My father had been out of work for way too long.
At night, I often heard him and mom weep
Food was scant, but love was strong.
As was that hunger pain when I lay to sleep.
My little brother was too young to understand.
Still a babe in arms, he brought our only smiles.
I loved to play with him and hold his tiny hand.
It seemed to take away the hurt from life trials.
Then, one-day dad came home all excited.
He was talking so fast, grinning from ear to ear.
He said that our future was well fated.
That we were in for adventure was clear.
It was that new ocean liner, the Titanic.
Dad had been hired for the maiden voyage.
We were going along as his sidekick.
A family destined for American homage.
In just five days we boarded that ship.
Immigrating was a dream come true.
Accommodations would be a hardship.
But it was worth opportunities…new.
Dad worked as a scullion in the restaurant.
We were housed on the lower deck.
It was a very crowded lodgment.
We stayed together until the shipwreck.
Sirens were screeching people screaming.
We could not find dad anywhere.
Was he locked up as a cageling?
Could it be true; was he trapped down there?
Lifeboats were being lowered.
Mom held my brother, crying.
Dad must be somewhere cloistered.
We all feared a dreadful dying.
Someone put me in a lifeboat.
I reached for mom as it descended.
The Titanic was still afloat.
But my family separated.
The water was freezing.
I had forgotten my coat.
People crying, sniffling, and sneezing.
The lifeboat soon became an iceboat.
Within a few hours, death began.
Shivering, I crawled beneath two corpses.
A young girl destined to live without her clan.
Hidden from polar breezes.
That was the last time I saw my mother.
My mind holds the image clearly.
She, calling for dad, was cuddling brother.
Oh, how I loved my family dearly.
When rescuers finally arrived.
I was the only one alive in the lifeboat.
Beneath those bodies, I survived.
Then, I was wrapped in a warm coat.
I never did see America.
I was sent to an orphanage back home.
Life had dealt a great trauma.
Forever had sunken in the ocean's foam.
© April 9, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: My heart will go on and on.... Free Poetry
Sponsor Tracie ~*~ Indigo Dreamweaver
To the right of my screen, what should I see?
There’s a plus-sized blonde wearing a dress that’s pretty.
Kudos to you for making clothes for the large lady.
Those are the kinds of women that appeal to me.
What you are selling them really looks nice.
Your clothing does justice for a big girl at a good price.
I want to see a woman of mine in your dress.
For the business you are in, I wish you success.
Wilderness is a crowded street.
Silence stings the ears of the hearer,
Cacophony of sound, unheard.
Loneliness turns to solitude,
Converse without a word.
Wilderness is a crowded street.
A passer-by nobody sees.
Togetherness now disjointed,
Run! I feel their disease.
Money is their mind set
Full wallet yet they're poor.
A heart of gold inside me,
Theirs, an open sore!
Some own the World, yet are bankrupt,
Emotionally discharged black-holes.
Shiny shoes that point to nowhere,
Prices, still on their soles.
All the broken people,
Nobody tells me why.
Orphaned, divorced, mistaken,
I'll not lay down to die.
To roll over and just take it,
Is what they'd like us to do.
So let's all speak out, be counted,
Not be part, of the Zoo!
Know how to make
The best of what you've got in you
You do it everyday in your life
No curse words allowed
are you confused, lost, ignorant
you are no artist, you have shunned art
and its true purpose
what is art? but an expression
the low and vile are the most potent
Did you forget, Emerson The Poet
He would call you "selfish and sensual"
"an umpire of taste"
"proof of the shallowness of the doctrine of beauty"
in a world of suffering, of loss
Art isnt happy, and flowers in the park
you, in your confusion, hide in the dark
hide any truths of pain and suffering
and by doing so you have lost your soul
You are only half a person
art is an expression of life and its hidden
what is in a word? something to hide from?
something to fear? to censor? to fight?
are you that ashamed of language?
honesty? expressions of shame?
You are no poet, no artist
you are no immortal,
of course you are so cowardly and weak
you will hide from me, censor me,
avoid the truth, lie to the world
if you cant stomach a curse word
then you cant handle me
any immortal would crush you
and leave you wounded
truly contemplating your life
breaking you open, forcing you alive
then, maybe then, you will have an emotion,
worthy of expression into art.
but dont get mad at me, angry or hurt
You may just use a curse word
And you all thought
that after reaching home,
I would jump in the shower so fast
and off to bed...I'd snooze to end my boredom?
On my lunch hour I take a light nap,
it's beneficial to your health the doctor confidently says;
and should I ever see a scary, black cat
running across my windshield...a nightmare surely begins.
Working hard in a warehouse
with people and forklifts in full swing,
I must be more alert than a mouse
being chased by a bunch of hungry cats drooling.
To sit at my desk and write a poem for a new contest:
is a challenging and rewarding experience for an obscure poet;
and while others sleep and their spirits float in mysterious dreams,
I reflect over the rhetoric language of what life seems.
Pop can Sally stock my pop.
Push the new stuff back!
Bring the old stuff to the front
and space them just a crack.
Sell me one to quench my thirst
but make me get my own.
Reaching further to the back
where cooler ones are known.
Take my change from out of pocket.
Thanks for this cold pop.
Refreshing when I pull it's tab
and help to blow it's top.
Guzzling down what rushes out
and soon to quench my thirst.
Swallowing it quickly now;
allowing it to burst.
Empty now a once full can.
Thanks to Sally and her pop.
The Pop Can Sally Store.
< Toaster Strudel - Trochee
I just crave toaster strudel
Piping hot pastry
Cool icing so can doodle
So get to popping me one
Time to used noodle
Pop tarts boring just no fun
Choose toaster strudel
Rhyme Scheme: a/b/c/b or a/b/a/b
The meter is trochee, which means alternating stressed and unstressed beats in each line, with each line beginning and ending in a stressed syllable. This is a simple lyrical type little poem, so rhymes will be basic, nothing fancy. The poem itself should give a description of something of interest to the poet and often the meter lends itself to humor, much as a limerick does. There is not a set number of these quatrain type stanzas, but a typical 7/5 Trochee would consist of two quatrains, with the second stanza serving to tie up the idea presented in the first stanza.
How could you do such a terrible thing?
You just pawned your deceased father’s ring.
Think about that ring’s sentimental value.
To get cash, could there have been other things to do?
That guy is a shyster with his business dealings and such.
I’ll bet the amount you got was not much.
I kept telling you to stay out of that casino.
However, with your money, you continued to go.
Who pays for all that ritzy ambience and décor that you see?
The casinos get it from losers like you and me.
It is only normal that gamblers should lose their money.
If there’s a big win, it’s considered an abnormality.
Whatever you get each month you don’t save.
I’ll bet your old man is turning over in his grave.
With this money, go to the pawn shop today.
I want you to get that ring back right away.
Listlessly he feeds the pigeons,
strutting proudly in the park;
kicking at an empty coke can,
gravity has left its mark.
Nattily attired he's one of
many other CEOs
high atop the corporate ladder,
highly thought of, such a pose.
Bored with mergers, acquisitions,
weary of the daily stress;
where's the joy, the satisfaction,
where's the bliss of happiness?
Hamptons cottage never lived in,
cabin cruiser barely used;
his wife's begun divorce proceedings,
claims that she has been misused.
Children living with no love,
he never sees them anymore;
he's too busy making millions,
economics is his score.
Who'd have thought a Wharton graduate
with a double PhD
would spend his lunch hour feeding pigeons,
kicking coke cans endlessly.
In his spacious penthouse office
with a prospect of Times Square
he seals another hefty contract,
he has lost the will to care.