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First Love

by Wayne Edwards

On my first day of class
I knew she’d be my girl.
Those dimples and her smile
And that bouncy little curl.

The other boys just melted
And turned to mushy goo
But I was sophisticated,
I knew just what to do.

On the kindergarten playground
I’d let her know I’d picked her.
She smiled and took my words away,
So I ran, but first I kicked her.


My First A

by Wayne Edwards

I thought I’d get a “C”
Instead I got an ”A”
Now I’ve got the giggles
I don’t know what to say.

It’s such a lovely thing
I’ll hold my “A” up high
I’ll float away with it
And ride it to the sky.

I know what Dad will say,
“If A’s are so much fun,
Then you should try real hard
To get another one!”


Do You Love Me?

by Wayne Edwards

The day we got married
I told you so…
If anything changes
You’ll be first to know.


The Rose was my first love poem. The story on which it is based was sent to us by a friend; best of all, it came just in time for Valentine’s Day.

Ruth sent the poem out in her Valentines and I was overwhelmed by the responses. I hope that you get just as much enjoyment out of reading The Rose. It always seems to me that stories improve when put to rhyme. Maybe it’s just because so much thought has to be put into each line to carry out the rhythm and make the necessary words rhyme.

As I see it, the moral of the story is to follow your heart but take care of your commitments first. If our hero had followed his dream girl but without the rose to give her, he would not have measured up to her expectations though he may well have won her in the end.

The Rose

by Wayne Edwards

It was in a used bookstore,
In a book he’d gone to buy,
The comments he read, in the margins,
Would put tears in a cynical eye.

In lines any author would envy,
She had penned her concepts of life.
Her words showed such inner beauty,
They cut through his heart like a knife.

He vowed he would find this woman
Whose writing still burned in his heart.
But how could he keep such a vow,
He didn’t know where he should start.

In the margin, on one of the pages,
He found his first tiny clue.
In a line, she referred to herself
And said that her nickname was “Brew.”

And then, on the very last page,
The name and address of a friend.
He sent her his heart in a letter,
How he’d found the lines she had penned.

With a kiss and a prayer he had mailed it,
His chances were slim he well knew.
He wrote on the back of the envelope,
“Will you forward this letter to Brew?”

It was then fate dealt him a blow
That the Devil himself must have crafted.
A government telegram came,
With a notice that he had been drafted.

A whole year of training and moving,
Then a letter had reached him in ‘Nam.
From her, the girl in the margin,
Forwarded there to him by his mom.

No lines that he could concoct
Could match what she wrote to him.
It filled his whole day with joy
Which no war or fighting could dim.

They wrote back and forth to each other,
‘Til each knew the other by heart.
She insisted that looks didn’t matter,
No pictures exchanged from the start.

The comfort they felt with each other,
Their thoughts in perfect coherence;
A love that they both agreed
Transcended all personal appearance.

Then his enlistment was over.
If his heart could withstand the strain,
They would meet in Grand Central Station,
Where she would arrive by train.

Just how would he know his beloved
With crowds of people so great?
“No picture,” she still insisted,
“Just be there, and don’t be late.”

He asked what she would be wearing,
“Just tell me what color your clothes.”
She said they would know in their hearts
and she would be carrying a rose.

He arrived there two hours early,
This is the day they would meet.
So long he’d dreamed of this day
With plans just how they would greet.

He knew her the second he saw her,
Perfection from head to her toes.
His heart, overwhelmed by her beauty,
But where had she hidden the rose?

Her perfume engulfed him in passing,
Her countenance bouncy and gay.
He knew he was smitten forever,
When she whispered, “Going my way?”

It was then that he saw the woman
Watching them in quizzical pose;
No beauty, but eyes that showed depth,
And she was holding a rose!

His anguish a burden too great,
His vision was walking away.
But the love he had shared with this woman,
No doubt where his future lay.

With feet like lead, he approached her
To take her in his embrace.
“Hey guy, I don’t think I know you!”
But a smile was crossing her face.

“The girl who just passed you by,
Asked that I give this to you.
She said she would wait in the lobby
And that you would know what to do.”

“She said no love could be greater
And told me just how she knows,
Your souls were meant for each other.
She knew you would bring her this rose.”


In “And Her Cat Too,” I’m not suggesting that all little brothers and sisters hate each other. I know too many examples that would beg the opposite. There is, however, some degree of sibling rivalry in every multi-child family. One of the first words kids learn is, “Mine,” followed soon after by, “That’s not fair.”

As every cat must know, little boys love to tease cats. In this poem the little boy has proposed a plan for getting rid of both of his antagonists.

And Her Cat Too

by Wayne Edwards

Sister’s cat is a real ratfink
No matter what she tries to say,
‘Cause when I make a small mistake
The stupid cat gives me away.

