(I apologize for the
format the website
is having problems,
hopefully it will be
Poised, she waits by
pajamas by the door.
Still as a statue,
Waiting for Mama is
this toddlers trial.
fog I shake from my
Waking to silence
instead of her
Angelic voice asks
for chocolate milk.
Such a treat in the
morning, smooth like
Attentive, she holds
the glass as I pour.
Half-way full, she
politely asks for
Diligent steps to
the kitchen table,
Holding on as best
as she was able.
abrupt, no warning.
Milk on the
For Contest: Three
Young and pretty, living a normal life
Suddenly her world would never be the same
Her lovely boy born with special needs
Her daily life now the toughest of games
She carries on with her head held high
Having a career, still being his mother
Constantly dealing with medical issues
Yet she would not change him for another
Nurses and doctors fill her daily life
Fighting for the services that he needs
Never one complaint does she voice
Knowing not where his path will lead
A special soul; accepting the hand dealt
My admiration for this woman so deeply felt…..
I am privileged to be one of his nurses...I have never seen a stronger
more dedicated mother..
A child's beauty contest I watched in such awe;
young girl in a wheelchair to her father, his all.
Escorting her on stage with such grace and pride;
each so blessed to be at the others' side.
A fragile princess in a purple pageant dress;
twirling her first in her chair then lifting her to his chest.
Their dance so inspiring; such an enchanting sight;
so gently he lifted her high up to the sky.
Sparkling, bright eyes and the most beautiful smile;
none deserving of a crown more than this precious child.
An imperfect body, viewed as a gift from above;
her beauty matched only by a father's boundless love.
Beauty in my eyes is not found in perfection;
but in acceptance, uniqueness, love and dedication.
June 29, 2014
Contest: Encore-anonymous positive new sonnet
Sponsor: Elly Wouterse
Why does a child have to go to school?
Why do we have to spend so much time working?
This seems simply cruel.
Isn't it just irking?
Some people say school is important for learning
Couldn't a child learn on their own?
It would cause much less yearning,
After all, we can learn from our phones.
I can somewhat see a parents point in sending their child to school.
But why would you choose what we wear?
It just allows us to look like fools,
We may as well come to school bear.
As you can see school is not fair,
So please don’t force us to go if you care.
I lived my best in season of the sun,
those yellow, mellow days when cares are flung
to June’s warm breeze, and childhood is begun,
a field to wander in, and all is young!
I lived my zenith in the summer heat.
Ah, zephyr of sublime and untried heights!
Blue sky, July, and taste of kisses sweet
still haunt my mind in cool midsummer nights.
In August came dry winds, and I was torn
from my adobe of early gleeful days.
My children both at summer’s end were born,
and now a grandchild in new sunlight plays.
When dusk, unhurried, comes, I live my best.
In Virgo’s sun may I be laid to rest.
For Brian Strand's ANY 2012 POEM any theme/
any form max of 18 lines Poetry Contest
and now for PD's Any Form Under 15 Lines Poetry Contest
Beneath the weeping willow
A gentle figure swings
Her dress of white a-billow
While soft and sweet she sings
She sang within this bower
What song I cannot tell
Her hair bedecked with flowers
Blue Canterbury bells
And on into the gloaming
Is heard this pleasant sound
When stars begin their roaming
She lets her hair unbound
Then o'er her form the willow weeps
The night is still -- the child sleeps
Growing up as a child I never wanted to sleep alone
In fear of the darkness and most of all the unknown
“Mommy is there monsters” I would commonly ask
Her reply was “only on Halloween, the ones we see in masks”
Still not satisfied with her answer and questioning her some more
Asking her the same old thing as I did the night before
Frustrated and exhausted she finally took me by the hand
Looking under my bed, in my closet and even inside my night-stand
“So see my daughter the monsters are only in your head”
“It’s time to get some sleep me dear, now do as I have said”
Respectfully obeying my mother; my little body trembling with fear
Wishing the hour was morning, praying for “him” not to appear
But as the darkness faded and uncomfortable silence came about
I could hear the monster stirring, getting ready to come out
Hoping the noises I heard were only my brothers messing around
Pulling the covers over my head, hoping and praying not to be found
The footsteps getting closer, the monster is almost to the foot of my bed
I now can hear his heavy breathing, oh God how I wished he was dead
Quietly he lifts my covers back and lays down in the bed beside me
Touching, groping and mauling, trying to cover my eyes so I cannot see
He took away my childhood and with that my trust and self-esteem
A pleading child without a voice, invisible as it would seem
So yes my daughters there are monsters, everywhere we look
Saying as I remember my childhood and everything he took
My whinny,crabby, hungry teen
Your stinky,spoiled and quite mean
You want, you need, you have to have
The latest,newest, modern fad
Your greasy, grimy, hands smear
My wall, light switches, and the mirror
Empty snack bags,with sweet and sour
Create tall,extensive buildings that tower
Your messy,your dirty,in need of a shower
Please make it quick,not loiter an hour
Your smelly,nasty, disgusting shoes
Are slowly poisoning every room
Even with big mouth,rolling eyes and sighs
I would not trade you, I surmise
A child needs a place where he can run
unhindered by some wooden fence or wire.
