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Best Poems Written by Ginna Wilkerson

Below are the all-time best Ginna Wilkerson poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Ginna Wilkerson Poem

Angela's Right Hand

The function of a human hand?
Writing a message, making a bed,
Opening a jar, dialing a phone,
Putting on pantyhose,
Touching the face of a child,
Or a lover.

And in its absence?
Yawning space and phantom pain,
And an oddly-shaped bandage
At the end of Angie’s arm.

PFC Hernandez, home in El Paso,
Watches her family watching her,
Writing awkwardly with her left hand,
Brushing her black wavy hair,
Watching Dr. Phil
Wearing an old gray-green T-shirt
Bearing the faded words
“Proud to be a Marine.”

Gasping and choking,
She wakes from thick, dusty dreams
Of shimmering, endless sand,
Unfamiliar words
Echoing hollow with hatred,
And the feared but half expected
Roar of fiery amber heat,
Breaking the angry stillness,
Searing through the night
And Angela’s right hand.

Details | Ginna Wilkerson Poem

Green Eggs and Gooseberry Jam

Heckle and Jeckle, jellyroll jam,
Ponce de Leon’s Fountain of Youth.
Little kids like to eat green eggs and ham;
So do you – now tell me the truth!

One fish, two fish, red, white and blue fish,
Old glory is waving on high;
A moss-covered, three-handled family cradunza
Might suddenly take to the sky.

Tiddly-winkle little starfish,
In a show starring Bullwinkle Moose;
Rocky the Squirrel shares raspberry jam
With Old Mother Hubbardy Goose.

Goosey Lucy and old Turkey Lurkey
Hiding out in the Wise-acre Wood;
Lambchop takes tea with his jellyroll jam,
While jammin’ with Johnny B. Good.

Humpty Dumpty, coddleston pie,
Three little Pigletty pooh;
Jam up jelly tight hot cross buns,
Magpies eat jellybeans, too.

Details | Ginna Wilkerson Poem

Killing Ants

Ants are known to be industrious,
Bustling about the anthill
In lines and arcs and freeform patterns,
Intent on some important insect mission,
Minding their own business, thank you.

Of course, sometimes ants have to be exterminated
If they’re likely to bite a small child,
Or interrupting the flow of one’s flower bed,
Or just plain in the way.

After all, they’re only bugs,
Small and inconsequential and expendable.

Occasionally, small rough and tumble boys,
Full of bravado and challenging each other,
Will desecrate an anthill recklessly
Just for sport…
And to see the ants run frantically
In response to the destruction of their entire world
At the whim of a dirty-sneakered foot.

They look so small from up above
Scurrying about like ants
Tiny and insignificant  from the height
Of a skyscraper, or a ski lift,
Or the windshield of a fighter pilot’s plane.
Tiny, and in the way
Because, as we all know,
Sometimes ants have to be exterminated.

Details | Ginna Wilkerson Poem

On a Kiss

Silently star shimmering moonlit love,
Love’s moment moves me.      canopied night.
Whisper soft starsong melody shines;

To kiss, a kiss, we kiss             (a prayer)
Wings away in the glitter gleam dark.

Alas!           that kissingvelvet moments fly.

Details | Ginna Wilkerson Poem

Acquainted With the Sunrise: In the Spirit of Robert Frost

I have been one acquainted with sunrise,
I have bathed in first light – then back in shadow,
I have felt tentative warm on closed eyes.

I have gazed over pink-tinged meadows,
I have passed by the swift and early bird,
And reached a hand to touch a half-lit rose.

I have stood still without a single word
When far away a tree frog croaked his song;
Across the meadow waking creatures stirred.

But not to stop the sun from glowing strong,
And further still to greet the red-gold skies;
On gently sunlit tree, birds linger long.

Daylight sheds night’s shadowy disguise.
I have been one acquainted with sunrise.

