Still Invoking the Protector of Angels
With your newspaper folded
And set aside,
It was your last night of reading
And trying to live your life as normal.
Later that night,
You would fall twice to the floor
Trying to make it to a bedside commode,
And I knew you wouldn't leave your bed again.
After that, you lived a few more days
Uncomfortably in your bed,
Eating and drinking very little,
Gazing upward and to the wall,
Most certainly seeing angels.
On your last full day on earth,
A nurse-aide came to the house
To give you a bedside bath and it was like the lady
Who anointed Jesus with perfume for his burial;
She was very gentle and kind but there was a tear in your eye.
Aunt Maxine arrived, a planned visit,
To see her sister, your wife, after a long absence
Caused by distance and age;
This alone was sad with so much of mom already gone
With the trial of fire she's endured with her Parkinson's disease.
At 11: 00 P.M. that night,
Everyone went to bed;
I gave you medicine mixed in pudding
After telling you I had pudding for you to try.
You swallowed your pudding and told me it wasn't bad.
Even in these last few hours you had sweetness for others
But nothing left for yourself.
I woke up at 1: 30A.M.
And you were breathing heavily and strained
With your oxygen off; you were rocking and saying no
Aunt Maxine woke as well.
I reconnected your oxygen and called a nurse
To reevaluate you for pain.
The nurse arrived about an hour later
And prepared ativan and morphine
Which she gave you;
The nurse didn't seem to think you were in great pain
But the way you were holding onto your bed rail and rocking and saying no
Made me sick to my heart that you were.
After the nurse left and aunt Maxine went back to bed,
I kissed your forehead and told you, you were a good boy;
So characteristic of your humble sweetness,
You merely replied, "I hope so."
I then lied down on the floor near your bed
And prayed to Jesus that your journey would not be long
And with terrible pain.
I somehow fell asleep in my sadness and fear
And with your oxygen machine at my one side
And mom's monitor on the other.
At 7: 20 A.M. I heard Aunt Maxine with Mom,
I think Aunt Maxine called for me to come get mom.
I rose from the floor
And I didn't hear you struggling;
I immediately went to your bed;
Your oxygen was off again,
Your chest was calm and still
But your hand remained clutching the bed rail.
I'm certain, there were times
In the last nearly fifty years
When I was a burden to you, sweet man,
But you were definitely
Not a burden to me
In the last two and a half.
All I want to do is talk with you again
About music or cars or politics or the weather;
I merely desire to see you sitting at the kitchen table
Or setting your newspaper down to make your way to the porch.
I'll try to hold onto this love for as long as I can, dear friend.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
At My Aunt's Unveiling
AT MY AUNT’S UNVEILING
At my aunt’s unveiling
There were five of us
Only five
One was a woman
A friend of hers
Not the closest one
But someone who knew her
And wanted to be a friend.
Thousands of people had known my aunt
Hundreds had worked with or for her
She was born into a large family
But all of them were gone
Or out of it.
My sister and I were the relatives
My aunt had been very generous to us
And difficult for my sister
Who cared for her.
I had only been a taker all the years.
My aunt worked so hard for so many years
And she was ‘somebody’ in her world
There were five of us there
And the ceremony short
No minyan.
There was no sign of my aunt’s smile
Or her nervous energy or her superabundant love
‘Moll ‘as my mother called her
was not there.
