These following four poems are the thread of an idea which originated from a newsletter
(the P.O.E.M.S. above) run by Mary 'Onion' Sullivan from Texas, also known as
The Yellow Onion of Texas.Point one - hence the map of Texas close by.
Point two - no I don't know the significance of the Onion bit.
BUT - (Just in) -- See the 'STOP PRESS' item at the bottom of this page.
Anyway if you like your poetry rhymed and metered and offered in good friendly fashion then you may wish to have a look at Mary's home site and maybe even subscibe to the newsletters which are posted out about once a day, and tend to be a mixture of lightheartedness and serious thought.
And who knows - you may even want to join in the fun, - which it is.
In any case enough of my waffle, what comes next are a few of the tasty bits.
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Each morning as I gaze absentmindedly Into the mirror that is placed in front of me I wonder who is the old man that I see, With dark circles underneath his eyes Looking back at me
He looks so tired , what little hair he has is now all grey,
What happened to that nice young man,
And where is the man I used to greet most every day,
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The mirror won't tell me how I looked as a child. That was too many long years ago But the image that I see looking back at me now Is the one I have grown well to know
When I peer into that mirror tomorrow,
I'm contented now with what the mirror discloses
I must admit, though, to one little fear
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Benign Positional Vertigo's become my latest curse, But maybe I should not complain, there's lots of things are worse, But it really is apalling when you turn your head around And the whole room starts to rotate... your senses to confound!
And suddenly your clinging to the bed for all your worth
I trotted off to see the doc, that educated sage,
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With peripheral action aplenty,
These old peepers are no longer squinty
Looking up, looking down
It's a new world I've found --
And my foresight now reads twenty-twenty!
THE GOLDEN YEARS
To those who find the golden years,
We give the proper due
And recognize the caring souls
Who make it all come true.
They bring along through sacrifice,
And comfort they bestow,
A shine to those who otherwise
Would miss life's final glow.
Our hearts reach out and touch the pain
Of those who just survive;
Who do the very best they can
'Till judgment day arrives.
They steel themselves with great resolve,
Against the woes they face,
And show us how the heroes live,
Through their enduring faith.
The gold can sometimes melt away,
And only leave the dross,
To quickly turn a life around
>From gains to only loss.
But, rain can also move away,
To leave a golden sky,
And bring new life to those who thought
Their time to go was nigh.
So whether life is cased in gold
Or filled with gloom and pain,
We can begin to insulate
Ourselves from times of rain;
And build a solid shield of faith
That we can someday hold,
To blunt the many darts of life
That come with growing old.
When someone asks me, "Who's Big O?"
I chuckle privately,
And say, "It's just a little joke
Between my dad and me."
And if they press me very hard,
I might go on to say:
"It started with a greeting card
I found one Father's Day."
But I could never quite explain
The truth that card revealed.
It showed a farmer who was plain
"Outstanding" in his field.
Surrounding him were little heads
That poked up through the dirt,
Well-tended in their little beds,
So happy and alert.
About the harvest he would reap,
He offered this advice:
"Ye got t' plant them younguns deep
An' pluck 'em when they're ripe."
That card was like a warm embrace,
And it was such a fun one,
I drew a little happy face
And signed, "Your Little Onion."
I could have been a carrot or
A cabbage just as well,
But onions earn more merit for
The stories their lives tell.
For though an onion lives inside
A thin transparent skin,
It really couldn't be described
As fragile, weak, or dim.
A hearty vegetable, it stands
Without apology
For close attention it commands
From those with eyes to see.
Through layers of protection as
One searches for its meat,
A connoisseur will find it has
A taste that's bittersweet.
Some folks may be offended by
An onion's special scent,
But if an onion makes you cry,
It isn't from intent.
There's more than mere frivolity
In Daddy's pseudonym.
On Harvest Day, I hope to be
"Big Onion," just like him.
For even though I'm now gray-haired,
I'm "Little Onion" to
The man who planted me and cared
Enough to see me through.
And so he calls me "Lil" for short,
And prays for rain and luck
Until the day he can report
I'm ripe enough to pluck.