Poetry Family Poems

These Poetry Family poems are examples of Poetry poems about Family. These are the best examples of Poetry Family poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry |
6:35 A.M.

Sunrise against my neck
that no cheap tan booth could ever match.

I ring the doorbell in anticipation of joy’s injection.

I needed it.

Because I left my cell phone in the car,
as I didn’t want to hear any chimed email
or text annoyances.

And the car just got cleaned,
only for the birds to have their way
on its waxy shine.

Bastards!

Time to grab the flamethrower from my trunk!

But, before I could scream in Braveheart declaration,
there she was.

Her 6 yr old smile,
made of 1/4 inch gaps between innocence enamel,
captured me like no other could.

“Tio”, she preached in angelica sonata.

As she held me,
held me,
with puppy love warmth.

Even the rainbows fell to its knees.

She took off my jacket with ferret-like perkiness and
asked me to sit on the floor with her.

But, not before offering to toast me some Eggo waffles
with a big glass of Ovaltine…
…in her Little Mermaid glass,
proudly made in North Korea.

It even had the dictator’s initials and a bucktooth smiley face stamp, signed in glitter
that said:
“Kid-safe”.

Thank God I just took my online course in Child Safety.
I was ready!

As I sip on Little Mermaid’s curves,
shaped in plastic, swirly straw weirdness,
a sound blasts off from a Barbie radio.

My 2 yr old angel galloped into this heart of mine,
with Tinnitus piercing scream & laughter,
tackling me in Incredible Hulk lunge.

“Hi Tio”, she whispered, before she hopped back upstairs, 
Ninja Turtle-style,
laughing maniacally with rapid head tilts, left to right to left.

Boys will fear her. 
And I couldn’t be more proud.

After two moments of silence, 
my 6 yr old angel places her Dr. Seuss book on my lap,
as she sits in front of me.

“I can r-r-read
with my eye-s
shut.”

She carefully completed the sentence,
as my eyes instantly fill with leaky pride
and an ingrained smile.

10 minutes later, she shut her book and asked me how she did.
“I am so proud of you my angel.”
“You have come so far.”

I had to hold back tears because I didn’t want to throw her off.
Yet I think she knew,
because she kept her head down and smiled with gentle starburst.

Mission accomplished.

And it was then where I heard her say,
“Those who matter don’t mind,
those who mind don’t matter.”

But she was quiet, looking at me with tilted head & smile.

For it was my inner child, 
speaking
clear.

© Drake J. Eszes

Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2011




Details | Light Poetry |

                                               Dance with me
                                I have borrowed mum`s summer hat
                            Dressed up with lipstick and pearl necklace
                    The good smell....do not say it but it`s mum`s perfume
                          The high heel red shoes are mum`s and they fits
                         me almost I`m nearly four years old and a big girl
                                   I have dressed up so nice just for you
                         Dance with me dad, I`m your little princess tonight













27.03.2012
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2012

Details | Light Poetry |
Two riding on a single
Man! How fast that bike will go
Down the hill around the curve
Blow wind blow

At the very bottom piled up
In a culvert drain
In great agony and pain
Totally distained

Crumpled metal, torn clothes
Bleeding and blood stains
Harsh words from parents
Tears as soap and water cleaned

All the cuts and bruises
And clothes that had to be changed
What an ending to Christmas
The joy of Santa's gift

