Sunday, April 27, 2008

Prayers, Daffodils

Today: a poem courtesy of The Writer's Alamanc and the last of the daffodil poems.

Prayer Chain

My mother called to tell me
about an old classmate of mine who

was dying on the parish prayer chain—
or was very sick—or destitute—

or it had not worked out—the marriage—
or the kids were all on drugs—and

all the old mothers were praying intensely
for all the pain of their children

and for life—they were praying for life—
in their quiet rooms—sipping decaf coffee—

I bet they've been praying for me at times—
so I'll find my way—so I won't rob a bank—

I'll take them—the mystical prayers of old mothers—
it matters—all this patient and purposeful love.

by Tim Nolan

As you can tell from the biography, Tim Nolan is a lawyer by trade. The last, but not least, of the daffodil poems comes from another person who helps keep us on the straight and narrow.


The challenge was a bit daffy
but I hear the roar of the trumpets and this quest I must bare

Will I turn yellow and run from fear of trying to enlighten this central crown?

Only time shall tell! ……

Not a rose bud so my sleigh I can not seek

I must be quick witted and firmly plant my feet

It’s April and as you know spring is finally here

I’m not a drinking man but I could sure use a cold beer

The frost of the glass would tickle my tongue as the yellow colored malt will ease my senses

Why a Daffodil? It’s just a silly bulbous plant

Why not something more easily described? The smell of bacon cooked in the morning or the aroma of a fresh pot of coffee on a chilly morning in May

I can hear the trumpets playing softly from its pretty yellow crown

I was hoping some one else could hear it but there is no one else around

I now can see why she does this to me

Mother Nature you are a pest, but since you are here forever and I am just a guest

I will enjoy the sights and smells that you so graciously offer and thank for the rain you send and sunshine on my shoulder

The wind in my back, the sun in my face makes this Daffodil garden such a wonderful place.

by Bill Kitzerow

Remember, today is the deadline for submitting your bathroom poems. Now, I cannot remember which day is which, so if your poem comes in on Monday, who's the wiser? Not I, I assure you. So keep those cards and poems coming!

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