I see her so clearly in my mind now
‘What does it all mean? ’ my father would ask my mother
after reading of the death of another person they knew
‘What does it all mean’
When my sister and I go
The memory of my aunt
Will be gone forever.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Night Nurse
Tell her try her best just to make it quick
Woman tend to the sick
Because there must be something she can do
This heart is broken in two
Tell her its a case of emergency
Theres a patient by the name of mickey
Night nurse
Only you alone can quench this here thirst
My night nurse oh god
Oh the pain is getting worse
I dont want to see no doc
I need attendance from my nurse around the clock
Because theres no prescription for me
Shes the one the only remedy
My night nurse
Only you alone can quench this here thirst
My night nurse
Oh the pain is getting worse
Im hurt my love
I dont want to see no doc
I need attendance from my nurse around the clock
Because there s no prescription for me
Shes the one the only remedy
Night nurse
Only you alone can quench this here thirst
My night nurse
Oh the pain is getting worse
Im hurt my love
And Im sure no no doctor got a cure
My night nurse
My night nurse
My night nurse
song performed by by Simply Red
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Pain I Forgot
It all started with my man and i sitting at the hospital waiting for blood test results to see what was happening to me
suddenly after hours of waiting the doctor came in and said congratulations your pregnant
months went by i still think of him as my most beautiful surprise
some days were hard others were easy most flew by
so im 3 days past my due date
been in back labor for 5 days
it hurts and its crazy
woke up to contractions at 11: 00
went to the hospital they said your 2 cm dilated
and we know your contractions are 4 mins appart
so go home try to walk as much as you can
walked for a half hour around the house contractions got 2 mins appart
they took me bk i was 4 an a half cm i said look just give me the epadural
they came back a half hour later my aunt kept saying sandy
blow out hunters birthday candles
they broke my water an gave me the epadural finally said ok its time to push
half way through the called in an expert
sandy dont panic but hes face up
now your gunna feel pressure just dont push
it wasnt pressure it was pain
i wanted to cry cause they had to turn him
next thing i know they say
sandy we have an expert here hes stuck your to small so we have to use the vaccume
i wanted to cry my aunt saw the tears in my eyes
the dad had to run out befor he fainted
my aunt held my hand cut the cord
then the pain was over,
they handed me my baby boy and i started to cry looked up at my aunt and said hes so beautiful as my bf walked in saw me holding hunter and we both cried and i forgot the pain
no ever time i look at him i can say i never wanna go through that again
but he is worth everything everyday
poem by Sandy Vanity
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Maxine
Some say that were reckless
They say were much too young
Tell us to stop before weve begun
Weve got to hold out till graduation
Try to hang on maxine
While the world is sleeping
We meet at lincoln mall
Talk about life the meaning of it all
Try to make sense of the suburban sprawl
Try to hang on maxine
Mexico city is like another world
Nice this year they say
Youll be my senorita
In jeans and pearls
But first lets get off this highway
Well move up to manhattan
And fill the place with friends
Drive to the coast and drive right back again
One day well wake up, make love but til then
Try to hang on maxine
song performed by by Steely Dan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Aunt Jess
Our 'Aunt' Jess died just days ago; her partner phoned last night;
the funeral was private, perhaps for reasons which
we now might guess; a village can be peaceful,
but that's no guarantee they'll be accepted -
those too full of life to be discreet.
So, rest in peace, we say and mean;
most of us, thank God, not knowing un-peace in
its most extreme;
and now we'll never know the story which she only partly told
and which I could not bear to probe,
that night when she and I, then younger, talked about
that topic which some tiptoe gingerly around,
some leave unsaid. And why, I asked,
did someone tell me that she'd changed her name
eight times when still a child?
Some live lives so livid red
that perhaps they're best not told; or if they are,
then carefully. In '44, towards the end of 'Hitler's war',
great bands of Jews from Eastern Europe,
from the camps, or outhouses of village farms,
cellars, sewers, God knows where, set out together from the East
ahead of those advancing Russian tanks,
and through the very heart - if that's the word -
of Germany; by night; and gathering on route
just like some ragged snowball, groups of the unidentified
and paperless; but soon too many souls there
not to draw a sentry's eye. Of that exhausted day
in Christian church when only she survived - and why -
you'd not believe, and I'll not tell.
So she, long orphaned, finally arrived,
and though few knew it, became a live memorial
to the eight families who, over the years,
had shielded her 'our child'. Destined, it seems, to live;
as lively aunt to child as anyone could wish.
And when I'd heard from others close,
and gently guessed, more from her silences,
just what she'd suffered 'at the hands of men' -
so choice a phrase - or how survived,
I could not be surprised she chose to live
at ease with lover of her kind.. Aunt Jess,
should I be sorry that I didn't ask you more?
I did not like to pry; and you
so needed to get on with life.
So yes, Aunt Jess:
please rest in peace.
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Aunt Tabitha
THE YOUNG GIRL'S POEM
WHATEVER I do, and whatever I say,
Aunt Tabitha tells me that is n't the way;
When she was a girl (forty summers ago)
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.
Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice!
But I like my own way, and I find it so nice
And besides, I forget half the things I am told;
But they all will come back to me--when I am old.
If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt,
He may chance to look in as I chance to look out;
She would never endure an impertinent stare,--
It is horrid, she says, and I must n't sit there.
A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own,
But it is n't quite safe to be walking alone;
So I take a lad's arm,--just for safety, you know,--
But Aunt Tabitha tells me they did n't do so.
How wicked we are, and how good they were then!
They kept at arm's length those detestable men;
What an era of virtue she lived in!--But stay--
Were the men all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day?
