My daughter`s budgie "Sissie" died a late night
The next morning I told her that "Sissie" was dead
With tears on her eyes and cheeks, she asked her mom
- Is "Sissie" in heaven with God and grandmother ?
- Yes, she is with God, grandmother and the angels
I answer her
Surprised at this answer, my daughter investigate
whether it was true
She walks into the room where the cage with
the budgie used to stand
After a short while, she runs back to mom....
- Mom, mom.... God has not only taken "Sissie"
- God has taken the cage too
This is a true story - - - from gold child`s mouth
dedicated to: Laila A.Mjelde
A-L Andresen :9
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2012
I used to look at your wrinkly hands
And see the veins follow routes like a map
Your fingers shook like a spayed chihuahua on the piano keys
Demonstrating the chord in which I was supposed to play after you
I was thinking instead about the stool we were sharing
How old and fragile the wooden piece was
The green-blue floral padding faded and worn
The chipped, wobbly legs
That creaky sound when you repositioned...
And I was praying it wouldn't collapse under our bodies
Your voice was gentle and calm
Softly pushing me back to my practice
and my fingers played that bright G Chord
“Very good,” You praised with a smile
Your voice so small and lightly faded
But still loving and pleasant
You explained to me arpeggios and broken chords
And I was glad it was you explaining it
I remember yelling at my dad
And throwing a big tantrum over playing “Allouette”
His straight harsh voice cut my fingers off the keys
As he ordered me to pay attention
Watching his hairy fingers demonstrate the left hand
And then the right
Pressing loudly and ramming the song into my every being
And I remembered
I was never concerned about making him angry
I would laugh if he made a mistake in teaching
Or if he stumbled on his words - which was frustratingly rare
I would scream if he corrected me
And yet I was determined for his praise
That he never gave
Your son loved music like you
And he wanted me to love it just like him
In an annoyed kind of way, I obliged
But I would make him suffer for forcing it on me
Even if I couldn't deny it was something I would always love
We never have our piano lessons anymore, Grandma
But I will never forget how you taught me
That stool remains in the room
It hasn't been sat on for days
And it took far more than mere days
To receive from your son…true praise
But that’s okay
I will pray it collapses under his body
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2014
When the auctioneer first shows it,
I feel a sudden piercing shock.
My grandma's hand-sewn antique quilt
Is on the auction block.
It is the lovely basket pattern
And her stitches are so neat,
It must have taken tedious hours
For my grandma to complete.
I have taken such good care of it
Since my daddy left it to me,
And I wrapped up in it often
When the day was dark and gloomy.
Grandma sewed in her initials
And the year that she had made it.
One hundred-fifty-two years of wear and age
Couldn't help but start to fade it.
Grandma didn't know the fortune
That her hand-stitched quilt could bring,
When it was held up as an antique
In a future auction ring.
My heart is truly hurting
And I cannot stop the tears,
For giving up the treasure
I have loved for all these years.
Grandma made it for her hope chest,
While my grandpa was at war.
The year was Eighteen Sixty three.
My grandma was twenty-four.
But I know Grandma would agree with me,
That the life of our little Nell
Is worth more than a beloved quilt.
It is the right time to sell.
There is so much history going with it,
To this quilt's lucky buyer.
I hope he bids a hundred thousand.
Or if we're lucky, even higher.
For Auctioneer contest
100,000 dollars bid
Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2016
The story I have to tell- was told long ago to me,
About the creation of the Potawatomi Nation;
In the beginning the Creator made Anishabe,
And the Creator told Anishabe to name all of his creations,
Anishabe set out with a wolf, his companion,
And he went around naming everything;
From the mountains and the canyons,
To the Summer and the Spring;
He became lonely realizing, he alone had no mate,
And as he traveled everywhere searching,
He traveled towards the Great Lakes;
And there he heard a woman singing,
Her song was a thing of beauty,
About the home she was making for them;
Anishabe crossed the lake to meet her, finally,
The daughter of the Firekeeper-And quite a gem
Their’s was the first unity bond, It is where life came from;
Of each other they were inordinately fond;
Their union gave life to four sons,
Each of their sons went a different way,
The First son traveled North, it’s color is White, henceforth;
Given the first gift of the Creator-sweet grass-braided in a bouquet,
He married the daughter of the Spirit of the North;
The second sun traveled East, into the rising sun,
He learned that fire is the essence of life;
He was given the second gift-herbs to speak with the One,
East is the color Yellow, East’s daughter became his wife;
The third son traveled South, known as “The Way of The Woman”,
The way of seeds and all that give life, the color of South is Red;
He was given the gift of cedar-to purify and prepare food for his clan
And to the daughter of the Spirit of the South he was wed.
The last son traveled west, towards the mountain highlands,
He learned that the setting sun represents the circle of life;
Black is the color of West-Sage was the gift for his hands,
Married to the Spirit of the West’s daughter, Black stands for strife.
This is the story of the Creator, That my Grandmother told to me,
How my culture was started, And what our banner means.