Lying dented and scuffed bent
Beside the porch needing to be fixed

Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2009




Details | Free verse |
A solitary piece the diamond
precious rare gem most treasured
by those lucky enough to hold
Once in possession it is rarely out of grasp
Like the gemstone the mother 
requires very specific conditions
in holding fast her (family/) childrens love
Treasured forever in her heart
she will go out of her way
to preen and protect them
holding them dear to her
deep within her maternal safe – the heart
closely guarded by the mind
Her infatuation of all treasures to her 
are totally understandable
especially when you think to the complexity
of structure and process taken in creation
Just as from the ‘unbreakable’ in ancient greek
this allotrope of carbon
with strength of bonding between atoms
is representative of that strong love
between mum and child
The maternal being could be compared
to the superlative physical qualities of the stone
Even the characteristic luster
of this gem so prevalent from its ability
to disperse light and colour
compared to the many strengths 
roles and qualities of the mother
seen by the many she deals with daily
A most high pressured job 
versus the high pressured temperature
within the Earths mantle
that forms the delightful rock it gives birth to
Infants delight and ignite the forbearer
just as the jewel would dazzle the room
a mother’s love encaptures the magical luster
of those she’s birthed and nothing
stands inbetween this richest of cargo’s

Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |
You grow so fast, already showing glimpse of awesome creativity and transform discoveries from the industrious nature of your observations so squat at my feet and raise your attentive head up high to be equipped for this compulsory journey oh sweet creature of my seed. My hands of your molding and chastisement are already the processing engine of your refinement my strong willed mind and love soaked heart complete the stages as you hold steadfast to the train I’ve prepared for you Listen attentively as I perform this segment of my duties and lets take a tour round the routes of wisdom and gallivant the landscape of experience while I pedal your feet and smoothen your soles Seasoned flavored virtues are an armour through which life’s shots are overcomed and a colourful behaviour becomes a saviour in times of need Labor not your whole life in chasing vapour for out of vigour, flour is made from wheat, Bread from flour, but all for a time of enjoyment and satisfaction Guilty syndrome is exhibited when a person answers unasked questions and don’t force out jokes from your head or else people will think your sense of humor is on a life support Sunset is no accuse for the clock to stop running ad infinitum thus, an excuse is like a punctured umbrella it’ll still not stop the invasion of raindrops Your natural desires are borderless, but your ability to strongly control them is what makes you distinct from other species in the animal kingdom Love has no prefix, suffix or adjective it is what it is and as powerful as causing natural instincts to be abdicated in favour of kindness just for the carnivore to embrace abstinence. He who begins a tale becomes its reference don’t say what you cannot defend in court rumour is a bad odour which spreads beyond the neighbourhood and puts a noisy siren on your personality Bad companionship will lead you to the garbage and corrupt friends will join others to marvel at the immortality of your adopted stupidity Wash your face every morning with these words and take your every meal with these lines then would they be spices to which your life is preserved.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
I stepped into a cow pie, back a year or so ago, and I did fuss and cry!
Or so I am told… Then I found a Dragon egg, and as you will surmise… 
The plentitude and size of those pies, unfolded before my poor, sad eyes.
I pooper scooped alone, as they all ran from me and it, no matter what I tried.

There wasn’t enough fussing or money, that could bring them, into my crew.
It took a great big honking cart, behind a tractor to work the deed, it’s true
Dragon wouldn’t cooperate, to even remotely, pile it wherever I did need.
In fact, he buried my rose bed: as he covered it deep, in protest, at full speed.

I thought my teenagers had capped that rebel and protest thing, to an extreme.
OH, BOY! Have I become enlightened, to what a true protest can really mean!
Yep! And then he taught the neighbors Dogasaurus, to cover my dear, old Car!
Pitchfork handy, I chased them, as an incentive to unload in another place, so far!

That was inspired, I had gamely thought, until they dumped upon, poor little me.
I became known as the Dragon pie lady, and that was not a treat, I guarantee!
And yes, the paparazzi, put it on the front page as I got my 15 minutes of fame.
At this, Grandpa Troll came, to my much-needed aid, to help me stop this game.

He put us across the lake, from each other, in time out, until a deal was struck.
When Dragon’s fire finally gave out, he finally agreed to help clean up his muck.
Dragon agreed to ash all deeds, if I’d sell it as fertilizer to buy him more ice cream.
A bargain struck, peace reigned, and a fun incentive brought about our dreams.

The moral to my story is: Anyone can start a fight… But a fun incentive can be 
                                         Golden and bring the end to any plight.