If the men were so wicked, I 'll ask my papa
How he dared to propose to my darling mamma;
Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! Who knows?
And what shall I say, if a wretch should propose?
I am thinking if Aunt knew so little of sin,
What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been!
And her grand-aunt--it scares me--how shockingly sad
That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!
A martyr will save us, and nothing else can;
Let me perish--to rescue some wretched young man!
Though when to the altar a victim I go,
Aunt Tabitha 'll tell me she never did so.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Aunt Jane
When Aunt Jane died we hunted round,
And money everywhere we found.
How much I do not care to say,
But no death duties will we pay,
And Aunt Jane will be well content
We bilked the bloody Government.
While others spent she loved to save,
But couldn't take it to her grave.
While others save we love to spend;
She hated us but in the end
Because she left no Testament
To us all her possessions went.
That is to say they did not find
A lawyer's Will of any kind.
Yet there was one in her own hand,
A Home for Ailing Cats she planned.
Well, you can understand my ire:
Promptly I put it in the fire.
In misery she chose to die,
Yet we will make her money fly.
And as we mourn for poor Aunt Jane
The thought alleviates our pain:
Perhaps her savings in the end
Gave her more joy than we who spend.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Hiram Helsel
Air -- "Three Grains of Corn"
Once was a boy, age fifteen years,
Hiram Helsel was his name,
And he was sick two years or so;
He has left this world of pain;
His friends they miss this lovely boy,
That was patient, kind and brave.
He left them all for him to mourn --
He is sleeping in his grave.
He was a small boy of his age,
When he was five years or so
Was shocked by lightning while to play
And it caused him not to grow,
He was called little Hi. Helsel
By all friends that knew him well --
His life was sad, as you shall hear,
And the truth to you I'll tell.
His parents parted when he was small,
And both are married again.
How sad it was for them to meet
And view his last remains.
He was living with his father then,
As many a friend can tell;
'Tis said his father's second wife
That she did not use him well.
Just before little Hiram died --
His uncle and aunt were there --
He kissed them both -- bid them farewell,
They left him with a prayer.
Now he is gone, Oh! let him rest;
His soul has found a haven,
For grief and woe ne'er enters there,
In that place called heaven.
poem by Julia A Moore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Old Aunt Mary's
Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine,
In those old days of the lost sunshine
Of youth-- when the Saturday's chores were through,
And the 'Sunday's wood' in the kitchen too,
And we went visiting, 'me and you,'
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?
It all comes back so clear to-day!
Though I am as bald as you are gray--
Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane,
We patter along in the dust again,
As light as the tips of the drops of the rain,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
We cross the pasture, and through the wood
Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood,
Where the hammering 'red-heads' hopped awry,
And the buzzard 'raised' in the 'clearing' sky
And lolled and circled, as we went by
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
And then in the dust of the road again;
And the teams we met, and the countrymen;
And the long highway, with sunshine spread
As thick as butter on country bread,
Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
Why, I see her now in the open door,
Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er
The clapboard roof--! And her face-- ah, me!
Wasn't it good for a boy to see--
And wasn't it good for a boy to be
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?
The jelly-- the Jam and the marmalade,
And the cherry and quince 'preserves'' she made!
And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear,
With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare--!
And the more we ate was the more to spare,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
And the old spring-house in the cool green gloom
Of the willow-trees--, and the cooler room
Where the swinging-shelves and the crocks were kept--
Where the cream in a golden languor slept
While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept--
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
And O my brother, so far away,
This is to tell you she waits to-day
To welcome us--: Aunt Mary fell
Asleep this morning, whispering-- 'Tell
The boys to come!' And all is well
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I don't think it works to just be mad at them - Maxine Waters out ranting and kicking down the doors. It would be so easy to dismiss you and marginalize you.
quote by Maxine Waters
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Matilda Who told Lies, and was Burned to Death
Matilda told such Dreadful Lies,
It made one Gasp and Stretch one's Eyes;
Her Aunt, who, from her Earliest Youth,
Had kept a Strict Regard for Truth,
Attempted to Believe Matilda:
The effort very nearly killed her,
And would have done so, had not She
Discovered this Infirmity.
For once, towards the Close of Day,
Matilda, growing tired of play,
And finding she was left alone,
Went tiptoe to the Telephone
And summoned the Immediate Aid
Of London's Noble Fire-Brigade.
Within an hour the Gallant Band
Were pouring in on every hand,
From Putney, Hackney Downs, and Bow.
