I'm sure this hill is where it stood.
Amazing shapes of stuccoed wood.
A glass-brick, neon stream-lined place.
As if it flew from outer space,
A swing band auditorium,
An Art Deco emporium,
When romance, innocent in pace,
From dancing to a teasing chase.
The town grew west in modern haste
And down it came, without a trace.
The war and culture's change in taste,
Predestined doom, the past erased.
The future sighs, with solemn face
The wrecking ball, the glittered waste
No plaque to read "Historic Sight".
The swirling dust, a dance goodnight.
Copyright © Gene Bourne | Year Posted 2014
Born American, sixth generation of great-grands all German,
not much liking sausage or sauerkraut, English speaking all the way,
except the Germany of my ancestry was fought over and broken
so I’m a bit of France, Germany, Poland, Hungary all the Holy
Roman empire, dissolved down, fought over, egotized, horrified
and remade Into some new state where English is as common as German.
We share a love of flowers in the face of cold and rain, I drink less beer
and wine, meet up somewhere, anywhere around the world on a beach.
From my parents and grandparents, I know to serve up too much food
seven sweets, seven sours and drink and whirl the night away to a band.
Hardworking sorts, unafraid of a little dirt, loving dirt, the turnover
and young sprout brought to fruit, wearing overalls and then washing up.
To sit before a pressed linen table cloth, served up on the finest china,
the cha in my father’s name, the uff da, and other exclamations.
The morning rosaries, the blessed churches where we give thanks for all good
and the setting aside of pride while we work together to make our food.
Sure there are aprons for cooking. Shorts for summertime. A dive into any pool.
What do I know of being German, not much, it's just somewhere in my roots.
Copyright © Sheri Fresonke Harper | Year Posted 2013
Strange or not
Odd and fun.
That’s not all
And still are
Strange and odd.
life is life.
Not is lies.
Truth seeps from
Lies, lies, lies
Move, move, move
Lies are life.
Lies are death.
Lies are homes.
Lies are pain.
Lies are truth.
Truth is life.
Truth is death.
Truth is home.
Truth is pain.
Truth is lie.
Truth is that.
Lies will die.
Lies will cease.
Truth will live.
Truth will be.
Copyright © Layla Elkoulily | Year Posted 2013
Now that I'm retired
And know I can't be fired
I'll do anything I damn well please
And I don't give a hoot
Who hears me when I toot
For I have grown acustomed to the cheese
Old women and old men
As they grow nearer their end
Really just don't care what people think
Say and do what's on their mind
For as they age they find
They kinda like to raise a little stink
Copyright © mike dailey | Year Posted 2012
How can I be proud of the things you have done?
The mistakes you have made?
How can I be proud of the things you regret?
The things you too would rather forget.
The memories that haunted you and drove you to drink?
Your daughter, my mother taught me to forgive,
How, faced with adversity, she taught me how to live
She showed how love and forgiveness could always conquer all,
Her wisdom showed me clearly, mistakes are made by all
The man I knew as opa, was frail and weak and lonely
He bought me a silver ring, made a speech at my wedding
Each day burdened with regrets, he faced his demons daily
Until they took him to the darkest places, where he stood alone.
So perhaps I judge too harshly, choices I have not faced
When I reminisce about my time, I know I too
Will have regrets, and hope
That future generations will forgive,
With the clarity of hindsight those paths I preferred not to tread
Copyright © Huberta van Akkeren | Year Posted 2015
Swish thud goes the pendulum,
Giving every second significance,
With each moment as important.
Taking me into myself, for myself,
Able to access my abstraction,
Feeling my own presence positively.
The beats remind me of my heartbeat,
There, but not visible: just by intelligence;
Only these clocks emphasise the seconds.
Tradition can stink, but here it settles:
The invention suffices to help me think,
And ponder on my whereabouts.
The anchor escapement mechanism transcends,
Slowness for me to grasp various possibilities,
Ramifies that there are ways of leaving.
Of leaving the said, the ornate and the strict:
The old can often aid departure even from them,
As given, never to be claimed by anyone.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015
I do not know?
A pleasant meadow with rows of stones
Not of Nature but chiseled by men
Each one has a story, a meaning
Thousands of stones sharing their stories
Each one lovingly kissed with floral lips
Yet I easily find that one I seek
Its story speaks to me as no other can
My grandfather calling my name
I clean his stone and bid him farewell
As I return to the world I wonder
Is he proud in Heaven
Of the man whose tears now flow?
Copyright © Vandy Saylors | Year Posted 2006