I don’t write much poetry. My mom is the one gifted with the poetry gene, but I occasionally give it a try. Here’s a couple of very different attempts.
Hands scarred and rough from decades of hard work:
Twisting bolts, lifting engines, replacing belts
While grease, oil and other liquids stained the skin.
Years of taking care of a home, fixing things needing repair;
Mowing, plowing, and planting vegetables and flowers;
Always, tending to the safety of family with those hands.
From hugging his mother, to saluting his sergeant,
Wearing a ring that symbolized his heart’s desire,
He’s held his babies; applauded their accomplishments as they grew;
And guided and protected them through the stages of their lives.
He’s repeated the process with grandchildren;
And now again with great-grandchildren.
Those scarred hands show the warmth, the love, the life
of a man of substance, of integrity, of loyalty.
My daddy’s scarred hands are love;
And they are loved.
© 2013 Rhonda Hopkins
I scooped my favorite coffee into the filter
Even though I felt a little off kilter.
My memory seemed foggy,
And I was more than a little groggy.
The missing piece was on the edge of discovery
and I was able to push wide the ethereal mist.
The break-through brought a recovery.
I knew what I’d missed!
It was nowhere near time to get up.
Only 2am — and boy was I p*ssd
© 2011 Rhonda Hopkins
Note: The highlighted words in Aha! were words given as a prompt. All the words had to be used in a poem.