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Donna Condron Poem
While fairly close to half asleep
I sensed a pounce and then a leap.
There was the very slightest trace
Of whiskers brushing near my face.
I heard a glass begin to totter
A glass half full of cool tap water.
Papers rustled, pill holders clicked
That nothing fell was quite a trick.
The creator of this minor stir
Erupted with a thunderous purr.
My nightstand now became the place
For a cat who stalks with endless grace..
Copyright © Donna Condron | Year Posted 2020
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Donna Condron Poem
Every month, without fail, I buy your magazine,
I read it through from front to back, to see what I might glean.
I'm awed at your endeavors and your accomplishments are many.
You show readers how to keep a home and save a pretty penny.
You sew and craft, dice and bake, then deftly plant a row.
You show the way to knit and felt, and how to mix up scrumptious dough.
Yes, Martha you amaze me, your work ethic is supreme.
And creating order out of chaos is every woman's dream.
You make affixing glitter look like more than just plain fun.
You roast and toast, and yes, compost, until the job is done.
I'm sure you have your critics, though I hope that they are few.
We may buy your sheets in Macys, your pots and dishes too.
You've shown this world the domestic life and all it's meant to be.
Most of all you've given hope to plain old gals like me.
Copyright © Donna Condron | Year Posted 2020
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Donna Condron Poem
I took a tiny touch of red
Then I dabbed a bit of blue.
Voila! I had purple
Now I wondered what to do.
The empty piece of canvas
Was waiting for a scene.
I shall start to build a forest
With shades of deepest green.
Ooops! I erred and made a splat.
It's a mark I can't take back.
I've changed my mind completely
This paintings now abstract.
Copyright © Donna Condron | Year Posted 2020
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Donna Condron Poem
Rumors like music
Float through the air.
You can choose to ignore them
Or decide that you care.
These tales are rampant
So often not true.
They spread as warm butter
Stick around like strong glue.
Rumors are stories
Cloaked in disguise.
Some might be truthful
Or worse, blatant lies.
I find it best to ignore them
Hope soon they depart.
And don't try to decipher
Just where they did start.
Copyright © Donna Condron | Year Posted 2020
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Donna Condron Poem
Rhyming is a delightful game
certainly one I love to play.
I thank the muse who comes to me
On any given day.
She sits upon my shoulder.
Whispers words quite candidly.
If she whispers enough of them
Then sentences I see.
If the words aren't written down
They simply fade away.
And only segments will return
On an inconvenient day.
I will continue doing
What this presence does decree.
I perceive her as a lady
Goddess of the poetry.
Copyright © Donna Condron | Year Posted 2020
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Donna Condron Poem
I like to show up early
He was always late.
I planned my every move
While he relied on fate.
If I decided somethings wrong
He would decide it's right.
Like a willow I would sway
Like a maple he stood strong.
We pruned our likes and dislikes
Much as trimming a Bonsai.
We focused on the good parts
Tossing off the bad to die.
Our compost pile of cuttings
Began to set us free.
Eventually we both conceded
Love is simply meant to be.
Copyright © Donna Condron | Year Posted 2020
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Donna Condron Poem
Were you a peg that wouldn't fit?
That peg who missed by just a bit.
A tad too round or oddly square,
A peg not fitting anywhere.
Your trip through life, a life askew,
Made you wish for something new.
While time passed by, your edges wore.
You longed for less while life sent more.
One day across the board you see
a spot that's simply meant to be.
Life has sanded the edge away
Giving you a chance to play.
Many will get their turn to play.
If a peg won't fit it might someday.
Since our future is often unforseen
Take that chance to find your dream.
Copyright © Donna Condron | Year Posted 2020
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Donna Condron Poem
Love, with hope and vitality
Joined together in one space.
Here in my garden I can see
Transformation taking place.
Radishes, crisp and crunchy
Robust and brightest red.
Picked by hand not long ago
From their earthy garden bed.
Sprinkled with a trace of salt
Slices sharply thin and straight.
Moisture clinging to their edge
Then placed upon a china plate.
Tomatoes, scarlet beauties
An aroma strong and heady.
My gift from soil and sun
Now so very ripe and ready.
I am grateful for the bounty
A reward for what I've done.
I admit most candidly
Gardening is my form of fun.
Copyright © Donna Condron | Year Posted 2020
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Donna Condron Poem
I spied him in the garden
His mask was black and white.
Sometimes the gray was with him
And that often was at night.
They prowled around the maple tree
Then slipped into the shed.
If I ventured out to look for them
They quickly will have fled.
I believe they are my neighbors
Of that I can't be sure.
I've often tried to meet them
Using tuna as a lure.
I stand behind the tilted blinds
Then peer between the slats.
I find it quite amusing
To watch a pair of cats.
Copyright © Donna Condron | Year Posted 2020
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Donna Condron Poem
I found my mind attired in stress
Woven from the darkest gray.
It wasn't an attractive style
So I took it off that very day.
I knew the perfect place to shop
Called My Inner Spirit Mart.
Where time for you can simply stop
With the pursuit of creating art.
When my heart is heavy or feeling faint
When my life has blown a fuse.
I reach for brushes and my paints
Then call upon my muse.
Those who write, stitch and paint,
Or dance with greatest ease.
Find an inner way to heal
Because our soul is what we please.
Copyright © Donna Condron | Year Posted 2020
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