  

Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
Dusty roads and fresh grass
summertime rodeos approaching fast
riding with a friend down on sandbars 

A piece of hay hanging out of his mouth
though some trapped water, out the other side
I had forgotten this wonderful life

I still see some twenty year old boy helping me up
now a sixty year old man rides in front
pointing all the changes in the last five years

I could not believe what time I lost
4 am to a cowboy is not early enough
my pants soaking wet my boots fixed

We rode on down to his dads favorite spot
to meet God when the sun comes up
we turned to face it and did not say a word

God's spirit was the only thing we heard
as earth to air, and water to fire, met in the sky
right there two old friends prayed to God



 

Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012

Details | Dramatic Verse |
-Infected- with *PSD

My luck is tough, 
My life has been rough,
I cannot feel my dreams,
I dream of dreams, that can't be felt.

In the deep corners of my mind
There is something there no one will ever find
I close my eyes and disappear into a world of loneliness
CAN I TELL YOU HOW I FEEL??

This is how I feel!

I feel lost, then I feel complete
How can this be?
Poor little old me~ 
I find myself with this crazy addiction
A state that moves me causing all kinds of unnecessary friction
Becoming another weak addict to something greater than, 
------------Drugs and Alcohol
This affects my entire family
No one around me is sure on how to react
This addiction makes crack look like an antibiotic 
 
I see it in their faces
The disappointment!
The disgrace! 
They gave up the practice when it comes to tough love
Guilty I confess, an addict in my own house
Far from reality, not caring about that man once called my spouse
Yes, I chose my dose of non-fictional poets over him
I don't feel the shame the day I let him walk away
Far, far away, I had nothing to say
Hitting rock bottom, maybe it's too late to rebuild my life
Not wanting to claw my way out of the hole
Rebuilt I will, through a magical poem, in this soup bowl

Here, you find me swimming with a crowd of wonder
Other creative people whose words speak louder than thunder
At first I thought I found a means to lock out all the bother
Hiding from all my responsibilities
Letting go of all my possibilities
Lacking the strong point of running out from the shaft
I sit here--
Sadder than the saddest tears you've ever experienced
Behind the soup screen, is where I found myself
I told nobody else.

I'm failing to admit to my fellow poets
The soup is a wonderful disease,                         
It keeps me from a good sleep,
With all these poems that put my mind at ease
I love the way it has full control, no matter where I go
It's true like an addict, family, friends don't matter anymore
I log on and want more, more and more.

Every poet here has been here for me through good or bad
Like a drunk suck!ng it up when I feel sad

The poetry soup, ~ IS MY VERY OWN SIN CITY!
Here is where I want to spend eternity

Embrace, me in ways that make me happy
Here I feel - - I feel - - SO! - - SO! - -SO!  Free!

A simple disease that needs no cure
Here I feel very secure
This is no drug, here you find no rock & roll
I'm drinking up the soup, like an alcoholic's goal

Spreading the poetry soup disease, puts my mind at ease
Knowing poetry over powers' suicidal thoughts anytime.