He needs a spot beneath the summer sun,
a peaceful breeze to soothe him should he tire.
He understands the time to pause in play;
to rest upon a hill and thus renew;
to study clouds that fleck the azure skyway
until they rearrange and pass from view.
A child wants to laugh and taste and see;
to hear a rushing stream; to twirl and leap;
to dip bare feet in mud; hide in a tree
and greet the stars before he has to sleep.
A child sheltered from the sun's caress
grows pale and little knows of happiness.
For Francine Robert's "Barefoot" poetry Contest
When you miss a child,
Of your very own,
That is your flesh and blood,
You begin to wonder,
Where did you go wrong,
In your own life,
Instead of looking,
At the beautiful life,
This you must remember,
So many of the difficult times,
Cause of the times you did share together,
For your children will remember more,
Than you really want to give them credit for,
And they will always remember you,
As their loving parent,
For loving them so much,
More than you will ever know,
And you will never forget them,
Just as you hope,
You will never be forgotten,
From their lives,
Within life's cesspool, captives held for trade,
Along infested ways where young-child rape
Is glorified by twisted souls who gape
And for the purity of babes are paid.
In dim, demonic dwellings are they laid
And sold to loathsome loves who drape
Stolen innocence in sin's evil curse--
Beyond protection or rescuing raid;
The shadowy officials turn the head
To wink or sometimes join the savage curse.
Somewhere sad, broken parents, sobbing, lie,
Tortured days and nights saturate with dread
While ever fuller grows the sex trade's purse:
The victims cry alone and ask God why.
May 3, 2014
Deserve the world my child,my son
If I could give, with heart I'd run
Pray instead, I must for you
Placed many tools to get you through
Life ahead unknown my son
So much I wish, your dreams ignite
Strive for all, please shine that light
Become the man I know you'll be
But please for you and not just me
Dig deep inside with every might
Strive for all thats due, you'll see
Deserving much from world, not me
Kindness, compassion, intelligence too
Owning these gifts, build confidence in you
By example, trust, live life for thee
Accept these words I give from me
My child, a man will come to be
There on the deck, I took a practice swing
tormented in the possiblity--
then hope was dashed--I found no hope to bring
up to the plate, when Ump cried out, "Strike 3!"
I was the last to bat--in this last game--
just oh for three, my record said it all!
And in the dugout, faces all the same,
the looks of gloom! Just waiting for my fall!
I took my place, right up there to the plate.
Out on the mound, the picher grinned at me--
as if he hoped to make my swinging late,
or throw me one--I couldn't even see!
He'd walked a batter, waiting on first base,
to tie the score, if we'd get in the race!
"No girl can hit!" I heard the catcher call,
and echoed from the bleachers was the same,
we made our stands, the umpire cried "Play ball!"
and then I vowed to get us in the game!
I gripped the bat, the windup came too fast!
As did the ball, but where it should have been!
"Strike one!" the umpire yelled at last--
The fastest ball that I have ever seen!
