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Poetry by Gloria Sarasin
from Trinity, North Carolina



Sitting in the kitchen, on his favorite chair,
there would sit my daddy, in his underwear.
The fact that he was naked, never bothered him,
he'd sit and eat his bowl of soup dripping from his chin.

With bulbous belly hanging out, he'd sit upon that chair,
seemingly not caring, how my friends would stare.
I use to want to run and hide, or maybe even die,
humiliation filled my soul and made me want to cry.

He'd gaze outside the window, while sitting in that chair,
hoping to see wild turkeys, that he knew were there somewhere.
Saliva forming on his mouth as he thought of roasted turkey,
his shotgun perched to shoot his prey, they wouldn't have a prayer.

Not a single wild turkey, did he see while sitting there,
nor did I see him in overalls, just his underwear.
The day they placed him in the ground, in February, oh so cold,
sixty wild turkeys marched past his view so bold.

Six groups or more of eight to ten, they marched right by that window,
feeling safe, they marched on through in quiet crescendo.
I couldn't help but wish inside, that my daddy, he was there,
to see this awesome, regal sight, even in his underwear.



 Like a stomach infested with wounds agape,
and each memory stinging like salt poured in.
No comfort brings the morning sun;
only another day of grief to begin.

 The light within the eyes are dimmed
Where once they sparkled with tears of laughter;
And where the heart was light and gay,
I see there now, only a flicker.

 If the power of words could build a bridge
And through the valley, the grieving cross;
I would have built it long ago,
And carried them on my back across.

 Time, must your passing be so slow?
Or is time no cure for one who grieves?
Is it a tale to the mourning told
But one that only to them deceives?

 No more tomorrows, only yesterdays,
In the minds of those who must face today.
But yet, tomorrows come, and soon, yes soon,
Life again springs forth like a bright bouquet.



 I look to find new growth,
a sign that spring is near,
excitement fills my heart,
when I see a bloom appear.

 Like dead twigs left behind to burn,
so are the sorrows of yesterday.
If there be new life to see,
let spring begin with me.

 A new day to plant anew,
another chance to bloom,
to clean my house of mental pain
and burn the thoughts of gloom.

 To spead the seeds of love and joy,
to help to see them grow,
I'll wear a bright new smile
and see it blossom as I sow.

 New life in me awaken,
too long a deadened tree,
if there be new life to see,
let spring begin with me.



 My eyes now view a different scene,
so much in life has changed,
and yet, I feel I'm just the same,
just differently arranged.

 The world goes by much faster now,
each one in such a hurry,
too late, I think, to keep up its' pace,
even if I should scurry.

 New friends I see but gone the old,
to other scenes unknown,
but I know, if they returned,
from me they have outgrown.

 Where doors once stood without a lock,
they're now firmly secure,
for I see the heart of man,
growing colder with each year.

 I search to find yesterdays' world,
the one I use to see,
but think it too is gone
right along with me.

 Can't roll back the years, I fear,
just yellow pages in a book,
and so I try to live today
with a new outlook.

 Yesterdays will not return;
were they really what they seem?
Today will be tomorrow's good old days,
but, will that, their ills redeem?

 My old self has gone from me,
but a wiser self now sees,
that the part of me that's gone,
is only the outer side of me.



So broad your wings with which you fly;
Where did you get them, dragon fly?
If they were mine, what sights I'd see,
With wings so light, I'd fly with thee.

O'er the fields of new sown daisies,
I'd float along like a summer's breeze
And when it be, I close my wings,
Let it be among the nature's dressings.

Take me with you, dragon fly,
Upon your wings and bid goodbye
To this life for just awhile;
Let me fly with you just one mile.




 As I read, my heart is breaking;
I feel a poet's tears.
Their blood is shed upon the page;
I hear a poet cry.
Words of pain within the write;
Upon the page it flows.
So helpless from behind the screen;
The poet cries alone.
Rain is falling from my eyes;
Another poet's tears.




 Where will be home when mama's gone;
When my childhood home is no longer mine?
What will they do with my memories;
When mama's dead and gone?

