H. Nelson Fitton Alexandria, Virginia

Life without poetry would diminish my love affair with the language and my level of awareness. It is in the glory of words and how they are shaped for their beauty, vibrancy, music, delight, and power that compel me to probe the mysteries of poetry. In that effort, I try to capture the heart and mind of the common reader. I always hope that objective will reveal new epiphanies for me and the reader. As a Fellow in the Society for Technical Communication, I know the language of precision, and as a poet the language of emotion. Combining both, I always seek the magic that poetry can achieve.

Nursing Home I often saw her sitting so fragile, Condemned by the court of time, In that place of broken bodies and minds, Where all that's left is the dimming past. Only the routine needs would interrupt The solemn silence brooding over her And would break into her reveries That mourned the family ties, now foreclosed. I would see her lift her drooping head, Her sweet face belying her sad eyes, And slowly raise a groping hand As if searching for someone not there. No children, no grandchildren with other concerns, Were ever there for her groping hand. Not a kiss, not an embrace, not loving words To ignite the waning light in that sweet face. Now when I pass her empty room, I mourn her and opportunities lost To have comforted her as a new friend And been there for her groping hand.

Flowers Plucked Too Soon The canons have thrust their last fusillade And the snapping sounds of rifles have abated After dispatching their lethal messages. Bodies, still strewn in their grotesque forms, Profane the earth where once pristine fields Flattered the eye to the far horizon. Now a deathly silence falls heavy here Upon a ghastly sight too often seen, Repeated ceaselessly from ancient times. In the silence of this numbing sight, We can hear the pleading echoes across time: Why? We were all of us flowers plucked too soon.

Senior Citizens Many think our sport is the rocking chair When we reach the age of medicare. Many say we're not where it's at When our muscles give way to fat. Many say we're in times undertow When our step has begun to slow. Many say we're growing senile When we talk of things erstwhile. Many say the mirror doesn't lie When we disdain those who quantify. To us it's become perfectly clear It's a fraud to measure age by year. So, what many say just ain't true; We're not facing our Waterloo. Yet when all is said and done, We say this to all and one: While we do not favor our rocking chair, We thank our stars for medicare.

All poems Copyright © 1996 H. Nelson Fitton. All rights reserved.