~I've been holding on to this a while-Hope you enjoy the beginning of my culture~
~3rd Place in the "Broad Horizons" Contest by Deborah Guzzi~
Copyright © Tirzah Conway | Year Posted 2010
My grandfather and I had a special relationship.
When I was young we lived near his home in Baltimore. But, my family moved away from
Baltimore when I was five and we lived most of my life in another state far away from my
grandfather. Whenever he called, however, I was the one grandchild he always wanted to
talk to so we could discuss his beloved Baltimore Orioles. I was the one grandchild who
followed sports closely and always remained a true Baltimore sports fan.
Later in life, I learned that my grandfather was actually a gifted baseball player himself when
he was young. In those days, he would explain, professional baseball players did not make
enough money to support a family so he had to make up his mind to either play baseball or
get married and raise a family. As it turned out, his love for baseball was only surpassed by
his love for my grandmother and, although he hung on to the newspaper clippings that
labeled him a “can’t miss professional baseball prospect”, he hung up his cleats and glove,
married my grandmother and went out to find a “real” job.
But his love for the game survived and year in and year out, he and I discussed the
intricacies of the game and enjoyed or lamented each baseball season based on the
successes and/or failures of the Baltimore Orioles. As crummy as the Baltimore bums are
today, I was fortunate enough to experience and share many more successful seasons than
poor ones during those limited years that I shared life with this amazing man.
I always felt sorry for my grandfather, considering him a victim of poor timing. Had he
been born about 50 years later in life, he would not have had to pick between being a
baseball player or earning a living – in fact, with his talent, he could have earned a much
better than average living while enjoying the one thing he loved most in life.
When my grandfather passed away, I was sure that he was joining a heavenly nine to once
again strap on his spikes and don the leather. Without a doubt, they must play baseball in
heaven. And I wait for the day that I sit in the heavenly bleachers and cheer on a young
grandfather playing this wonderful game with other boys of summer.
(Inspired by, “is there baseball in heaven”, by Constance, A Rambling Poet)
Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2010
Grandmothers and grandfathers how they look,
how can we see that there is a grandmother or a grandfather
When I was a little girl we could see a grandmother and a grandfather
Grandparents used hats, glasses, and walking stick
The skin of their face was weathered and wrinkled
Some had teeth they put in a glass in the evening
Grandmothers always had time for a glass of juice and a hug
She was never impatient, tie shoelaces with pleasure
Always in floral dresses, which smelled like grandma
Grandmothers wont not be at work tomorrow, she has time for an adventure
She does not skip a single word, to be finished soon
It was always sweets in grandmother's hand bag
She never spared, but shared with a beautiful smile
Grandfathers were a bit more restrained,
bit concerned about the day's news in their newspaper
He would like to go for a walk, and he walks with small cautious steps
When he meet someone he knows, he lifts a bit on his hat and nod
He has very little hair on his head, and his head shines in the sun
Grandfathers have a strong hand to hold, I was confident in his hand
He could tell me what all the birds called, he was so wise
Everyone should experience an old-fashioned grandmother and grandfather
one that does not have a television, computer or washing machine
A grandmother and grandfather who always have good time
But it was in the past ..... not today...
A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2013
You do not stand alone in your Battle
Your battle is our Battle
We may not be there in body
But we are there with you in Spirit
We are there in every beat of your Heart
In every whisper of the wind
In every thought and every touch
Every breath and every sound
We are there with you
You are wrapped in an Endless chain of Love
In every link we each send you a part of us
We send you some of our Strength
Some of our will to Fight
Some of our Courage
The most important of them all
We send you all of our Love
If you feel you need more
Just give that Endless chain a little tug
And we'll be there
Tug til you need us no more
Then we'll know you've gone Home
5/09/2014 Dedicated to my Aunt Nini, Wilma Thomas Gamble for Mother's Day. Sadly she lost her Battle w/ Stage 4 Pancreatic Cancer on 5/30/2014.
Copyright © Sabrina Niday Hansel | Year Posted 2014
My mother, my grandmother before has always held a place in my heart.
My father, and my grandfather before has the same part.
I was young and very active with unwillingness to listen fully to what they had to say.
I had a problem, never could be solved without my parents and grandparents till today.
With patience they all come to my aid when I fall on my face.
With little dishonor I listen to them and what they had to say, I embrace.
Over the years I go to them with no doubt a feeling of no dismay.
Over the years I go to them and they help me solve problems that to me is O.K.
Now I am getting a bit more aware of what had happen to me when I was growing.
Now I remember how the ride was in my beginning: it was a trial of not knowing.
With the guided words of my parents and grandparents I survive through them all.
With it some being a problem that I remember I recall.
My mother and my grandmother always said to be patient and it will be easy to solve.
My father and my grandfather always knew that I would grow and evolve.
I could wonder everyday what if my parents and grandparents was not in my life.
I could just think that would be fatal like a stab with a knife.
With knowledge that they had past on to me of what they had experience.
With their proof of teachings they had past on to me is their self existence.
Over the years I grew with life so full of happiness that was because of my families love.
