Category Archives: poetry

Numbers that Count

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The Writer’s Digest is hosting its annual Poem a Day (PAD) Chapbook Challenge. Day Twelve’s prompt is “a number poem.” Saturday is World Diabetes Day. A child’s T1D diagnosis is punch of reality into solar plexus of parenting. T1D begins a ubiquitous counting into one’s life.

This is an adaptation of a homily I gave on Christmas Eve which is found in my book of Christmas stories titled, The Night is O’er.

3,
 the number of days it takes for what I believe
 To be true, to be confirmed.
 45 
 minutes from when my wife
 picked our daughter up at school till
 she called from the doctor’s office with the results of 
 2
 tests which confirmed the diagnosis that our youngest,
 1 of 3 
 lovely children had what 
 39 
 other children in the U.S. would be diagnosed with on that day.
 

 11 
 miles or 
 20 
 minutes from our house to the Baptist Hospital's 
 Emergency Room. It is
 9 
 floors up Ardmore Tower to room 
 810 
 at Brenner Children's Hospital where we will stay for the next
 3 
 days.
 

 On the evening of the 
 2nd 
 day I am nervous, as I prepare to administer my daughter's
 4th 
 injection -- her 
 1st 
 full day of injections for the rest of her days, 
 and she is nervous.
 She is nervous because in her mind 
 it still counts as a shot. 
 I am nervous because I count it the same, 
 and this is my 
 1st 
 time giving 
 1.

A Color Poem

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The Writer’s Digest is hosting its annual Poem a Day (PAD) Chapbook Challenge. Day Ten’s prompt is “a color poem.” Since today is Veteran’s Day, I wrote a war poem, a subject about which I have no experience, but for those who do, I have the utmost respect and owe a great debt of honor.

You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.

Red, for poppies which in the fields bloom
Midst the death and blood of bodies strewn
Across no mans land.

Brown, for the dirt, the trenches which flood
And fill with muck and mud and blood
Which clings and cakes on me.

Orange-yellow breaks and bursts in flash,
Pounds the earth, showers dirt, shells smash,
My friends who die with me.

White, the star shells flared floating light,
Hangs with hope, aids the sniper's sight
Who fixes in crosshairs.

Black, on me descends at last in death
Light fades, night falls as does my fleeting breath
In the fields of France.

© Randall Edwards 2020

Below are a collection of postcards which my great-uncle Harry brought back from France where he served on General Pershing’s staff in the Haute-Marne.

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Medias Res

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The prompt for day six’s PAD Chapbook Challenge is “medias res” which is a story that begins in the middle. Sometimes you’re inspired. Sometimes just tired. And as the man says? Well, I don’t really know. I’m just waiting for it to be over.

In medias res
Of this election for Pres,
When will this counting be over?

I lie in the bed
Overwhelmed with a dread
To get up I throw off the cover.

When I check the news:
Only pundits and their views
I lie back, pull the sheet, roll over.

It’s gone on all year,
So turn off the lights, Dear,
And wake me up when this is over.

Are You In?

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The Writer’s Digest is hosting its annual Poem a Day (PAD) Chapbook Challenge. Day Five’s prompt is “ruin.” What came out was a bit of a spoken word piece about ruin through lens of the prophet Isaiah, I think.

You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.

Where do I begin to address the wreck
And dreck of the damage and breaking,
The lies…Oh, the damned lies and the faking,
False propositions
Which validate ev’ry prediliction
And each little preference you want.

You do whatever you want
And cannot begin to understand what i want—
What is right and just
To be light and to love so much
That you must do what I love for
The love you’ve seen,
The love with which you been
Loved.

Unless there’s a change,
Unless you reign in the rage
And the wicked sucker punches
By which you dis one another
All that you see will be ruin
It will all come down and soon!

What will it be?
When will you see
That the glory which I bring,
The new day dawn of beauty
Is so much better than what the
Mob or Elite or Rich or
The Entitled Establishment
Who live to get their share now
Whatever the costs
In shouts and the din
Of riot and anger, rebellion and sin.

For I will rise.
And in you, my light will shine
And bless the wreak and death
Of the tomb of this ruin.

Do you want to see the day
When every tear is counted,
And each as it falls is wiped away
By Love and Light
When eternal day dispels the night?
Do you want a way through
Into the True of Right and Life?

The first step is down
You must kneel to be crowned.
Only those who are sinners
Become saints.
The only question yet,
Is whether you will come
Whether you will step down and in
So, what about it?
R U IN?

© Randall Edwards 2020.

Giving Up On Myself

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The Writer’s Digest is hosting its annual Poem a Day (PAD) Chapbook Challenge. Day Four’s prompt is “(blank) myself.” By that they prompt asks you to consider how one things about one’s self, what one does to one’s self, etc…. Here’s how I took it.

You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.

I talk to Myself: 
A committee of three
Comprised of I, Myself, and Me.
I moves the motion which I second Myself;
We leave the discussion to Me.
Hearing no objection,
We All call the question.
The vote? None against.
In favor? Three.

I talk to Myself:
My Committee of Three
We replay regret, the betrayal of trust;
Myself and I are so glad we have Me
Because “trusting” is just “tr..ting” without “us.”

And that’s how I came
To make every decision
To do all the stupid I’ve done.
Again and again I do the same
Expecting a different outcome.

My best thinking 
Is what got Me here:
Full of anger, regret, shame, and fear,
Till things got so bad
That I lost all I had,
Lost everyone whom I counted dear.

I fired The Committee,
Got new friends that hour
Where I found I was least qualified
To stay in the position
Of Commissar of addictions;
I Gave “Me” to a Higher Power.

Again, my best thinking
Is what drove Me here,
Not some fancy Cadillac.
I’ve come to listen, not tell but to hear
How giving up on Myself sets Me free from the past.

Thank you for your welcome, for your gracious greeting.
My name is Randy.
One day.
First meeting.

© Randall Edwards 2020.