A little girl I stand, awakened early morning hour.
The sound of shuffles preparing, for coffee one will scour.
Muffled voice all too familiar, for only one it could be.
Dads words saying, “I Love You”, In the next morning I will see.
Pulling out of the drive-way, swiftness to the curtains I will peek.
Thinking about the big firetruck, heartbroken without me, fire he will seek.
Chin up my duty calls me, I drag the hose from tree to tree.
Mr. Owl followed by a quarter, responsibility instilled in me.
By evenings long awaited dusk, another dinner without dad.
We pray with mom at bedside, safe returning to be had.
Memories of impromptu visits, our other family at the station.
Popcorn, chocolate bars and hugs, dads work, a childs’ vacation.
Fond memories growing up, of all the family time we spent.
Cabin, lake and camping, Flashlight tag to no relent.
No matter our scheduled travels, no hesitations to stop and help.
Morally guided passion, his genuine attributes not found on yelp.
Uncompensated care given, unescaped these childs’ eyes, not to be unseen.
My future I learn to follow, entirely he cares for every human being.
Waves of fear come and go, a firefighter I’m reminded.
Hearing tragic unfortunate news, unsightly loss, for I am blinded.
Thirty-seven this year his daughter, any trouble called upon he’s sure to be.
A guardian angel on my horizon, A firefighter one might see.
Copyright © Chelcie Darling | Year Posted 2016
Time has a strange way of sliding by silently,when you are not watching,
Next thing you know it is a new year,that you have to survive and get your family through.
Mirrors are no longer a looking glass from which you gaze upon your reflection,
You just glance as you rush to and fro.
losing even more time,and it feels like even your mind,as you notice a gray hair growing in plain sight.
Your children are grown up and on their own,and fear of the unknown comes to live in your home.
My husband and I sit and rock in our chairs veiwing the awesome sunset,
When he smiles and says We have loved each other through good and bad ,raised our children well, as we grow old together, we have more love to show,and share,
Until we move on, and no longer care.
Copyright © angel new | Year Posted 2015
Lyrical On 44th Street
The argument started at the table
He was too soft,
too timid to quote Gable
She said ,"Your dreams aren't keeping the lights on.
If I see you writing again, your son and I will be gone."
He said, "I been writing this book for ten years.
I got a letter from the mayor. I won a certificate."
She said, "It's just paper. We can't eat it. It aint worth shit!
For six years you haven't been a father at all.
You got a son who can't even catch a damn ball.
You're worth a nickel as a husband.
As a father, not even a dime.
Where's a boy going in this world
Writing stories and rhymes?"
She tossed his unfinished poems on the kitchen floor
His bound manuscripts out the back door.
She said, "Horace, I'm warning you.
Get this work out the trash
You'll find a wedding ring in there too."
For three days those dreams festered in that trash
Covered with Pasta, cooking oil, Marinara sauce
Everything he had ever written was lost.
He watched the Sunny Hills Sanitation Company
Turn down 34th street and make a left at the corner.
One last time he tried to warn her.
He could barely hide his tears with his hands.
She said, "Now you can grow up and be a man."
Then that truck turned left on 35th street
Then it turned right
And just like those dreams, it disappeared from sight
Twenty years later
He sat in the Sunny Hills Convalescent home
Sick, lonely, old and alone
He couldn't even hold a pen
Or dial numbers on a phone
He had forgotten nearly every simile
Every rhyme and every metaphor.
And every few weeks the Reaper
Carried one of his friends out that door.
And though he couldn't remember
His favorite color or baseball team
The one thing he couldn't forget
Were those lyrical dreams.
In the dining room of the hospital he had a guest.
It took two nurses to get the feeble man dressed.
A nurse said, Mr. Horace, this is your son.
Twice he had to be reminded that he had one.
He tried to reply, but his words failed.
The young man said, "Dad, I have a writing degree.
I graduated with honors, from Yale.
But what the old man didn't know
Happened late in the night
Twenty years ago.
A young child
Went into that garbage can
Sorted through the pasta, salad, and uneaten bones.
And made those lyrical dreams his own.
And now those dreams live on.
Copyright © Poet M.e. | Year Posted 2016
For forty six years now we've shared our home,
but for only the first months together alone,
moved into our own place the day we were wed,
and for forty six years we've both shared the same bed.
