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Best Poems Written by Marguerite C. Anderson

Below are the all-time best Marguerite C. Anderson poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Anne Girvan's Decree

At the heart of Marescaux Road’s Maroon and Gold
Lived a timid girl with dreams yearning to unfold.
An inner-city teen with a spirit aglow
Yet hidden in shadows, her potential lay low.

Then entered a teacher with passion ablaze
A beacon of hope, guiding through life’s maze.
With eyes full of kindness and words like a song
She saw through the silence, knew the girl didn’t belong.

Anne Girvan was her name, a mentor so bright
Igniting a spark and banishing the girl’s night.
With patience and wisdom, the teacher gently untied
The knots of self-doubt that had bound the girl’s pride.

“Believe, my dear,” she whispered, “you are strong,
Your voice is a melody; let it carry you along.”
In the world of words, the girl found her escape
A refuge in language, a chance to reshape.

The pen became the girl’s ally, the paper her friend,
Thus began her journey, a path to amend.
Through verses and prose, she let out her fears
Dropping them like anchors, dissolving in tears.

Anne Girvan—the guide, the catalyst of change—
Empowered the girl to break free from her cage.
In the alleys of Kingston, the girl’s story took flight,
A blossoming author, her words pure and bright.

She painted her struggles, her triumphs, her strife,
A testament to the teacher who transformed her life.
The pages reverberated with the strength of her voice
A symphony of triumph, a tale to rejoice.

The timid Jamaican girl was finally set free,
Her metamorphosis sparked by Anne Girvan's decree.
In Kingston’s inner city, where dreams often stall,
A teacher and poet answered her call.

Now she pens accolades for the one who believed,
Who unmuted her voice—her hero, reprieved.
This tale is her hymn to a teacher’s grace,
Whose influence lingers, transcending all space.

Decorated with praises among the heavens above,
Her ode to Anne Girvan, a testament of love.

Details | Marguerite C. Anderson Poem

What Love begets

The mother loved him before she met him. 
On days when her love posed a threat 
She gambled with her health 
And cradled him against her breast,  
And clenched her teeth  
to preserve the gift her love begets.
She supposed that with this seed 
Her soul could soar free,  
And he- her gentle dove- 
Would one day bring her comfort from all the men
who gave her unreciprocated love. 

The day came when, in her jubilee,  
The mother held him close as he suckled.  
She journeyed with him through desert lands 
And her love planted seeds that sprouted 
Fruits from the sand. 
Then one day - 
In a cataclysmic transform -
He despised the graceful garlands on his head 
And instead 
She bled from the blow of his knuckles. 
She watched him pluck the pendants from his neck. 
And in his unreciprocated love,  
the mother was decked. 

She nurtured him, still, for love bears all. 
So in her hospice,  
she held him close. 
For what does he know, what does he truly know 
“Of Love's austere and lonely offices”?

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Rebirth

Scorned and ridiculed, 
She carried her affliction for years.  
There came a time when she bled. 
Until one day her body buckled  
And there laid she in her scarlet pool.  
That filthy maiden was as good as dead 
But Jesus reshaped her from earth’s dust 
And delivered her from the hands of the cruel.  

There came a time when 
the unborn in her womb laid still; showed no sign of life 
Curled in its fetal tomb, 
And concerned expressions  
On the faces of doctors 
Alas, were ready when they considered  the deciding factors. 
But she in all the noise, 
Lie unperturbed. 
No doubt,  
it was God who administered that herb. 
And in an instant rebirth 
The babe leapt, bounded and gallivanted. 

There came a time 
When all around her beloved child 
A fiery furnace closed in, 
But the loving arms of Jesus  
Enfolded the child with oxygen. 
  
Methinks that maiden would not have 
made it to the other side  
After the many years of  
Stained tears she cried. 
But she is Mother-Earth 
And God has granted her rebirth.

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The Old Car

There once was an old car that was quite spry,
It had creaky joints and a sputtering sigh.
Its engine would wheeze
On the road, with such ease
Yet, if I now had such car, I would be pleased
Newer models are no match for a car of that batch
A real classic- though rusty-'neath the sky!

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Mother is her Name

Her vessel is empty, yet she is oxygen
Mother, is her name.
She sits in contemplation of
Tomorrow's provision
And you will never know when
Her weary soul is dying.

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The Hunter and the Doe

It is a tale known throughout the ages 
Of how a hunter ventured into the woods 
In search of a doe. 
And not just any doe,  
But rather the most beautiful,  
Wild, 
And graceful of them all. 
A doe that strutted across the evergreen 
on slender legs that held her frame  
as whistling winds converged on the scene. 
The hunter squatted, 
Scouted, 
Waited, 
Scaling the woods for the scrapes and rubs 
And when he discovered the bedding 
And caught the first sight of her  
Upon the mound, 
The hunter reached to aim his gun 
But found himself enamored, 
Spellbound. 
That trophy hunter, 
Stalker, 
deer murderer, 
Felt his chest heave and from his forehead 
Escaped the sweat 
Of a man who found love at first sight. 
For she was such marvel to behold 
He feared that his bodily scent  
would alert her sensitive nose, 
That she would bound away 
Far, far away as if on magical toes. 
He held his breath 
For all the years he hunted 
None more elegant existed  
in his wildlife land of does

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Diary of a Hot-Blooded Woman

Society sure has a lot to say 
on how middle-aged women should behave. 
Who dares to sanction that fire still alive inside?
In this her fiftieth year, she curses her sex-drive.
For she has prayed for years for someone to love,
Imposed voluntary abstinence to honour the Man above.
Perhaps, she shall marry at sixty-five
Until then, the fight continues for she must thrive.
So on behalf of all hot-blooded women, she scribes.

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The Burdened Poet

The poet stands in the court of thought,
Accused of wielding the pen as sword,
Charged with crafting truths unbought,
With words that strike and chords that chord.

Guilty of exposing the soul’s bare form
Of unraveling the unseen seam,
The poet faces the judgment storm
For venturing in the concealed realm
For daring to dream or to utter the unspoken.

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For I Have Sinned

Forgive me 
For I have sinned in my tenacity 
to challenge you on the battlefield of morality. 

Forgive me 
For offending your duplicity 
with my transparency. 

Forgive me 
While you carouse with your unquenchable lies                                                   For I have sinned in uttering such prayerful reprise.
 
Forgive me 
“Great One”, clothed in your honorable disguise                                            
For I have sinned to not fall prey to your beguiles.

Details | Marguerite C. Anderson Poem

Old House

Once grandeur,  
and perched on an expansive terrain 
The humble monumental frame 
that had bounced children's laughter
from its walls 
And had displayed historical images  
Along its halls,  
Now stands an eyesore 
so silent and worn. 

I passed by once to catch a glimpse 
Of what was left of it since 
Those glorious years of my youth. 
Though the epochs have passed 
And life had long bade that old house goodbye, 
It still echoed its beautiful truths.
I smiled- awash with nostalgia 
- And was lost in my childhood forever.