinking about some of the poems I loved when I was a child.
What poems were your favorites? Styles in poetry change, and favorites vary from country to country. My children were very fond of Shel Silverstein’s poems. What were (or are) the favorite poems of your children? If you are a grandparent, what are some favorites of your grandchildren? If enough readers respond to these questions (respond to wildamorris[at]Ameritech[dot]net, I’ll publish a list of the poems mentioned most.
Maybe one reason I was fond of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was that my school was named for him. "The Children's Hour" was (and still is) ne of my very favorite . It is a poem of family love. Perhaps because I grew up in my grandparents’ home, I pictured the speaker of the poem as a grandfather—one as kind and loving as mine. Usually “The Children’s Hour” is printed with every other line indented, but this blog won’t accept indents, so all the lines in this and other poems are left-justified.
The Children’s Hour
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Here are a few more of my childhood favorites:
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,--
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we,"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew;
The little stars were the herring-fish
That lived in the beautiful sea.
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,--
Never afraid are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam,--
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home:
'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:--
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
~ Eugene Field
Animal Crackers
Animal crackers and cocoa to drink,
That is the finest of suppers, I think;
When I'm grown up and can have what I please
I think I shall always insist upon these.
What do you choose when you're offered a treat?
When Mother says, "What would you like best to eat?"
Is it waffles and syrup, or cinnamon toast?
It's cocoa and animals that I love the most!
The kitchen's the coziest place that I know:
The kettle is singing, the stove is aglow,
And there in the twilight, how jolly to see
The cocoa and animals waiting for me.
Daddy and Mother dine later in state,
With Mary to cook for them, Susan to wait;
But they don't have nearly as much fun as I
Who eat in the kitchen with Nurse standing by;
And Daddy once said he would like to be me
Having cocoa and animals once more for tea!
~ Christopher Morley
James Whitcomb Riley was one of my favorite poets. Among his poems that I enjoyed was “The Raggedy Man.” The stanzas below are the ones that were in my poetry book. By going to http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/James-Whitcomb-Riley/13678 I learned that there are several additional stanzas I did not read or hear as a child.
The Raggedy Man
O the Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An' he's the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay;
An' he opens the shed -- an' we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;
An' nen -- ef our hired girl says he can --
He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann. --
Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
W'y, The Raggedy Man -- he's ist so good,
He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood;
An' nen he spades in our garden, too,
An' does most things 'at boys can't do. --
He clumbed clean up in our big tree
An' shooked a' apple down fer me --
An' 'nother 'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann --
An' 'nother 'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man. --
Ain't he a' awful kind Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
The Raggedy Man's so good an' kind
He'll be our "horsey," an' "haw" an' mind
Ever'thing 'at you make him do --
An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,
An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes:
Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an' Elves,
An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers the'rselves:
An', wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,
He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got,
'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can
Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann!
Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man!
Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
The Raggedy Man -- one time, when he
Wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me,
Says "When you're big like your Pa is,
Air you go' to keep a fine store like his --
An' be a rich merchunt -- an' wear fine clothes? --
Er what air you go' to be, goodness knows?"
An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann,
An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man! --
I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!"
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
~ James Whitcomb Riley
Free Verse for Children
The poems above are all rhymed and metered poems. This is not true of all poems for children. Go to http://www.poetryfoundation.org/features/video/6 and you can watch a video reading of "April Rain Song" by Langston Hughes. I’m sure it would have been one of my favorites, had I heard it as a child!
NOTE: The poems reproduced on this blog entry are, I believe, in the public domain. I have given the link to Langston Hughes’ poem rather than reproducing it here, because I believe it is still copyright-protected, and because I think you will enjoy the video.
September Poetry Challenge
For September, write a poem for children between the ages of six and eleven. Your poem may be free verse or formal verse. If you use a form, please specify what form you are using. If you invent your own form, please include the rules of the form.
The deadline is September 15. Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.
Due to formatting restrictions on the blog, all poems should be left justified. Unfortunately I am unable to publish indentations, shaped poems or even extra spaces between words or phrases.
Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data. Poems submitted after the September 15 deadline will not be considered.
How to Submit Your Poem:
Send your poem to wildamorris[at]ameritech[dot]net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot]. Be sure provide your e-mail address. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog if it is a winner, so be sure that you put your name, exactly as you would like it to appear if you do win, at the end of the poem.
NOTE TO POETS: The Illinois State Poetry Society has an annual contest for poets. If you are interested, you can find the rules at http://illinoispoets.org/contest.htm.
