Best Poems Written by Casha Berridge

The pensive poet contest - Constance La France

Snap crackle pop 

as i lay my ear down 
to the rim of the warm orange bowl,
tiny fireworks shoot into my ears,
like a tiny pebble 
skipping on gravel.
Little me slouching in my grandmas rustic wooden chair 

I hear birdsong and caws 
through the stained glass window, beamed in by the Sunday morning sun.

My favourite part of going to my grandparents 
was the mornings.

Grandma making sandwiches to bring to the church. 

Papa watching the history channel, sitting on his raggedy brown leather chair,
his iPad and other miscellaneous antique grandparent items 
basking on the coffee table in the living room.

 As a kid, i was never allowed to eat past the line connecting the dining room to living room.
I would sit on my bright blue booster seat with my chocolate cone dribbling down my tiny, sticky fingers. 
On the line of the living room- my papa beside me, turtle ice cream cone  in hand.

You could also find me 
on the plasticky-feeling, shiny green mat
under the kitchen sink,
while I gazed at my grandma scrubbing dishes, ice cream and saliva covering my rosy face.

My grandparents always told me to not use too much sugar
but 
obviously 
as a child 
we oblige happily to whatever comes to mind.
Put as much sugar in your cereal as you please, smear that ice cream all over your face.
In their tiny mind
there is no life long consequence of a fulfilling sugary breakfast.

Back when the world still had a dewy contrast , to us they were just penniless actions,
not yet aware of the pain
of scraping your raw knee open. 

We weren’t thinking about 
how maybe our body could change tomorrow,
because of too much sugar in our cereal.


Even if sometimes we did, 
that feeling in no way 
is put to scale
 the feeling of 
pure 
innocence,
innocence 
without 
a
consequence.
- Casha b

Copyright © Casha Berridge | Year Posted 2026