*GRANDMA WAITS IN THE GARDEN*
Hi, grandpa it's me again!
Your dentures sit in an open glass
Do you remember the tears grandma sang before she passed?
The way she looked into your eyes,
Moments before she said her goodbyes
Grandpa, I found a note from grandma, she doesn't want you to cry.
Hi grandpa, it’s me again!
The rocking chair is old and dusty
Do you remember the way grandma sat me on her lap?
Read many stories before I took a nap
How she enjoyed brushing my hair with her hands
Love the way she rocked me to sleep every night until I grew.
I stored your hearing aid away
Do you remember that special musical box in grandma's drawer?
I opened it last night, to watch the ballerina dance
I wish you could hear the tiny chimes grandma lived in
I hope you don’t mind, I’m keeping grandmothers favorite scarf.
I'm caressing grandma’s picture frame
Do you like the way she looked in that pretty sundress?
Grandpa, I miss the things grandmother did for you
I like the walking stick she handcrafted, the day your needed support
It kept you in balance every time we took long hikes in the woods.
Hello grandpa, it's me again!
Here I sit holding your hand
I have no more tears
Soon you will see grandma
Please tell her hi, and I know you will be there the day I die
Give grandma a kiss, and tell her I miss her
Sitting here, on these old porch steps, that I have always known
A weathered stoop, with gray-painted floorboards
The creaks and groans, the flaws and chips, so familiar to my hand
I've come to some conclusion,
and I'm surprised to understand,
how well I know each board, each slat,
the shape, the size, the warps, the cracks
each rusty nail, ....
but not the facts of you.
Oh yes, ........I've seen a glimpse or two,
in photographs, I have a few...
I see a robust man, in yellowed hues, of vintage stock...
There's a house, a barn, where land is strewn with stones to move.
You stand behind a horse and plow, in coveralls,... a mustache too .
I do recall, so vaguely gray, as gray as slats beneath my hand...
a jolly man, your wrinkled face,
with a smile, a laugh, a loving way
A dream I have, or is it real?
Is that me when I was two? Sitting here, beside you then?
Or is it just my wish to know... more than just a trace of you?
I never knew the man you were, your hopes your dreams...
the thousand schemes that brought you to these rocky slopes
so far from where your hopes began
Where those steep cliffs rose and the seas were blue.
Here, I look beyond these furrowed rows,...
where grasses grow in amber waves
and I ponder how it came to be....
that I am me,....
who came from you;
a man I never knew.
(To watch the youtube video recitation:)
I might make a noise right now
There will be a time when I go silent
Will you miss my racket?
In those days of silence?
I will no longer yearn for your presence
Like I do at this very moment
Will you wonder?
Will you wish?
For that good morning?
I might be a nuisance right now
I might ask you the same thing over and over
My voice will go silent
All I ask today is be patient with me
Please love me; with your ears
Please love me; with your time
Before all you will have
Is my grave and the memories…
"Thoughts of the aged - loneliness don't discriminate "
A little girl full of life
With so much love for her papa
It was love at first sight when papa laid eyes on her at her birth
Being her nanny papa never laid her down but cradled her in his arms until it was time to leave
He was mama until she was two
When he would say “No, “Papa”
She would say, “No,” Mama”
He taught her to ride her first tricycle
He taught her to throw her first ball
He helped her with her homework when she started school
Once in a while she calls and asks “Papa would you come to school today and have lunch with me.”
And of course Papa cannot say no to his little girl
Her first baseball game was a t-ball team of all boys and one girl of course she out shined them all and took home the winning game ball
The next few years she’s made the all –star softball team
At eight years old now coaches are watching her to get her on their team
By Eve Roper
Irony cries out in Boulet’s rendering.
Elderly Native American’s stern expression
seems captured beneath eagle’s wings.
Symbol of power and freedom,
mighty bald eagle was chosen by European ancestors -
United State’s national symbol.
Yet independence for all was denied.
Tribes seeking only to preserve
their culture, their way of life,
were undeservingly imprisoned on reservations.
Stifled was freedom’s speech.
Let the eagle’s voice be heard;
toleration of injustice carries harsh consequences.