NOTE TO TEACHERS: Let me know if your class would like to submit poems on this challenge, or if you would like to work with me on selecting a challenge for later in the school year.
© 2011 Wilda Morris
What poems were your favorites? Styles in poetry change, and favorites vary from country to country. My children were very fond of Shel Silverstein’s poems. What were (or are) the favorite poems of your children? If you are a grandparent, what are some favorites of your grandchildren? If enough readers respond to these questions (respond to wildamorris[at]Ameritech[dot]net, I’ll publish a list of the poems mentioned most.
Maybe one reason I was fond of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was that my school was named for him. "The Children's Hour" was (and still is) ne of my very favorite . It is a poem of family love. Perhaps because I grew up in my grandparents’ home, I pictured the speaker of the poem as a grandfather—one as kind and loving as mine. Usually “The Children’s Hour” is printed with every other line indented, but this blog won’t accept indents, so all the lines in this and other poems are left-justified.
The Children’s Hour
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Here are a few more of my childhood favorites:
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,--
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
"Where are you going, and what do you wish?"
The old moon asked the three.
"We have come to fish for the herring-fish
That live in this beautiful sea;
Nets of silver and gold have we,"
Said Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
The old moon laughed and sang a song,
As they rocked in the wooden shoe;
And the wind that sped them all night long
Ruffled the waves of dew;
The little stars were the herring-fish
That lived in the beautiful sea.
"Now cast your nets wherever you wish,--
Never afraid are we!"
So cried the stars to the fishermen three,
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
All night long their nets they threw
To the stars in the twinkling foam,--
Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe,
Bringing the fishermen home:
'Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed
As if it could not be;
And some folk thought 'twas a dream they'd dreamed
Of sailing that beautiful sea;
But I shall name you the fishermen three:
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes,
And Nod is a little head,
And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies
Is a wee one's trundle-bed;
So shut your eyes while Mother sings
Of wonderful sights that be,
And you shall see the beautiful things
As you rock in the misty sea
Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three:--
Wynken,
Blynken,
And Nod.
~ Eugene Field
Animal Crackers
Animal crackers and cocoa to drink,
That is the finest of suppers, I think;
When I'm grown up and can have what I please
I think I shall always insist upon these.
What do you choose when you're offered a treat?
When Mother says, "What would you like best to eat?"
Is it waffles and syrup, or cinnamon toast?
It's cocoa and animals that I love the most!
The kitchen's the coziest place that I know:
The kettle is singing, the stove is aglow,
And there in the twilight, how jolly to see
The cocoa and animals waiting for me.
Daddy and Mother dine later in state,
With Mary to cook for them, Susan to wait;
But they don't have nearly as much fun as I
Who eat in the kitchen with Nurse standing by;
And Daddy once said he would like to be me
Having cocoa and animals once more for tea!
~ Christopher Morley
James Whitcomb Riley was one of my favorite poets. Among his poems that I enjoyed was “The Raggedy Man.” The stanzas below are the ones that were in my poetry book. By going to http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/James-Whitcomb-Riley/13678 I learned that there are several additional stanzas I did not read or hear as a child.
The Raggedy Man
O the Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An' he's the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay;
An' he opens the shed -- an' we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;
An' nen -- ef our hired girl says he can --
He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann. --
Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
W'y, The Raggedy Man -- he's ist so good,
He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood;
An' nen he spades in our garden, too,
An' does most things 'at boys can't do. --
He clumbed clean up in our big tree
An' shooked a' apple down fer me --
An' 'nother 'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann --
An' 'nother 'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man. --
Ain't he a' awful kind Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
The Raggedy Man's so good an' kind
He'll be our "horsey," an' "haw" an' mind
Ever'thing 'at you make him do --
An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,
An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes:
Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an' Elves,
An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers the'rselves:
An', wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,
He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got,
'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can
Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann!
Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man!
Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
The Raggedy Man -- one time, when he
Wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me,
Says "When you're big like your Pa is,
Air you go' to keep a fine store like his --
An' be a rich merchunt -- an' wear fine clothes? --
Er what air you go' to be, goodness knows?"
An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann,
An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man! --
I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!"
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!
~ James Whitcomb Riley
Free Verse for Children
The poems above are all rhymed and metered poems. This is not true of all poems for children. Go to http://www.poetryfoundation.org/features/video/6 and you can watch a video reading of "April Rain Song" by Langston Hughes. I’m sure it would have been one of my favorites, had I heard it as a child!
