2009-04-09 / Writer's Corner

WritersCorner

If you have a poem, song lyrics or a short story and you would like to share it with the readers of The Statesman now is your chance. Email or mail us your submission and look.

I'M FINE

There's nothing whatever the matter with me; I'm just as healthy as I can be. I have arthritis in both of my knees, And when I talk, I speak with a wheeze. My pulse is weak and my blood is thin, But I'm awfully well - for the shape I'm in. I think my liver is out of whack, And I have a terrible pain in my back. My hearing's poor, and my eyes are dim; Most everything seems to be out of trim. The way I stagger sure is a crime, I'm likely to fall most any time. But all things considered, "I'm feeling fine." Arch supports I have for both of my feet, Or I wouldn't be able to walk down the street; My fingers are ugly - stiff in the joints. My nails are impossible to keep in points; Complexion is bad - due to dry skin, But I'm awfully well for the shape I'm in. Dentures drive me crazy, I'm restless at night. And in the morning, I'm sure I'm a sight! Memory's failing, head's in a spin, I'm practically living on aspirin, But I'm awfully well for the shape I'm in. Now the moral is, as the tale we unfold, That for you and me who are growing old, It's better to say, "I'm fine" with a grin, Than to tell everyone of the shape we are in! Anonymous (Submitted by D. Garner)

JESUS' LOVE

To serve with love From Heaven above, He shed His blood That flowed like a flood To the sea, to the sea It covers over me. I'm white as snow, Now my life must show. by Katrina Edwards

STUBBORN

There were times When the first thing Anyone said to her Was the last thing She wanted to hear! by Linda Amos

ODE TO A PASSING CROW

As you rise to the early morning rays and the songbird singing to you this day, You look out with a smile in song only to discover you've been wrong. Oh wicked crow! Off to action quick you go, but his judgment then we know. Oh, dear crow, your flight be swift this your hurtle, this befit. Swift by Poe this rue so true leave no black plume this your token that your lie thy soul hath spoken. By grace from Him, forgive this crow His hurtful sin. Nevermore! by Mike Murphy Chandler, Texas

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