Here  ~I~ 
REST IN PEACE 
With A Poetry Soup Disease

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012

Details | Light Poetry |
There once was a day I would watch every airplane.
Praying you was on it to come take me away.
As a child I wanted you around until the day, you actually came.
The day you came is the day my life forever changed.
I remember as if it was yesterday when you physically violated me.
Mental visions as early as the age of eight, but old enough to vociferate.
Visualizing mental pictures in my mind while I am awake very aware of the improper abuse I take.
Your body on me feels something like an autopsy of a dead body.
While you lay on top of me as you press aggressively on me.
Against my will your force kept me still.
I am trying to understand if you recognize who I am.
I try to say no hoping you can comprehend; I am weakling as you apprehend.
Mentally and physically I became involuntarily your property. 
A main character in a horror story, and you were my predatory.
I asked “God why?” as I bare to stare into his eyes.
This is not thee love I seek; all I wanted was my father to love me, but not like this injustice of violation of my rights.
This love is not real; not the love I wished to feel.
As he tries to stick his tongue into my mouth too young to know what this is all about.
I grip my lips painfully tight as he tries to slip his tongue inside.
I close them tighter with all my might, as he whispers, “let me love you right” 
I beg him to leave as he pried my legs open with his knees my insides scream “somebody please help me!”
As he whispers how much he loves me I’m praying for God to just kill me.
I rather be dead then a man’s punching bag.
As I lay there my body was dead, and I laid my soul to rest.
I looked around the room and seen the Old Spice on the desk the same fragrance he wore around his neck.
The sun began to rise as he began to close my thighs.
In that moment in time I had made up my mind any man that ever say they love me was just telling lies.
I learned the hard way that love does not kill your inside; love does not take your pride.
A fatherless child I shall forever reside.
Every day that passes that little eight-year-old girl dies slowly inside.
Asking Jesus,” Why permit this?” and he slowly whispers…as I gently whimpers, “faith is the light that guide you through the darkness, my words reflecting as a lamp unto my feet.”
“Walk unto my path I’m here to carry the weak, come into me you are weary and overburdened. I will carry the pain you have obtained.”
“I am your father and you are my child you are never fatherless because I’m always around.”

Copyright © twanna Irisha | Year Posted 2012

Details | Light Poetry |
To My Children

Your teeth are green.
Your hot breath reeks.
Your room is a mess.
Your clothing stinks.
Your voice is loud.
Your ears are deaf.
I am your maid
and personal chef.
I'm proud of you
and all your traits
Cause I'm the one
Who made you great.

Brenda Atry

Copyright © Brenda Atry | Year Posted 2011

Details | Free verse |
 Don't leave me hanging sis!


I came out of nowhere with an agenda on the mind
Joining the soup to be near my favorite love
a game I did not plan to play
Until he called upon the first round.
giving it my best shot
Then came round three and more. 
The poets here I started to explore
Not taking my poetry seriously
The writing just happens naturally
now I see why she visits everyone at the soup.
My sister who puts on a show with words
Is adored by her very own group
the Destroyer was my pet name 
She gave me when I was young
So envious of her, I broke the head of her only dolls.
using her poetry was the way she tortured me 
Inside me, she bestowed a poet of mischief
Now I like to tease everyone mind with words


I hate this poem..... Lol..don't read it... It was a joking way back then


(((for contest**Leave me hanging)))

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010

Details | Light Poetry |
What i always wanted in life
Was an ideal dad
One who cared about family happiness 
And could cheer us up when were sad.

I always wanted a kind man, one who’s patient
And to him his family meant the world
I wanted a man to validate me 
By telling me i was a good girl.

I wanted a man who’s discipline 
Was never angry or severe
But a type of discipline 
That would encourage good conduct when we are far or near.

I wanted a man to tell me happy stories
And tuck me into bed
A man who always told me he loved me
And kissed me on the head

I still long to be hugged, kissed, and squeezed
But i don’t’ expect my future mate to blow my nose whenever i sneeze.

My childhood was a mess
And i had a dysfunctional family
It is the mighty hand of god
That has come in and set me free.
It is not fair to ask my future husband
To treat me like a child
But if expects to love him back
He must be meek and mild.

My future mate cannot play that role
Or undo the damage that has been done
But Jesus, my adoptive dad can fill this void
And through him my victory has already been won.

Copyright © Shuntae King | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry |
Cucu, maitu 

Now that am older
I seek more answers 
In the same manner I did 
Those days gone, of fetching firewood to cook a cherished meal
I seek more answers 
Not in the manner I did
Fetching sticks in the forest to be used by teachers for spanking and whipping 
Oh how I dreaded those days, those chilling days of punishments for poor grades, tardiness and noise making
And there my hate for math began....fearing it even to this day
that math teacher that came drunk to class and we mostly got beatings for nothing

I seek answers to understand our family dynamics 
Interesting, odd, sad, puzzling, beautiful, worrying, entertaining,  
Is some of the descriptions 
The reason we are the way we are
The beings we become in unexpected fate