Spread your wings, powerful bird,
restore harmony to land seduced,
Transmit tribal elders’ timely message.
Human annihilation’s path is cruelly carved
when animals and plants face extinction.
Mounds of trash blister our land;
parched prairies struggle to support life.
Sorrowful cries of dying species
echo through stripped land,
causing songs of despair to resonate.
Grandfather, speak with eagles;
others appear deaf to your wisdom.
*Written October 15, 2014 and dedicated to late artist Susan Seddon Boulet, whose 2003 painting “Grandfather Speaks with Eagles” is but one of many pieces that evoke emotional response.
He was always so happy
strong and bold.
He'd give you the shirt off of his back.
He had a rough life
growing up through the depression,
but like he always does,
he got through it.
He has two boys, of whom he is so proud.
Moved from Regina, to Victoria.
He had the best life anyone his age could have wanted.
But ever since his wife died,
he has not been the same.
But like he has always done,
he got through it.
just a little forgetful.
That's how it always starts out...
But like always, he powered through it,
He is not the same person that I used to know.
He been sentenced to the prison in his own mind.
Possessed by the thoughts of his dogs ashes.
He likes to play the blame game,
but we know he doesn't remember that it was him.
He wakes up in the night
shaking with pain,
tears streaming down his face.
There is nothing we can do,
Two more tylenol.
Hold on to hope
for as long as you can,
It's only a matter of time now.
He gets vocal, a very loud tone.
He'll block you in your room
and make false accusations
But we know that it's the pain induced monster in him.
Tick tock, tick tock...
You can't handle the stress anymore
you have to leave.
Just hope for the best,
maybe it will get better.
Surprise, it doesn't.
Your denial is foolish, everyone knows
what happens next.
All results of
They fought the tide to own this land
A fight I did not understand
They fought the plow, they fought the drought, they fought the debt
But yet,…by God,……they owned the pride
In retrospect, I'm still ashamed
It was, my flippant pilgrimage
I had come a stranger to this place
About to step upon the moon,
A cratered space of rocks and sage
Of rolling hills, with no escape
She saw it differently, of course
Although her body weary, worn
Her eyes were strong, ...she saw a home
Her age was then, what mine is now
It had been her home, and it had been her vow
To come again, just one more time.
I was thirteen, and dragged along
I overlooked the great attraction
I could not see the satisfaction
I missed the light upon her face
She saw the youth she left behind
Her gray eyes drinking up the sun,
I saw the dust, I saw the bones,
Where she saw beauty, I saw none .....
Nothing more than a sea of weeds, the crumbling brick,
A place to shuffle my restless feet
But stories came, and they sunk in….
And now I view with wiser eyes…
She told me all these things back then…but now, I smile,… remembering.
They had to fight to own this piece of land
They fought the plow, they fought the drought, they fought the debt
And yet,…oh yes,…….they owned the pride
Recited on youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAchI2nu9yY
For Deb's Contest:....2nd Option..(With age comes wisdom, understanding and
appreciation. I am never too old to keep learning
and value those who came before and made me
who I am.)
Wise Grandfather Shaman,
I am pure of Heart,
I bathe beneath the Moon,
and dry beneath the Sun,
I listen to the Wind,
I run with the Deer,
I hunt with the Wolves,
I fish with the Eagles and Hawks,
I ride with the Wild Paints,
And roam with the Buffalo,
I grow with Grandmother Tree,
Ever learning from her Wisdom,
I am skilled in Warrior Ways,
A strong Hunter,
A compassionate Listener,
A patient Tracker,
I have gathered with the other women,
Contributing to our tribes growth and strength,
I leave no tracks of moccasins in the soft clay,
My heart is pure,
And I wish to continue my journy,
Wise Grandfather Shaman,
Allow me to enter your lodge,
I will smoke from the sacred pipe,
My heart is pure.
Cranking that old wore-out handle on that ice cream maker, until I thought my
arms were going to fall off. Having a big smile on my face, as I turned and
turned, pushed and pulled on that old crank begging my big brother, the whole
time to “Spell me!” so I could set on an old rag on top of the ice, using my weight
(as it was) to hold that ice cream maker in place.
