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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

Details | Marguerite C. Anderson Poem

Anne Girvan's Decree

At the heart of Marescaux Road’s maroon and gold,
Lived a timid girl whose pitted dreams longed to unfold.
An inner-city teen with a spirit that gleamed,
But in the shadows of self-doubt, her potential was concealed.
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 soothing song,
She saw through the silence and knew the girl didn't belong.
The teacher made the classroom a sanctuary, a magical space,
Where the timid found courage and fears to embrace.

Anne Girvan was her name, a mentor and guiding light
That ignited a spark and banished the night.
With patience and wisdom, Anne Girvan untied,
The knots of self-doubt that had bound the girl’s heart.
The teacher whispered, "Believe, my dear, you are strong,
Your voice is a melody, your gift to prolong."
And in the world of words, the girl found her escape,
A refuge in language, a chance to reshape.
The pen became her ally, the paper, her friend,
Thus began a journey of healing, a pain-bending bend

Through verses and prose, the girl let out her fears,
Dropped them like anchors as they dissolved in her tears.
Anne Girvan- the guide, the catalyst of change-
Empowered the girl to break through 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 and 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 for all to rejoice!

The timid Jamaican girl was finally set free,
Her metamorphosis fueled by Anne Girvan's decree.
In Kingston's inner city, where dreams dare not unfurl,
Comes a teacher and poet, changing the world.
And now she pens accolades to the one 
Who unmuted her voice- that hero unsung, 
This tale is her hymn to a teacher’s grace
Whose influence transcends time and space.
Decorated with praises among the laurels of heaven.
Her ode to Anne Girvan, posthumously given.

Details | Marguerite C. Anderson Poem

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.

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”?

Details | Marguerite C. Anderson Poem

Betrayal's Harvest

I couldn't believe the word on the streets 
It ran through every nook and cranny
and with urgent feet.
The news of a daughter's unkind heart was told.
A calculated wanton cruelty unfold.
The story began with a father's love, 
His sacred trust betrayed by greed
in ashes thrust.

Ailing in the grasp of illness' woe,
The father weakened, his spirit brought low.
Yet, in his frailty, a serpent crept,
-His own blood- a vow broken and secrets kept.
The daughter who once was a tender kin,
Insidiously wore a mask, concealing sin.
Exploiting love for selfish gain,
She danced on morals and left them slain.

As illness wrapped its cold embrace,
She stole from him in a heartless chase.
No mercy shown and no love retained,
She executed her deeds, a legacy stained.

In the court of justice, truth unveiled
The daughter's treachery, scales impaled.
A jury stern with solemn eyes,
Listened to her deceitful cries.
Her guilt laid bare, there was no room to hide,
A wicked journey she couldn't guide.
Punishment awaited, justice sought,
For a father's love, so brutally fought.

The courtroom hushed until a gavel's sound,
Echoed justice, resounding around.
The penalty pronounced with a heavy toll,
For the daughter's wicked, heartless stroll.
She paid the price for her deceit,
A sentence served, yes, a bitter feat!
The daughter faced her inner strife,
In the cold abyss of her own life.

Let this be a lesson to those who yearn
To heed the bonds that love does earn.
For when betrayal's seeds are sown,
A bitter harvest shall be known.

Details | Marguerite C. Anderson Poem

Time's Relentless Hands

Time's relentless hands cast their shadows
On a middle-aged woman in a lonely corner of her room
She drapes her shawl around her shoulders,
And there she sits covered in sheets of memories 
wherein she is held captive by the betrayal
of a lover's deceit.

Time’s relentless hands murdered her dreams
Her heart once whole, now shattered- incomplete.
A lover's promises, like whispers in the wind,
Now ashes to ashes and dust to dust, 
dissipating with every gust.
Abandoned, she stands, a slanting, silent cry,
As her dreams unravel and hopes slowly die.