"She'll never swing!" the catchers words for me--
then threw the ball out to the pichers hand!
While out on first, my runner waits to see
if I can swing, or only make a stand!
Right in my face--the picher scouled a bit--
while I choked up--and readied for a hit!
All set to hit--I made it then my dream!
and came the ball--I could not swing at that!
"Strike twoooo!" the umpire made it scream,
then said to me, "You've got to swing the bat!"
The bat it weighed a hundred pounds or so;
"She'll never swing," the pichers eyes did say,
With that he gave his very best, I know!
I glued my eyes--as it screamed straight my way!
I never saw the hitting of the ball!
but won't forget the cracking sound of it!
Nor know again the feeling of it all
of this my very most important hit!
The sound it made--that ev'ryone could hear--
a batters dream--but pichers' greatest fear!
The ball soared hard and high past second base!
then seemed to drop so slowly from above,
as quick as I could get us in the race,
I watched it bounce right off the fielders glove!
The tying run was just ahead of me!
Ole "Never-Steal" now ran like not before!
And right behind, fast as my feet could be
I gave my best! And then I gave some more!
The crowd gave out the seasons wildest plea!
As I yelled to the runner just ahead,
with all the grit that I could find in me,
"I'm going in! And if you stop--you're dead!"
Ole "Never Steal" was giving all he could
and on his heels--I made my promise good!
We saw the ball come by as rounding third!
Not once a hesitation in it all--
and as the umpire watched without a word--
he swept his arms, to make the tying call!
The score was tied--third baseman set to throw--
now ready at home plate, the catcher stood--
and through it all--my only thought was GO!
but if I did--I'd have to make it good!
I knew the ball was thrown down to home plate!
The catcher poised, and glued where he should be!
I had to slide, and heard the ball hit late!
"She's SAFE! She's SAFE!" my Daddy yelled to me!
Now layed to rest--our coaches greatest fear--
the only game we won--throughout the year!
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Be not forgotten faith that bids me stay
When darkened hours come bringing heavy rain
Flood waters ominous rising delays
Foreboding storm cease or I'll go insane
In selfish pity I could lose my way
Controlled by circumstance not dreams I've prayed
Be not caught up in struggles of this day
And miss the joy and passion of plans laid
Rise my soul hear the whisper of His voice
He'll calm the storm and waters will recede
You'll cross dry land so let your heart rejoice
You had faith to stand and now to proceed
So stay the course your treasured promise land
Find your child your awesome little man
*This is a poem about seeking (hunting) and reclaiming a childlike faith to believe!
Contest: Hunt for a Sonnet Gems & Seven Stones in the Crown
The Sweetest Hopes
The tiny infant sprawls midst tubes and wires
In shock I kiss a breath on fairy toes
His life becomes my fervent most desire
And with each moment love within me grows
Oh tiny soul, my darling only son
I will exchange with joy my life for yours
A gift of life I’ll give to know you run
Become a wanderer to distant shores
Perhaps a watcher of the unknown skies
Or young philosopher at Plato’s knee
Or struggling artist without fame or prize
Little one-- 'tis all the same to me
I make no sound when dreaded silence falls
A tragic ending needs no curtain calls
Dec 10, 2012
(A tribute poem to Connecticut Shooting victims)
Whilst time is not in our hands to bear
Whispering hushed sound, steals someone’s life
A lithe gunman brandishing gun to err
If only I hold time, I’ll stop the strife
The ephemeral laughter of childhood
Bequeath memories to posterity
Be an advocate for gun ban, I would
Parents felt like dry leaf in an eddy
I speak of my thoughts, hopes, and prayers
A glimpse of dulcet smile one last chance
Felicity in heaven cloaked the fears
For these children once have a dalliance
One by one, far and near, gunshot broke out
In silence, their presence you can’t live without
Posted also in Voicesnet.com (Jan. 2, 2013)
listen to this carefully my son
there are so many worries under the sun
but much happiness
so think and free your self from sadness
for the deeds of mankind is madness
worst things keep happening
but it all depends on you
so be wise and let your speeches be few
for action speaks louder than words
know that you will be judged
according to your works
the harder the preparation
the easier the battle
rely on nobody for life is a struggle
She quietly slipped into his room
There he lay very proud and arrogant
Who had held a gun to her child's head_ "boom",
He would say_Satan his assistant
He would tell her child that he would kill her
And he would kill her beloved family
She could not know that this would not occur
The child lived for eighteen years anxiously
How can one forgive heinous offense
Committed against a child that is loved
Only through God forgiveness for events
God forgave without Him she would be unloved
She asked him if he needed anything
Promised to visit while inside screaming
Our ex-son-in-law is in a nursing home now in the last stages of Huntington's Disease
We think that he was abusive because of the illness but don't know for sure..