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Tenacity

Stronger
Deeper
Longer 
Steeper
May I gain a stronger deeper heart,
Suffering through a longer steeper start.

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Spirit Kyrielle

I walk my path from day to day
Though many trials stand in my way;
This path is often weary and long.
Great Spirit, make me strong.

I sometimes feel that I’m alone
Abandoned here, and never known,
Seeking the home where I belong.
Great Spirit, make me strong.

Away above stands Father Sky,
Expanse that makes my spirit fly
And carries me up on wind’s sweet song.
Great Spirit, make me strong.

Beneath my feet rests Mother Earth,
The warm life-pulse of season’s birth;
And makes my heart forever young.
Great Spirit, make me strong.

My Spirit Guide, the stalwart Bear,
Travels beside me, ever there;
My steps are sure, though path be long.
Great Spirit, I am strong.

Details | Ginna Wilkerson Poem

Flowers On the Volunteers' Desk

Flowers are blooming on the volunteers’ desk:
Roses, carnations, a spring bouquet,
Dish gardens and gold mums (a more masculine look,
The florist said).
Blooming like a garden
Of well-wishes and sentiment,
Blooming here in the hospital lobby
(Well, after all, it is spring).
Each vase or container bears a card.
What is its destination?
The new mother in Maternity?
“Oh, how pretty,” as she nurses her baby.
Or the woman down the hall?
Whose baby died after a brief flicker of life.
That’s all she’ll take home (this time): flowers.
Maybe to the tough kid on the third floor?
It was just an appendicitis, “no big deal.”
Next week, (or the next), he’ll be back 
With his friends on Saturday night.
“Hey, look at his scar,” “Cool!”
Maybe that one goes to the old man,
You know, the one who’s dying of…something,
They don’t know exactly….old age?
He’d rather be at home in his garden.
A hospital full of people,
But only enough flowers
To cover the top of the volunteers’ desk.
How many patients, (impatient, really)
Will get nothing today?
Here come the couriers with just a few more.
“Let’s go…..hospitals are depressing.”
Even with (especially with) so many pretty flowers
Waiting on the volunteers’ desk.

Details | Ginna Wilkerson Poem

Flying Buffalo and Other Oddities

Fried chicken fingers, buffalo wings,
Chicken Little stared up at the sky.
One-eyed, one-horned, eating purple people,
Aren’t we glad that cows don’t fly?

Mother may I, hide ’n’ go seek;
A green light! Go, dog, go!
The owl and the kittycat went to sea
With the pretty maids all in a row.

French-fried frog legs minus the frog;
Miss Piggy likes frog legs, too.
Oh give me a home where the buffalo roam
With cows jumping over the moon.

Little green men from outer space,
Wee leprechaun’s pot of gold prize.
Why did the chicken cross over the bridge?
Who waits on the other side?

Little Jack Horner sat in his corner,
Eating a buffalo wing snack.
The Knave of Hearts stole all of the tarts
(They’re stashed in the house built by Jack).

Hey diddle diddle, ask me a riddle,
Then give me the answer, do!
If chickens have fingers then buffalo fly
But monkeys belong in the zoo.

Details | Ginna Wilkerson Poem

Tied To a Chair For An Indeterminate Time

Staying in this seat is the torture of time spinning down:
Psychological nail-biting.

Curbing a driving impulse to jump up on my seat and yell
Just anything at all as loud as my lungs will let me.

This tiny fellow in my head drums incessant fingers
On my eyes’ insides - my scalp skin shrieks under my hair.

If I did jump up and shout do you suppose the fingers would stop?

I resolutely tie my hands to this chair -  my chair 
With mental-tenacity ropes and knots that burn the flesh of my wrists.

My itching need for motion, to remove my self from this pain-aware sharpness
Drains my attention and swallows up my last wisp of strength

Will I be ready when the time for moving comes?

Or will that man with the drumming fingers have pulled
The ropes so tight that I can never move again?