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Margaret Wade Poem
Just a regular curbside puddle,
It really wasn't that big.
But it had the look of an ocean,
To a sweet little puppy named 'Pig.'
"Your paws might touch the water,
No chances that you will drown."
Pig looked at his master- all crazy,
And was frozen like ice to the ground.
"It's only a wee-bit of a puddle,
You'll easily make the grade."
But Pig wasn't ready to listen,
He stood there and was very afraid.
On a leash Pig's brand new owner,
Tried in vain to nicely persuade.
But Pig just wouldn't listen,
To pleas that his new person made.
Again -"it's only a little puddle,
You really won't get very wet.
You could see Pig was thinking,
"Wets wet! And I'm not ready yet."
"But the water is only a trickle,
If you try you'll see you can wade."
No matter all the sweet talking,
That pup just couldn't be swayed.
The pup felt a tug on the leash,
The water was coming too near.
So Pig started his squealing,
And squealing was all you could hear.
Discouraged -his person relented,
And lifted the scaredy-cat Pup.
He bypassed the wee little puddle,
And lost, by picking Pig up.
I wanted the end to be funny,
With a moral to find I could spin.
Yep, a guy with a pup he'd name 'Pig,'
Has a pup that is smarter than him.
Copyright © Margaret Wade | Year Posted 2017
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Margaret Wade Poem
I was enjoying my time in the sandbox
When a redhead with freckles climbed in.
The glint in his eyes left no question,
His mission was ruin and sin.
With my pail I had sculpted a castle,
But he eyed it with fiendish disdain.
His foot was the boot of destruction,
And he smashed it without any shame.
He laughed when he saw my reaction,
Through my tears I could tell he was glad.
My first lesson was learned in that sandbox,
There's nothing can keep out the bad.
I discerned that the boy with the freckles,
Had no interest in making a friend.
Though he had the face of an angel,
His looks hid a devil within.
I met him again in the school yard,
He was older and meaner by then.
He twisted my arm back behind me,
And insisted that I holler out, "When!"
I wish I could boast I played hero,
But he scared me out of my wits.
He growled "say when or I'll break it."
And I knew that I dare not resist.
All through the rest of my school days,
He tormented me whenever he could.
I spent way too much time in hiding,
Too fearful to do what I should.
We crossed paths again playing soccer,
And of course we were on different teams.
His attacks were not part of the playing,
He got off on the pain and the screams.
We never met while I was in college,
Though I heard he had landed in jail.
I wasn't glad at all that it happened,
Till I though of that sandbox and pail.
Like all lights at the end of the tunnel,
Aren't those that you wish would remain.
For a light in the darkness can fool you,
And turn out to be an on-coming train.
There's no judging a book by its cover,
So I caution you girls, "stay alert."
Some of those boys who have freckles,
Are devils who love bringing you hurt.
Copyright © Margaret Wade | Year Posted 2018
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Margaret Wade Poem
Rows and rows and rows of white crosses,
Like sentinels -stone-fixed to the ground.
The wind like a shroud wraps around them,
Enshrining each space where they're found.
Stone guardians stand at attention,
Into the distance -row after row.
O' mourn those hallowed internments,
Where our heroes are resting below.
Rows and rows and rows of white crosses,
With their numbers increasing with years.
And graves that are drenched by the weeping,
Will never run dry of our tears.
Now the soil is the dead's lonely blanket,
Below - and everlasting - at rest.
Those keepers -yes -all those white crosses,
Announcing -'Here lie the Best of the Best.'
Rows and rows and rows of white crosses,
All those warriors were yields of our lives.
And the harvest of what all wars cost us,
Are plowed under and nothing survives.
There is green lawn laid like a carpet,
That covers our heroes repose.
Outstreched are the arms of the crosses,
In a garden where nothing else grows.
Copyright © Margaret Wade | Year Posted 2017
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Margaret Wade Poem
Chalk is the magic of blackboards, sports fields and
little girl's sidewalk games of Hop-Scotch.
How many equations and statements, measured lines, and boxes
do you imagine have been drawn upon those waiting surfaces?
Dare one imagine -into infinity?
On this day, however, looking down at this particular sidewalk,
one is immediately taken aback by the sarcasm of adaptation.
There, in heavy-caked blueish and ominously thick chalk, a line
is drawn in the shape of what looks like a curled up fetus; only larger.
It is expanded voluminously to accommodate the size of an adult -
a dead adult.
