In Loving Memory of Kelly Doe

She never got to dance,
Or go to her own Prom.
She never got the chance,
To forget where she came from.

She never got to kiss,
A man she idolized.
She never felt love’s bliss,
‘Cause she was paralyzed.

She never got to talk,
About love with a smile.
She never got to walk,
Down a Church’s Aisle.
 photo naty_zps3e48548c.gif
She never got to say,
Those precious words “I Do”.
But she was far and away,
The strongest girl I ever knew.

She couldn’t brush her hair,
Or put make up on her face.
She couldn’t hold you dear,
Or give you a warm embrace.

She couldn’t clasp her hands,
As if in the form of prayer.
She couldn’t understand,
Why she was in a wheelchair.

She never showed her fears,
Or let you hear her cries.
She never showed the tears,
That fell down from her eyes.

She never looked for pity,
Or sympathy from you.
That’s why she’ll always be,
The strongest girl I ever knew.

By Ronnie Doe

 

Family Friend Poems

Anuncios

To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

 photo OTONtildeO_zps7800efb8.gif

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
John Keats