Though forever together and loving our life
we are never alone just as husband and wife,
except when on holidays in later times
when kids wouldn’t travel with us in our primes.
As well as our children, with one still at home,
we’ve opened our door to others that roam
away from their parents as their lives went wrong,
as their Auntie and Uncle they joined in our throng.
Our son moved his girlfriend into our place
they then spent a year looking for their own space,
but at last they have found it, we’re happy to see,
so in less than a week from our kids we’ll be free.
You can’t imagine the peace that will give us at last
relief from the chaos we’ve lived in the past,
although life’s been fun, and we think just the best,
I think that at last we’re deserving a rest.
So roll on the weekend, we’ll help with the move,
we’ve survived all the trauma and now we can prove
that retirement’s now starting to live just as two
as in our first married months we were able to do.
So think all you youngsters when just starting out
have your kids early and then kick them out,
with the children and grandkids I’m sure you’ll acquire
to be home alone one day……..I’m sure you’ll desire!
Ivor G Davies
Copyright © Ivor Davies | Year Posted 2016
No meaningful activities.
Not now, not for years.
Many people I see totally bored.
Filling time, wasting time.
I read good books.
I like my friends and doing anything together.
I will do some things boring.
But I see a paucity of good activities.
So I’m patient.
I will find activity.
We all must.
Entertainers, TV, please help (more).
People will flock to the better entertainment.
Please not for lots of money.
I will thank God for improved activities,
And so will my retired parents.
In memory of my uncle Donald
Who had boredom.
Copyright © Tom Locraft III | Year Posted 2017
The purchase of our first home was a charm
No money down and very affordable payments
We learned well, and were never alarmed or harmed
But we were disappointed by delays in street pavements
Our second home purchase required a co-investor
Their family and mine were happy and well pleased
Our prayers were heard and answered by our creator
Credit was good; loan was approved; and no one was deceived
The purchase of our third home was the result of very hard work
We had a family business; and my wife and I also had regular jobs
Fifteen years rushed by, and then the national economy began to hurt
We were forced to sale our home at a loss; our 401-K's were simply robbed
By God's Grace, we remained faithful to Him, to our family, and to our church
By God's Wisdom, we paid down the debt, retired early, and avoided the worse
09172017 PS Contest, Turning Disappointments Into The Positive, Brenda Chiri
Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2017
All her belongings fitted into a suitcase and a small carry-on bag.
After 18 years, my helper was going home for good.
During those years, not a dime ever went missing in the various apartments we’ve called home, she waged daily war with the invading dust, soot and dirt spawned by the city, and my son went from a yawning little squiggle in cute swaddling clothes to a self-absorbed teenager.
The first time he was in a school play, aged 6, we took her to see the performance. After he came out on stage, I happened to look over at her. There were tears on her face.
Her cooking never quite reached the heights we hoped for, and she had her crusty moods that made us wonder who was working for whom. But she did her job religiously.
She scrimped and saved for us. Somebody had to be the house scrooge if her employers didn’t know the value of a dollar! We did, but that wasn't the way she saw it. In secret, she must have shaken her head a hundred times at our ‘extravagance'.
She never married, and almost all the money she’s made over the years has gone to building a modest family house back in the Philippines for her parents.
On her last night with us, we took her out to dinner. She ate little, ill at ease at a restaurant where a meal could easily cost half of her monthly salary.
After dinner, we forced-marched her to a Swatch shop to get her a farewell gift. In front of the displays, she kept mumbling, “Too expensive.” So we picked one out for her, something with a white dial and beige strap.
“This is nice! Stylish and young!” we all chimed in.
“But I’m not young,” she said softly.
In the end, she chose something subdued with a gray dial.
Early the next morning, we went out to the airport with her.
She checked in her bags, and we chatted for a while, taking pictures with our phones. Then it was time to say goodbye.
She hugged each of us, fighting uselessly to hold back the tears. It was the first time I'd hugged her. My wife was doing her best impression of a brave face, which might have worked if it hadn’t dissolved into a gush of tears at the last moment, while my son stood by stolidly, having cried once already a few days ago over the imminent departure of his ‘half mother’, much to his embarrassment.
She kept waving at us on her way into the restricted zone, her face flushed and blotchy.
Then she was gone.
She’d earned her retirement, and we were happy for her that she was finally going home.
We’d just have to deal with losing family.
