At eighty-four, the old girls soul
Is ripe and tart like wine,
Filling her dank and musty body
Like a forgotten cellar.
Sitting in a chewed blue armchair all day
Makes her a tight wad of nerves.
Her wild eyes dance maniacally behind useless panes;
Her flaming tongue spurts senseless, spicy words
At people passing.
She is a queen, that little dragon lady,
A queen on a threadbare throne.
But that suits me just fine;
To me she's as darling as a restless child
Watching a wet, white snowfall
Smother the playground in December.
-Susan Landry
YOU ARE READING
Chicken Soup For The Soul- Redone
PoesiaI'm not sure how many of you, if any, have ever read or even heard of the chicken soup for the soul book series. I used to love reading them and I own several of them. With that being said, I am making a collection of all my favorite poems that I've...
