Best Memoir Poems
Here in the final pages of her life
She stops to rest a spell on empty lines
Reflecting on the chapters left behind
In valleys of a mind deep in contrite
Where shadows battle with a blinding light
Conflicting egos fighting on through time
Their argument life’s reason and life’s rhyme
They battle for the end that she must write
Two equal pens held tightly in her hand
Tears mingle with the ink spots on the page
One pen telling truth one pen telling lies
Her bleeding words like footprints in the sand
On lines between a novice and a sage
One pen she puts to death before she dies
~~~
Author: Elaine Cecelia George
Written: April 20th, 2014
Finally – it was Christmas Eve and we put the presents under the tree and hung our stockings at the foot of the bed. In a few hours, those stockings would be filled with barley toys, ribbon candy and chocolates. I could hardly wait! As mom tucked us into bed, I looked out the window and saw it was snowing again. It snowed all through the night as I lay in my cozy bed dreaming of that glorious bicycle again.
Christmas morning we awoke to the sound of the radio which was now home for Christmas after a long stay at the pawn shop as ‘Joy to the World’ rang over her airwaves.
We dashed to the living room where mom and dad stood beside two bicycles with gleaming chrome and multi-coloured streamers; not the ones from the store window, but the most beautiful bicycles I have ever seen, a red one for me and a blue one for my brother.
There I stood, my heart overflowing with joy and love as I remembered my mother’s blood stained hands and my father’s blue and red stained hands - these hands of love that changed two second-hand bicycles into the greatest gift I have ever known and taught me the true meaning of the spirit of Christmas.
The End
May the magic of that Christmas from years gone by, find you and fill your heart with joy.
Merry Christmas to you and yours.
Author: Elaine Cecelia George
Blackberry Memoir
Blackberries, round and glossy,
Always invite me to return
To dusty country summer afternoons
When languid waves of mirages
Puddle into shimmering hiatus.
From the gently swaying hammock
I hear the rattle of berry pails
To see my grandmother, in her straw hat,
Smile an invitation - come with her
Into the wild blackberry patch.
Like garter snakes that hide in the thorny brambles
Tangled canes slither across the sandy path
No perfect rows only prickly trailing briars
That soar from the heart of the thicket
In arching limbs to touch on summer skies.
Like raven tresses the blackberry fruit glistens -
Capturing sweetness from the glowing sun -
Purple stained fingers release the ripeness
Then hear it plunk in the berry bucket -
Delicious as raindrops in a summer storm.
Warm evening settles in contented sighs
Watching moonlight creep through tangled vines
When juicy blackberry pie warm from the oven
Arrives on clear plates with salivating praise
Topped with ice cream dripping down the sides.
When autumn strips the jumbled canes
To lie barren beneath the winter sun
My grandmother’s blackberry jam journeys
In reveries of summer days to come
When simple berry picking untangles life.
8-2-22
Contest: Your Thoughts on Blackberries
Sponsor: Matt Caliri
What is love with no heart?
Marching the streets with our flags flying high
Deutschland uber allas was our battle cry
The Youth taught me to be tough and bold
With out hesitation I carried out every order I was told
To defend my Fatherland against Marxism was my desire
No one could extinguish this young Germans fire
Chorus
A memoir to the nation I served
The ruins of 1945 you did not deserve
A memoir to the nation I fought for
You should have had so much more
A memoir to the nation that now is shamed
Break the chains and shove the blame
I remember the day I first received the bolts
Pride ran through my veins and every waking thought
To fight for fatherland was my greatest honor
I would risk my life as I would become a great soldier
My Panzer division would be one of the very best
We where amongst the very elite, we where the Waffen SS
Chorus
We went into hell in the ice cold East
To puncher the heart of the evil red beast
We where going strong as we made it outside the Kremlin
The Russian winter came as our bodies would give in
I saw to my horror comrades in frozen graves of ice
for sake of Fatherland they gave the ultimate sacrifice
chorus
in defeat I came back to a broken and shattered nation
women and children cried as they saw the red occupation
I was condemned as I was put on a show trial
The courageous where put in prison in typical Marxist style
Shamed as our people are put down, because they won
Even though now I’m spit upon, I regret nothing I’ve done
Kids can be so very funny
Especially when we see them laughing and sunny.
I remember wiping my son's nose so runny
After he had been going like the 'Energizer Bunny'.
Parents are proud when kids first learn their shoes to tie
Or learn to ride a bike on their first try.
Sometimes my son would make me cry
When he wanted to play 20 questions of "Why"?
Their faces are filled with a happy joy
When they receive a brand new toy.
Sometimes I used that age old ploy
Of saying, "Don't cry now, you're a big boy".
It is hard for me to try to write
A few words about trying to fly a kite.
I guess you would call it my solo plight
To relate how I recall the beauty of flight.