NOTE: The poems reproduced on this blog entry are, I believe, in the public domain. I have given the link to Langston Hughes’ poem rather than reproducing it here, because I believe it is still copyright-protected, and because I think you will enjoy the video.
September Poetry Challenge
For September, write a poem for children between the ages of six and eleven. Your poem may be free verse or formal verse. If you use a form, please specify what form you are using. If you invent your own form, please include the rules of the form.
The deadline is September 15. Copyright on poems is retained by their authors.
Due to formatting restrictions on the blog, all poems should be left justified. Unfortunately I am unable to publish indentations, shaped poems or even extra spaces between words or phrases.
Poems published in books or on the Internet (including Facebook and other on-line social networks) are not eligible. If your poem has been published in a periodical, please include publication data. Poems submitted after the September 15 deadline will not be considered.
How to Submit Your Poem:
Send your poem to wildamorris[at]ameritech[dot]net (substitute the @ sign for “at” and a . for [dot]. Be sure provide your e-mail address. Submission of a poem gives permission for the poem to be posted on the blog if it is a winner, so be sure that you put your name, exactly as you would like it to appear if you do win, at the end of the poem.
NOTE TO POETS: The Illinois State Poetry Society has an annual contest for poets. If you are interested, you can find the rules at http://illinoispoets.org/contest.htm.
NOTE TO TEACHERS: Let me know if your class would like to submit poems on this challenge, or if you would like to work with me on selecting a challenge for later in the school year.
© 2011 Wilda Morris
Sunday, August 28, 2011
August Challenge Winner
The winning poem for August is by Caroline Johnson, who says her hero is her sister Debbie, who died of osteogenic sarcoma. After her poem was selected, I asked her to explain in more detail why she considered her sister her hero. Here is what she wrote:
Her is Caroline’s tribute to her sister:
Poem about Hair
I remember when she lost it.
The memory is almost as vivid
as when she played with Barbie,
holding it with both hands,
moving it here and there
admiring the doll’s long hair.
All those months of chemotherapy,
the nausea, and then, suddenly,
she had beautiful, silky locks.
It was a dark wig, of course,
that I saw my 14-year-old sister comb.
At night it would sit on a Styrofoam head, propped.
She wore the wig and her prosthesis
every school day while climbing the steps
of a crowded yellow bus,
using crutches or sometimes
a cane.
The last time I saw her
we each put a single red rose
on her casket.
Father said he hoped he’d see her again.
Mother, like me, said nothing,
her dyed blonde hair
whipping in the wind.
Caroline Johnson Caroline Johnson
http://jupiter-caroline.blogspot.com
Copyright to this poem belongs to the author.
Watch for the September Poetry Challenge coming soon.
© Wilda Morris
I admired my sister Debbie for many reasons. She had a talent of playing the piano, she was the first in the family to have a boyfriend, and she even smoked out on our front porch once with her friends--with my parents watching! However, the biggest reason I admired her was for her fortitude and strength when facing her illness, osteogenic sarcoma, or bone cancer. This cancer caused her to have her leg amputated, and later on, it metastasized to her lungs. It was the same kind of cancer that Ted Kennedy's son had. She even wrote a letter to him, and he replied, telling her to "never give up." He would survive the tragedy, while she didn't
She would tell my mom not to worry about what kind of casket to choose, while my mom couldn't hold back the tears. Debbie accepted her death in the same way she accepted her life; she reacted calmly with the cards that were dealt to her. Though her death at 15 affected us all greatly, it was really the memory of her life--the way she lived her life--that would chase us for years afterwards, like a ghost.
Her is Caroline’s tribute to her sister:
Poem about Hair
I remember when she lost it.
The memory is almost as vivid
as when she played with Barbie,
holding it with both hands,
moving it here and there
admiring the doll’s long hair.
All those months of chemotherapy,
the nausea, and then, suddenly,
she had beautiful, silky locks.
It was a dark wig, of course,
that I saw my 14-year-old sister comb.
At night it would sit on a Styrofoam head, propped.
She wore the wig and her prosthesis
every school day while climbing the steps
of a crowded yellow bus,
using crutches or sometimes
a cane.
The last time I saw her
we each put a single red rose
on her casket.
Father said he hoped he’d see her again.
Mother, like me, said nothing,
her dyed blonde hair
whipping in the wind.
Caroline Johnson Caroline Johnson
http://jupiter-caroline.blogspot.com
Copyright to this poem belongs to the author.
Watch for the September Poetry Challenge coming soon.
© Wilda Morris
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