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Rhoda Tripp Poem
She is He's
a woman a fine man
with a pretty within his big
face and an head, he has a
attitude of simple plan.
purity To woo her
and and to
grace. soothe
She has strong shoulders, her as much as
where you can rest your head he can. He gives
between two succulent boulders. from his heart as he
She has wit and charm. With such has from the very
grace she is surely armed. start. It's all in his
Your heart she will take. nature to reach out
But she'll be your best mis- his hand and take her.
take. Her hips sway as you feel But somehow as you
your heart carried away. have seen, there's much
In no time at all you will standing in between. He knows
feel her heat from your he must alter his approach, gets
head to your feet. her a golden broach.
When you're amid His legs start to
fleshy thighs, quiver as her
you'll emit thighs
sexy sighs make him
but you shiver.
will see Yes she
what they yearns
all do see, him so,
a girl that but he
is so very might
womanly. A woman in never
three letter high stilletto. know.
t t because
o o she has to go.
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Contest: Something Concrete
Hosted by: Maureen McGreavy
Written 12/21/17
Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2017
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Rhoda Tripp Poem
In the back of my closet,
high upon the shelf,
there sits an old love letter
that I keep to myself.
Its pages are crumpled,
the edges a tad bit torn.
I can recite his words by memory,
although the writings worn.
He tells of his undying love,
and how we were meant to be.
Our vows whispered at the church,
they were our fantasy.
Like all things, neither tried nor true,
we had to be apart.
A victim of the ages,
he broke my sixth grade heart.
Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2017
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Rhoda Tripp Poem
You’re all in charge of authoring a story
Of love and humor, suspense and glory
You’re writing starts with your very first thought
And doesn’t end til your life is naught.
Know, My Dears, these books; your own
There are no cowriters; authors unknown
Flip those pages and make your quills dance
Miss no opportunities, take a chance
If somewhere in those thick tomes of yours
You have questions “whys and what fors?”
Do not ponder and then overthink
For there’s no such thing as permanent ink
There will be some tearstained pages
Most likely in your middle ages
There will be words you’d like to forget
Or phrases in which you may regret
But when it reaches the golden stage
The best of the story in a later page
Grab a pencil and throw some sparks
And don’t be afraid of eraser marks
Then once it’s written and you do find
There was a time of hurt when life’s unkind
Go ahead and toss out awful chapters
Because Momma loves Happily Ever Afters
Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2018
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Rhoda Tripp Poem
Sunset until daybreak
Mournful tears disperse
Grieving widow’s heartache
Rhyming woeful verse
Pencil topper lifted
Graphite scribbled prose
Candle holder shifted
Table's withered rose
Somewhere marvel science
Infant newly born
Crying pierces silence
Breaching early mourn
Joyful teardrops glisten
Mother’s newfound joy
Widow cannot listen
Whispers, “It’s a boy.”
Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2018
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Rhoda Tripp Poem
Sunlight kissed the horizon; our young age,
leaving dots and dashes upon our crisp page.
Wild flower and Wonders, we both did grow;
watching seasons change from spring to snow.
Sunlight above and the noon overhead;
teenage verbiage and words left unsaid.
Wild flower and Wonders were left behind.
Sometimes snowflakes choose simple design.
Sunlight at five and silhouettes emerge;
and words and meanings work to converge.
Wild flower and Wonders, we slip into sleuth.
Autumn overshadows the losses of youth.
Sunlight gives way to the Wonders of moon.
Wild flower whispers leave me longing for you.
Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2018
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Rhoda Tripp Poem
Are there robins hopping my frozen ground?
Sound of widowers voices all around.
Chilled to the bone, I make nary a sound.
My suit and tie are not keeping me warm.
Icy northern winds blowing in a storm,
I'm not feeling myself, out of the norm.
I feel my eyelids, the icicles form.
In the distance I hear taps being played.
Silent sobs emitted, my nerves are frayed.
Even in knee deep snow they knelt and prayed.
But there's nobody home, I am afraid.
I am not here, only my thoughts remain.
Taps is finished, such a solemn refrain.
Maybe it's me, am I going insane?
One mirror glance and I'd suffer disdain.
Someone has stolen my salt-pepper locks.
Moths have digested my Christmas wool socks.
Someday I will think outside of this box.
Wake me up if opportunity knocks.
Are there robins hopping my frozen ground?
Written 12/23/2017
Contest: Rhyme Time III
Host: Laura Loo
Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2017
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Rhoda Tripp Poem
Are we sacred souls
who shed our flimsy flesh
like slimy serpents
shed their skin?
Be observant,
but show no chagrin,
for in learning life’s lessons
we lessen our scars in the next.
It’s the game master’s pretext,
yet a disaster for those
who guard their granite heart
as if, by giving love away,
they might have less.