With Courage high and Hearts a-glow,
They galloped, roaring through the Town,
'Matilda's House is Burning Down!'
Inspired by British Cheers and Loud
Proceeding from the Frenzied Crowd,
They ran their ladders through a score
Of windows on the Ball Room Floor;
And took Peculiar Pains to Souse
The Pictures up and down the House,
Until Matilda's Aunt succeeded
In showing them they were not needed;
And even then she had to pay
To get the Men to go away,
It happened that a few Weeks later
Her Aunt was off to the Theatre
To see that Interesting Play
The Second Mrs. Tanqueray.
She had refused to take her Niece
To hear this Entertaining Piece:
A Deprivation Just and Wise
To Punish her for Telling Lies.
That Night a Fire did break out--
You should have heard Matilda Shout!
You should have heard her Scream and Bawl,
And throw the window up and call
To People passing in the Street--
(The rapidly increasing Heat
Encouraging her to obtain
Their confidnce) -- but all in vain!
For every time she shouted 'Fire!'
They only answered 'Little Liar!'
And therefore when her Aunt returned,
Matilda, and the House, were Burned.
poem by Hilaire Belloc
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Atlantic City
On a bus I did ride,
to the NJ Seaside.
Ten years earlier I was also there,
with my aunts with golden curly white hair.
That’s when Trump made a splash,
offering old lady a lot of cash.
Madonna was on her Blonde Ambition tour,
dominating all of the world.
Now Great Aunt Mary and Aunt Joanie,
did go with me,
to Trump’s casino in Atlantic City.
Gambling nickels was their bet,
I did not gamble-had to pay the rent.
Tiny little red notebook I did buy,
writing stories by oceanside.
Writing on trains and subways too,
all stories still there, there’s quite a few.
Now in 2000 I when I went there again
visited Long Island to see my friends.
Went to Javits Convention Ctr in NYC
saw licensed characters who were cute and silly.
Yes this was the year I missed my plane,
Year before Twin Towers fell in sadness and pain.
Would visit NYC again and again,
everything has really changed.
The National September 11 Memorial & Museum
will open up this year,
residents will remember friends so dear.
Now my Great Aunt passed away,
will have to visit the boardwalk once again.
poem by Christina Sunrise
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In the Waiting Room
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited and read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their breasts were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain
--Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance
--I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging breasts
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How I didn't know any
word for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Atlantic City
On a bus I did ride,
to the NJ Seaside.
Ten years earlier I was also there,
with my aunts with golden curly white hair.
That's when Trump made a splash,
offering old lady a lot of cash.
Madonna was on her Blonde Ambition tour,
dominating all of the world.
Now Great Aunt Mary and Aunt Joanie,
did go with me,
to Trump's casino in Atlantic City.
Gambling nickels was their bet,
I did not gamble-had to pay the rent.
Tiny little red notebook I did buy,
writing stories by oceanside.
Writing on trains and subways too,
all stories still there, there's quite a few.
Now in 2000 I when I went there again
visited Long Island to see my friends.
Went to Javits Convention Ctr in NYC
saw licensed characters who were cute and silly.
Yes this was the year I missed my plane,
Year before Twin Towers fell in sadness and pain.
Would visit NYC again and again,
everything has really changed.
The National September 11 Memorial & Museum
will open up this year,
residents will remember friends so dear.
Now my Great Aunt passed away,
will have to visit the boardwalk once again.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on May 23,2011
poem by Suzae Chevalier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Widows
My mother's playing cards with my aunt,
Spite and Malice, the family pastime, the game
my grandmother taught all her daughters.
Midsummer: too hot to go out.
Today, my aunt's ahead; she's getting the good cards.
My mother's dragging, having trouble with her concentration.
She can't get used to her own bed this summer.
She had no trouble last summer,
getting used to the floor. She learned to sleep there
to be near my father.
He was dying; he got a special bed.
My aunt doesn't give an inch, doesn't make
allowance for my mother's weariness.
It's how they were raised: you show respect by fighting.
To let up insults the opponent.
Each player has one pile to the left, five cards in the hand.
It's good to stay inside on days like this,
to stay where it's cool.
And this is better than other games, better than solitaire.
My grandmother thought ahead; she prepared her daughters.
They have cards; they have each other.
They don't need any more companionship.
All afternoon the game goes on but the sun doesn't move.
It just keeps beating down, turning the grass yellow.
That's how it must seem to my mother.
And then, suddenly, something is over.
My aunt's been at it longer; maybe that's why she's playing better.
