I Am A Diamond... Poem by Ron Poetry

I AM A DIAMOND.. I am a diamond in the rough. I don't care whether or not you believe in that stuff. One way or another, I shall triumph over adversity; My work will be read by people in and beyond Dublin City. With all possible effort, I will certainly become a writer Because I persistently declare myself a strong fighter. Despite a hard life, it is I who'll stand out from the crowd; I will not be ranked as low as a corpse in a shroud. Even in depressing times of loneliness, I stay at home Where I express my true talent in the form of a poem. I listen to no one but myself, most certainly not a bully, Because they simply will never understand fully That I am just a diamond in the rough And that the notion of quitting just isn't good enough.... SHE IS THAT DIAMOND... Have you seen her hands, knurled and crooked with age? Translucent skin accenting blue-black veins; White tendon cords contrasting through the spots Of dark-brown on the backs of her old hands? They had been once the strength of our household. They molded us into a family core. The mastic of their love had bound that core, Performing endless tasks, when young of age. Without apparent weariness, household Concerns were done, while only shadowed veins Conveyed fatigue beneath her eyes. Her hands, Saw all the dabs and daubs, all dirty spots. They dusted, swept and scrubbed unwanted spots. No motion lost in their intent when core Of principle involved. Persuasive hands In their resolve. Yet, in my tender age Of childhood ills, before those blue-black veins, Their touch appeased and stilled the whole household.

The home was left, no thought for such household Labor, when fever, with those itching spots, Had pulsed with heated flow, throughout my veins. Medicinal was their caress, the core Of youthful convalescence. Restive age Has slowed the winging of those birdlike hands.

They lack the strength, but not desire. Those hands, Were like swift eagle wings throughout household Routines. She sits immersed in her old age, She waits, while passing flocks, as distant spots, Take migratory flight away. Her core Is not a legacy of ebbing veins,

But golden recollections from deep veins Of unmined memories, as holding hands Exposed the ore of our familial core. How vacuous. Now, barren, our household. As Time had hoarded coin of youth, those spots Revealed that Time is but, that miser Age.

A woman's hands can consecrate the core Of meanest household tasks. She tithes her life, Exchanged for blue-black veins and spots of age. Ron Poetry....