Submit A Poem
Use your imagination for a poem or story. Give it a title and send it to me at (LaraOct7@aol.com)
What is the Purpose?
What is the purpose of life I ask?
To answer the question is no simple task.
When we are young, we are busy raising children, working
and enjoying the basics of life.
Some of it is joy, but some of it is also strife.
When we grow old, and our life’s work is done,
We seem to be treading water waiting on the last setting sun.
Few things bring enjoyment like they once did.
We think back to the fun we had as a kid.
Of course, we remember mostly the good times we had,
And we try not to remember the events in life that made us sad.
The mile markers come and go in our lives as we head down
the last sunset trail,
And into the shadows of death’s misty veil.
Phyllis Ann (Starbird55@msn.com)
REMINISCE WITH ME
Town criers and old lamplighters
Memories of yesteryear
Evening strolls and porch swings
Old images so clear
Magnolia trees in full array
On both sides of the street
Jasmine and wisteria
Fill the air so sweet
Bows from waist and curtsys low
From gentlemen and ladies
The names all sound old fashioned now
Like Nathaniel and Mercedes
Ahhh, these were such gentle times
And will never come again
But we can always reminisce
About those days "back when"
susi Taylor (Texaswishr@aol.com)
On an old dry sink
In an attic bedroom
Auntie kept a pitcher
With water to groom
I remember visiting
And sleeping up there
In that little room
At the top of the stair
I slept with old Teddy
The softest of bears
He safely watched over
I had no worry or care
Then in the morning
I would wash my face
From water in pitcher
That looked like a vase
The bowl underneath
Was part of matched set
Giving a place for the
Washcloth to get wet
Auntie has gone to
Heaven up high above
But I remember how
She knew to give love
On the same old dry sink
In my spare guest room
That same pitcher and bowl
Takes away any gloom
I miss that sweet aunt
With a smile on her face
But her love lives on
In my heart's special place
'Twas early friday evening, on the thirteenth of July,
When I visited the grave of an old friend, Mary Fry.
She was ninety some odd years when she left old mother earth
For the pearly gates of heaven, and her very upper berth!
I knelt down at the graveside and blessed myself in prayer,
I could feel Ol' Mary's presence while I lingered there.
Evenin' darkened into night, and I turned to take my leave
When I felt an unknown something tugging on my sleeve!
A shiver ran right through me as I tried to shake it free,
But it held on fast, though I pulled - OhLawd what could it be?
As I slowly turned my head, prepared to push and dash . . .
I spied the culprit at my side, a sapling tree, called Ash!
I hadn't seen the branches that caught my lacy sleeve
'Cause so young it was it barely had the whisper of a leaf.
Ol' Mary Fry, in her berth, I'm sure did have a laugh
As on her headstone "Keep On Smiling" was her epitaph.
Behind the library desk, she stood,
Checking out books for people to read.
A genteel woman, she did much good,
Helping less well off neighbors in need.
It was just her way to pass the day,
The salary, a pittance to her.
The townfolks would often hear her say,
“Working with the public, I prefer.”
She lived in a mansion outside town,
Surrounded by an enormous wall,
Long widowed from the wealthy Judge Brown,
Whose Rolls Royce people could still recall.
All their lives, the two lived in splendor,
Both born with silver spoons in their mouth.
Colonel Brown refused to surrender,
When Sherman marched through the burning South.
Somehow he saved the family manse,
While neighboring homes went up in flames.
Many folks cast a questioning glance,
Suspecting him of traitorous games.
On the family, there was no stain,
And she could walk with her head held high,
Leaning heavily on her wood cane,
Keeping the bookshelves as neat as pie.
Few knew she was a philanthropist,
Or how large was the Judge’s estate.
But, magnanimously, she’d insist
On paying the fines when books were late.
Watch this site for more 'Submit A Poem' pages.
In the meantime, click the links below for
more poems and stories.
The Butter Churn
Apple Tree Poems
All Boxed Up
And.......for many others, click the index image.
Graphics by Marilyn