Poetless

I don't think I'm the type to write poems
I don't know a stanza from Mario Lanza
Or an assonance from a disco dance
A ballad is neat like salad without meat

Syntax-Cadence just give me half a sixpence
Dactyllic meter or Metaphor what are these for.
My writings are as far from this as a mile
But I'm a poet if I can make someone cry-laugh-or smile.

poem by Craig Anderson
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Missed Mom

If I saw you today would you know me mom
I've grown alot since your passing
You held on till I was eighteen
Thanks for that it was a blessing.

I think of you often mom
Even though it's been thirty three years
I tell your granchildren about you mom
But they can't shed any tears.

Your just a memory to them mom
But for me it's a tangible thing
Say hi to dad for me mom
See you when it's my turn when the deathly toll will ring.

poem by Craig Anderson
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The Real Her...I Love

I love to see you after a storm
With your hair in a mess
Mumbling under your breath
Wild kicking off of wellingtons

Screaming and cursing
Quick glances in hall mirror
More muttered mumbling
Pulling of hair oh and lip pursing

You see it's the opposite men love
It's seeing the real you the lovely you
As if God say's 'Look this is what she really looks like'
We don't see it all the time but when we do.

But it's later when she's staid
Clothes pressed not a curl out of place
Welcoming guests round for a drink
Her eyes screaming 'Don't even think of it! '

poem by Craig Anderson
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Old Age Doesn't Come Alone... Not At 53

Where does it come from old age
I took my family grandchildren included
To the beach today only to find out
That people who are unfit are excluded
Not to say I didn't try to reach the beach
'Come on Grandad! ' shouted my boys
But grandad was too ill for the beach to reach
So sat on an old wooden bench and viewed from afar
The shenannigans of my daughter playing in the surf
Made me so envious to be young again.
But I'm only fifty three with a heart of ninety
So thus it must remain until the hospital sort my problems
Without good odds I have been informed
My passing may be sooner rather than later
But I'd rather a day of running on the beach and my heart burst
Than to have to hear my grandchildren shout once again
'Come on grandad last one there is a rotten egg! '

poem by Craig Anderson
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