 Will they quietly allow them to live
Within the walls that whisper;
A child's life was painted here;
Where all of her memories live.

 Where will be home when mama's gone;
When my childhood home is no longer mine?
Where will I go, when home I want to run;
When mama's dead and gone?

 I've moved around from state to state,
But only one do I call home;
Where will it be when my home is gone?
When going home will be too late?

 Where will be home when mama's gone;
When my childhood home is no longer mine?
Should it be, I make it mine;
Would it be home with mama gone?




 She lies with stems cut open;
Tears flowing upon her bed.
Another thorn's been added
To my beautiful red rose again.
 Another petal found with blight;
Falling upon the ground.
Will my rose soon bloom again
And lose from her one day the thorns?
 They pierce within and tear the flesh;
Her pain searing from deep within.
Heat pouring from her petals;
Burning up my poor red rose.
 I have no way to reach her;
To hold her to my heart.
To dry the tears that fall tonight;
Thorns tearing her apart.




 An address book with lines throughout
Across the written name.
One more person gone beyond,
Another crossed out name.

 With tears of sorrow on my face
I once more push delete.
Without her name written there,
My email list is not complete.

 One by one, I say goodbye,
Another name to cross,
Will it ever end,
This dealing with loss?

 Once again, I reach for the phone,
Again I place it down,
For a moment to forget,
They no longer are around.

 So many times my mom has said,
There are few that I have left
And she sighs with sad regret,
As another one has left.

 Crossed out/delete,
I cannot do this any more,
My eyes fill up with tears,
As I toss the book upon the floor.




I want a friend with whom to laugh,
who isn't sorrow bent,
but everywhere I seemed to go,
sorrow also went.

If I could fly off to the moon,
would laughter I find there,
or does sadness fill the universe
and tears found everywhere?

Perhaps, if I be the one to laugh,
another's heart to lift,
I could make another smile
and give laughter as a gift.




 Weeds grow among the flowering vines
But even they can sunshine bring.
The Queen Ann's lace and dandelions
That says to us that it is Spring.

 Roses and thistles with their thorns;
Side by side in the garden grow.
The garden of life that both adorn,
But more the thistle than the rose.

 To remove the one would hurt the other;
God placed upon the earth the two.
So like the flower and the weed that border;
Both dwell in life's garden it is true.




 The chambers of my heart;
Divide, before you start:
Color each, a different hue;
The parts of me, for you to view.

One chamber paint, the deepest red
To show the love and tears I shed;
Another paint, the color green
To show the parts, of me, unseen.

Color one, a shade of gray,
The part that's wrong, in me convey.
The last part leave, without a color;
A hollow spot within this chamber.

On my mind, paint me a rainbow,
To show in there, the things that flow,
But don't leave out, the spot in black
That shows the things, I hold in back.

Upon my spine, a streak of yellow;
The part of me that fears tomorrow.
Be careful not to paint my soul;
The colors there, from God I stole.

For you will find it colored bright;
Once colored black, it now is white.
So when you view, the colors of me;
Be sure that all, of me, you see.




 Passion purple, thistle pricks,
Flower blooming, nature's tricks,
Thorns that pierce if you try to pick;
This awesome weed, a rose to mimic.

 Love presented as a rose;
Cupid's bow with pointed arrows.
Unaware, the thistle grows,
Away from you, his love now flows.

 Tricksters both, these flowers bold,
With thorns that prick, passion unfold.
Purple thistles, roses red,
Where love had bloomed, now thorns instead.




Little one in my high heeled shoes;
She wants to play all grown.
Oh, precious one, don't move so fast;
It's not fun, this being grown.

Don't rush to climb inside my shoes;
Stay within your child's world,
It isn't fun to be all grown;
Don't cross into my world.

Sing your silly, happy songs
And stay a child for a little while;
Let me hear your sounds of laughter
And on your face your happy smile.

Wiggle, wobble in my shoes,
I'm glad that they don't fit;
Come and climb upon my lap
And let me cuddle you a bit.



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