Cucu, maitu 

I've heard your many stories of "emergency" during the colonial rule
I've seen your youthful strength that grows more beautiful with aging days
You always say "it's the Lord"
I remember how when we were little you always got us to wash our feet before getting on your bed
How you then proceeded to pray for your ten children, your many grand children and your ever increasing great grandchildren 
Telling God each of their names
My sisters and I always thought you said some of the longest prayers
But now that am older I know why
The number of family members I have to pray for increases with new age
Like the last video i took of you singing and dancing with some of your great grandchildren, 
The melody of my life becomes more fruitful with each new beat


Cucu, maitu (kikuyu words for grandmother) 

Copyright © njeri hunjeri | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry |
The last time I had seen this particular cousin of mine, I was still in college and he had a head full of hair. In between, there had been three funerals, two weddings and four births in our Trojan royalty of a family. I had been a university graduate for a year, and the prospect for a job, a decent one at that, had started to grow dimmer by the day. He asked, “Will you tutor my daughter?” “Yes!” I said. And we set out immediately. He, on his bike and I, on my motorcycle following him. We took a right turn at the famous landmark of the statue of demoness Putana, sitting on the grass with her bosom out and legs spread forward. He introduced me to his wife and daughter. Telling them to stand side by side, he told me, “She's only eleven, but look at her! Already equal in length and width to her mother, who is no delicate petal herself. Do you think you can teach her GK?” 

The universe wasn't made with dissent. Plus, the chicken samosas were really delicious. I tried on a grin while the overachieving pre-teen bustled around the room showing me her accolades for painting, singing, studying. As I left he pointed at a tree, “Do you know what tree is that?”

“Bael?” I answered thoughtfully. 

“Apple. That's an apple tree.” 

“Oh! Does it bear fruits?” 

“Not in this climate!” He laughed out loud.





---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 30 / 11 / 2016
Contest: James Tate
Sponsor: Space Cadet

Copyright © Tamal Kundu | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse |
He comes and goes
another trip
another assignment
another suitcase to pack, unpack
another sigh
another tear
another "Welcome home, my dear"
he comes and goes, comes and goes
and life for me just ebbs and flows

She comes and goes
another break
another holiday
another suitcase to pack, unpack
another sigh
another tear
another, "Welcome home, my dear"
She comes and goes, comes and goes
and life for me just ebbs and flows

They come an go, come and go
and I?
I stay....

I stay
with words I craft
I fly away
I come and go
I come and go
My dreams and thoughts
just ebb and flow

I stay...
and fly away....


Eileen Manassian

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2016

Details | Quintain (English) |
If he were my Dad, he would be the best.
A distinguished Chef that taught me to cook.
An ever loving Heart, beats in his chest.
His spare time , he writes a Poetry book.
When its done; as a Poetry Family; We should all take a look.
.
I have a distinct advantage, in the Culinary Arts.
“Dad” was a self made Chef : Loved by Culinary : ALL.
You have an distinct advantage, with your Ever Loving Hearts.
We climb the stairs of Poetry; to the Poet Laureate’s Hall.
We spend half of Eternity, reading Poems upon the wall.

He's a teacher, a Chef, a poet; a husband that Loves his Wife.
Allthough she now lives in Heaven, as she has for forty years.
His heart has found someone new; that has given him new life.
Barbara Jean, whom I call Mom; has dried up past forlorn tears. 
He is a man deeply in love with everyone he knows, he loves all his peers.

This is a Quintain I wrote for Francine Roberts Contest "  English Quintain Contest
Dedicated to "Dad  and Mom" Harry D. Johnson aka Harry, HG, Liege and Barbara Jean
Gorlick aka BG, Mom I wrote this Dec. 3 I added the third stanza today Dec. 14

Copyright © Kenny A Fledgling Poet | Year Posted 2011

Details | Quatrain |
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

Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2012

Details | Light Poetry |
Around this time of year
Our families draw near
They gather side by side.