There is no magic to the outskirt of this irregular curvature,
only an unambiguous stakrness.
Moments ago the now empty space within the blue outlined
enclosed a living person.
That occupant is quickly designated as "the body," "the cadaver," or
"the deceased," and so, is hastily carted off to a morgue.
One instant this was someone- alive and breathing- and the next,-
a stone-cold corpse who no longer owns their humanity.
Having lost their life at the hands of another, this nameless person
is identified forever after simply as, "the victim." And while the
perpetrator shouts and demands their rights, the only thing left for
the victim is the silence of lost life sanctified in the ritual of "last rites."
No ACLU representative would or could advocate for the victim. This
casualty would not have the life a perpetrator does to secure a lawyer.
Instead, the State will represent the fallen "in perpetuity." There
would be no plea bargain, no court date would be assigned, and
no judge or jury selected, no Court of Appeals.
There are no years; not one, not twelve, not twenty, not even
a second to fight for the right not to be a victim.
There might be stays of execution for the killer, while there are
no stays before the victim's execution. Certainly, there was no
clemancy.
The dead will file no frivolous jailhouse law suits costing the tax
payer's untold dollars' worth of nonsense. They will make no
silly demands that jelly accompany their jailhouse peanut-butter
sandwiches.
The dead make no demands for there is no one to protest.
The dead's jail is forever the grave.
Oh yes, there will always be a mass of 'do-gooders' lining up to
grumble about the state's taking of a life. Indeed! There will
be more people protesting the death of the murderer on the
night of execution than showed up at the victim's funeral.
The victim didn't want a funeral, much less last rites, but got them.
The only thing the victim really ever wanted was the right not to
die, not then; not the way they died.
And -already, that chalk line, once so pronouned and repugnant,
has been worn away by passing footsteps and time.
There is sadness, both to the senseless loss of lives and the
indignity of task that chalk too often is required to perform.
For chalk and the marks it makes, after all; were intended for
the magic of black boards, sports fields, and little girls sidwalk
games of hop-scotch.
Copyright © Margaret Wade | Year Posted 2017
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Margaret Wade Poem
My thinking was clear -till I met you last year
I was happy in my state of confusion.
But you couldn't bear it -you had to repair it
You offered my thinking transfusion.
When your intent -that's the meaning you meant
Is lost in a rush of rambling.
I think that I kinow -though your face doesn't show
It's those thoughts you're intent on unscrambling.
Oh my brain tries to jog -but my thinking is clogged
Were those meetings only to beat me?
For it's hard I confess -to answer my best
When you're doing you're all to unseat me.
When I lose your expression -in counseling session
I'll admit your conclusions elude me.
My mind's so confused -with those terms that you used
I think that it's time to exclude me.
There's no way I'll make it -I can't even fake it
My thinking I fear now is sour.
Shrinks are the blame -they all are the same
Seeing patients for only one hour.
You can take all the credit -your money and bet it
My reasoning powers are blown.
Yes- if ignorance is bliss -I can promise you this
No more thinking I'll do on my own.
I thank you -(I think)- you're a pretty good shrink,
And I hope you can grin now and bear it.
But I'm hiding my brain -and from thinking refrain,
I am on the wagon - I swear it!
Copyright © Margaret Wade | Year Posted 2017
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Margaret Wade Poem
There are many pig-type stories,
Mostly told in piggy fables.
Most are cheerful little characters,
With "Happy Endings" in their labels.
Let's start with 'Porky Pig' cartoon,
S-s-s-stammering pig of Looney-Tune fame.
It's here I'll mention other pigs,
Because all pigs are not the same.
Think -"Miss Piggy" -DIVA.
She of the Muppet kind.
And -'Piglet' in a "Pooh-book."
That's a well-known story line.
"Little Piggy Went to Market.'
A rhyme naming toes of a kid.
"Wilbur" pig in "Charlotte's Web."
And what a spidery message did.
Do not forget the "Three Little Pigs"
All rejected the wolf as their guest.
Or "Babe" -a cute little piglet
That passed a sheep-herding test.
But today folks seek reality,
How they LOVE carnage in a story
So forget the happy pigs I've named
Because my piggy story's -GORY.
"Little Piggy" was a barnyard darling,
Oh he had no one to fear.
For everybody loved him.
He was -"Little Piggy, dear."
But "Little Piggy" had a habit,
He loved cigars -HOW he loved to smoke!
Though cigars did not agree with him,
He'd smoke away -then snort and choke.
