PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Old Lady Fare, masked in wrinkles, greying hair

A bonnet to ward off the chill

She rocks a slow pace, while the lines in her face,

Show time has eroded her will

She knits by the fire, hands lacking desire

Her fingers, all brittle and sore

Bones aching, hands shaking, just waiting out time...

Till the day... the chair rocks no more'

by Barry Anderson

I think that just beyond the deepest point

Our souls can reach, 

There lies the place where 

Our children wait to incarnate,

And in the darkness, 

Actuated through voluminous walls of air,

Gravity sucks them into it's vacuum,

They enter into slimy saturation, 

And flesh and bone begins 

To imbue their being.

They permeate this budding existence 

Without defense, or knowledge,

Propelled by the force they left, 

Where they circled in space,

For thousands of Earth years.

Now a human, living love essence,

Bound to slice the charred debris

Of our sometimes too well thought out plans,

A step ahead of us they plow their way

To mold us, sometimes scold us, 

Scar and control us.

As they journey to become born, 

While seeds of this innate knowing

Burrow deep within their subconscious,

Our eyes, gazing upon the miracle of birth itself,

Project us into blissful delight at their presence,

Comforting us as we spar with the hand of mortality,

Reminding us in our deepest repression,

The space from which we came,

Taunting our moment of utter euphoria,

A subtle elusive gnawing query, 

Starved, by and through our own ignorance 

And trepidation of who we are.

So our retort to this vexatious notion 

Becomes an obsessive adoration 

Of these fleshy creations which do not even belong to us,

They are the squires of our purpose,

Like projectile bits of sawdust and splintered wood

From a carpenter's saw,

Remnants of the artisan's aspirations,

And humanity's desperation to fullfill the promise of 

A life well lived.

I used to love to watch my grandfather in his basement,

Carving fine artistry from rough edged pieces of wood,

As I rocked in the small rocking chair he made for myself,

My siblings and cousins, each taking our turns,

At the artisan's throne.

1:47 AM 6/25/2013 © 

...

Vows taken on a crisp Saturday afternoon in September,
You wore a velveteen black suit, and me and my cream colored lace,
We swirled through the park like doves in flight,
Everything was oh...so right!

That first year, you held me in the rocking chair your mother gave us,
No arms had ever given me such peace and comfort,
Your gentle kisses to my neck and ears,
Three long blissful and beautiful years before our first born.

Then the security of all we could have asked for,
The nights of laughter and after dinner rides to the custard stand,
You in your jovial disposition and me with my coy school-like charm,
And then home, to snuggle together on the couch.

The tenth year was busier after our daughter was born,
I could not have chosen a better father for our children,
But the rocking chair needed some repair,
I missed our snuggles we used to share in the days of old.

You always made a point of reminding me about how you loved those days,
I'd kid you about your extra pounds ruining the dowels under the seat,
But in our own way, the memory savored, lasted into our 25th anniversary,
Still, every few months I would beg you to fix it.

Now that the children are grown and come to visit,
I sometimes tell them how you used to hold me in that rocker,
They smile with the same tenderness back at me,
And I see your twenty year old charm in their eyes again.

One day, a few months after the funeral,
I took a seat alone in the chair when I came home,
Rickety now, the wood is dried and brittle,
I hardly can imagine those days were real.

The days are getting longer, it seems, and many times I wonder
Where you are, maybe sitting on a crescent moon, gazing at the stars,
I have gained so many beautiful memories from the life we shared,
And I still wish you'd fix this rocking chair.

10:19 PM 4/28/2013 ©