The Life of a Rose

by Trudy A. Martinez

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The Life of a Rose

The beauty of a rose is seen at its’ fullest.

The beauty of a life is seen at its’ end.

A pedal sings of its’ beauty

Through the touch of a hand,

Through the sniff of a nose,

A unique softness,

A sweet smell,

With a mere glimpse a haven unveils,

The beauty of a life is seen at its’ end.

Tales spring forth at the close,

Though a memory deposed,

Bringing forth an inter-beauty,

Touching,

And caressing our soul,

Revealing a purpose,

As a departed lives on,

Conveying an ultimate plan,

The beauty of life begins again.

For a life at its’ fullest

Lives on in our hearts at the end.

 

Trudy A. Martinez

 

 

 

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The Core of Truth

Posted on October 6, 2007

By Trudy A. Martinez

Getting to the core of the Truth is like peeling an onion.

As you peel away the dead skin,

You may feel a little tinge.

However when you slice/chop to get to the center of the matter,

So you may savor the flavor,

The tinge begins to sting as tears swell.

Seeing through the tears is difficult

Because everything is out of focus,

Causing us to dwell on the effects of an action,

Instead of waiting to savor the flavor we originally sought.

Trudy A. Martinez

A Moment of Remembrance: For My Mom

Originally posted January 29, 2007  (edited 7-14-2014)

Note from the author:

I was prompted to write the following poem during my grieving process.  I recall a day my mom (Nellie) came to Uncle Chris and my house.  I was in the front yard watering a small apple tree when she drove up.  Only one apple (a small one) was on the tree.  When Mom sees the apple, she giggles, shakes, and boldly stumbles out, “That apple is mine!”

I smile, and reply, “It is in my yard.  I care for it, so it is going to be mine!”

She giggles some more and with a shaky voice says, “We’ll see.”

I knew there is a story somewhere behind her request just by the way she was acting with her giggle and shaky voice.  So, I ask, “What is it about this apple that makes you want it so?”

She giggles and shakes some more, then replies, “When our family first move from the Sherman, Texas to the Denison, Texas farm, there is a huge apple tree on the property.  It had only one live branch.  On that branch, was one large apple (not quite ripe)?”

Papa tells all of us children, “Do not touch that apple; that apple is mine!”

“But the temptation wears me down.  I can’t resist.  I climb that tree.  I get that apple. I caress that apple. I shine that apple and then I sit under the dying tree and I eat it.  It is the best.  It is juicy.  Never had I tasted an apple so sweet,” my mom says.  “The apple on your tree reminds me of that day. I have never told anyone about it until just now.  It has been a secret.  A secret I have clung to and cherished since my youth.”

Neither of us ate the apple from my tree.  Instead, a strong Ridgecrest wind came and blew it away.  Only the memory returned so I can share the story with you.

I hope you will enjoy the following poem about my mom,

Nellie Mae Coffin, Smith, De Juan (12- 13- 1911 thru 01-28 -2007)          

How Will I Be Remembered?

By Trudy A. Martinez

Ninety-five years have flown by since I came to be,

I sat under a dying tree,

Savoring the flavor of an apple

My dad forbade me to eat,

This is one thing I will remember until my dying day,

How stubborn I was,

And how determined I was

To have my own way,

Who’s to say that apple was NOT meant for me,

I taste the sweet juice of the apple,

When I recall sitting under that tree.

Now that I have passed

How will I be remembered?

A tender touch, a game of Dominos.

A shiny piece of glass?

Or by the taste of life the apple gave to me.

Nothing lasts forever,

Not even me.

The apple tree died and so do we.

But memories live on,

Just the memories,

The memories we share together,

Just the memories of you and me,

Memories live forever when they are savored

Like  my apple tree.

The Crabby Old Man

CRABBY OLD MAN

When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in North Platte, Nebraska,

it was believed that he had nothing left of any value.
Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found this poem . Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.
One nurse took her copy to  Missouri.  The old man’s sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the St . Louis Association for Mental Health .   A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.
And this little old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this
‘anonymous’ poem winging across the Internet .
 