I remember my grandfather coming out of the house, out on the back porch. To
make sure my big brother and I was “Doing it right.” as if, there was a wrong way!
He made sure that we
had plenty of ice, plenty of rock salt. I can still see him sticking his little finger in
the weep-hole to make sure it didn’t get stopped-up. That was most important to
him, as he
always got the first bowl. I don’t know why? He clamed, he would get the first
bowl, to make sure that salt didn’t get into the mix. Funny to me, he never made a
salty face as he was eating that first bowl.
I remember, watching my grandmother making that “mix” she picked the
freshest eggs, measured just the right amount of vanillin extract, I loved the way
her kitchen smelled. I watched her chop the bananas peal the peanuts, stir it up
with the cream and sugar. She hummed “Old Rugged Cross” as she made that
sweet ice cream mix, it was as if she was having fun; like the turning of the crank
for us boys, work for sure but still fun!
I would eat light, as that banana-peanut ice cream cured while we had supper,
waiting for grandfather to finish his third helping, we had to wait, he always got
the first bowl, I don’t know why?
I wish I could look at a flower through your eyes
and discover why you are so fascinated by it.
I wonder why your eyes glisten
when you look at the stars,
and why you smile at the moon.
I wish I could find out what triggers you
to jump and skip, or giggle with glee
and I strain my ears to hear the silent melody
which causes you to break out in song.
I wish I could embrace someone so firmly
as you do when you jump up to greet me.
I wish I were like you when I was a child.
I just found out that you visited here
while I was away at work -
and that you left a few minutes before my arrival!
Ah! Your sweet presence
would have been such a balm
for my tired and aching body -
having traveled by bus, and train, another bus,
and then dragged for a thousand metres
through blustering winds.
And now I must find consolation
in the traces of your absent presence -
the imprints of your feet on the bathroom tiles,
and the faint lingering echoes of your laughter,
and the fading silhouette where you sat watching cartoons.
Although you live in my heart, I still miss you, sweet child!
Your first smile
wiped away the dust and mold
from the canvas of my soul
and your first laughter
splashed its bright colours
over dark and somber tones
and then you framed it
with a rainbow
created by the refracted light
of your transparent being.
Dancing all around
Frolicking through fields
Just like you!
He sits down in an ordinary chair
Painted a powder blue
The rounded back feels familiar
Much like his grandpa
Grandpa had sat on this same chair
Bounced him on his knee
Read him stories
It does not seem so very long ago
Time has a way of sneaking up on you
Now he's grandpa
Sitting in his favorite chair
This is really quite extrordinary
The Ordinary Contest
Sponsored by: Black Eyed Susan
You are the newest thread
in the tapestry of my life -
but now criss-crossed
with the vibrant strands
of your sister.
You, too, will be interwoven
into the fabric of my life
and be interlaced through
its brightness and hues
and be intricately entwined
and securely knotted
with one golden thread -
You are here!
And my heart rejoices -
For when you're near
Sweeter are all nature's voices.
Morning's glow seems brighter
While evening's shade has a softer hue.
Even life's burdens appear to be lighter
All because, sweet child, of you...
Grandpa’s collage holds beloved memories.
Black-and-white photographs of long ago
strewn with tape and paste amid the glossy
snapshots, shaping a man's love of family.
At first glance, one would think he created
his patchwork of pictures in haste. But come,
look closer; no image is placed by chance.
Each scene shares a story his hands retraced -
a joke, a kiss, a tear. See the toothless grins
of growing grandchildren with playful eyes,
the knowing looks of elders and the effortless
laughter of generations, dear faces missed.
All familiar faces except for only one -
the intruder with graceful features. Head held high,
she wears her smile unfazed. I search her dark eyes
for words unsaid, dazed. She is the grandmother
I never knew. Her portraits are puzzle pieces
that will never fit, but ones I cannot unglue
or ignore; my grandpa’s attempt of tying us
to a stranger. I love him more for trying…
For Craig Cornish's A Collage Held Dear Contest,
The Old Salt was a special man who came along in a time
when he was needed most.
A time that is now gone forever.
When men believed and sacrificed, when hero’s walked the earth in mass.
