Share your photos,
videos, stories, poems and more.
Writing poetry is a great way to express your feelings on a topic you're passionate about. Send us your poems for a chance to be published in a future issue of Downhome.
If submitting a photo to accompany your poem, please remember to include names of any individuals pictured, as well as when and where the photo was taken. Include any other pertinent information you feel may be relevant for caption writing, should your submission be chosen to appear in a Downhome publication.
The girls of the 5 and 10
This poem was written 92 years ago by my husband's grandfather, M.W. Tatlock
hope you can use it.
The girls of the 5 and 10
Although a man advanced in years,
I still think fondly of the dears,
That's why my heart is always sore,
When leaving Woolworths well known store,
And the girls of the 5 and 10
How their sweet and tender glances,
Recall bygone days and dances,
Oh' those eyes and Oh' those graces,
Oh' those curls and Oh' those faces,
Of the girls of the 5 and 10
What makes ones heart beat wildly so,
While the goods they deftly show,
And our hearts they break also,
As though they were composed of glass,
Those girls of the 5 and 10
They sell of course all sorts of things,
Cups and saucers, threads and rings,
And many things I cannot see,
They if asked will find for me,
Those girls of the 5 and 10
But of all the things that store contains,
I think at least all men with brains,
Would very quickly make their choice,
And all would cry as with one voice,
"It's the girls of the 5 and 10"
So Alice dear you'll quickly see,
What it is that worries me,
Small wonder then I say with pain,
Oh that I was young again,
With those girls of the 5 and 10
T'was The Diet Before Christmas
I wrote this poem in 2004...Enjoy
T'was the night before Christmas, I crept through the house
And searched for the cookies, avoiding the spouse
I keep off the hall light and prowled round with care
Hoping my thighs wouldn't knock down a chair
My pup and my honey were asleep in their beds
While I was here tearing a lettuce to shreds
I tightened my girdle, pulled up my chin strap
Opened the fridge and began to unwrap
I moved the cheese over and pulled out a platter
while sticking my finger in cookie dough batter
When all of a sudden I had a hot flash
I practically lost the whole works in the trash
The breast of my chicken was white as fresh snow
I placed it right next to my big sloppy Joe
Oh look, peeked my wandering eye..over there
Nice cobs of corn, for my favorite reindeer
I had to be careful, yet, quiet and quick
'fore hubby would catch me with dear old St Nick
Of course there was no one else but me to blame
I chuckled and worked near the blue candle flame
âï¿½ï¿½Now sweetie, my darling, my sugar, my vixenâï¿½ï¿½
He'd say all of that if he'd catch me here mixin
He thinks there's no Santa, Ohhh nooo, not at all
He'll be here, I thought, as I strained my tea ball
I squeezed out the whipped cream, some squirt in my eye
How pretty it looked on my blueberry pie
I jumped to the stove top to check on the stew
Not missing a lick of my chocolate fondue
Tomorrow I'd carry the burden of proof
Tonight I 'm just gonna sit down here and wolf
I ate all the chocolates and cakes by the pound
A swig of fresh eggnog helped wash it all down
I found myself tired but had to stay put
And added some garlic to fresh ginger root
I whipped up some h'orsdoeurves and just set them back
I'll eat them at midnight if I get an attack
My eyes were all red from my 1st Bloody Mary
So full, when I burped, that I popped out a cherry
When just out of nowhere I heard a "Hello"
I nearly 'bout choked on my gob full of dough
âï¿½ï¿½Any for me, dear ?âï¿½ï¿½ he smiled through his teeth
âï¿½ï¿½Shhhâï¿½ï¿½ I said, âï¿½ï¿½quiet, and have you a seat.âï¿½ï¿½
âï¿½ï¿½Been waiting here for you, here's stuff from the deli
And some of the cheese that you like, good 'n smelly.âï¿½ï¿½
âï¿½ï¿½Eat up now,âï¿½ï¿½ I whispered, âï¿½ï¿½ Got the place to ourselves
Oh yes here's some cookies for your Keebler ..uh elves.
Here's you some roast beef, and fresh sandwich spread
Hurry now, so I can creep back into bed.âï¿½ï¿½
âï¿½ï¿½Yes, thanks for the lunch,âï¿½ï¿½ he gave a sweet smirk
âï¿½ï¿½I'm full but it's time that I get back to work.âï¿½ï¿½
He put up his finger, wiped cream off my nose
Kissed my cheek, passed me his usual white rose
He looked me all over and gave a low whistle
âï¿½ï¿½Girl, your still so pretty, like the down of a thistle.âï¿½ï¿½
I heard him exclaim as he rode out of sight
âï¿½ï¿½I'll see you next year...If you're up for a bite.âï¿½ï¿½
All life's journey; a long, convoluted road,
Deeds; voice; once planted, too late; well done?
Thus commenced, consequently to be ultimately sowed.
Grown then sowed, hence then only to reap,
Thus harvested, forever, to remember when?
Can't hide, as sand, through open fingers seep.
Now the first and then Many trivial Innocent little Lies,
The snubbed expectations, that to do little to no harm?
The result that snowballs and precious trust erodes and then dies
Evoked forever then, one's song, or one's sin,
The endeavors, foul, or fair, even to be considered?
Suppressed not, to be called up by folk and all kin.
Surviving life, as though there's no tomorrow,
Actions done, eyes shut, fully ignored?
