Poems On Love, Loss, And The Which means Of Life
The delicate cobwebbed stockings are scarred with stitches.
Contemporary tears like flesh wounds gape at kneecap and heel from
a day of pounding pavement, ready in soup kitchen queues.
They’re soaked within the tin washtub, rinsed of the day’s grime
of sweat and silt and hung to dry, fluttering on the clothesline
or draped over a chair. The fading luxury of silk, her last pair.
Each evening she makes an attempt to repair the harm, to weave them
into wearability. Runs are scratched into silk, where they may
unfold like the routes and rivers on a cartographer’s map. She
bathes her blistered, callused toes. Her bare legs are smudged
and soiled, her toenails the colour of stone, her pores and skin cracked and
leathery as old shoes. Within the morning, she crosses legs sheathed
with spiderwebs, arranging her skirt to hide the latest darning.
By Jessica Goody
Ella: Of Infinite Possibilites
Wide-eyed in surprise,
Ella beholds the world.
“How old are you ”
her grandfather asks.
She holds up 5 fingers.
Ella traces her grandfather’s mosaic of wrinkles,
touching his face with those same 5 fingers.
Seeing tears form in her dark, darkish eyes,
he asks: “Why so unhappy ”
“Because you might be shrinking.”
“But I am not unhappy,” Grandfather replies.
“Why not ”
“Because you’re rising.”
By Jacqueline Seewald
At present I thought I might clean out the trunk,
And throw away a few pink braiding hair of that worn-out junk,
The little purple overalls, worn at the knee,
The raggedy sweater, utilized by my three,
The light previous jacket that Kenny wore
The primary time he went with his Dad to the store,
The myriad anklets, many unmatched,
And several wee shirts, patched and unpatched,
The costume that is too small for Betty to put on,
The ribbon that never would stay in her hair,
Paul’s baby cap his previous woolen bunting,
Small worn issues for which I would been searching,
Oh, I sorted out a lot of worn-out junk,
Then I tenderly packed it all back in the trunk.
By Kathleen Wastlund
Content material continues below advert
She Suffers This Idiot Gladly
The years have flown since we first wed—
your hair’s now grey, mine’s left my head.
Our achy our bodies groan and creak,
but holding you still makes me weak
with pleasure. Maybe I don’t tell
you often—how you ring my bell!
It’s true my memory’s antique,
but holding you continue to makes me weak.
You make me blaze within your flame—
I like you, pricey previous what’s-your-title.
I’m flummoxed by feminine mystique,
however holding you continue to makes me weak.
The years have flown since we first wed,
but holding you still makes me weak.
By Barbara Blanks
My spouse is in a panic,
She found a gray hair today.
She asked if I’ll still love her
When she’s gone fully grey.
I advised her not to fret
And she shouldn’t look so unhappy.
I’ve beloved her by means of three colours
And yet another cannot be so unhealthy.
By R. Wayne Edwards
From the window of the Albergo Fiorentino
I watched the 2 embrace on the Arno River Bridge,
A postcard greeting to the lonely, a lesson in what
Love can do to change a loveless world.
All across the young lovers evening was closing down,
The moonlight hanging like halos above their heads,
And if the world had been to end in mid-kiss,
If the threatened bombs have been to make good their guarantees,
These two would die with out tears and trembling.
I turn away at last and drink my Charbonnet.
By Salvatore Buttaci
How can we
A scent. A smile. A slice of lemon cake
frosted and much too candy.
It was your favorite.
A voice. A hand in mine. Time.
A sock. A belt. A worn, wool sweater
scratchy and tough against my cheek.
A drawer full of receipts.
Your silver decide-up parked by the storage
the place you final left it and me
that day the ambulance drove you away
and forgot to deliver you dwelling.
I loved you then. I miss you now.