Her children once stars in her twilight sky,
Time’s relentless hands made them
Now gaze with greed in each calculating eye.
Inheritance is their focus, devoid of love's embrace,
Leaving her silent and morose in heart’s wasteland.
She wonders aloud to the universe above,
Why must her suffering prolong in time’s relentless glove?
In echoes of silence, the answers blurred,
Yet, in her brokenness, she seeks the unheard.

In time’s relentless hands, her face is worn and gaunt,
Lines etched with tales of love's paradigm.
A weary soul, searching for solace's shore,
In the wreckage of dreams, she craves for something more.
Why does pain persist, a cruel demand?
In the quiet of night, she pleads for release,
A burdened heart seeking moments of peace.

But midst the ruins of time’s relentless hands, 
resilience sparks and a phoenix rises from the desolate dark.
In the mosaic of scars, she finds her grace,
Each fracture is a story etched on her face.
The universe may be silent, yet she persists,
A survivor transcending the darkest twists.

Out of the ashes, a phoenix soars,
And healing whispers, "You're worth so much more."
In time’s relentless hands, 
Amid the pain, she'll find her song,
For the middle-aged woman is resilient and strong.

Details | Marguerite C. Anderson Poem

O'er The Other Side of The Fence

I seek escape from this side of the fence where
Grassy thorns beneath my feet pierce my sole.
Scrambling, ambling, trekking to the freedom
Awaiting on the other side.
I search for pockets in my ascent
Digging trembling fingers inside 
its moulded, muddy enclosures, securing each grip
Then clawing my way up until
I grope my way over.
Lest I should fall as my nimble and bruised tendons
fail me and my blood-thorned feet derail me
Let me land with a thud o’er the other side of the fence
Rather than fall on the familiar turf where my body is forever spent
And my mind, broken and bent.

Details | Marguerite C. Anderson Poem

Vanish

She slowly fades away 
Into the air like dust 
Into the night like a fleeting dream 
Out of history like an exiled queen. 
Falling away from the shore  
With each approaching tide.  
This crisis grows bigger than femicide 
For they’ve begun to attack even the child. 
Some disappear like phantoms 
While police struggle to catch 
The heartless hoodlums. 
Who are these culprits 
in our degenerate society, 
Who steal our females  
In homage to some satanic piety?

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.

Details | Marguerite C. Anderson Poem

Letter to Bob

Dear Bob,
It has been mighty long 
That I have licked my wounds and cursed your song. 
I wish you had warned me, Bob, 
That the lying bastard came only to rob 
My shame bathed in my suppressed sobs. 
Did you not tell him, Bob 
That a man with no good intention 
Is a mere coward to awaken a woman’s affection 
Only to feed her a dose of rejection? 
And Bob, 
I bet you turned ten times already in your grave 
To witness that dirty, low-down knave! 
I don’t know why he takes up  
Sunday morning space in the pew 
Such a lying bastard has made me a miserable  shrew. 
And he- an apt description of the one 
Who wears many faces to meet the faces he meets, 
Has his fans believing he is far above
Suspicion 
But Bob, you and I know 
that lying bastard casts his face from  
The very seed he sowed. 
He came to rob and he came to kill 
That insidious lying bastard 
Will one day swallow his own pill.

Details | Marguerite C. Anderson Poem

Wolmarian Girl

On a busy Marescaux Road where  
No one cared for an injured dog, 
Where motorists do not come to a slow, 
And honking horns hammer 
As impatient traffic competes toe to toe, 
There on the asphalted heat 
The painful cry of a wounded creature 
Pierced through the peak-hour hub of the street. 
Out into the throbbing traffic 
The Wolmarian girl stepped 
Caring none except  
for that injured dog– whimpering, pleading, 
Fighting with its final breaths. 
And the honking swelled and motorists yelled. 
From their faces, I could discern 
They were void of an iota of concern. 
Above the chaos, I heard her whisper 
Gentle reassurance to the timid creature. 
The Wolmarian girl bent 
and slowly lifted her casualty 
And walked back to the sidewalk 
With ceremonious dignity.  
And I have always wished to be as brave as she 
Who defied the odds to honour her humanity.