Old Odd Man: A Poem

He woke up from his bed, getting ready for school
His back hurt him much, but he ignored it as a fool
He walked to his bathroom; he forgot to close the door
Someone called him “Hunnie did you take your medicine?”
“What medicine mum?”, then he looked down to the floor
It was a reflection of an old man, and a wrinkled skin

He hurried to the mirror, and it was him, the real 
He panicked, and started Screaming what he feels 
He heard fast foot steps on the stairs coming to him
And when she appeared he got paralyzed, numb
she looked at him for a second, his face was so grim 
She said “I’m your wife”, and he felt so dumb 

 Then He told her in a low pitched voice “what did I miss?”
Was I in a coma and I just woke up, just give me a glimpse”
Then She said to him “No, not at all you did not miss anything
Due to a problem in your brain you will be able to remember childhood only”
“What problem will I die?, is it tumour?, just say anything!”
She cried “No do not worry it is just dementia”, a truth that is so ugly

A Minute later he asked his wife if he can play football or not

She was not shocked, she remembered his memory year by year will rot
Though She whipped her tears and brought him his sleep pills
So he can rest, and stop thinking about issues he will later forget
 Just Another empty day, wife life, with depression is filled
She many times wished him peacefulness of death

Because if he stays like things on him will get tougher
And he will not be able to endure it and surely he will suffer
Even if he forgets what happened, the physical pain will remain
And pain cannot be forgot, it strikes every now and then 
She even thought about giving up to him her brain
When she remembered god words and said “amen”

Written By: Adel M. Fakhry, 17 Yo
Facebook Profile: https://www.facebook.com/adelmfakhry

Follow on twitter: @adelmfa

My Blog Link: www.adelmfa.blogspot.com

The Details of Artistry

I finally was able to see the Oscar Best Picture of the Year last night.  I found "The Artist," well - very artistic.  Because the film did not have words to distract my attention, I was more observant of details.  And that started me thinking how it is the little details that elevate art, writing, music, dance - just about anything - to the level of artistry.

The movie was back to basics -- no special effects a la computer technology.  Instead, there was the feather that gently floated down - and  landed on the ground with a loud thud.  A hanging suit jacket became a caressing lover.  When the word Bang! quickly appeared on the screen, I felt the quick emotional shift from sadness at a man shooting himself to relief that it was instead only a car hitting a tree.


All these years later, why does that image of a woman wrapped in the mysterious hooded cloak looking out to sea remain in my memory from "The French Lieutenant's Woman?"  How can I still see the color of a child's empty coat amidst the black and white of "Schindler's List?"  Why do those haunting, hostile, young woman's green eyes still stare at me from a cover of National Geographic?  Details make the difference.


And so the writer, poet, artist, and musician must continually search for just the right words, strokes, colors, notes, until they can hear the sweet click of it falling into place.  Details are the challenge and the joy of creativity.

Suellen Zima

Memory and Me

My last post Authentication prompted many wonderful comments from you wonderful readers (are you feeling special yet? I hope so!). One reader in particular (Marc, this is you) ask me to share more about myself.

Me? You want to know about me?

I realized that blogging carries a versatile voice. I realized the tone for blogs is often more personal and vulnerable than the objective view I often bring to my articles for content websites.

Not better, not lower quality, just a different style of writing.

With that in mind, I looked over my About Poetic Parfait page. Marc was right. Not many personal details. I revamped the page. If you have already taken a read (oh come on), here is your pop quiz about me:

• What country do I live in?
• What is my favorite beverage?
• What websites have I written for?

Are you three for three? If not I’ll grant you a hall pass today. Memory, got to love it.

I liken memory to the jam filling of a layer cake.

The Jam

The strawberry jam holds together two or three layers of breaded cake. The jam keeps the cake moist and adds additional flavor. Types of jam vary from cake to cake but without it the taste is dull.

Jam and Your Mind

Yes, the mind is like jam.

We have minds that are shaped by our past experiences. Our minds and memory make us who we are today. Make us individual, tasty, confident, or possibly lack confidence. Our minds can retain lines of poetry that we have written ourselves and poems we read over the years.

Here is one of the first poems I memorized, “Nothing Gold Can Stay.”

Robert Frost published the poem originally in 1923, however I wasn’t introduced to it until I was in high school. I read the novel “The Outsiders” and there it sat, looking coyly   at me, within a page in the book. Tempting me to divulge it the way I eat shortbread cookies still warm from the oven.

The book quickly became one of my favorites. It still is today.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

(Written by Robert Frost)

Nature’s first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down today.
Nothing gold can stay.

Do you have a poem that you have memorized or a certain line that keeps surfacing in your mind?

I enjoy your comments, thanks for the support!

Christy Birmingham

Twitter: @christybis 

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