Farmer to Piggy: "Smoking's bad."
He warned that pig each day.
"It'll be the death of you!"
But the pig just smoked away.
A stranger told the farmer,
"I'll stop piggy's urge to smoke."
He said, "It's just an intervention."
Yep! He pawned a piggy-in-a-poke
Said the stranger to the piggy,
"I have a 'Smoking Club for Swine'"
Little Piggy never guessed his fate,
NO! It never crossed his mind.
No, don't expect a happy tale,
There is no happy here to tell.
It's about a man, who met a pig,
And made the porker's life a hell.
You've met the stranger and the pig,
Let's insert herewith -the pit.
And what that dude did after-
He got the damned pit lit.
Oh, poor "Little Piggy" victimized,
He never got to market.
For the guy who had a piggy pit,
Made this piggy pig his target.
O' see that hot-box in the dirt.
Pit of stone with an iron grate.
That stranger how he loved his pit,
And serving piggy on a plate.
"Little Piggy" wound up in that pit
Where the guy threw him to smoke.
Pit smoke is very B-b-b-b-bad for pigs,
And that's no freakin' joke.
For those who'd say of this piggy tale,
That "smoking doesn't matter,"
You've never been the 'entre' served
Naked! In the middle of a platter.
This "Little Piggy's" now pulled pork,
He's the brunt of Porky Pig's joke.
"That s-s-s-stupid pig - just s-s-s-smoked away.
t-t-t-That's All Folks!" (Pig quote).
Copyright © Margaret Wade | Year Posted 2017
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Margaret Wade Poem
Who Will Speak for the veteran?
He sits alone in his well-worn chair,
for people who said they revered him
He keeps waiting, but nobody is here.
Who Will Speak for the veteran?
that decided to go off to the war.
For men of his time were patriots
they would serve and ask nothing more.
Who Will Speak for the veteran?
He once stood at attention with pride
and promised his nation his 'life's blood,'
and he'd "fight for them all till he died."
Who Will Speak for the veteran?
He wasn't always so gaunt and so grey
He stepped to the sound of the drummer
when he was the youth of the day.
Who Will Speak for the veteran?
by the window he waits for the end
He willingly gave all that was in him
till there was none of him left he could spend.
Who Will Speak for the Old Man?
He weeps when nobody can hear.
The sound that racks the spoiled body,
is a shame that should ring in each ear.
Who Will Speak for the Old Man?
He expects only that which is due
For the person he gave for his country
Merits more than a room -with no view.
Who Will Speak for the Old Man?
He has withered alone and grown old.
And nobody seems to remember
The debt -to the man -that is owed.
I will speak for the old man.
As he sits alone in his veteran's chair
And I will visit the old man
who nobody remembers is there.
I Will Speak for the Old Man.
To prove there are those who still care,
and I promise to keep on returning
so long as he can sit in that chair.
I Will Speak for the Old Man.
For he kept his promise to serve.
I will speak for the old man,!
ITS WHAT VETERAN HEROES DESERVE!
Copyright © Margaret Wade | Year Posted 2017
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Margaret Wade Poem
The owners escaped to their cellar beneath
Safe from the storm and the damage it reeked.
Ducking from planks, wood, lath and plaster
All huddled together as they hid from disaster.
Pieces of wood -now lay broken and splintered
Last night it was home that everyone entered.
But tornadoes had hit it and ripped it apart
After ruin intrudes- the discoveries start.
They had rented their barn to a homeless old man,
Let him sleep in the hay -with his dog at his hand.
They gave him an address for receiving his mail,
Cost him most of his pension. He'd paid without fail.
The old man and the dog that lived in the back
Neither found shelter from nature's wicked attack.
No one remembered the odd pair that was there.
Yes, no one remembered -if they did -did they care?
Forgetting the old man -that was easy to do,
And one with a dog -made it easier to.
Old dog seldom barking -an old man with a snore
Both seemed to be zeros -and a pair to ignore.
They found the old man -he was dead in the heap
Of junk that fell on him while he was asleep.
And the dog there beside him -burrowed under his arm
She shivered in pain -for she'd not escaped harm.
Nobody knew how that dog had been tossed,
And miles from the man she found herself lost.
But wounded and tattered and battered by wind
She found her way back -and squeezed in by him.
She had dug through debris that was covering him,
Finding his chest -snuggled -and rested her chin.
His arm -as in life -now consoled her once more,
She lay there just waiting -the man-sound of his snore.