Copyright © Bernard Chan | Year Posted 2017
Just as honesty plants seeds of integrity
vulnerability plants seeds of honesty.
My primary vocation
in this my gay grandfatherly retiring age
is to parent mindbody challenged adolescents
of diverse colors
as ecotherapeutically as possible
to optimize their and our wealth
growing nutritional elements and moments
into humanely co-operative organisms
with good days
more than bad.
More or less like watering the flowers
and ignoring the weeds,
or, better yet,
repurposing the weeds,
redirecting their potential energy
in a more nutritiously nurturing way.
My kids not only are vulnerable,
they know they are vulnerable,
and this tends to make them exceedingly honest
with each other
about what is funny and what is tragedy.
They are easy to parent
in this way.
Yet this same vulnerability
is their greatest risk
in a too often competitive,
and mindless of other's special needs,
We communicate connected to the feeling level,
even while learning the ABCs,
the 1 through 100 percents of good and bad numbers
and proportions and balance and symmetry,
the drawing of self-portraits,
Earth and Her Sun.
Often these inside feeling voices
do not feel well enough to care about the ABC's,
or even the needs of those we need to love
and to love us,
to be as lovely with as possible.
Inside feeling voices
become loud and angry and hurt outside voices.
I noticed this the other day
when old family friends dropped by.
Not quite as old as I
and therefore much less retired
from life's exterior competitions.
When we had time to visit several times per week,
we often began together
checking in about how our inside voices were feeling today,
happy or sad,
depressed or triumphant,
and usually some more richly nuanced place between.
Then we would turn to our big outdoor voices.
What we were working and playing on and with
in our back and front and side-yards,
the gardens and woodlands of our productive nutritional lives,
how the pets and pests
and domestic egg-layers were feeling,
and why not.
These two voices generally resonated with each other.
What we were working on with Outdoor Voices
said something about nutrition and health we were working on
as a family
with our Inside Voices,
and vice versa.
if there was nothing else to do,
no further outdoor recreations
and discernment projects,
would we return to more
yet less intimate and vulnerable
Work and play projects in perpetual interior process.
The noticing of more ornamental acquisitions
like ceiling and wall and floor coverings,
about what we could see together
through all those more interior feelings
and thoughts about relationships,
past and future and present interactions,
transactions of value and disvalue,
warmth and cooler apathy.
I remembered this yesterday
when old friends,
no longer neighbors, revisited
and we began with new floor and ceiling coverings
and ended with farewell.
They arrive so late
it is already past time to be back home
to get ready for another Indoor Voices
Which, this morning,
results in feeling blessed
to be here in this time and place
to listen and speak at our leisure
with my vulnerable no-boundary kids,
outrageously honest about their nutritional needs
speaking with full volume integrity
in both Inside Outdoor Voices,
meets and greets and eventually defeats
through honest integrity
of repurposing redirection,
feeding the flowers
and noticing how funny the weedy Outdoor Voices
feeling our way through the ABCs
and the 1 through 100% flowering days
and mean weedy nights.
I'm surprised and disappointed
my former neighbors didn't notice all the new fruit trees
and berry bushes
poppies and lilies
strawberries and tomatoes
onions and garlic
asparagus and rhubarb,
and 17 new solar panels on the roof!
My kids could care less
and probably never more
what our old friends did
and did not
other than their own Voices
vulnerably maturing into integrity,
I'm glad they noticed,
because the liked,
the new floor and ceiling covers.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2017
At mine she forgot her jacket and her phone,
All over Christmas and New Year she’s been on her own,
I found the phone today,
Returning home after 10 days away,
I’d wondered why my mum had never called me on my birthday.
She had been ill
She had no Will
To let people see her sick in her hoarded home,
I couldn’t contact her as she’d forgotten her phone.
Copyright © Sunshine White | Year Posted 2017
My head is in muddle,
my words are in a blur.
I see things in the shadows,
but nothing is really there.
I have no concept of time,
or even words I have said.
I don’t recognize my children,
which makes me full of dread.
Even worse people don’t understand,
the pure confusion I feel.
I know that I am me,
but “ME” at times seems surreal.
I shout instead of talking,
but my volume is at loud.
I used to be respected,
eloquent and even proud.
Each day I seem to worsen,
falling further than in reach.
I am losing my lifeline,
as quickly I reach the deep.
Copyright Elle Smith 2017
Copyright © Elle Smith | Year Posted 2017