Best Arthritic Poems

If I wasn't there,
the rain swollen clouds
would have still dumped 
their dark weight over the bay
and through a gaping tear,
let down a curtain of sunlight
to...

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I'd married at 21 and moved overseas with my husband's work, so it had been many years since I had visited my gran at Rose...

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Just as days long ago, when decorum resolved, 
before composure, and poise,.. were corsages, unknown
Where propriety mattered, and was favored as gold,
high society, has gathered...

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Souvenirs of Love  …
I keep them all in a locked mahogany casket
It gets harder to open with my arthritic fingers
Yet every day I turn...

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Our bank accounts nearly emptied so we could afford a vacation; two young working girls who'd never been far from home. We were looking forward...

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His rheumy eyes film over and he brushes away a tear
with the age-spotted back of his hand.
He watches himself as a young man –
handsome, vigorous,...

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Its the arthritic loving hands round the stubborn slipper 
 a dry kiss in the morn an unshaven face touching mine 
 the window seat...

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In blackness,
 I hear forked tongues 
whisper wicked witchery,
hope within arthritic 
  ink slowly f a d e s
as darkness descends  
upon snow-speckled...

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When I met the tall and amiable Vietnam War veteran,
my shyness showed,
yet, my throat dried and tightened when he softly
spoke the words, "The war never...

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I wrote this poem as a remembrance of my mother. Even when macular degeneration and diabetes took her eyesight, she continued playing her beloved piano....

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Arthritic fingers
Unfold the crumbling parchment
Stained with tears and words
Her blind eyes no longer see
And feels the deep impressions
Still there after all these years


For Rick's contest...

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Dear swollen-trunk maple, deemed 
diseased by the saw-happy tree guy, 
you who have stood silently, supposedly 
slipping your ailment through your roots 
to the neighboring...

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The era of catatonic self-destruction has risen yet again from boulder-blocked caves,
Whose cavernous stalactite incisors drip with the blood of thorny crowns,
Worn in punitive irony...

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Ross still rides his Harley, if the weather's good.
Can't get away much, like he used to.
Thursday morning breakfast with the airplane guys,
Talking farm prices;
what the...

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Trumpets resound through the archways
spilling out onto the ancient cobblestone streets
pulling me closer with every upbeat note
into the direction of the tropical seaside cabana

My old...

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