Our daughter divorced him and remarried to a man who is treating her good...
What is it like to be my little hero?
A morning chat would mean great adventure
A ride with your imaginary aero
Would fly us to places never gone before
Inside your world, we made things possible
We are both so strong to save the world
With unique powers, you are unstoppable
Put an end to villains with your mighty hurled
Within you, I see my own reflection
Full of imagination and a dreamer
Someday your dream would have a clear perception
What best for you, I would be your defender
Every day is like a blink of an eye
At 7 years old, time hastily flies
Noel N. Villarosa
19 April 2014
Posted also in: www.pinoylifefacts.blogspot.com
Woman! darkly gleam is your work I esteem…love it!
From mountainous mountain top to valley‘s belly
I hear you pluck…on eagle‘s wings…onward pluck
How nice, your device visits and forces in their smelly
Glamorous cells, a glad evening‘s grief to run amok.
Then ever, of flowing emotions savour. Oh their deeds befit!
Skip a stride, hop a stride, and gleefully grin upon
Their seeds too – in their please full bliss and homely homes.
But a seed… …he who wears my face and is adorn
With a talking tongue like that of his majesty Jerome‘s;
When you, him happen upon, spare an empty glance. Clickaty-clacks too,
Mine ears must hear not near. And my nose, free must it be of your flu!
On scribbled accounts, oh read, ever shall you in your shrine;
And content shall I be having inked my fourteenth line.
A man within the wood becomes a child
With brutal bruises on his broken soul
In frenzied foment running wretched wild
Until full fragmentation of his whole.
Each stuttered step brings terror deep within
But takes him to the center of the wood
Where trees become embodiment of sin
And speak in timbered tones not understood.
The purpose of the pace he chose to take
Is vague in all its vast complexity
But clarity of memories now make
Him face a frightened child's reality;
A worn and wasted shadow-land unknown
Where there a child still trembles all alone.
Don't blame the bearer of bad news -
A gun doesn't kill by itself or a knife,
Nor a violent video game or hostile views;
An evil act is but wrought by a mind's strife.
When you nurture a seedling or stunt its growth,
You can foretell it'll be a vine or an oak tree,
So is with the mind of a child as he grows forth -
Will he be hateful or inherit his life stress-free.
There are spiritual laws that govern with
the same certainty as the physical laws;
Faith, trust in God, and love are not ancient myth
But values that shape the character sans flaws.
Like putty, wax, dough or a lump of clay,
Mold the child right lest another soul he slay!
The loneliness is pervasive at home
Noise of the television can't drown it
The emptiness happens each time you roam
I'll turn the porch light on and a moth will flit
While up, open the window just a bit
Now sounds of the night and traffic clearer
In the distance your truck's clank transmits
With each moth flit, the engine's noise nearer
Wonderful knowing you are home and safe
Delighted that you're here again child
Let me close the window, hug the waif
Closing it, remember when you once smiled
The moth no longer flits to the porch light
A closed window blocks the sounds of the night
Inspired by Craig Cornish's
Written: November 07, 2014
pizzas and hoagies were my Friday treats
when I was going to Holy Child School
those treats made me healthy walking the streets
back then I was strong in faith not a fool
unfortunately it was long a go
and Holy Child School is not there today
for pizza and hoagie I won’t say no
after those lunches I wanted to stay
even those white box lunches weren’t that good
except that special day was lobster tail
those box lunches were watches I have stood
since those Friday lunches I never fail
God bless you Sister Rene helped me out
back when I was just a little wee sprout
Tender and small, meek and mild
All these virtues worth the child
Never worthy to be wild
Ever friendly; that's the child
If truly, surely
As we know
It is so
That blessed are they that have them,
Then accurst are they that despises them.