Young and old they meet
And munch on tasty treats
Around the fireside.

A conversation starts
The subject quickly parts
A gap a generation wide.

The men get more intense
The women are incensed
They exit and they cry.

But grandma has a plan
She does all that she can
And quickly runs outside.

She finds her new grand babe
In mama's arms and says
"He's needed there inside!"

She brings the baby in
All eyes are turned to him
His smile a mile wide. 

A calm is then restored
Old arguments ignored
Hearts melt away their pride.

A child brought them peace
Just like the Prince of Peace
Back then one starry night.

Copyright © Laura Leiser | Year Posted 2014

Details | Free verse |
 Don't leave me hanging sis !


I came out of no where with an agenda on the mind.
Joining the soup to be near my favorite one
knowing she is not hard to find
a game I did not plan to play
Until he called upon the first round.
giving it my best shot
than came round three and more. 
The poets here I started to explore
Not taking my poetry seriously
The writing just happen naturally
now I see why she visits everyone at the soup.
My sister who puts on a show with words
Is adored by her very own group
the Destroyer was my pet name 
She gave me when I was young
So envious of her, I broke the head of her only dolls.
using her poetry was the way she tortured me 
sitting me down while she read me her stuff.
Inside me she bestowed a poet of mischief
Now I like to tease everyones mind with words


I hate this poem..... Lol..don't read it... It was a joke way back than


(((for contest**Leave me hanging)))

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010

Details | Free verse |
One

onetime-
I was just    one child all alone
and I wrote one piece
a day of poetry
grandma said
take one day at a time

uniqueness     singleness     oneness         

one place      I loved
was the attic
I was the only one there
playing make-believe dreams
doing the one-step waltz with dolly

it was a one-sided conversation

and I said
dolly    I   for one    disagree
the one person I want to marry
will come one sweet day
and it will be a unity of two
and then I would sing her a song
in a one long octave note     monotonous

uniques
     singleness
           oneness

I liked to tell one line jokes for grandma in the kitchen
put on a one man show for mom and dad after supper

dad gave me a one dollar bill
for every poem I wrote
I still have the first one   he said
    be oneself
       take one direction in life
           
and I grew up   solitary 
to write poems
each one is beautiful to me
I'll get a break one day
one never knows about tomorrows

I hold dear    my belief   in
uniqueness     singleness    oneness

then    one sad day grandma passed away
I cried all alone    in that attic
I'll see you again one day   grandma

______________________
September 3, 2015


Free Verse


For the contest, One, sponsor, Rob Carmack

Ninth Place

Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015

Details | Light Poetry |
...Now I ain't without notoriety,
Fact is.. I'm an old stalker with a walker.
She was big in the Purple Hat Society
and broke her hip,...while playing soccer.

When I met her, she was on the mend,
and she knew.. what I was after...
and I said I'd catch her when I can,
She said to push that walker a lil' faster.

She had her a "lectric wheel chair,
I just had my old walker and me,
she was pretty fast for a blue hair...
"till I crashed into her I.V. tree...

Well, they fitted my leg with plaster,
and I kinda forgot what I was after...
"till one day,
she wheeled in to see me,
Yep.  Said she'd come ta free me!

Now we sit together,
cozy up and talk about the weather.
We compare wrinkled tatoos,
and guess what they are,
we may share a shot of booze,
we don't go too awful far...

We keep our orthepedic shoes
under the same bed,
and I retired as a walker stalker,
meals on wheels keeps us fed
and we keep our teeth...
in the very same locker.

("Nite Nite, Darlin.")


                                            Composed and Written by-
                                                   Robert A. Dufresne

Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2009

Details | Light Poetry |
Life has a meaning that nobody knows, like the past and the present everything comes and goes. your life is a mark that can't be erased your problems get worse and they need to be faced. you think things over as you lie in your bed your whole life flashes in your head. where did the madness ever start why won't the pain go away in my heart you ask and you ask when will it be gone, will the hurting inside ever pass on. no one knows the answers except one God, so just live your life to the fullest and try to have fun. because then you may find a love that eventually falls apart and again there's a aching deep in your heart. once again there's that meaning that nobody knows like the past and the present everything comes and goes.

