Posts Tagged ‘write’


I’d like to write enough to use
Words dancing in my head,
With all the things I have to say –

I’d like to have a million bucks,
And spend it as I thought,
With all the things I’ve wished to buy –

I wish that all delicious food
Would not increase my weight,
With all the things I like to eat –

I wish there was a tape somewhere
When my guitar’s re-strung,
With all the songs I love to sing –

I’d like to break old habits now,
Of writing-trends I’ve kept,
With all the missing hours of sleep –

If I could satisfy my dreams,
I hope I would not gloat,
With all the things I wish to write –

7/21/05 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

Inspired by Mary Sadler

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My Challenge


The challenge was humor to write
I worked at it night after night
You’ll see as you read
I didn’t succeed
My attempts at humor are trite

8/28/90 Phyllis deWitt VanVleck

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I have a pen in every room
And sometimes two or three
Because the poet in my soul
At times needs setting free

Whenever I am struck by muse
I jot it down in haste
Before another thought pops in
And one might go to waste

But it is pens I’m not without
No paper is in sight
So I use almost anything
When it is time to write

There’s notes I’ve made on magazines
On grocery bags and such
And toilet tissue’s not exempt
But truthfully, not too much

There’s notes on every box in sight
And on a pillow case
I even wrote above my knee . . .
I write where I find space

You’ll find these notes within my poems
Except the one on knee
I lost it in the shower stall
Which I did not foresee

For years that poet in my soul
Hid shyly deep within
But now with notes on everything
I wear that poet skin

And that is why I jot thoughts down . . .
To set that poet free
And use such muse that fits a poem
In my periphery

8/28/00 Phyllis DeWitt-VanVleck

4’th … Indiana NPD – 2000

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Her hands were small and wrinkled
The veins large and blue
They had toiled long and hard
As mothers’ hands do
In years they were less agile
And so, moved rather slow
A sad part of growing old
I wish it were not so

They loved to write a story
To draw and write a rhyme
But it didn’t happen often
As they could not find the time
For they made almost all my clothes
And how that needle flew
They cooked and baked and canned
And made a garden, too

They milked the cow twice a day
Culled eggs from the nest
Scrubbed the floors and washed the clothes
Her hands could find no rest
And even if she found some time
That freed her just to sit
Her hands were busy mending clothes
I said, they never quit

And when I journey back in time
With memory’s sweet recall
I feel those hands on fevered brow
When I was very small
They also had a magic touch
When tending scraped knees
Or burns or cuts or bruises
Putting frightened child at ease

When death finally stilled them
They were folded in repose
They looked so small and fragile
As they clasp a single rose
I bent and kissed those precious hands
For all they’d done for me
But I still see them full of life
In frequent memory

3/8/89 Phyllis DeWitt VanVleck

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