Crabby Old Man

What do you see nurses? . . What do you see?
What are you thinking . . . . . when you’re looking at me?
A crabby old man . . . not very wise,
Uncertain of habit . . . . . . . . with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food . . . . . . . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . . . . . ‘I do wish you’d try!’
Who seems not to notice . . . the things that you do .
And forever is losing . . . . . . . . . . A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not . . . . . . . . . . . lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding the long day to fill?
Is that what you’re thinking?   Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse . . . . . . you’re not looking at me.
I’ll tell you who I am. As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding . . . . . . as I eat at your will.
I’m a small child of Ten . . . . . . . with a father and mother
Brothers and sisters . . . . . . . . . who love one another
A young boy of Sixteen . . with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now . . . . . . . a lover he’ll meet .
A groom soon at Twenty . my heart gives a leap .
Remembering, the vows . . . . . . that I promised to keep .
At Twenty-Five, now . . . . . . . . . . I have young of my own .
Who need me to guide . . . . And a secure happy home
A man of Thirty . . . . . . . . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other . . . . . . . With ties that should last .
At Forty, my young sons . . have grown and are gone,
But my woman’s beside me . . . . . . . to see I don’t mourn .
At Fifty, once more, . Babies play ’round my knee,
Again, we know children . . . . . . . My loved one and me .
Dark days are upon me . . My wife is now dead .
I look at the future . . . . . . . . . . . . I shudder with dread .
For my young are all rearing . . . . . . young of their own .
And I think of the years . . . . . And the love that I’ve known .
I’m now an old man . . . . . . . . . and nature is cruel.
Tis jest to make old age . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles . . . . . . . . . . grace and vigor depart .
There is now a stone . . . . . . . . where I once had a heart .
But inside this old carcass . . A young guy still dwells,
And now and again . . . . . . . my battered heart swells
I remember the joys . . . . . . . . . . . I remember the pain .
And I’m loving and living . . . . . . . . . . . . . life over again .
I think of the years all too few . . . . . . gone too fast .
And accept the stark fact . . . . . . . . that nothing can last .
So open your eyes, people . . . . . . . . open and see..
Not a crabby old man .   Look closer . …. . . see . . . .
. ME!!

Remember this poem when you next meet an older person who you might brush aside without looking at the young soul within . . . . . we will all, one day, be there, too!
PLEASE SHARE THIS POEM
The best and most beautiful things of  this world can’t be seen or touched . They must be felt by the heart . 

God Bless

This is a Free Country

by Trudy A. Martinez
Because that is so,
I have a right to my view,
And you have a right to yours.
Because I am free,
We agree to disagree,
And debate to no avail.
Because that is so,
It is my decision to lean-to or fro,
To the right or to the left
Or somewhere in between.
Freedom reigns,
But when I leave this world
The destination,
whether it be heaven or hell,
Is neither your decision nor mine.
As that decision and destination
Is predestined and determined
by someone else!
Trudy A. Martinez 

The Core of Truth

by Trudy A.Martinez

Getting to the core of the Truth is like peeling an onion.

As you peel away the dead skin,

You may feel a little tinge.

However when you slice/chop to get to the center of the matter,

So you may savor the flavor,

The tinge begins to sting as tears swell.

Seeing through the tears is difficult

Because everything is out of focus,

Causing us to dwell on the effects of an action,

Instead of waiting to savor the flavor we originally sought.

Trudy A. Martinez aka: GramaTrudy

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Two Puzzling Pieces

By Trudy A. Martinez

Did you ever meet two who were as different as night and day

Yet fit better together than not?

gramatrudy-

Here is just such a pair.

Two sisters with different color hair.

One blonde.  One brunette.

One with eyes of blue.

The other with eyes of brown.

One wears mostly a smile.

The other boasts mostly a frown.

gramatrudy-

Together they are like two fish in the sea,

Puckered up,

Looking for fun,

Playing make-believe.

 –gramatrudy-

They climb a special tree

And dangle with their cousin – – out on a limb;

Because Grama’s tree is their favorite place to be.

They’re sisters.

They are best friends.

They tell each other secrets when ever they can.

Sandra B.-

The eyes give a glimpse of a story.

No one else can hear.

It is a secret between two sisters.

A sound leaves the lips of one;

It goes into the ear of the other.

  Sandra B.

Once received, a lasting impression remains in all its’ glory

For everyone to see and wonder.

Why the wink?  Why a wide eye?  Why a grin?  Why the tongue on cheek?

My goodness!

What a juicy puzzle!

I’m left to wonder:  What can this secret be?

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