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Rhonda Clapper Poem
I smoke and I choke has my
lungs fill up with smoke.
Yes, it is my addiction
a tobacco confliction.
I smoke to ease my pain
and stress to realize
I am not at my best.
Only to realize I made a mistake.
Life is at a balance,
a scale that can't be replaced.
My lungs are turning black
filled with tar and nicotine.
My oxygen levels dropped
and my lips are turning blue.
The smell of tabacco reeks
on my body and tares at my soul
Only to be told I won't be
able to grow old.
My lungs have weakened and my
heart has taken a toll.
How do I tell my children/
I won't be there to give them hugs
and advice.
Except one that took my life!
DON'T SMOKE!
Copyright © Rhonda Clapper | Year Posted 2007
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Rhonda Clapper Poem
I am a bloom of a different color
blowing in the wind trying to mend,
a broken stem, that sent me twirling
through the wind.
I am a bright red flower that showers
my love within.
I live on a stem of a different color
that makes me stand out from others.
I am a bright red flower that bleeds
for someone to admire me and want my
beauty within.
I am a bloom of a different color and
there is no other like me.
I stand alone on a broken stem with a
color that stands with no other with
my defects and special beauty within.
So please admire me for being different
and there is no other like me!
I will soon fall off and die so please
admire me before the end!
Copyright © Rhonda Clapper | Year Posted 2007
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Rhonda Clapper Poem
The old rustic cabin by the lake
is made with wood for goodness sake.
Each morning I see the old rustic boat
in the dock ready to float.
There are fish to be caught
I take the old boat out
hopefully to catch mighty trout.
The old rustic boat moves with grace
knowing it needs a new face.
But for God sake it has a good pace.
My old rustic body moves with grace,
no worrying if someday
my memory will be erased.
My rustic old cabin will disappear one day.
My old rustic boat will no longer float.
My rustic old body will turn into ashes and dust.
My rustic old soul will certainly grow
and be very, very old
to see the seeds grow that I have sown.
Copyright © Rhonda Clapper | Year Posted 2007
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Rhonda Clapper Poem
The rugged hills I look upon seem so deserted.
Yet the whispering wind blows
through those hills of singing
a song of yesterday's wrongs.
The rugged hills I will always remember.
Their beautiful shapes and the
eerie sounds of the wind.
That bends through those hills
with the songs of everything
that went wrong.
I will climb up those winding trails
to the top.
I will see my entire destiny
down below and I will perch on top
of those hills, to listen to the
wind songs of yesterday's blues.
That took the wrong bend that sends
those winds to the sounds of the
eerie cries of why people will die!
Because of their lies and deceit
that makes them feel incomplete to
meet those rugged hills of
yesterday's blues!
Copyright © Rhonda Clapper | Year Posted 2007
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