A Bucket's Life

There resides in the hall,
An old wooden bucket
Very old, very old.

On the Georgia ocean,
A fishermanís shape
Silhouetted in the dawn.

The old wooden bucket
Held frightened minnows,
Bait for his poles.

When his life had fished enough,
His child remembered
The old wooden bucket.

Cleaned and bleached it
Pure as she as a bride
She placed sugar inside.

From it scooped its sweetness
For many a loving pie
And treats for her family.

She was blind, could no longer see,
The old wooden bucket
Found another birth,

Cleaned and varnished,
It held scraps and scissors,
For her daughterís quilting colors.

Her daughter now herself gone,
Has passed its loving service down,
That dear old wooden bucket,

In the hallway by a telephone,
A ladder back chair,
Its duty now to let a phone book rest.

The old wooden bucket, my own.

By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)


Easter Morn

High on a Holland hill,
Sunrise services choraling,
Sleepy children play among tulips,
With New Birth eggs and baskets.
One little one nodded off,
And as the choir stopped its choraling,
Toddled off to find his Mum,
Among tulips and left his basket.
When coming back tomorrow,
The tulips will be spread and open,
A toddler will find his rabbit and eggs,
Among fullness heíll find his basket.

By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)


Up in the Clouds

Among the clouds
Feet never on the ground,
Missing points, forgetting things,
Always stumbliní round.

Itís kind of fun up in the air,
Looking for keys, fighting a sneeze,
With no rain coat,
Floating around, unprepared.

Getting lost on the road
Fun on a different path to the store,
At least seeing new scenery,
Oh, yes, did I say that before?

Did I buy that on my card or check,
The bank is wrong, I know,
Well, thatís what youíd expect,
From child tellers, not even grown.

Up here in the clouds I wear
One shoe of brown, one of black,
Well, donít ask me to explain,
I was worried, cut me some slack.

Forgive the snarls in my hair
I once wore in a pony tail,
A free spirit up in the clouds,
Floating, I can never fail.

By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)


Twilight Falling

Dappled birds in dappled feathers,
Sol descending on gold and diamonds,
Twilight arrives on an eve of summer.
Duck silhouettes gliding,
Red boat triangles, horizon breaking.
Soon with purple night creeping,
Feathers will meet the limbs.
Godís blanket upon the earth
Will lull all living
To sweet rest

(But not the creatures of the purple.)

By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)


His Old Hands

Grandpaís hands, so gnarled,
Calloused, strong
Comfortable with a hammer,
And tender on my own.

Old homes he built
May live on still,
Though nothing will,
Live so long,

As the love in those
Old carpenter hands,
So tender on my own.

By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)




The Maine Moose ( 8 Authors )

The Hands of a Man ( 11 Authors )

A Collection of Poems by Sharon

The Raincoat Cop

A Rick Mack Collection

Little Things ( 12 Authors )

Ladies of The Fence

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