Worthy are they of much care
Provide them, or having them you should not dare
Render your best and expect their best
Render the best, and expect the best.
KANU (JKANE) EKPEZU
Let me tell the rules to have the prettiest tree of all:
First: do not call just my mom and my dad,
But many uncles and aunties also to add,
Because I am a cute little girl and not very tall.
Second: bring chocolate and juice in abundance,
It is an important work and we cannot stop,
The tree must be ready before we go out to shop,
And finally play a song but do not dance:
Let’s sing and clap hands, everyone together!
Then look up: the star will be shinning bright,
We already see the Christmas’s colored light:
Our Christmas’s tree couldn’t look better!
The tree will be ready: the magic is done
The beauty of Christmas will never be gone.
Dear holy child, I celebrate your birth,
and wonder at your bright and shining star,
that leads to needed joy of peace on earth
we all look for, and it is where you are.
So I will light some candles in your name
on Christmas morning, when I'm all alone.
I'll say a prayer into the burning flame
to thank you for your gift too few have known.
You are my bright and shining star, you know,
throughout my life, in everything I do,
the gift of love is all I have, and so,
I wrap my love in candlelight for you.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
When the path your treading seems windy,
When the piping dreams seem stingy,
When the sweat of your brow seems unyielding,
When the endeavour in vision seems unsealing,
When the pat of an ally feels unheeding,
When the ambush of the foes takes the spotting,
When the loathing in your life is rejoicing,
When the affairs of the heart feel overpowering,
When your in for a lull before you buckle down again,
When you are in to foster aspirations of harbour again,
Call to your mind you are not forlorn,
Nail down on your mind you are no mourn.
As I watch you sleep
It reminds me of what I cannot lay claim to
A past long forgotten in the deepest recess of my mind
A Peace so profound I could not fathom
I strive so hard to remember how it felt
I struggled for a glimpse of the childhood long lost
But all I can come up with is dust.
As I watch you stretch your pudgy hand
I tried to recollect what being a baby is like
I struggled for the glimpse of the childhood long lost
But memory failed me
Your cute grunt warms my heart
Your tiny face expressive even in your sleep,
Gives me the purest joy.
As I watch you sleep
I ponder the world you inhabit
Who really can know the world you inhabit
Who knows the dream you dreamt
My cute baby, the world I promise you not
But a beautiful life is God’s promise
My tiny cute bundle of joy,
As I watch you sleep,
With all the cry and grunts,
The sleepless night taunts
The constant diaper changing,
I will never trade my little buddle,
Sleep tight, my daughter Carissa and let me
Watch your face my little bundle
THE CHILD IN ME
The child in me, still leading in my dance,
yet willing, after years of life's great stings,
still shines out of these eyes of circumstance,
no matter what in life, my living brings.
To smile from all I've done, my pride reveals
how much in love with living I have been,
and through it all, the best, how good it feels
to know the best is showing, now and then.
Perhaps I've loved too deeply for a friend,
but who are friends, without our love to share?
And so I let it show, without an end
much more than love, is really what is there.
The child in me, still smiles in my blue eyes,
more than you'll ever come to realize.
LOVE ME WHY? CONTEST
We waited quietly as the sirens calmed and quenched their searing drone.
The air raid shelter hushed in baited breath. One second more. Maybe the end is nigh.
All a quiet beneath an unseen sky. Maybe her child wont cry.
Maybe I wont every see those shower room white tiles staring back at me again.
Tiles arched over us. Over our laments and muffled cries.
Our house our street. Will it be there.
Or will it be there but emptied by scounderels a plenty.
Stay close child and use my heat. This ticket office door pushes drafts beneath it.
Drafts into my ears her ears. Woolen socks pulled up as high as they can allow.
