Mother , Grandmother
 
All my life I would see her tend, to the garden, the flowers, the home.
She pruned she weeded so cautiously. Her patience was soft toned.
I remember her favorite time she spend each summer day.
She would tend to the flowers so delicately, in her special way.

Her family is a garden.  She gives all her time each day.
She gives nurturing to her children in her very special way.
My grandmother, through all kinds of weather makes each day so clear.
My grandmother, though she is gone, her love still feels so real.

With wisdom, affection, and fairness, as a mother she was the best.
Never let them go unnoticed. For her children she would never rest.
As a mother she was so beautiful.  One last incident would tell why.
She told her daughter, before her death, ‘you are the flower of my life’.
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 Poetry by Tom Yezza
 

                         

Geometric Abstraction
               PICTURE OF YOUR CHOICE
                   
This picture is blank, hang it on any wall you like.
Because it’s blank, you can look and think of anything you might.

There are no restrictions, feel free, open your mind.
Enter your imagination and leave your problems behind.

How about vacationing by airplane, boat, or train?
See fields of grass, mountain lakes, storms, or gentle rain.

Keep your thoughts relaxing and ease your frame of mind.
Within this frame there is peace that only you can find.

Good luck I am retiring, my picture in my hand.
I have spent years with my picture, our relationship is grand.

If anyone should see this blank frame and say change it right away.
Tell them you do something special, you change it everyday.
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Poetry By Tom Yezza

 

Geometric Abstraction  In Mind

                         HI !
It’s raining out, I’m sitting home.
With pen in hand I’ll write a poem.
I’ve not a single thought in mind.
Where are the words I wish to find.

I have a headache for lack of thought.
I have in hand the pen I bought.
It takes more time to put together.
Types of poems for gloomy weather.

What I better do is start to think.
Before this pen runs out of ink.
It’s starting to skip , I’ll shake it some.
But I’m afraid its end has come.

Is this question I ask fair?
Do I write well enough?  Or do you care?
When you read this poem and start to think,
Would you wish this pen ran out of ink?
The previous four lines are filled with questions.
The suns coming out, I’ll end this session.
So Long.

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