Her cards evaporate: that's what you want, that's the object: in the end,
the one who has nothing wins.
poem by Louise Gluck
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Retracing A Happening
Retracing a happening
Afternoon at the big hospital, far from home
I sat on my bed wearing a new pajama;
tomorrow, the surgery. From my window I could
see the zoo and cable cars going overhead so
punters could admire animals from above; but
think if a car fell into the tiger enclosure.
I had a packet of fags in the bedside drawer,
thought of sneaking into the loo, but someone
had removed the packet and lighter too.
I was in a strange mood, like I had hypnotized
myself and not me who sat on the bed like a lamb
that knows nothing of the morrow.
A brisk nurse came gave me a pill and a glass of
water, when I awoke my throat was sore, but
they wouldn´t give me water and I hated those
who had done this to me.
Three days later, a day in May, they let me go.
Dressed in shorts, open necked shirt I took a taxi to
the bus terminal. Driver helped me out of the car,
and I made slow progress up some steps to the ticket
office. A woman came helped me to find the right bus
and she carried my bag. Must have fallen asleep when
I woke up the bus had arrived to my home town and
took a taxi to the local hospital where the trek began;
my car was there but I could not drive it, chest too sore
and I worried about the stitches. A neighbour looked
after my dog feed and let her into the house at night.
The dog knew I was near so I took another taxi home.
glad to see me, she knew I was ill and didn´t jump up
and she slept in the doorway of the bedroom making
sure that no harm came to me.
poem by Oskar Hansen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Do Not Resuscitate
Saturated in morphine
breathing like a hurt animal
maybe somewhere deep down
at the bottom of the mineshaft
a little light was flickering.
We spoke to her, sometimes loudly,
We held her hand and felt its warmth
We stroked her hair.
We expected the end in hours or a day,
More morphine and more wild animal rasping
on into the morning and the next morning.
Work days are missed, meetings postponed,
return flights canceled, everyone thinking
please hurry up, and feeling guilty for it,
asking the doctor how long now, and
how could her oxygen level be going back up.
More morphine and more animal breathing.
Just as she lived her life
she would die on her own terms, by God,
and screw us and our goddam schedules.
Sitting at her bedside, I realized
that someone who could be so infuriating in life
was now infuriating us with her death.
My sister looked over and wondered
what I was laughing about
poem by Michael Philips
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Ghostly Nurses and Piano Playing
I went to elementary school,
In some old buildings,
That were at that time called,
An independant school district.
The school only went up to eighth grade.
After you finished up there,
They would bus you,
To another independant school district,
That had a high school.
As I am sure other schools have,
Our fine school had a ghost.
The ghost was supposed to haunt,
Our lunchroom / music room.
The building was about eighty feet long,
And half of it had tables and benches,
So you could sit and eat,
Whatever you brought for lunch,
In your brown paper bag.
The ghost was supposedly a school nurse,
That was supposed to have died,
In the lunchroom.
Now I don't know,
If she had a heart attack,
Or she choked on a chicken bone,
Whatever the cause,
She haunted our school.
I never saw her,
And Pepe my blood brother,
Never saw her either.
One night,
After a terrible day,
With the board of education,
(That hung above Mr. Spinks desk)
Pepe and I decided,
To investigate the school room.
At nine o'clock at night.
In those days,
One telephone pole,
With a single light on top,
Illumined the entire school.
Also, most of the school buildings,
Were left unlocked,
Since Mr. Spinks doubled,
As night watchman,
And lived on the property.
The doors being unlocked,
Proved to be a moot point.
Pepe and I were adept,
Second story men,
Even though the lunchroom was a single floor.
We climbed in through the window,
And made our way,
To the half of the lunchroom, that was the music room.
Quickly we peeked inside,
The music teachers office,
And found no discernible difference.
Then we searched all the closets,
And the utility room,
But that nurse was nowhere to be found.
After a while we got bored.
Thats when I sat at the piano,
And did my best Lon Chaney,
Impression from the silent classic,
The Phantom Of The Opera,
TA, TA, TA TOM.
Pepe started laughing hysterically,
And pretended to be Mary Philbin,
Coming up behind Erik,
To yank off his mask.
Right at that precise moment,
We heard noises outside,
And took a peek through the window.
Mr. Spinks was doing his best,
Elmer Fud impression,
Sneaking up on the lunchroom,
Shotgun and all.
Pepe and I decided to retreat,
And crawled out the window,
Oposite the side our principle was arriving at.
We made straight for the woods,
Just ten feet from the lunchroom.