When patriotism was not just a word
by what men lived and judged the worth of each,
a man who lived a life most of us cannot comprehend.
An era now gone as this warriors tour of duty ends at this station,
and begins anew in the heavenly fleet.
Sail on Sailor into your unaccompanied tour,
we salute you.
What greater honor, that when a man moves forward,
he leaves behind in each of us the best of what he was.
A defender, protector, supporter, victor, a warrior,
the last of the breed from an era when ships were made of wood
and men were made of steel.
The Old Salt has reported for duty that takes him away from us for now.
Those of us who remain behind,
remember, and will continue to remember,
because he now resides forever in our hearts.
As I look up at night, I envision The Old Salt,
a beret draped just above the eye,
as he draws upon his pipe,
quietly he waits.
The guardian of heaven’s gate.
Let another sun set,
Let another flower wilt,
Let another autumn cast its gloom,
Let another tear role,
As ye part, and bid
The final adieu.
St. Stephen’s college
If I Could Have Gotten Your Embryo
Before You Were Born
I Would Have Sheltered You Safely
and Protected Your Form ...
I'd Have Put You In My Womb
& Flowed You Knowledge Like In A Tubric
& Patted My Expanding Belly
As I Played You Music
And As You Got Ready
To Arrive From The Birth Canal
You Would've Known My Breasts
Would Be Ringing Like Welcome Bells! ...
Eager To Suckle You
Breast Feed My Own Flesh & Nourish
So You Could Grow Strong
... In Love's Encourage
I Would've Held You In Wonder
& So Close Tenderly
Amazed At This Little Bundle,
Breathing, Piece of Me ...
And When You Turned One
Or As You Sucked Your Thumb
Or Eating Baby Food Jars of Plums
... I'd Have Given You Trumpets & Drums
... And Building Alphabet Blocks
& Superman Capes
& Stuffed Teddy Bears
& Oatmeal Cookies & Grapes
I'd Have Read You Stories
From Capt. Adventure Books
You'd Have Known You Were Loved
By My Proud Mama Looks
I'd Have Spent Time With You
Showing You How To Tie Your Shoe
Rocked You If You Caught The Flu
or Any Sniffles You Went Through ...
I Would Have Played With You
& Prayed With You
From Crawling To Walking
Paved The Way For You
Yeah, I Would Have Fussed At You
& When Needed Even Spanked You Too
& I'd Meant: This Hurts Me More Than You
'Cause You're The Little Symbiot, Mama Grew
So, You Would Have Known
You Were Loved & Treasured
You Would Have Known
Your Worth Couldn't Be Measured
Nor Compared To Anyone Else
At Any Point In Time
'Cause You Are The Best
Because You Were "Mine"
* * * * * * *
But I Never Knew You
But Believe Me If I Had ...
I'd A Made Sure You Had
A Loving Mom & Dad
And You Would've Never Been Abused
Or Treated Bad ...
But From Now On Find Your Joy
To Replace What's Sad
Written & Copyrighted ©: 9/12/2013
by: MoonBee Canady
Hell hath no replete replica like an Ohiohell
memom memoboys dispelled with lovelessloss lorn laments
measured in misgiven gravid neutral grautities of cool compromised cruel
capsid cascades of dreary demented drowsy dump deep demented deny desires
with wilfull wallowing in unsupposed not to be here
herein two boys born to a numbnuts army husbodad and a
WTF what is happening in/outside this family 50's acircle
what comes next in the uneducated female nonintuition of a
deaddad accidential with a pity piss payoff and a whatdoIdo anal attitude
totally in reverse of an arkansas hope of upheaveal. GDMFSOB, who could I/we haVE
BeeN in the assinine scheme of things with someone in an intersomewhateducated semistate of minimal MFconsciousness. We play the hand we are dealt in the vast unscheme of unness.
WTF, and where/why does God take part and lessen a small boy's dream of donated dadhood by taking it away and leave him left to faulterflounder in a boyhood abyss. Dead, devoid, denied to the manmale circumstance of what the future folds to be delivered to doting descendents, like my three sons. with whom I struggled to
shower, impart, enable, enbibe, instill, foster, enliven, and all that I did not experience yet faux provide with an inner soulsense to a measured milestone of mannered man manufactured love and tendered texture of all mine to give with that that is mustered macro from a micro counteanace of humocapped coperal deliverance. All's fair they say unless u have been there and then it's every man for himself---and then, I dare u to get in my way---------no holds barred, look out for I am a survivor, all the way.
