|
Details |
Paula Swanson Poem
With your red rubber cup that makes suction.
You have come in handy many a day,
when there has been a flushing obstruction.
I think you deserve hazard pay.
You've saved toys, an unfortunate cell phone or two.
Then there is always the times your needed,
when we are visited by You-know-Who (pweh).
So your heroics bears being repeated.
Your sacrifice it knows no bounds,
entering murky waters, stopping floods.
Or pulling to surface the items you found.
Now aren't you glad you don't have taste buds?
Some seem to see you as just an extractor.
Yet in movies, your comic timing is beyond belief,
when your stuck on the face of a leading actor.
That you didn't quit your day job is a great relief.
Though everyone knows you on sight so well,
To be an unsung hero, seems to be your lot in life.
Taken out and plunged into porcelain hell,
Where only you would dare to dive.
So Plunger, Oh Toilet Plunger,
as we kneel here before the throne.
Let us sing out your praises,
well, maybe after we can stop these groans.
Entered in the contest: 2nd chance
Placement: 10th
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2010
|
Details |
Paula Swanson Poem
Sighing softly, a gentle breeze,
dances amid my clothes line.
Sweet the scent, refreshing tease,
as sheets, its hug entwines.
This night, on Spring, I shall recline.
2/8/12
For the contest: English Quintain, A Spring Day
Sponsored by Francine Roberts
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Paula Swanson Poem
Ten little toes, precious and sweet.
Connected to, chubby one year old feet.
Running across, my freshly washed floors.
Muddy footprints that start at my door.
Ten little toes, painted hot pink,
from under the hem, they peek beneath.
As she stands barefoot in her moms dress,
in the mirror, a seven year old fashion success.
Ten little toes, steps into her gown.
So happy in love, her feet don't touch the ground.
Standing there waiting, for the first note,
shoes in one hand, the other, the vows that she wrote.
Ten little toes, a miracle to see,
connected to, chubby new born feet.
Soon to be running across my floors.
A Granddaughter carried, through my front door.
For the contest "Barefoot"
Sponsored by Francine Roberts
Placement: 2nd
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Paula Swanson Poem
Wind drinkers flow with strength and grace.
Thunder pounds from their hooves.
Run wild Mustang, Run.
As one they "run" across parched earth,
born free and "wild" from the time of birth.
Their manes flow "as" water, in the wind.
Hooves dig in, "the" desert floor, they rend.
Full moon at "midnight" leads their way,
while in the night "sky" their ancestors play.
Paula Swanson
For the contest: Middle Of The Road
Sponsored by H Garvey Daniel Esquire
Placement: 1st
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2012
|
Details |
Paula Swanson Poem
'Tis now known why the Willow weeps,
a tragedy of love, its memory keeps.
For once a young man and young maid,
on tender grass, beneath branches lay.
Though pledged by birth to another,
from clans they hid, to be together.
Thus, the gentle Willow was their choice,
meeting beneath, till love they could voice.
The Willow held these secret lovers dear,
so would lower its boughs, when they drew near.
Thus tucked away in the Willow's womb,
could lay as one, yet this love was doomed.
For jealousy lurked within the pines,
spying young lovers thus entwined,
behind Willow's curtain of slender limbs,
He swore the maiden, would yet be his.
Thus, it came to pass one day,
as young maid softly made her way,
to their Willow, deep within the glen,
espied the branches did already bend.
Timidly, as she did draw near,
soft sound of sorrow fell upon her ears.
Parting Willow's branches to look within,
a dampness did touch upon her skin.
The Willow was shedding sap laden tears,
for the young man, in death, was near.
'Twas an arrow that had been used,
a potent poison, the tip infused.
The maiden, now blind with grieving mist,
pulled out the arrow, held it, in clenched fist.
Whilst cradled in love's arms, did he draw last breath.
Then, young maid, plunged the arrow, into her breast.
And so it is, that this story is told,
as the Willow's grief would not be consoled.
For unable to stop what had befell,
the young lovers, it had hid so well.
With will broken, as lovers lay dead,
the Willow, its branches, never again spread.
And because it is the memory it keeps,
it is to this day, that the Willow weeps.
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2010
|
Details |
Paula Swanson Poem
The sound of thick bubbling,
with the smell of fresh blackberries.
The stains upon our fingers and clothes,
all part of my homemade jam memories.
Growing wild along the roads,
the brambles tall and thick.
Pails and buckets overflowing,
eating our fill as we would pick.
The kitchen, busy as a beehive,
those tasty berries getting mashed.
The "Women" all worked together,
young or old, we each had our tasks.
Four generations, making jam.
"Puttin' back" as it was called.
I still remember the stories told
and the laughter from us all.
Not just a smile does it bring,
a calmness pours soft over me.
A giggle will well up time to time,
at my homemade jam memories.
For the contest: Sounds and Smells
Hosted by: Frank Herrera
Placement: Honorable Mention
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2010
|
Details |
Paula Swanson Poem
"Each experience is locked within my heart and only I hold the key..."