Living life, disgorging callous inflicted sorrow.
Conceded never wrong, never remedied correction,
Who then be vanity's only perceived true love?
That of a poor fool perceived in a watery mirrored reflection
Only some still go on and on some still go
Venal feats done; no shame, no regret?
Mayhem; that consequence of a tempest's blow
Many personal trials possessed by own heart's fired,
Near finished, now false piety the Almighty's mercy asked?
But one's own heart, Forgiveness must be truly desired
Every dishonest action, in others memories forever set
Reminisced of the immoral or the decent?
Remembered with fondness, love, or recalled regret
After one's spell, personal recollected memorial to leave,
Soul's celebration of life's love, compassion and joy?
Or consumed time, wasted effort, all spent to deceive
Until only to be remembered by the conflicts so jaded,
Eventually to be recollected sarcastically in passing?
Eventually, the memory in time perhaps will have blissfully faded
I don't remember Daddy well,
He left when I was four
To cross the cold Atlantic wide
And fight the great World War
I have his faded photographs
And letters that he wrote,
With shells exploding overhead
On battlefields remote.
The words are plain and simple
As he tries to reassure
My mother of his safe return
To leave her never more.
But, late one cold October day,
There came a sudden knock,
And somehow mother seemed to know,
I still recall the shock.
They'd fought their way up Juno Beach,
And liberated France,
Where snipers' bullets took Dad's life
While trying to advance.
He was interred beside his friends,
Near where he fell, they say,
Then, ten years on, with broken heart,
Dear mother passed away.
She ne'er forgot him, never wed,
And death could not erase,
The smile of calm serenity
That creased her quiet face.
Somewhere they're together now,
Where war can never be,
And pain and suffering are no more,
Their love is full and free.
Remembrance isn't just a day
For those who paid the price.
Our freedom is the constancy
For which they gave their life.
N, stands for Newfoundland, an island in the sea, Where there are many people who mean the world to me. Now on the island there stands a village hidden deep in Trinity Bay, The little village of Elliotts Cove, Which i remember well to this very day. Although i went to Toronto when i was very young,I am always in high spirits when i decide to come. I fished in the cold waters of the tiny bay, Where i jigged my first cod, Which i am proud to say. Now when i grow older and decide to settle down, I will make homestead in this little town.
The Alzheimer Unit
What do you see when you enter this place?
The shuffling gait, the vacant face?
"Terrible, terrible" most people say
"Life shouldn't have to end this way."
But in each dark and damaged brain
A wealth of memories still remain
of lives that were lived to the full extent
And that is where their days are spent.
A mother remembers the children she had
The beautiful babies, their proud young dad.
Watching them grow, the boys straight and tall
The girls in their beauty, loving them all.
Cleaning the house, washing the clothes
Busy all day, no time for repose
The dinners she cooked, the socks she knit
All the hard work, never minded a bit
Picking berries up on the hill
In golden September with the air so still.
Filling the buckets up to the brim
with Mary and Bill, Joe and young Jim.
The old man remembers his days on the sea
Catching the fish, a mug up of tea.
The sight now dim, but eyes blue as ever
That scanned the sky for signs of weather.
Going into the woods on a winter's day
With his faithful horse, he called her May.
Cutting the wood and hauling it home
He had no help, he did it alone.
Back to the house, where the fire is bright
The lamps are lit against the dark of night.
The new baked bread with its wonderful smell
The children are home and all is well.
Some we call "Nan" or "Pop" each day
No disrespect, it's the Newfoundland way.
These names of endearment, we use to our own
Makes them remember grandchildren, now grown.
The children visit, the roles are changed
The pattern of life now re-arranged.
The child is the parent, the parent the child
The bond is still there, the love not spoiled.
So they live in their memories of days long past
And when their lives are over at last.
May they go to that place where happiness reigns
And all the memories are real again.
The Fiddle And The Rose
A fiddle and a withered rose hang side by side on my wall
The one is cracked, the other faded, but both have tales to recall.
Of better days and simpler ways when cries of joy rang true
And an old friend's fingers 'teased the strings' and the bow followed through.
He's been gone for many a year, that fiddler loved by all
We hardly ever hear his name, but his music we recall.
Often his fiddle was played on the porch, where roses grew nearby
And so I hung both on the wall, that's the reason why.
And every time I see that fiddle holding hands with the rose,
It brings back golden memories, so clearly no one knows.
When his sad slow tunes brought a lump to your throat, and a teardrop to your eye.
And tugged at the strings of your heart sometimes, enough to make you cry.
Oh how he used to pack the hall, whenever he did play
I can almost see those happy faces, though oh so far away.
Hands did clap and toes did tap and at one of his final shows
Onto the stage a young girl tossed the fiddler, one red rose.
When the fiddler died he left behind his legend and his fame
And when his fiddle was given to me, I promised I'd keep his name.
In a special place upon my wall, in view for all to see
The bow and the fiddle, and one red rose to the fiddler's memory.
And when people see them hanging there, many a question showers
And I answer them and tell them 'bout those happy bygone hours.
I wrote this poem for a class of artist now so scarce and rare
From a former time when people lived it seemed, without a care.
So listen on a quiet night when the air is crisp and clear
And maybe, if you try real hard, their music you will hear.
May this bring back sweet memories to folks that fiddler knows
And maybe even a smile or tear, for the fiddler and the rose.