The Art of Poetry

Brush of the artist, pen of the scribe—
Tools that she handles with equal finesse.
Able the eye and the ear to impress—
What she has tasted, gives us to imbibe.
Painting a picture using her words—
Paper, the canvas; life is the scene.
And on the easel, color ungirds,
Telling a story with writing unseen.
Poetry springs not from technique;
The artist makes the art unique.

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First Day in Braces

For years I’ve longed to have a perfect smile;
At last the long-awaited day has come.
I didn’t know they’d be so worrisome—
Will my mouth be this tender all the while?
They say there is no profit without pain;
I only hope it will not be in vain.
My daughter never did so carry on;
She chuckles now to see her mom complain.
From further loud laments I shall refrain,
Envisioning my smile when these are gone.

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Irons in the Fire

The day was long and wearisome,
So many irons in the fire.
My spirit, tired, was overcome;
The hammock answered my desire,
And soon I thought I would succumb—
Unfinished chores ignited ire.

You wear yourself too thin, you know.
You’ve done the same thing time again.
Pull out some irons; let them go,
Then plan your work and work your plan.

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Apologies to Shakespeare

To tell of love I first must sit and think
As I compose my Sonnetina Cinque.
Were Shakespeare here, he’d think my rhyme too brief,
With but ten lines to read upon the leaf;
To add four more were not a waste of ink.
But this is not Elizabethan verse,
So proudly I shall write my poem terse
And hope in time to help, by my employ,
Some others this fine genre to enjoy
And to some listening ear my work rehearse.

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Lost in a Book

When I found that book waiting on the shelf,
I found myself.
I was barely through the cover embossed
When I got lost.
I was caught and drawn in on a hook
In a book.

As the day wore on, other things forsook,
For the author seemed to know me well;
In her story I my own could tell—
I found myself when I got lost in a book.

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Once I was young and thin,
Able to eat my weight.
Grandmother warned too late:
“Honey, just look at me—
That will not always be.”

That will not always be….
Her message haunted me.
Heaviness was my fate;
Now her I emulate
From toe to double chin!

Continue reading “Heredity”