One second more again the droning and I cover her ears my child don't listen.
Screaming Shrills and thuds again.Move away you bombs elsewhere.
To East ham or anywhere. And you you acursaid man. I do not know you.
I fear your motives.If only my fire tending husband could defend me now.
Go down the platform now sir.We are bedded here and intend to stay till bombs end.
This is our platform. Huddle close child the night is long and the platform grey and cold.
Later it ends.Too soon to move.The parrafin stove simmers a kindly brew.
God above tea at last.Tea has saved the night and brought the dawn raids end.
For I know this that a war will be won and won with tea and no credit shall tea be given.
The moving masses alight from their drab and coated stage. Queitly and slowly maybe
reluctantly ascending to the London sky.Delaying the vacant and unknown future.
London Tube station shelter in 1940- Ian Foley
From slumbering bed with purpose of mind
In holey torn vest a barefoot child leapt;
Out door and gate yon St Anns pool to find
Followed the circle road from whence he slept!
O happy trail led to Oswald Berkley
Whose infant charge took he under his wing:
An angel of The Lord sent to guide me
On that Sunday afternoon wandering!
That "Mirror Man" did my spirit uplift
In his car - at the radio station
Where, lest the crying winds of fate not shift,
Flashed my daring tale across the nation!
'Twas in the Savannah a stranger's keep
Reunited both shepherds and lost sheep.
Dedicated to Oswald Berkley - a photographer
For The Mirror newspaper who joined the hunt
To find my parents all those years ago in Trinidad.
The Savannah is a huge circular park in the heart
Of Port of Spain where I was found wandering.
The year was 1964 and I was 3 years old.
A sickly child lie
frail on the sofa in the living room.
A knock on the door,
His mother opened.
The man who entered the child knew it was his father.
Whose child is this?
“It is your youngest son” his mother said.
The children in the street
all had a father; the child had waited for him.
But his father ignored him,
gave chocolate to his sister and brother,
then he drank from a bottle,
his mother threw him out.
Next day asked his mother,” are you sure he is my father?”
She slapped her son’s face and cried.
You belong in silhouette to the dream’s theft
And weft with paid desire, look all adoring
At the man who’s made your life bereft
Of actual household dreams, he says it’s boring
Fresh linen, dimity and damask blue
Would be my veil, too, for daring
To ask: did it happen to you too?
And: when did your sorrow go past caring?
Don’t try to leave this room without an answer
Or you’ll turn back – the swathe of silk
In my eyes - you see, at heart a dancer
Each night I come home with the doorstep milk -
In the big bad world to be a cinch in style,
In the good small world to be a bright tear trickling.
by Rosemarie Rowley
IN MEMORY OF HER 2008
Saturday mornings my list was quite clear,
Pull out the comet and toilet bowl brush.
Windex, perfect to polish the mirror,
Finish the toilet with one final flush.
Scrubbing the sink till faucets do glisten,
Empty the countertop, free from clutter.
Scour the bathtub, with so much ambition,
While under my breath, complaints I utter.
Our shower the biggest job of them all,
With its showerhead and sliding glass doors.
Standing inside to scrub ceramic walls,
Finally finished by washing the floors.
Child labor I’d cry when I was not paid,
When I grow up, I am getting a maid.
10 syllables per line
Everyone’s heard the line of being second best
My scenario is different; I’m third in this contest
The contest of affection from our parents as we grew
Competition of siblings; conclusion too painful to pursue
The winner hands down is the youngest child residing in this roost
No responsibility for his actions, yet an approving constant boost
Baby and cherish him, for he’s the focus of this competitive scene
Always taking whatever he wants, a daily addictive routine
Second place is the oldest; the perfect child he’s portrayed
An empathetic serene individual, a respectful triumphant crusade
By no means doing any wrongs; his mind completely in tact
A confidant rational being; always causing the most immaculate impact
Coming in last; the loser is here with problems too many to bare
The third best child, invisibly seen; always in constant despair
I love being the loser if that’s what you ultimately see in me to be
For I know the contest was already judged, long before you recognized me
© Stacy Lynn Stiles