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Marguerite C. Anderson Poem
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.
Copyright © Marguerite C. Anderson | Year Posted 2024
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Marguerite C. Anderson Poem
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.
Copyright © Marguerite C. Anderson | Year Posted 2024
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Marguerite C. Anderson Poem
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”?
Copyright © Marguerite C. Anderson | Year Posted 2024
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Marguerite C. Anderson Poem
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!
Copyright © Marguerite C. Anderson | Year Posted 2024
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Marguerite C. Anderson Poem
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.
Copyright © Marguerite C. Anderson | Year Posted 2024
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Marguerite C. Anderson Poem
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
Copyright © Marguerite C. Anderson | Year Posted 2024
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Marguerite C. Anderson Poem
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.
Copyright © Marguerite C. Anderson | Year Posted 2024
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Marguerite C. Anderson Poem
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.
Copyright © Marguerite C. Anderson | Year Posted 2024
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Marguerite C. Anderson Poem
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.
Copyright © Marguerite C. Anderson | Year Posted 2024
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Marguerite C. Anderson Poem
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.
Copyright © Marguerite C. Anderson | Year Posted 2024
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