Kids jog our memory of the things they've done
Like blowing out a candle when they were one.
We can never go back to those days of fun
But our 'Kids will always be Kids', be they 6, or 30, or 61.
Genealogy
—The beginning of a family tree—
For my great, great grandfather was a son of a slave,
he also was the slave,
and he grew up with a sad and appalling bedtime story
under the dim candlelight flickering in mother’s deep and painful sigh.
Since there was no book to turn over the leaves
no colorful pictures to see or fine letters to read.
The story was from the lips of dear mother,
who worn out from a long and hard day’s labor at fields,
and it was the most touching story he ever heard.
He, therefore, with his poor mother’s image
by his bed side though grievous,
carried this sad and heart-rending story
as an unforgettable boyhood day’s memory in his heart.
The story was, then, handed down generation to generation
and it was the story of Uncle Tom,1
one of most beautiful human beings,
agonizing under the heartless master’s lash,
gasping his last in the bosom of
a gentle-hearted young Mas’r from Kentucky
where the Tom-less Tom’s cabin on the sunny side hill still stands.
Nonetheless, Struggle was the only word they knew
to survive though not as human beings but as a simple living thing,
nonetheless, Struggle was the only word they have to bear in mind
in order to eke out an existence
though not as a dignified being but as an insignificant thing.
They struggled for their lives throughout their never-ending
tiring days, throughout their dark and restless nights.
Although my great, great, great grandfather’s father was
a proud warrior of a tribe
which dominated the wilds in the coast of the Black Continent
where the glow of a setting sun kisses yonder horizon to redden
the ripples, to call the stars and moon from the other side of sky
for the undisturbed and peaceful rest at night.
However, when the evil-spirited wicked ones
whose domain encompasses to and over the seven seas
invaded this peaceful land, though he was a courageous warrior,
whose strength was greater than the king of the beasts
he was trapped and lost his mighty strength.
Able to run faster than the cheetah in the wild
he was shackled and lost his swift legs.
The wings, which enabled him to soar higher
than the eagle were broken to pieces as he was captured.
1Cf: Harriet Beecher Stowe. Uncle Tom’s Cabin
Throughout the years of bars and fences, several things kept me from falling
My Faith in God, My Mom, My Writing...and, that Freedom Was Always Calling
The nightmare started in "93", shipped off to do a second bid
I knew my mother was hurting deeply from all of the pain her silence hid
Downstate was another dagger, the lonely days, the nights, the "Draft"
In times of peace the seagulls shrieking...and, I could have sworn at me they laughed
Then came Green Haven/the pain continued; those forty months in just a cell
Abundant vermin, to live determined...where most Co's were scarred as well
College courses would keep me focused, mixing with others who sought degrees
To be well rounded my reading varied from Og Mandino to Sophocles
All was good, then times grew darker, by "95" my health had waned
Some forsook me while others wondered how my Trust in God remained
On bended knees I prayed this daily..."Not my will be done, but thine"
Then I was showed One set of "Footprints" which I knew could not be mine
Deliverance came, yes things got better; I thought my sorrows were finally gone
Until I left to live in Fishkill, which in truth was Matteawan
Intellectually I was their equal, they had no choice, but to grin and bear it
For, I knew their books, their words, their history...and many things deemed esoteric
Bogus tickets, the box, harassment, they thought I'd fold from all the stress
Still, what would I be if I didn't suffer?...a spineless man who acquiesced
People have asked me how I survived it, a prison life sometimes appalling
I inhaled deeply, and finally told them...That Freedom Was Always Calling
Freedom Was Always Calling by Poetiq1der aka Don Simmons
Genealogy
—The beginning of a family tree—
The misery of his life in this unwanted land nonetheless,
made him learn how to bear in times of hardship under
the scorching sun in the field; comprehend what is the meant by forgiveness
when carrying a heavy burden on his back under the pouring lashes;
finding the way to wait till time comes in the sleepless nights,
tossing himself on the rough straw mattress.
He, therefore, knew that no man will perish
if there is a dream, whether it is sweet or terrifying,
and, therefore, he handed his dream down to his offspring.
Because my forefathers underwent unbearable agonies,
because my forebear forgave his oppressors,
their unwanted land became my own,
it became my beloved motherland,
and I am standing here as a proud member of this nation
the nation that tries not to live in the past
but live in a promised future for all.
I am holding the hands of the people
seeking oneness not because of colors of skin
but because of individual personality and human dignity.
O now is the time we most see the things
through eyes that are not distorted by prejudice,
O now is the time to realize the true meaning
of this nation’s founding fathers as they proclaimed,
“All men are created equal,”
and march to the our future proudly,
waving our nation’s beautiful flag,
in the spirit of mutual understanding and reconciliation,
diving into the unceasing currents of unbreakable promise
in the mood of harmony and unity.
feel so heavy,
Weighed down by an anchor
No one can physically see.
