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.
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