No one could tell her -explan that -"He's gone,"
And won't be returning -Does this story seem wrong?
But maybe tomorrow-and we all hope that day's near,
A new arm will enfold her -that she can lay near.
Copyright © Margaret Wade | Year Posted 2017
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Margaret Wade Poem
How can ducks look so serene,
gliding swiftly 'cross the pond?
While just below the water's surface,
frenzied churning's going on.
Webbed-feet are all in action,
like old piston-pumping wells,
Not a feather -none is ruffled,
not a splash of wetness swells.
If ducks are left to just be ducks,
they sashay 'cross the pond.
They're never out of character,
just ducks -that swim around.
But if they see the breadcrumbs,
duck-watchers love to throw.
It's then they agitate the pond,
And it's a tsunami water show.
Intrusion -that's the fowlest rub,
ducks lose their duck resolve.
And in a hyper-state of quack,
ducks tranquil ways dissolve.
Do the moving ducks remind you,
of some folks you meet each day?
The quiet ones that seem so calm,
in their sad and empty way!
A few of them will slip through life,
as though it's just a tranquil ride.
But deep below their psychic surface,
Tsunami thoughts there-in reside.
Do not intrude as 'watchers' will,
Least you're ready to release.
A deeper -darker part of them,
what their minds let them unleash.
Copyright © Margaret Wade | Year Posted 2017
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Margaret Wade Poem
Who suggests a trip back...rides to this bit of nostalgia in the middle years of the Great Depression aboard a Chicago elevated train, "the El." We hurdle head-long above asphalt blanketed streets that are determined to out distance each high moving carrier. No matter how fast or far we go, the street beneath us stretches with incalculable distance, always far beyond our destinations.
Noisy, jerking, screeching cars carry their human cargo in eagerless pursuits to destinations and performances squashed into too many work hour boxes. Dreams have been abandoned in begrudging flight from still warm beds. Renewed are yesterday's animosities; now recharged to be relived and resented. These overcrowded noisy transporters seldom offer up a seat to the sleep deprived bodies in occupancy who struggle to stand upright on already aching feet.
Clutching overhead hand rails and hanging straps, they swing and sway to the unpredictable rhythm of the jostling cubicle they've chosen for this morning's wretched ride; a ride which seems hell bent on tossing every rider to the floor. Standing or sitting, all are captives to this place that binds them in- until each departs. And, as the exit doors of the conveyor bang shut with a resounding clang of finality, empty spaces await. The departed are never missed, it is as though they never existed. Spaces and bodies dissolve and refill in unspectacular regularity.
Perspiration is a rude intrusion that saturates the propelling cubicles and collides with pungent smells of fresh perked coffee, axel grease, Jergens lotion, and stale garlic breathe from last night's pasta.
Back there, not so many stops ago, those recent evacuees from the flats, apartments, and yes, those dreams, have left coffee cups stained by days of residue...turned upside down to drain until...until! Crumbs from burnt toast are scraped off sarcastically into yellowing sinks...while half-used sticks of butter melt into greasy saucer ponds by noon.
And the damned clocks of the world race in three-quarter time.
The train careens past tenaments entwined by decaying, woody stairs. Behind the frontage of buildings, other lives are being waged. Other creatures, large and small, huddle and curry to safety in the dark within their summer scorched walls. Office buildings wrapped by darkened windows catch the blurred reflections of moving elevated cars and shadowy figures within. Gazing out the windows of that intercity train, the apathetic passengers watch with unseeing eyes the reflective blur of their own outline passing...and gone.
Slowing for a wide turn, the train groans with an ominous leaning, revealing below some youngsters wading and splashing in an already hot, early morning while waters gush from a hydrant come to glory in a geyser of childhood delight. The train rolls away from the sounds and sights of wailing fire engines and firemen come to extinguish the errant fountain and the clamor of exhuberant laughter. And the helmeted heroes become unwitting arsonists as they set fires of resentment; hot as the char-broiled pavement.
Screaming objections are squashed by authority and the sound of a noisy El passing overhead. A quiet submission now overwhelms those on the street below, mystically connecting them to the gaggle of passengers on the passing elevated train. None of them are enamored of this new day-its dawn- or its promise. Any memory of childhood laughter evaporates as quickly as wonderous wetness besieged by a sizzling sun.
What is there to remember about vapors?
And as the elevated trains do, day after day into the night, this carrier of human cargo- lumbers on!
Copyright © Margaret Wade | Year Posted 2018
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