When I broke Dad’s model airplane
And tried to claim that it was her,
She ran and jumped up in Dad’s lap
And won him over with a purr.

Dad said eggs make cats’ fur shiny.
So why waste a good rotten egg?
The stupid cat ran in the house
And rubbed it off on Mama’s leg.

I want to warn you so you’ll know,
My little sister is a brat;
But I will give her to you free
If you will also take her cat.


When I  was a boy, long before the days of political correctness, the ultimate gift for a boy was a Red Ryder B-B gun. When you got your first B-B gun you felt you were ready to take on grizzly bears.

After my first day of big game hunting, in Houston, Texas, my mother told me that I had shot things that I shouldn’t have and took my B-B gun away from me for a week. That was one of the longest weeks of my life. When I asked her how she found out, she said that a little bird had told her. Actually, I later found out that she had discovered the dead mockingbird.

In A B-B Gun For Christmas, the little boy has vowed revenge on the little snitch. Children should be taught at an early age that revenge is never a good thing.

A B-B Gun for Christmas

by Wayne Edwards

I want a B-B gun for Christmas.
When Mommy asked me why,
I didn’t tell the truth
But I didn’t tell a lie.

When I do something bad
Mommy always seems to know.
When I ask her how, she says,
“A little birdie told me so.”

I want a B-B gun for Christmas
Now don’t you breathe a word.
The first thing that I’m gonna shoot
Is that rat-fink little bird.


At a recent workshop for authors, we were given fifteen minutes to craft a story using every word in a list of completely unrelated words provided by the instructor. I, of course, being the only poet in attendance, was expected by the others to write in rhyme.

The list of words made it a challenge for the ones who wrote in prose and doubly difficult for me to concoct a rhyming poem with good scansion. The list contained the following seven words; violin, wish, blackbird, maestro, saddened, ammunition and cobblestone. If you think that the poem you have just read is a little weird, you try to do better with this list of words, in just fifteen minutes. (Okay, so I had to use the title to get the one last word in.)

I Wish Blackbirds Would Just Shut-Up

by Wayne Edwards

A blackbird is the worst of singers,
In concerts he cannot join in.
He’s ridiculed at singing contests,
With his harsh voice he cannot win.

A maestro wished to help the bird
And purchased a violin for him.
The saddened blackbird soon found out,
Chance of success with it was slim.

A road of cobblestones nearby
Furnished him this intuition.
The rocks picked up along the road
Provided critics ammunition!


Birds of a Feather

by Wayne Edwards

Birds of a feather flock together.
But don’t you think it bizarre
How birds can determine, from high in the sky,
When they’ve flocked right over my car?


The Middle

by Wayne Edwards

When we go riding,
I can see the sky.
And sometimes the birds
That are flying by.

I can see the tops
Of the passing cars.
At night I can see
The moon and the stars.

I can see big trucks,
With things up on top.
Dad got a ticket
And I saw the cop.

So when someone says,
“Boy, did you see that?”
Of course I didn’t;
Not from where I sat.

It just isn’t fair
Because I’m little,
I always have to
Sit in the middle!


Bad Luck

Poor little woodchuck
Flattened by a pickup truck.
To you and me it seems bad luck;
But birds of prey had a feast today,
So, as for luck,
Just who can say?


Houseflies, Horseflies and Baseball Flies

by Wayne Edwards

Grandpa said he saw a house fly,
That’s the silliest thing I’d heard.
Grandpa likes to tease us kids,
Sometimes you can’t believe a word.

When I told him a house can’t fly,
He said he saw a horse fly too.
I know that when he teases me
The things he says aren’t always true.

I told my dad what Grandpa said,
About the things that he saw flying.
He said that they’re all kinds of flies
And maybe Grandpa wasn’t lying.

I got out my new baseball glove,
And saw the fun in Grandpa’s eyes,
When I said I was going out
To try to catch some baseball flies.


Horse Egg

by Wayne Edwards

He was struggling with an egg;
Too much weight for his small legs.
“It’s a horsey egg,” he said.
I said, “Horses don’t lay eggs.”

When I asked him where he got it;
He said, “Down at the stable”.
I said, “Horses don’t lay eggs.
A horse just isn’t able.”

He said, “I’ll keep it by my bed
Until my pony hatches.”
I said, “Horses don’t lay eggs,”
Then both of us heard scratches.

He said, “Dad, my pony’s hatching,
Can I keep it Dad, can I?”
I said, “Horses can’t lay eggs,
A horse wouldn’t even try.”

But even Dads are sometimes  wrong
We like to say, “Baloney”.
I know horses can’t lay eggs;
But he can keep the pony!

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The Poetry of Wayne Edwards