Posts Tagged ‘verse’




A little book of poetry

Lies upon the shelf

Penned words revealing who I am

All written by myself


The once blank pages almost speak

When opened to the rhymes

For heart and soul, in black on white

Bear essence of the times


The leather cover’s brittle now

With title worn away

The yellowed pages loose and torn

But treasured to this day


It opens to a special verse

Where pressed upon the page

Is a flower that I placed there

At quite a tender age


A ribbon marks another page

A poem that makes me weep.

Other poems can make me laugh

Or dream sweet dreams, in sleep


God’s blessings fill some pages

Not written as a whim

For the pages would be empty

Without this gift from Him


When memory tugs my heart and soul

The book becomes my friend

As I turn the fragile pages

And read the words I penned


When I depart this earthly realm

I’ll leave a bit of self

Found within the written words

Of the book upon the shelf



5/29/94 – Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck


3’rd … Arkansas NPD 1994

6’th…. Indiana NPD 2001


      REVISED 2003

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The Last Yellow Rose



I found an old book in the attic,

Its pages yellowed by time.

Its cover so brittle it crumbled,

Its title, My Book of Rhyme.


It opened to page sixty-five

Where a flower lay in repose,

And the only words recorded there,

“This is the last yellow rose.”


Intrigued by the masculine writing

And some stains made by tears,

I leisurely read the little book

And found it recorded the years.


The pages held four-line verses

Written in feminine script.

And along with each verse were petals

The creases and binding gripped.


Each verse in the book marked a milestone.

And the petals meant something, too,

For he’d given her long stemmed roses,

As he’d pledge his love anew.


It began on her sixteenth birthday,

With a rose from a shy young lad.

And there followed for years, a yellow rose,

On important events she had.


There were roses marking each birthday,

And a rose that came with a plea,

When he knelt in the young girl’s parlor,

Asking, “Will you marry me?”


There were roses that marked the birth dates

Of four daughters and a son.

And one for each anniversary,

For forty-nine years and one.


The last few pages,  in masculine hand,

Record an aging man’s grief –

“My love is so ill, she’s leaving me.

It’s true, death comes like a thief.


Her sightless eyes can’t see her rose,

So I placed it on her breast.

She smiled when she noticed the lovely scent,

Then she went to her final rest.”


I had finally come to the book’s last page

And the funeral flower he chose,

And the only words recorded there…

This is the last yellow rose.


9/6/90 – Phyllis DeWitt VanVleck

 1’st … Indiana NPD 1992

1’st ..Arkansas NPD 1994

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