Poetry competition CLOSED 8th August 2016 7:40pm
WINNER
_shadoe_ (yiyi)
_shadoe_ (yiyi)
RUNNERS-UP:
Jade-Pandora
and EStar
Grateful
Anonymous
....
Grandchildren
Little fingers, little toes
It's such a joy to watch you grow
Big bright eyes that greet the day
A crinkled nose with a smile that shines my way
Messy faces at supper time
Couches like mountains that you just have to climb
The wonders of this world seen through your eyes
Such a truly beautiful prize
Child of my child
You have me so beguiled
Little fingers, little toes
It's such a joy to watch you grow
Big bright eyes that greet the day
A crinkled nose with a smile that shines my way
Messy faces at supper time
Couches like mountains that you just have to climb
The wonders of this world seen through your eyes
Such a truly beautiful prize
Child of my child
You have me so beguiled
Anonymous
The end of a hangover
Alcoholics don't get hungover
The night never ends
The night wild and primal
Waking up to the desert
dehydrated mentholated sun
The moment of relief
comes at the end of a headache
when the pain killer massage
reaches the nerves
The end of the Hangover
Alcoholics don't get hungover
The night never ends
The night wild and primal
Waking up to the desert
dehydrated mentholated sun
The moment of relief
comes at the end of a headache
when the pain killer massage
reaches the nerves
The end of the Hangover
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Can a grate be full?
No, it allows the floods
to pass through it.
To which I have the
utmost gratitude...
That the grate of my heart
allows for my tears, whether
the weather is of joy or grief,
so that never will I never hold
inside, the weapons to drown myself.
Instead, my heart pours out
the life forces that bring both
recreational and medical healing.
Grateful for Yesterday
I wonder what it's like to cry
when you have a glass eye?
It was a passing thought.
Mom had suffered a stroke this year,
they said she had just stopped talking.
At first she tried to tell us she hadn't
had a stroke; she couldn't relate
how it caused her glass eye to
loosen in its socket.
But when I went to visit at the
hospital, I saw what happened,
as she blithely sat in bed, eating.
It was months before she could say it,
Then yesterday, I heard the words
when we were at a Cantonese cafe
when she said, "Since the stroke,
it takes longer to get my mental map up".
My mouth full of egg roll, I softly sighed,
Thankful that she can remember!
Even though the stroke had ravaged her,
Mom looked quite lovely when I came
to take her to get the new prosthetic eye.
To my delight, she emerged
with a new glass eye that matched her
light hazel coloring perfectly.
I tried not to be obvious as I
kept looking at her as she laughed
in a way I'd never heard before:
It was the girl of her youth.
At the restaurant after dinner,
the conversation settled into a tender quiet.
I told her of my own struggles,
and she shared her thoughts on mortality.
She'd forget things, recent memories.
But the ones from childhood,
always indelible, where we all come from.
I noticed the more she talked,
the further back she went.
We joked, she brightened, grinning wide,
eyes dancing, and that little ravaged face
turned into my grandmother's,
and I told her!
She always looked like herself,
but yesterday
sitting across from me in the booth
with the light from the window
I saw her as a moving portrait,
so small and frail,
but her face - her smile - that laugh.
Then Mom spoke about the last days
of her own mother's life,
lifting her chin, trying not to tear up.
That's what made me wonder
what it must be like.
I wonder what it's like to cry
when you have a glass eye?
It was a passing thought.
Mom had suffered a stroke this year,
they said she had just stopped talking.
At first she tried to tell us she hadn't
had a stroke; she couldn't relate
how it caused her glass eye to
loosen in its socket.
But when I went to visit at the
hospital, I saw what happened,
as she blithely sat in bed, eating.
It was months before she could say it,
Then yesterday, I heard the words
when we were at a Cantonese cafe
when she said, "Since the stroke,
it takes longer to get my mental map up".
My mouth full of egg roll, I softly sighed,
Thankful that she can remember!
Even though the stroke had ravaged her,
Mom looked quite lovely when I came
to take her to get the new prosthetic eye.
To my delight, she emerged
with a new glass eye that matched her
light hazel coloring perfectly.
I tried not to be obvious as I
kept looking at her as she laughed
in a way I'd never heard before:
It was the girl of her youth.
At the restaurant after dinner,
the conversation settled into a tender quiet.
I told her of my own struggles,
and she shared her thoughts on mortality.
She'd forget things, recent memories.
But the ones from childhood,
always indelible, where we all come from.
I noticed the more she talked,
the further back she went.
We joked, she brightened, grinning wide,
eyes dancing, and that little ravaged face
turned into my grandmother's,
and I told her!
She always looked like herself,
but yesterday
sitting across from me in the booth
with the light from the window
I saw her as a moving portrait,
so small and frail,
but her face - her smile - that laugh.
Then Mom spoke about the last days
of her own mother's life,
lifting her chin, trying not to tear up.
That's what made me wonder
what it must be like.
quite applicable as well!
