My Mom
I love my mother, oh so much.
Her gentle touch,
Did take me high,
To brush the sky.
Her thoughtful articles, there were,
So much a blur,
Too many stacks,
Written by quacks.
Her many large and tasty meals
Her heart appeals,
To friendly word,
Her laughter heard.
Ken Goree
This poem is written for my mother. It is written in the “Minute Poetry” form. You can find the explanation of the minute poem at the following link:
http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/minute.html
I wish it were better, she deserves better. I’m sure I will write more poems to her, and about her through the next year.
The whole thing seems to lack depth in describing my mother. I apologize. The form, though not easy seemed to keep steering me toward cliché phrases. The first stanza could be something almost anyone wrote about their mom.
The second stanza refers to a very sweet habit that my mom has. Whenever she sees an article in the paper that deals with nutrition, or medical maladies, she cuts it out and saves it for someone to whom she thinks it will apply. It feels nice to know that she is so often thinking of others.
The third stanza refers to the homey friendly atmosphere that surrounds her. She is an incredible cook. Like any good "Southern Lady," she will keep you at her table with her siren song and gentle laughter, sweetly urging more delectables upon you until you cannot hope to move away with any degree of abdominal comfort. Well, that Japanese guy that keeps winning all of those hot dog eating contests might be able to.
Showing posts with label gentle. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gentle. Show all posts
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Saint Paul
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint,
Memories, because of him, were wonderful,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.
To me, manners, grace and class he did acquaint,
Your presence, to all, is always delightful,
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint.
His cool consideration some have thought quaint,
For you, high honor and respect is rightful,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.
A kind sparkle to his eye, at friendly feint,
With blessings a life past and future is full,
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint.
A moment of doubt my memory shan't taint,
This, nothing new, you were always forgetful,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.
A long well-spent life his good story does paint,
Don’t worry, still my hero, be not fretful,
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.
Ken Goree
I’ll be writing a poem to Mom too, of course, but Dad got his first.
This poem is a villanelle. Since I don’t want to plagiarize by cutting and pasting the description, you can see the description at the following site:
http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/villanelle.html
I was reading Dylan Thomas’ poem “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night.” After reading it, I read the history behind it. He wrote it while his father was sick and dying. He loved his father very much and he wrote this poem for his father. I love my dad very much also, but decided to write a poem for him while he was still young and healthy enough to enjoy it.
My father has mentioned lately that he worries about getting forgetful. I thought that was a silly comment, and told him so.
“Dad,” I said, “You have always been forgetful. The only difference is, now you are worrying about it.”
Don’t get me wrong, my dad is brilliant. He just has that absent minded professor thing kick –in occasionally. It is a genetic disposition. Those that know me can attest to it. I just have a lot less of “The Professor” in me, and a whole lot more ADD.
My dad is great man. I am sure he is a saint. I have interviewed many relatives and childhood friends of his. Not a single one could produce any dirt on the man. I even got several a bit tipsy in the attempt to glean a bit of information. No luck, my dad was always the guy that got his friends out of trouble. I even hit up a great aunt in the late stages of dementia. It started off looking like I had my way in … she thought I was my dad!
“Hey Gertrude, remember that time when I was a kid and got in really big trouble.”
“Oh, Paul,” she said a twinkle of rational thought and shrewdness flickering across her face, “You never did anything wrong in your whole life.”
Dang, the meds would have to kick-in, right then.
There is more to be said about Dear Old Dad, but enough for now.
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint,
Memories, because of him, were wonderful,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.
To me, manners, grace and class he did acquaint,
Your presence, to all, is always delightful,
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint.
His cool consideration some have thought quaint,
For you, high honor and respect is rightful,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.
A kind sparkle to his eye, at friendly feint,
With blessings a life past and future is full,
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint.
A moment of doubt my memory shan't taint,
This, nothing new, you were always forgetful,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.
A long well-spent life his good story does paint,
Don’t worry, still my hero, be not fretful,
A gentle man of calm and quiet restraint,
I’ve always walked in the shadow of a saint.
Ken Goree
I’ll be writing a poem to Mom too, of course, but Dad got his first.
This poem is a villanelle. Since I don’t want to plagiarize by cutting and pasting the description, you can see the description at the following site:
http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/villanelle.html
I was reading Dylan Thomas’ poem “Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night.” After reading it, I read the history behind it. He wrote it while his father was sick and dying. He loved his father very much and he wrote this poem for his father. I love my dad very much also, but decided to write a poem for him while he was still young and healthy enough to enjoy it.
My father has mentioned lately that he worries about getting forgetful. I thought that was a silly comment, and told him so.
“Dad,” I said, “You have always been forgetful. The only difference is, now you are worrying about it.”
Don’t get me wrong, my dad is brilliant. He just has that absent minded professor thing kick –in occasionally. It is a genetic disposition. Those that know me can attest to it. I just have a lot less of “The Professor” in me, and a whole lot more ADD.
My dad is great man. I am sure he is a saint. I have interviewed many relatives and childhood friends of his. Not a single one could produce any dirt on the man. I even got several a bit tipsy in the attempt to glean a bit of information. No luck, my dad was always the guy that got his friends out of trouble. I even hit up a great aunt in the late stages of dementia. It started off looking like I had my way in … she thought I was my dad!
“Hey Gertrude, remember that time when I was a kid and got in really big trouble.”
“Oh, Paul,” she said a twinkle of rational thought and shrewdness flickering across her face, “You never did anything wrong in your whole life.”
Dang, the meds would have to kick-in, right then.
There is more to be said about Dear Old Dad, but enough for now.
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