Hi, my name is Dave, and according to my grandparents, I wasn't supposed to live to be raised. Go figure.
Spread your wings, dear child, and fly
to where the green sea meets blue sky;
run on the crests of gentle waves
and grab the sunlight as it raves
about the brightness of the day;
float with the sea gulls as they sway
upon the friendly winds, and dive
with playful dolphins as they jive
in the cool waters of the bay.
Father’s Day Tribute to My Grandfather
Written on June 2, 2012
Updated on June 11, 2014
Resembling Groucho Marx as you aged,
I often found you dozing in
your favorite chair.
Perhaps, dreaming of your parents,
or when you arrived in America on Ellis Island
with your Mother and brothers?
Your tired skin was
a result of a working man’s life.
Your green tattoo on your arm
was a souvenir of your veteran status.
Always caring, you were the leader
of the team I was born into.
You protected the family psyche and integrity,
and wisely guided us with your voice of reason.
Even though you are no longer here in the physical world,
You are forever in my heart and soul.
I cry, I hold it in, I cry.
I hate the way I saw you tonight,
Wrapped up in wires,
Sleeping beneath the shut off lights,
But this is no sleep your in,
Its just a moment before your passing.
I will forever hold the memory,
Of slick juice upon my face,
Sweet clementines dripping down my cheeks,
And long stripped socks at Christmas.
I will look back and dream,
Of slim jims and chocolate milk,
Sitting at the bar,
The lights dimmed,
And Barbie stamps covering my pale skin.
When I was less than five years old.
I will never forget,
Sitting on your black leather couch,
And watching Mulan for the first time,
Or the love and surprise I felt,
When you bought it for me,
Because I loved it so much.
I will always remember,
Walking the small trail down from your house,
To go look at your Harleys,
And feed the little ducks,
Crumbs of bread,
Or a whole damn loaf if I really begged.
I will never forget the time,
When you handed me one hundred bucks,
Just for Graduating, not even at the top of my class.
When I tried to return it,
You insisted that you wanted me to keep it,
And I cried, I hugged you hard and felt your love,
Deep in the nether regions of my heart.
I will strive to remember,
The smell of beer and whiskey and cigars on your breath,
What a sweet smell that now seems,
And oh how I wish, you would have stayed for that bottle of wine,
Just stayed a little longer for all of your visits.
I will never forget how I felt when Grandma told me,
You served in the marines,
And I could not believe,
That those Santa Clause eyes,
Could be that strong and brutal,
When you were always so nice,
And I found for you a new respect.
I miss you so much,
As you lay in your bed,
Strung up with wires, and tubes and struggling,
To find your last breath.
I am crying, I cant hold it in.
Written by Gail DeBole on January 26, 2013
Whiskers and wisdom all in one.
Generously and gently protecting us.
Every grandchild thought they were your favorite.
You in your long johns at night.
Joking during the day like Groucho Marx.
Sleeping in your favorite chair.
Smoking smelly cigars that callously killed you.
And yet I treasure one of the boxes left from those smelly cigars.
The farm was not the same without you.
We were not the same without you.
I was too young to know.
Mother Nature has all but consumed
Their little graveyard by the sea, where
Sands bleached white, slide
Across the cemetery floor
Drifting like pale capsized hulls
Floating between tablets marking
The long forgotten dead
It was here, fifty two years ago that
I held my Grandfathers weathered hand,
More so for the want of a brace
Than the sympathetic touch of a Grandchild
My little hand lost to the wrist, gripped
By a generation lost to the elements
I watched him kneeling by their angled stones
Tracing their names; first his father’s father, then
The mothers, with a finger crooked by age
The sandstone letters crumbling in the wake of his trace
Grit sifting through his heavy fingers; history, being erased
Returning it back – to where it all began
I followed behind his shuffling shoes
Kicking up dust that settles on the bones of ghosts
My Grandfather’s voice lost to an ocean breeze
Is he speaking to the dead?