There we watched as the lights came on,
Inside the lunchroom,
And Mr. Spinks doing what we had so recently,
Been doing.
After about half an hour,
He left walking in a manner,
Not like himself at all.
He would take a few steps,
Then turn, and look at the lunchroom.
He did this several times,
Until he got to the house,
He and his wife Lorretta shared with their daughter Dixie.
The next day when we got to school,
We found out,
That the ghost of the school nurse,
Had made another apparition.
Apparently she also played the music room piano,
And laughed hysterically all night long.
There were maybe forty kids,
In that little school.
And they all swore,
That they had seen the ghost of the school nurse.
I think Mr. Spinks did too.
poem by Juan Olivarez
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
For my aunt and cousins
Oh please
oh please
Just set me free
Give me some peace and humanity
Let me see my family
Love me like you did before
Oh please
Oh please
Give me some innocence
Let me go build blanket tents
And run around the house looking for stars
Riding a rocket to mars
Oh please
Oh please
Bring us all back
To that happy family
When we sat around laughing
You avoiding them is bringing me agony
We were happy
A happy family
Loving and laughing
Every chance we get
But then hatred filled the world
And tore our family causing war
Distancing me from everyone
No wonder I'm the cousin that's 'no fun'
But what happened to my aunt
Why can't I see her every chance I get
And ya know my cousins too
I love them as much as you
Aunt... Was who I grew up with
Riding around in rocket ships
Being a child for as long as possible
She kept me alive
We went riding around on late nights
Eating ice-cream
And gossiping from what's in vogue
Listening to all the new music
Oh I remember being happy
My cousins... And....
Gave me innocence
And let me live without regrets
Even when I am 13
I still act like a robot machine
I sail the endless ocean blue
And was a cowgirl on the moon
We could lay in the grass
Or climb trees
Talking about little kid things
I forgot about all the world
And lived by my 2 little boys
I remember
I remember
All those times
But you look at them with despise
So you just tear all my dreams apart
Not letting me live by their beating hearts
Now my 'girl times' are gone
With the women who made me belong
And my innocence will never come back
And I can't see the little boys smile or laugh
Goodbye aunt
And thank you for the happiness
Goodbye cousins
And thank you for the innocence
Goodbye world
I never even belonged here
poem by Scarlet Shay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Pooch
Nurse, won't you let him in?
He's barkin' an' scratchen' the door,
Makin' so dreffel a din
I jest can't sleep any more;
Out there in the dark an' the cold,
Hark to him scrape an' whine,
Breakin' his heart o' gold,
Poor little pooch o' mine.
Nurse, I was sat in ma seat
In front o' the barber shop,
When there he was lickin' ma feet
As if he would never stop;
Then all of a sudden I see
That dog-catcher moseyin' by:
"Whose mongrel is that?" says he;
"It's ma pedigree pup," says I.
Nurse, he was starved an' a-stray,
But his eyes was plumbful o' trust.
How could I turn him away?
I throwed him a bit o' a crust,
An' he choked as he gluped it up,
Then down at ma feet he curled:
Poor little pitiful pup!
Hadn't a friend in the world.
Nurse, I was friendless too,
So we was makin' a pair.
I'm black as a cast-off shoe,
But that li'le dog didn't care.
He loved me as much as though
Ma skin was pearly an' white:
Somehow dogs seem to know
When a man's heart's all right.
Nurse, we was thick as thieves;
Nothin' could pry us apart,
An' now to hear how he grieves
Is twistin' a knife in ma heart.
As I worked at ma shoe-shine stand
He'd watch me wi' eyes o' love,
A-wigglin' an' lickin' ma hand
Like I was a god above.
Nurse, I sure had no luck
That night o' the rain an' then fog;
There was that thunderin' truck,
And right in the way - ma dog.
Oh, I was a fool, I fear;
It's harder to think than to feel . . .
I dashed in, flung the pup clear,
But - I went under the wheel. . . .
Nurse, it's a-gittin' dark;
Guess ma time's about up:
Don't seem to hear him bark,
Poor, broken-hearted pup! . . .
Why, here he is, darn his skin!
Lickin' ma face once more:
How did the cuss get in?
Musta' busted the door.
God, I'm an ol' black coon,
But You ain't conscious o' race.
I gotta be goin' soon,
I'll be meetin' You face to face.
I'se been sinful, dice an' hooch,
But Lordy, before I die
I'se a-prayin': "Be good to ma pooch" . . .
That's all - little mutt, good-bye.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!