Perhaps it is best,
to toss love about in tenfold,
for souls only glimmer,
when they reflect light.
But it is dark inside now.
So…alas …
Goodnight.
Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2019
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Rhoda Tripp Poem
They're treasures to me, so I don't mind.
My Aunt Ellie in tow, right behind.
I climb the ladder, lift wooden door.
There are piles of stuff strewn the floor.
She recites the story about Aunt Jean.
How she cursed her antique sewing machine.
Under material, maybe old drapes?
My cousin's old stereo, played 8 track tapes.
There's a carpet remnant, rolls of paper.
Aunt Ellie says the 70s, I think much later.
A box of dishes, perhaps wedding gift?
Not used Thanksgiving, too heavy to lift.
A pile of records, Walt Whitman Victrola
A photo of a young man on Venice gondola.
It was where my uncle asked Ellie to marry.
Damn, I sure miss my late Uncle Harry.
I relish the memories in this dusty loft.
Didn't realize Uncle Harry liked to golf.
Aunt Ellie glances around, teardrops flow.
All she wanted were her Christmas bows.
11/26/2017
Written for Eve Roper
Photostory Contest
Took a 2nd place win.
Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2017
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Rhoda Tripp Poem
Santa, I have an important request.
Please don't embarrass me with ho ho hos.
If you'd looked at my face you might have guessed.
I'm serious about fixing my nose.
I can sense you are stifling your laughter.
Your bowl full of jello, nicely restrained.
Proboscis happily ever after,
Would not appear that it's been candy caned.
Hire a team of rhinoplasty surgeons.
I create damaging winds with this thing.
Like the limb of an oak tree it burgeons.
Just yesterday a blue jay perched to sing.
Hurry, Dear Santa, its growth won't abate.
Go talk to Rudolph, as he can relate.
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There may be some problems I must address.
Lies emitted from hole under my snout.
Pains me Santa, I readily confess.
Please be patient as I utter these out.
I lied to Sonya about her red dress.
Made her butt dwarf a Volkswagen fender.
I lied to the postman, my home address.
Marked the water bill "Return To Sender".
I fibbed a little to co-worker, Sue.
Her peanut butter cookies smelled like feet.
But tell me, what the heck was I to do?
I wrapped and hid it in a slice of meat.
Santa, I am a serial liar.
Instead of my pants, set my nose on fire.
***********************************
I'll do better if button nose gifted.
I promise to be more a straight shooter.
A smaller nose, my spirits be lifted.
Seriously, would you want this hooter?
The fibs I told did no permanent harm,
But if you would like I can change all that.
Who "nose"? I may lose my personal charm.
If I tell my friend Sonya she is fat.
If you leave money in an envelope,
I'll pay the water bill before it's due.
I can rub Sue's cookies with fragrant soap.
For a nose job, I will eat one or two.
Santa, I know you smell something is rot.
But I am here to assure you, it's snot.
Written 12/12/2017
"From My Lips to Santa's Ears"
Contest
Hosted by Phillip Garcia
Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2017
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Rhoda Tripp Poem
I have so many little quirks that I don’t know where to start
Please try not to judge me as I bare my fragile heart
First there is my coffee cup, no other can replace
An antique made by Fire King, this quirk a damn disgrace
I dropped it on my driveway and it broke into a million shards
Trying to find another one really was quite hard
Without my favorite coffee cup my morning really sucks
An antique dealer an hour away charged me fifteen bucks!
Then there’s the issue of my purse; it’s rode a plane I have not
I’ve left it laying in motel rooms; the single thing that I forgot
It’s also spent time on sidewalks, long after I have gone
It’s ridden the roof of my car and was found on my neighbor’s lawn
One thing good about this quirk, my purse returns intact
Gives me faith in humanity and that’s just a simple fact
And please don’t get me started, the quirk with my long hair
I twirl it with my fingers and I’d be lost if it wasn’t there!
I also stop the microwave with a second left on the clock
I’m afraid if I hear it beep, I’ll go into mental shock.
Then there is this thing with ants; I love to sit in sandy loam
I can while away the hours watching them build a home
There are many oddities with my food and the meal that I just ate
I must eat my items separate, so I use a divided plate
And damn those raviolis; I have to know just what’s inside
Painstakingly peel each one apart, so the meat it cannot hide.
I have to straighten hung picture frames and items on a shelf
If I cannot make them just so, I want to hang myself
I’ve given up orange slice candies, because there is no way to do it
Unsuccessful at melting one in my mouth, so finally I’ve said “Screw it.”
Now that I have bared my soul and admitted all my quirks
Can we still be best of friends, if not, an acquaintance works.
Written February 6, 2018
Contest: Quirks
Hosted by Madison Demetros
Copyright © Rhoda Tripp | Year Posted 2018
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