Whilst our shadows lengthen, then dwindle into dusk
I imagined, back then as I do now
Of a graveyard full of pirates and thieves
With their ship resting - just out there
~ At sea
But for the stout chimney and hearth, beyond the grounds
Baring testimony to pioneers that
Once toiled this barren coast and now
Standing defiant, resolute against the
Advancing flotilla of sand
He is buried just beyond the little graveyard
My Grandfather, next to my Grandmother
On his farm; or
His father’s farm before that
My farm now…
On a hill
Overlooking the sea, where it all began
8 Dec. 2014
It was a tin-roof wooden house standing
Across the red brick cobblestone street
Adjacent to a wide open field full
Of shady live oak and sweet smelling tangerine trees where
My father’s boyhood home was nestled
Quietly in his home town.
Often times we’d travel to visit
The grandparents still living there
In that Americana corner of our lives.
We didn’t know much of anything at all except
The sky was blue, love was true and we
Youngsters were the apples of the old folk’s eyes.
We’d sit for hours in white wicker rocking chairs
I helped paint one time with newspaper on the floor
And a horsehair brush grandma gave me
To teach me that painting needn’t be a lesson
In staying between the lines. “Sometimes,” she’d say,
“It’s better to let the paint flow
And speak for itself in time.”
And granddad liked to watch the sky – especially at night
When stars were burning bright and would point towards Polaris and say:
“Heaven’s over that a-way.” And during daylight hours
When storm clouds appeared and we could hear
Thunder and lightning all around, he’d laugh and dance
As if the circus were coming to town.
We watched mocking birds and blue jays flying in and out
Of all the tree top branches and leaves singing
Their love making lullabies to us and one another and then
As quickly as they arrived,
Disappeared into the wind.
It seems we’re not much different
Rather family, foe or friend.
Accordingly, the old house still stands today
But the dear old folks have slipped away.
Perhaps to the place once pointed to
High above that night sky view
Where comets roam and grandpa liked to call “Up yonder,”
Leaving me with thoughts of gold
And memories made to ponder.
Just down the road there is a cemetery
for World War One vets and for them only.
It is not quite full and it never will be.
They are all dead now, everyone who served;
those who died young and those who survived.
My gramps is buried there; he survived the war
and lived to the ripe old age of ninety-five.
Gramps was wounded twice while he was there
by those he called “them damn stinking krauts”.
I still miss my gramps to this very day
and every now and then I will visit his grave
at the cemetery just down the road;
but not very often because each time I do
I break down and cry for he was not only gramps,
he was also my very very bestest friend.
When i was about 5 i was put in to a SRS. I was there tell i was 7 and when i got out i move to my grandma and grandpa. When i was 9 my older brother started to beet me up every day and all day long and then when the beating he was giving me stop working he started doing other thing to me. When i was 12 i losted my grandma and then my grandpa didn't want nothing to do with use and still don't. i took my brother *****tell i was 15 then started to beat on him. My brother put me in jail for a few year because if the *****he made me do now i am 21 and have losted and got back the girl that i love and care about her name is Holli Sczenski. Her family don't want use together so they are making her choose between them or me she dues not want to have to choose between use she loves use both and i know it and her family know it but there still doing it. On top of all that my own family is going throw somethings as while my mom is not doing vary good and we may or may not lost her in the next few years.
Upon his grandfather's rocking chair
on the porch in the cool crisp air
sits a man with a special gift.
For he can see the soul of a tree
within a piece of wood upon his knee.
His pile of cedar gives off a sweet smell.
He picks through the pieces, eyes closed,
his touch feels what is enclosed.
As if he were to reach within the wood
by pulling it apart from its protective bark
and removing what’s inside from the dark.
The Whittler will release this soul from its cage!
Each meticulous movement of the knife in hand
is meant to bring out something so grand.
After hours of work, fingers cramping into knots
the soul held within in this piece arose
to be a magnificent fully blossomed rose.
Beautiful just like the ones his gram
planted beneath her father's old cedar tree, by hand.
Adam Hapworth, With These Hands, 12/13/2013, Image #3