Grandma's Poetry Book Poem by Henry Tong

I hold my grandma's wrinkled hands
She holds her Poetry Book;
On yellowed edge my finger lands
"Tiny Tadpoles! " I look.

So with her beat my cradle swings
Her whisper wets my ear
The Tadpoles jump in shallow springs
"Ripples" My heart can hear.

I ride my soul in gentle rhymes
Till vibrant waters join
Where each line hides a million dimes
Each word, a silver coin.

Diving deep, and my sight is blurred
I lose my grasp of pen
As if a sorrow-laden bird
Is caged by mighty men.

"Be free! ", I scream, off from her hands,
"My thoughts are trapped by Book! "
I burn the scattered page of poems
And write my lines of youth.

Yet still, I stumble, on my way
In vain my scribblings trace
My thoughts fly back to olden gray
The marks I can't efface.

To farthest world, I must traverse-
There wreath and tears await.
For life flows like an endless verse-
My words cannot translate.

Age; rage; my poetry won't mend
the wind of ashes spray,
The glorious verse my dreams append
Starts where the Tadpoles play.

A world's unfolded in my palm
'Tis Grandma's Poetry Book.
Endearing for a mighty psalm
Forever, I peruse.