Poetry

What kind of thoughts now, do you carry
   In your travels day by day
Are they bright and lofty visions, 
   Or neglected, gone astray?

Matters not how great in fancy, 
    Or what deeds of skill you’ve wrought; 
Man, though high may be his station, 
    Is no better than his thoughts. 

Catch your thoughts and hold them tightly, 
   Let each one an honor be; 
Purge them, scourge them, burnish brightly, 
   Then in love set each one free. 

Myra Viola Wilds was born in Kentucky. She authored the poetry collection Thoughts of Idle Hours (National Baptist Publishing Board, 1915), in her own hand after losing her eyesight due to overwork as a dressmaker. 

(in the style of Dr. Seuss)

I need to think.
Think, think, think!
I think sometimes,
My thinks, they stink!

When from Truth
My thinks, they shrink,
When from Goodness,
My thinks, they sink,
Then my thinks, they stink, they stink!

When from straight paths
My thinks, they kink,
When from God
I lose my link,

Then my thinks, they stink, they stink!

When my thinks worry sends
Round and round the rink,
When at sin
my eyes they wink,
Then my thinks, they stink, they stink!

But when renewed
Have been my thinks,
From my eyes
Blinders go – Kerplink!
My glasses change from black to pink,
My thinks, my thinks no longer stink!

Julie Bonderov is a voracious reader who enjoys children, animals, music and color. She is an RN who has worked in local hospitals in pediatrics and as a school nurse. She enjoys encountering other cultures, languages and cuisine. Julie collects how to say, “Don’t cry.” in other languages

Raindrops are kisses from God
Lightning the sparkle in his eyes
Thunder his whispers

Julie Bonderov is a voracious reader who enjoys children, animals, music and color. She is an RN who has worked in local hospitals in pediatrics and as a school nurse. She enjoys encountering other cultures, languages and cuisine. Julie collects how to say, “Don’t cry.” in other languages

Memory Care. Mom and Dad together.
Taking Mom to urgent care for a cough.
“Where’s my purse?”
“Here it is.”
“That’s not my purse!”
“But it’s the only one you have.”
“There’s nothing in it.”
“You mean your ID?”
“Yes. I have to prove who I am.”
“Well, we’ll have to look for it later. Now we have to go.”
“Why can’t Jack go?”
“Because of the virus. Only the patient and the driver which is me can go. It’s the rules.”
“I don’t want to go.”
We went when Dad said he’d wait here.
A long day. Every three minutes, “What time is it?” “Why am I here?” “I don’t HAVE a cough!”
In the exam room. Nurse asks, “What’s your name?”
A long silence. Mom had no answer.
“I’m worried about Jack. He should be here. He’s going to be unhappy.”
“I’ll send his nurse a text to let him know we’re still waiting.”
The nurse texts back, “He’s fine.”
Tidying up their room while they were at dinner,
I found a note Dad had written while we were gone.
“I’m looking for you.”
I tore the page off the pad,
Put it in my pocket
Along with the pain in my heart.

Julie Bonderov is a voracious reader who enjoys children, animals, music and color. She is an RN who has worked in local hospitals in pediatrics and as a school nurse. She enjoys encountering other cultures, languages and cuisine. Julie collects how to say, “Don’t cry.” in other languages

Baby Bud
Small, green,
Inconspicuous. 
Hard, tight,
Pattern interlocked.
Pregnant with…?
Growth and change
Expanding openness
Feathery fragility
Layers of ripples and folds
Attention-catching color
Scent of spicy sweetness

Julie Bonderov is a voracious reader who enjoys children, animals, music and color. She is an RN who has worked in local hospitals in pediatrics and as a school nurse. She enjoys encountering other cultures, languages and cuisine. Julie collects how to say, “Don’t cry.” in other languages.