Copyright © tiffany franklin | Year Posted 2014

Details | Light Poetry |
     When i grow old i will be glad
of the five braw weans im blessed to have
Gordon my oldest wise for his years
Kelly shes bolder but inside theres tears
Ashly my nightmare but i love her to bits
Sean has a laugh that has me in fits
Natasha the baby the wee cuty pie
I hope when she's older she gets a good guy
they are all so good looking no one can deny
and their all the apple of this mothers eye


Copyright © Kate Mcnaughton | Year Posted 2009

Details | Light Poetry |
Children are Precious

Children are precious
They are gifts from God above
We must nurture them 
And shower them with love.

Children need guidance, support, discipline and God’s grace
When they are younger, we must help them tie their shoelace.
We must teach them what’s right and what’s wrong
We must watch their shows with them and listen to their songs.

We have to make sure that they’re on the right track
We have to make sure they have food on their table and clothes on their backs.
We must provide for their physical needs and their emotional needs too
We must often praise them and spend time with them
And we must teach them that when it comes to serving God and reaching goals
They should always stay true.

Copyright © Shuntae King | Year Posted 2010

Details | Light Poetry |
For all the love
Good care and affection
That you've given me
For all the tender pain
You've been through
When you carried me
When you were pregnant

For all your passion and tolerance
With me when I was a head ache
For all the things you've done
And still doing for me
What will I do without you?
You were there since the day I was born
You know me better than anyone

This is the reason why I am so proud
To called you 'MUM'
Your love is more expensive
Than gold, money and diamond
And more than anything in this world

Without you
There is no love
There is no life
What you've tought me
Is a guidance through the journey my life

I don't know how to finish
To repay you for everything
I love you and I admire you so much
I don't want to lose you
Because you are my richest
My love and my passion

I love you so much...
...MOTHER!
And I don't see why you don't deserve
The best wishes...
...HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY!

Copyright © Shirley Madeleine | Year Posted 2009

Details | Light Poetry |
The sky is not the same.
When I don't see her eyes and her smile it starts to rain.

Please God tell me your Angel is okay.
I don't know what to do if she goes astray. 

Please guide your Angel back to me.
I miss the sweet words of her melody.

Show me she has not departed from us,
and will promise not to fuss.

Give me a sign or a hint of her existence.
Let me know that she is in no need for assistance.

If you do I shall promise never again to be distant.

Copyright © Mariela Ruiz | Year Posted 2007

Details | Quatrain |
I don't like nasty limericks.
I don't like vulgar words.
I'd rather write of better things, 
like maybe watching birds.

So many poets feel the need
to write such graphic things.
The art of poetry to me
is making words that sing.

It's easy to be nasty.
It takes no brain at all.
But I can't keep from wondering
where you get the gall.

My poems may not be 'genius'.
I'm sure they don't compare
to many other writer's work
but mine, I like to share.

No matter if you're ninety
or if you're only nine
you needn't feel ashamed to click
on poetry that's mine.

