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Best Poems Written by Marylou Bondi

Below are the all-time best Marylou Bondi poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Autumn Sonnet

As day falls into dusk I sit alone,                                 
Among the unloved stragglers, waiting still.             
The fading sun gives way to autumn chill,
As I sit waiting, silent as a stone.
I feel the crunch of leaves as dry as bone,
The children’s laughter silent from the hill,
And running, tripping, tumbling, down they spill.
I hope that one will claim me for her own.

Then lifted up and closely held at last,
I make the journey home and find my place.
The carving knife gives me the gift of sight,
The spoon wipes out the silence of the past.
My happy grin shines bright within my face,
Illuminated by the candlelight.

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Poetic Justice

Spider deftly climbs on by,
Quickly moves on toward the fly.
Ugly, arrogant arach,
In he steals for the attack.
Silently devours his prey,
Hungry still, he moves away.
Enter bored and grumpy cat:
Death to spider, whack and splat!

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For Wanda

For Wanda

Deep in the crannies and the nooks,
where no one goes and no one looks,
The whispers of a scattered mind,
call out to shadows left behind.

Like strobes, the memories flash and wane,
then wash away like April rain.
And thoughts that once were clear, refreshed,
sit trapped and tangled and enmeshed
in webs of darkened yesterdays,
with no tomorrows or todays.
Time flickers in the here and now,
it's all that fate chose to allow.

Behind the silences and tears,
Behind the hopelessness and fears,
Within your soul, beyond my view
Your light still glows; you are still you.

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The Iceman

Empty old man embedded in his chair
Locked in his years and trapped in ancient pain
Silent, cold and purposely unaware.

That velvet chair - his prison, his domain,
Had swallowed up his life, his heart, his mind.
A silent king, he sat in silent reign.

In younger days he often was inclined
To laugh and dance and celebrate a song.
But now, by stony silence he's defined.

When he decreed that life had all gone wrong,
He crawled within himself and locked the door.
And prayed his days would end before too long.

But fate commands what man cannot ignore
His years rolled on 'til he was ninety-eight,
And with one tear, was silenced evermore.

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Generations

When I was twelve my grandma told me I was a woman – 
and in six or eight years I would be a wife.
She said Sundays would be pasta days, Fridays I’d cook fish –
and to keep a net of mothballs in my closets.
She told me that linseed oil was good for wood floors 
and garlic was good for everything.
She said I must iron his handkerchiefs and boxer shorts, 
pillow cases and towels and sheets and shirts and…
I was told, “Il mio cuore debe battere per lui, le mie mani devono lavorare
per lui e il mio corpo dovrebe portare I suoi figli” – that to be a good wife, (loosely translated), “my hands must work for him, my heart should beat for him, my body would bear his children.”   
And often, they did, and it did and twice, I did. 
Now you are twelve,
And in six or eight years you’ll fly and soar toward whoever you want to be,
whenever you choose the time, wherever you want to go.
You’re already on your way!  
Cook pasta on Tuesdays if you choose.  Take-out works too.
Swiffer your way across your wooden floors and do not ever use an iron –
That’s what dryers are for.
Be a wife to someone you love – or not.  Share your life and live your life your way.
The beauty of following your own path
is the power of choice.
Love,
Grammy

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Foreclosure November, 1931

"No later than December third,"
The voice rapped out each icy word.
He stared as if he hadn't heard
just what that ordinance inferred.
Then something deep inside him stirred
his ire, and his vision blurred.
"You've got two weeks," the voice proffered.
"I understand," the man concurred.

Then as in theater of the absurd,
His desperate plight had registered.
And to his heart without a word
The agony of times occurred.
A crumpled, broken, lifeless bird
He paid in full before the third.

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Nightlife

The darkness blankets time and space.
The shadows dance across the pane,
as moonlit droplets drape like lace
and play the music of the rain.

The damp chill of the dead of night
seeps in my bones to settle there.
I hug my flannel robe wrapped tight
And burrow deep into my chair.

My hands are warmed by steaming brew;
The kitten snuggles close to me;
My heart is warmed by life and you.
The world seems balanced perfectly.

A movie flickers black and white,
The dog is whining for her food.
The noisy silence of the night
feels soft and comfortably subdued.

Yet slowly dawn intrudes upon
the shadows of my quiet time.
The sights and sounds of night are gone
The company has been sublime!

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Lost

He wore a mask that smiled all day
With eyes of glass and lips of stone.
His longing heart could not outweigh
The mask he wore that smiled all day.


And death meant peace and would allay,
The endless hours he lived -- alone.
He wore a mask that smiled all day,
With eyes of glass and lips of stone.

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That's Just the Way It Is

I have no master, I am free
I do whatever pleases me.
You do whatever you must do,
But you don't own me, I own you

Just listen here and understand,
You'll never have the upper hand,
To emphasize my point of view
You do not own me -- I own you.

I might decide to hide or slink
Or jump up on the sink to drink.
I'll shred the toilet paper, too
'Cause you don't own me, I own you.

At times I might be in the mood
To rub your leg or eat some food.
I might give in a time or two
But just remember, I own you.