There was a time when Jess was young, that we thought we were going to lose him.
It all started with recurring headaches he would have. These headaches became more frequent and intense over a few months. Next, tremors on one side joined the headaches.
Countless trips to the Doctor and days of having to leave work to go to his side at school to help him through the episodes. I blew a gasket. I demanded a CAT scan. I think that the only reason that the Doctor agreed, was to shut me up. But I knew in my gut, that these were not migraines as diagnosed.
The day of the CAT scan came. I sat in an area that allowed me to see my son and hear the technicians. At first, the techs were very chatty among themselves. Then, stark silence. As if a tomb door had been shut. Then the words that still haunt me were said..."Oh shit" on of the technicians whispered. I closed my eyes and felt my heart cry out in its pain.
I sat in the Doctors office, waiting for him to come and tell me my son was fine. That there was an error in the reading of the scan.
He entered with his nurse, who was carrying a box of tissues and cup of water.
"Your son has an arachnoid cyst. The left temporal lobe of his brain is not there. In its place is a fluid filled sack. The pressure of the filling fluid is causing all the symptoms. He will need to undergo brain surgery."
I sat there....numb. All I recall hearing are the words...Brain surgery.
The day of the surgery came. His younger brother was with me in the waiting room. Too young to understand the gravity of the situation. All he knew was that his brother was very sick.
Now, I want to take you to our sons Hospital room, post surgery.
There he was, lying in the big bed. White as the sheet that covered his small body up to his chest. His head wrapped in bandages. Tubes and wires everywhere.
As our son was waking up, his first words were "Where is my brother?"
Mike flew to the side of his bed and grabbed his hand. "I'm right here!" he said.
Very weakly, Jess was able to say "I love you Mike."
Mike in turn said, "I love you Jess."
My tears that had never flowed through the whole ordeal finally came. Not out of fear, but for the love that our sons had for one another.
Paula Swanson
8/20/2011
For the A Fragment Of Life contest
sponsored by Constance La France
Placement:3rd
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Paula Swanson Poem
This, I do so, willingly.
Without reservations of the heart.
I offer my shoulder to thy wheel,
my strength, to thus impart.
My voice, I lend to your cause.
Champion, to which you undertake.
My arms, I spread to encompass,
kith and kin, you now care take.
A heart, that beats strong and true.
That has known joy and felt deep weeping.
One, so full of love for you,
I give, unto your keeping.
If there were the need so great,
as to sacrifice completely.
My life, I 'd give, for yours to spare.
This I do, so willingly.
Placement: 1st
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Paula Swanson Poem
I can see the past glory, though it is humble now and all the more reverent....
With thoughts of deep ocean bliss,
that comes with fading hope,
I walked along the tide line,
no longer able to cope.
I stared at the setting sun,
its brightness, burns the eyes.
I glanced back at the sand stone cliffs,
where a building caught my eye.
I don't recall it being there,
when I traveled the cliff top path.
I shrugged my shoulders then turned back,
to the ocean and waiting death.
I take a step towards my fate,
when I feel a tap upon my shoulder.
I turn to see who is there,
all I see is sand and boulders.
My eyes are called to the top
and to that small building.
Something there outweighed my need,
so up the cliff path I started walking.
There upon the windswept crest,
were trees leaning with the wind.
I followed the overgrown stone walk,
to the building, just round the bend.
The steeple leaned, but still spoke volumes.
No stained glass to catch the sun.
No bell to call folks to service,
no roof, as the rot had won.
Yet a charm was there to see,
strength came from the ancient stones,
that made up the four standing walls,
of this Chapel, now just bones.
I made my way to the entrance,
amid dead leaves, the scrag that enfolds.
I felt a welcome pour over me,
as I crossed over the threshold.
The setting sun cast long shadows,
that all pointed toward the alter.
My need, took me down the aisle.
Not once did my feet falter.
There He was, looking down,
from a weather beaten cross.
His countenance both pain and love,
I suddenly felt small and lost.
The sun sank deep into the sea,
and gave its final flair.
Within that light I swear I saw,
His face lift, so he saw me there.
I fell to my knees and I prayed,
as I had never prayed before.
I prayed for guidance and His love,
I felt both, to my very core.
I visit that Chapel, now and then.
It's still crumbling with time.
But, to me it has more glory now,
than it did when its bells did chime.
Paula Swanson 9/25/2011
For the contest; Church By The Ocean
Sponsored By Constance La France
Placement: 1st
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2011
|
Details |
Paula Swanson Poem
Within the quiet of the night,
amid the shadows of my pain,
the strength I held so fast to,
ebbs, as another tear does gain.
With out the giving of consent,
it brings forth a fellow traveler.
To follow a chaotic coarse,
across my cheeks, twilight pallor.
Bare of conscience thought, I brush aside,
the meaning each holds alone.
I hide behind my false bravado,
as my tears dry on their own.
Copyright © Paula Swanson | Year Posted 2011
|
|