Shirley Petrandis began writing at the age of 5, when she started piano lessons and creating her own songs. Reading and writing, even at the earliest age, was one of her greatest delights and she spent many an hour curled up in her grandmother's upholstered chair reading anything and everything from The Old Man and The Sea to Great Expectations.
She has been writing poetry and lyrics nearly her entire life. Four years ago she began to enter the world of novel writing, and has one in final edits-- two other's still in the works. In addition, she quite often work with musicians, putting lyrics to their songs. Presently, some of her lyrics are climbing the charts with a European Band she was contracted to provide the lyrics for an entire album.
**Note: "A Father and his Son" was written for my father who is the greatest Dad in the entire world! "A Father and his Son" also won an editors choice award in 2007.
A Father and his Son
He stands aside and watches,
Amazed at what he sees.
A tiny image of himself,
The offspring of his seed.
Before he knows, a year has passed,
His child is now afoot.
Testing, tasting, exploring,
The how, when, where and what.
His little one is growing fast,
Already starting school.
The first day is the hardest,
For Dad to play it cool.
Anxiety at separation,
Most common, so they say.
For Dad it’s even harder,
To have his son away.
But soon he does adjust,
Falling into a routine,
Of school drop off and pick up,
And working in-between.
No sooner he can blink,
It’s graduation day,
With college on the horizon,
And no more time to play.
The next four years fly by,
In a crazy, hazy whirl,
Now his son is getting married,
To a very lovely girl.
Within a year or two,
Another joins the flock,
Dad is suddenly a Grandpa,
Babysitting round the clock.
Now the doctor tells him,
He has three months to live,
His body is worn out,
And has nothing left to give.
He spends the time remembering,
His life and gracious son,
Until he takes his last breath,
And joins his Dad, beyond.
©2007 Shirley Petrandis
____________________________________________________________________
***Note: "Sight Unseen" was written and 2006, and also won editor's choice award. This poem was written for a friend from college who never ceased to astound me with her ability to see better than I, in light of the fact she was blind.
Sight Unseen
In darkness, wide-eyed, she blinks and stares.
She feels the sun upon her bare.
They tell her of such things as sight,
Of color, depth, contrast and height.
But all she knows is what she feels,
And tastes and smells-- her senses reel.
With fingers that are like ten eyes,
She pokes and prods, and tests and spies.
She does not need to see to know
Who someone is or where to go.
She has memorized every step and sound,
Each person's voice-- every inch of ground.
She hears a smile and can smell deceit.
She can sense victory as well as defeat.
And just like you, she laughs and cries,
And sees, she does, but not with her eyes.
Copyright ©2006 Shirley Petrandis
- Related Videos
- Related Articles
- Ask / Related Q&A




WARFRONT
By: Satish Verma | 03/01/2010The spectre of falling towers in night unfolds in awe. A reclusive star rises in east at dawn.
VEILED INFERNO
By: Satish Verma | 03/01/2010Take it to the doors of heart: features are same, of whores and nuns.
DEATH’S WINGS
By: Satish Verma | 03/01/2010Tryst with enemy bakes the earth.
Paradise Lost: Analysis of Adam's fall
By: Rockwell Anyoha | 02/01/2010An analysis of Milton's epic poem, Paradise Lost. Explains the fall of Adam, including when and why he fell. Centered around one focus paragraph in Book IX.
GREEN NIGHT
By: Satish Verma | 02/01/2010Deep down thighs, unhoisted, what was there, harvesting the sperms? At dusk an inflorescence breaks into myriads of fireworks, wrecked apologia, interned unlikeness, insanity, kissing the goldenrod to start the flow of bare grief.
GENERATION
By: Satish Verma | 02/01/2010untouchable that bleeds, lonely in black sky, that haunting moon walks gingerly on quivering sea: lovers killed in shame in broad daylight by gunshots before a crowd; some possessed maniacs turning the clock back: history lets go the leaves, the autumn
LOCKED
By: Satish Verma | 02/01/2010Stealing stones from skinny faces snipers scratch the colors of a withered moon at night.
mirza ghalib still homeless
By: brij khandelwal | 01/01/2010mirza ghalib the doyen of urdu poetry even after more than 200 years does not have a proper memorial in the city of his birth