Stories
We are the authors of our own stories Choosing which memories to hold on to
Which to toss out
Emotions grab hold
Tight
Won't let go
Dictating our choices
Deciding our stories
Telling us who we are
Am I a social butterfly
The happy go lucky Tigger
Or am I a melancholic blue
Down in the dumps Eeyore
Which stories do I tell
Which memories do I hang onto
Which emotions control me
The author of my own story
Baby Arrives
In Winter’s lonely darkness,
A gentle rain falls to the ground.
Twinkling lights gaze upon city streets.
Friends and Family gather around.
As Mom, Dad, and Grandma, too
Prepare the room for Baby to come,
The rain drones on and on and on
Rhythmic and steady as a drum
Then the rain stops, the clouds part,
Outside the window rises Father Sun.
Bathing Mother Earth in Golden Light.
Baby boy arrives at Dawn.
Two friends Diverged
Two friends diverged in a foul mood,
And sorry I could not remain fair
And be a friend to either, I stood
And stared at one as long as I could
’Til she turned and hid behind her hair.
Then looked I at the other gone sour
And she perhaps the better thought out
Stated it was women’s darkest hour
Though fought since first feminist power
Was announced by fair Suffragette.
For both that morning equally lay
Hopeful voters would announce a win
Oh, I too felt optimism on that day
Yet knowing how hidden habits stay
I doubted politicians would ascend
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two friends diverged in a mood, and I,
I took the option less traveled by,
And so bowed out of the arguments.
Helga Roe Conklin