Copyright © Mary Nagy | Year Posted 2005

Details | Prose Poetry |
Staring, vapor locked, at my Hammond B-3 console organ, which dominates my 
kitchen.  Surely a symbol of my madness.  I can't help, but think, if the keys were 
the days of my life, and the black ones represented the bad days, are there 
enough black keys??  Fighting petulance, self-pity...losing...
     Wondering if I can stand another minute alone.  Atop my organ, music books, 
and the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, another mad poet.
     Plagued by physical agonies that merely complete a perfect circle of anguish 
and distress.  Even to worrying of misspelling a word again.  Pure lunacy.
     Remembrance of my 1863 death at Missionary Ridge, something I became 
aware of as a young child before I'd ever heard of reincarnation.  Or just an early 
sign of the madness to come??
     I am lost in a befouling miasma of deep despair.  My life's hopes down to 2 
desires;  one last music band, and taking my son to Disneyworld.  Money is 
meaningless to me.
     I am well aware that death is as natural as life.  And I would venture to guess 
that the loss of my father, my young cousin Billy, my dear friend Mark Trotiner, and 
too many others, are "Business As Usual" in this universe.  But not for me.
     Being terminally ill myself is something I have long since come to terms with.  
And what a reunion it will be!!  But I must continue to go on surviving as though I 
cherish this long and barren life.
     My writing, especially my poetry, my poet friends, my music, my musician 
friends, and a few relatives and others; these are the meds that work for me; not 
the 30 or so pills I must deal with everyday.  So thank you all.
And now an addendum, one which brightened my day:
     Mark Trotiner long maintained that he gave Mark Knoffler (Dire Straights) the 
idea for his hit song "Money For Nothing", when Mark Knoffler came into the 
appliance chain store he worked in way back then, where he bought, and drove 
off with several T.V.s, singing the prototype words he'd gotten from Mark Trotiner.  
Over the years, I tested him repeatedly, looking for the tale-tell deviation in the 
story one finds in a false tale.  He never faltered, he never failed.
    Continued.....

Copyright © tom bell | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry |
A HOME I never knew a home; Christmas, any holiday were words, merely words. Looking from the outside in. A child, seeing lights, balls, trees, presents, but most of all: family life. Warm feelings coursing me, A longing so unknown, A wish so deep, a wish to be. Only, I still don't. Winter used to be cold, inside and out. The house an unfriendly place. Feeling like a visitor, A child, craving warmth of family life. Wanting to belong somewhere. Silent words on paper form A longing deeply seated. Inside all my feelings storm, Melting hearts, heated This year I have a home; my sister embraces me to her house and her family. No more outside, but in. For once a child, and I can stay and I can celebrate and enjoy family life Small tokens in my happy hands. Wrapping paper, tape, smiles, Christmas tree, love lands. Peace, after years of trials. *** 8th place in contest: THE HEART OF CHRISTMAS Sponsor: Mystic Rose

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry |
What is poetry, I must ask? Writing poetry can be quite a task. Still I struggle and continue to write, Hmmm, for my delight, or  do I write from insight?  Although I get frustrated, very agitated, can"t  bring myself to hate it because I"m also captivated. You see, poetry is something very new, something I thought I would never do, yes I thought nothing of the kind, poetry never even crossed my mind. Until Rehad. I was jotting down stuff that was really drab, while in my mind I was repeating a phraise while giving The Lord praise. Then a voice I heard, "you can do much more with those words" I didn't have a clue of what I could do.

So I started to think, I started to strain but the more I strained the further away they became. I was completely baffled, it had stopped me cold, so I stopped trying and behold poem's started to unfold. Now the tide has turned, no more free ride it's time to learn, so some candles I must burn, like everything else poetry too, you must earn. Instead I duck, I dodge, I hide, thinking of anything to put them aside. With all the great poets how can I compete, I feel as though I'm already beat. So I get afraid and into the back ground I fade, trying my best to evade. But that's not the case for every morning I awake they are right back in my face. I'm thinking, this is not the norm, should I grab the bull by the horns. My head started to spin, thinking how do I begin.

And from out of my heart, following the other poets is a great place to start, in order to proceed you must not only write, you must also read and reading is showing me it takes special people to write poetry. Which also keeps me in check and for all you poets I have the utmost respect. So whether good or bad, I will nether smudge nor carry a grudge for I am not here to judge. I just want to be a part of these wonderful works of art. But Poetry, I wonder, what will I aquire and what will transpire? I guess I must travel the unknown but it's good to know, I don't walk alone. So I say again my friend. What Is Poetry, I Must Ask, Writing Poetry Can Be Quite A Task?

Copyright © Milton Robertson | Year Posted 2016