I'm expected to be okay
To live a normal life
While dealing with a
chemical imbalance,
An emotional disturbance
Whose presenting symptoms are
Self destructive binges
And manic tangents
That have labeled me reckless
And often left me stranded.
I dive head first into
Waves crashing
Tearing it's way through
The walls I've built.
My fortress is unstable
There are weak spots
And some stains have
Remained.
These walls sometimes feel
Like they are 40 miles tall
And forged of steel
In that very moment
I feel so alone...
When surrounded by people
When introduced to anyone or anything new,
When one those new additions
causes changes to the flow
Of things
Who Dares to get too close or
challenge the authenticity
Of my disorders
By questioning my mental state.
Surely,
There's truth to the trauma,
Or it wouldn't continuously bother me
Causing catastrophic events,
Filling my head with memories
that never seem to end.
My mind short
Tyrannosaurus!
Formerly an ancient King,
Now wooden sculpture...
Achievement, 1 of 2
—Time to share—
I grew up in a slum where the gang members,
at the risk of their lives, fight over their turf.
My lullaby was red and blue warning lights
flickering from dashing squared cars and ambulances,
and my bedtime story was the blow of sirens passing through
the streets and alleys between boarded up abandoned houses
standing in rows here and there.
My mother, though loved me dearly,
happened to be a high school dropout
and single who brought this world to me at her teens.
She was a minimum wage earner, therefore, her life was
nothing but struggles, kept body and soul together in misery
between laid off to employed to laid off, between paycheck to welfare
to paycheck that is thinner than a sheet of paper.
Although under educated, she was a pious woman,
and that is why her keen desire was not her son to follow
the steps of her mistake and suffer like his mother.
Her wish was to raise her only child to be a decent citizen
with a noble profession and thereby add some value to the community,
return some good things to the society.
Apart from mother’s great expectation, however,
I was a disobedient rogue child, a kind of problem kid
on the block when I was a lad. I got into bad company
and led astray by them, was irregular in attendance to a school
and cut classes whenever I felt like.
Until one day I learned of my mother’s tragic death
on the way back home from her work,
she was struck by a stray bullet
in the midst of gang members cross fire.
On dappled hill I stand
Flowers at its command,
Trees blazing like Lakshmi star
With essence, breath in awe.
Fireflies rustling, aglow;
This paradise, near than far
Where swan flits low
To prepare dawn’s tableau,
All these, locked in sweet memoir.
------
Ballasi Stanza Contest
by nette onclaud
When I was lost
I could not see
All the beauty
And wonder
Happen around me
I was alone
Dreaming of you
OH, I could not imagine
This dream coming true
So much joy now
In all that I touch
You make me
Everything so much
I will love you
For the earth at my wheels
I will love you
For the sun in the sky
I will love you
For the pouring rain
This whole world was
A stranger to me
Now you have opened
My heart to everything
What opportunities did we allow to flow by?
Feeling that the timing was not quite right
What kind of magic might have worked
If we would have stay calm
Couldn’t I have given you a better line
Did you ever take me in your arms?
and look me in the eye
did I ever open my heart?
And let you look inside
If I never didn’t
I was only waiting
For a better moment that didn’t come
There never could be a better moment
Then this one
RAJARAM RAMACHANDRAN, YOU WILL BE MISSED FOREVER
You’ve left a legacy, a treasure to cherish,
The words of wisdom, the priceless pearls,
Each letter embedded with love and care,
For all the fellow beings, the loving souls!
Spreading cheer abound, filling hearts with joy,
The depth of the ocean delving deep in purity, wisdom,
A seeker of truth, a philosopher, a thinker,
The highest realms of the consciousness, pinnacles reached!
The scriptures enlivened, the epics mastered,
The Ramayana, The Mahabharata, The Holy Bible, The Krishna Leela,
Blessings showered from the Divine, the Grace,
Offering the poetry at the Lotus feet of the Lord!
The greatest humans, the purest souls,
Revered, honoured in your words galore,
Gautama Buddha, Harichandra, Adi Sankara, Saint Thyagaraja,
Swami Vivekananda, Mother Teresa, Saint Bernadette Sobirous!
A master of letters with expertise, finesse,
A devotee of Krishna, the mellifluous tunes that you sung,
From the depth of your heart, from the core of your soul,
Shedding off all darkness, dissipating ignorance!
You taught me to live the life to the fullest,
With the brightest smiles sparkling on the way,
The life lessons learnt, the messages spread,
The guidance, the compassion illuminating all!
As a shimmering candle, your aura shines,
A sudden bliss, a gleaming hope,
A modest, humble self-effacing guide,
Enlightening the path, unfurling tranquil peace!
My heart refutes, the mind repels,
The cruel death snatches the mortal being,
Your memories I treasure to reminisce and cherish,
Your words my companion in the journey of life!