• Author: Wendy Vinson,  Poetry

    I Should Have Said Something

    I should have said somethingInstead I said nothingNow I’m left to wonderCould I have stopped this blunder?Or would it have happened anywayDespite what I had to say The words were in my mouthI could have let them outInstead I bit my tongueAnd swallowed words that stungTo spare someone’s feelingsThat now need some healing Would it have made it betterIf I had broke my fetters?Or would it have been worseIf I had been adverse?I guess we’ll never knowSince I was too yellow I should have said something, now no one can hear me.   Posted in response to the daily prompt.

  • Author: Wendy Vinson,  Poetry

    Memories of Days Gone By

    I’ve enjoyed the days of other-when With all my good old friends But today is where I now abide The past can only be a guide I truly miss my friends of yore And all the fun we had before Those memories are truly golden And to my friends I am beholden But life moves on so very fast That memories are all that last The things I do with my new friends I know that they too soon will end And what today seems sharp and crisp Will soon be as a will-o-wisp

  • Author: Wendy Vinson,  Poetry

    The Benefits of a Reel Mower

    I cut my grass with a reel mower. No engine turns the rotors for me. They turn only because I push the mower. I need to do this twice a week. The work is hard, my arms get tired My heart beats faster than I like If it’s wet, the wheels get mired Someday soon I’ll go on strike But it gets easier as summer goes by The grass doesn’t seem so tough I’m not saying it’s as easy as pie But there’re fewer times I huff and puff I look in a mirror and see muscles there My frame is more trim and fit And no need to give up my éclairs I should have foreseen this benefit I should cut grass all year round It’s cheaper than going to a gym Even when there’s frost on the ground Just to keep myself slim Written in response to the Daily Prompt

  • Author: Wendy Vinson,  Poetry

    The Magic Door

    A book is such a wondrous thing It takes you anywhere you want to go It gives you dreams on which to cling It shows you things you yearn to know To foreign planets or foreign lands Or somewhere just around the block When you’ve a book in your hands You have the key to every lock Go back in time through history To learn about what used to be Or some far-flung future fantasy The words will set my mind free I have my magic door, my time machine And I feel I can read the author’s mind I watch it all without being seen In each book where words are enshrined

  • Author: Wendy Vinson,  Poetry

    The Past Decides the Future

    I look back at all the years, All the joys and all the tears. I think about what’s ahead, As I lay quietly in my bed. I know I should try to sleep, But these memories softly creep Into my head and through my mind, To the place where they’re enshrined. The good, the bad, the in between, All the things that I have seen, They make me who I am today, They frame the words I have to say. Without my memories I would not be Who I am, they make me free.

  • Author: Wendy Vinson,  NaPoWriMo,  Poetry

    Hot and Spicy

    Hot and spicy, a fire in your mouth Watch the red rise on your face The tears form in your eyes Hot and spicy, some people really like it Not me, not me Hot and spicy, your head’s going to explode The burning might never end This feeling might finish me Hot and spicy, on inferno in my mind What to do, what to do Hot and spicy, quick get me some water Oh no, it’s getting hotter And this is only three of ten Hot and spicy, I’m such a spice wimp Yes it’s true, yes it’s true

  • Author: Wendy Vinson,  NaPoWriMo,  Poetry

    The Fog

    Writing in response to the prompt from napowrimo.net to write a poem about a picture. I have deviated from my normal style of poetry and am writing in free form poetry.   I am using a photo from Flickr.com of fog and fields around a town.  It can be viewed at https://www.flickr.com/photos/ritman/8945663517/ The fields are full of life. The land is in strife. The fog is invading. It covers the low areas first, then crawls up the hills, slowly creeping, silently sneaking, making its way into the village. The land is resisting. It rises sharply into the air as though to cut off the invader. But the fog will not be stopped. It breaks over the crest and into the fields. It will have its way. The town is cut off from the fields by a wall of white now. The fog is closing in. It will invade the town, noiselessly covering the streets, obscuring the sky, muting all sounds. Then it will leave, as quietly as it came. Nothing will seem amiss; it will leave nary a trace. Only those who saw it will know it was there at all. The town will return to its normal existence. The…