Over the years it showed me the path that led me to all the above.
Now cherish those words that help me through my troubles in my new family.
Now I listen to my parents healing words of wisdom and except them gladly.
Copyright © Reynaldo Mast | Year Posted 2013
"A child, more than all other gifts
That earth can offer to declining man,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts."
I am your grandmother.
I spent 24 years making
parenting mistakes, so I think
I'm pretty well trained now,
pretty worn down, open-minded
I think we'll be good friends.
At sixteen, your mother
said she was having a baby
and held up to me the blue pastic
device that tested her urine stream
like when she held up the blue ribbon
she won in kindergarten for the best
easter bunny nest made from marshmallows
and dyed yellow coconut.
Then she threw the blue device out
into the space between us on the bed,
like it was the best card in her deck,
her ace in the hole.
Your father waited in the other room
sitting in the thick silence,
afraid to breathe and miss
You and your mother did all the work,
but I was there at your birth,
Standing alongside, coaching your
mother to good contractions until
I was exhausted from gritting my
teeth and pushing too.
And your dad was there, too,
but closer to the business end
so he could be the first to know the sex.
An unsolicited psychic had told us
you would be a girl,
and when your dad was told,
he sulked all day
like it was a conspiracy
between the women to produce
only other woman.
He wanted another guy,
someone to give the men the edge,
a male child.
When your mother's body could
keep you from the world no longer,
your head appeared, eyes tightly
shut and a pout on your lips.
Your dad was watching closely,
the shoulder, the belly and then
his arms flew up in the air
like he'd made the touchdown
and he cried, "It's a Boy,
I told you, I told you,"
like he and I had placed a bet.
But then he saw how much
I could love the boy child.
I'm a pretty good grandmother,
and I think we'll be good friends.
Copyright © Emerson Adkins | Year Posted 2012
I can't imagine being alive without you
I can't imagine what it will be like when your gone
I don't know what I'll become without you
Maybe I'll just run
Run away from everything and leave everyone behind
Maybe I'll find a way to be close to you
Because I won't believe you died
My heart will ache so much more
Tears will always run
My eyes will hold the wisdom
That you bestowed upon me young
And my recklessness will be noticeable
People will wonder why
Why am I running when the person I needed most died
How can I face my life when I can't do anything right
I won't believe you have gone away
When God decides to take you
I'll still come by your house and always expect an answer
I Love You Gamma
You Taught Me About My Heritage
Please Remember Me When God Takes You
Please Guide Me In the Right Way
Copyright © Riah Clark | Year Posted 2013
Wish I could rewind the hands of the clock,
Only love songs with you I'll slowly rock.
There's many things I didn't get to say,
You left me & gone on a rainy day.
I still didn't give you that gift,
Just once more in my arms, you I wished I'd lift.
Your many attributes & words I did admire,
Like Jesus is the only way to escape Hell's fire.
A granny so awesome you showed that you care,
And a strong shoulder needed you were always there.
Teach all daily to do what's right,
And there's victory for us if we unite.
How can I forget whenever you call,
A short prayer was said for me & all.
I'm ever thankful for your blessings & love,
I'm guilty for not giving you what you deserve.
Through grief & pain you were holding strong,
Still hoping your days on earth were more long.
But you will always stay deep in my heart,
Because of the great things to me you taught.
"Don't trod the road that's broad & wide",
I'm trying hard so I'll see you on the other side.
Surely you're up there looking down,
With flowers, white dress & a golden crown.
Copyright © Stephenson Mark | Year Posted 2014
The sweet scent of perfume
Runs through my nose
Her presence scares me much
When I’m all alone.
Her old dress in the closet
Reminds me of memories
She walks on the floor
But nobody sees it.
Picture frame on the wall
Remarks of her generation
She sits beside me
I just miss her so bad.
This is the day
When she died on a white sheet
It was 5 years ago,
When I had a grandma
Copyright © Lei Strauss | Year Posted 2015
My grandma had a red gem; it was her most prized possession. When she looked at it you could see her bright eyes shining inside that gem. She was poor but that gem made her rich for it belonged to her. The gem and my grandma glowed together she kept in a silver gift box so no harm could come of it.
My grandma had a red gem; she told us stories as how she came to having that red gem. Our great grandfather was a fisher man, one day he dived deep into ocean and parted the sand and up came the gem. He loved the gem too for it reminded him of my grandma, so he gave it to her and she promised to keep it forever.
My grandma had a red gem; it was her most prized possession. She promised to give it to me but I smiled for I knew it didn’t belong to me. That gem had her heart it was a shoulder she could cry on and a friend she could talk to. It didn’t belong to me it belonged to grandma.
My grandma had a red gem; on her death bed she sent for her red gem. She rubbed and kissed it then she closed her eyes. The red gem fell from her hands I caught it just in time. I connected the red gem to a necklace and at the funeral I placed the red gem around her neck for it was her most prized possession. She will now be in paradise with her red gem telling everyone the kind and funny stories of that red gem.
Copyright © Terrica Richards | Year Posted 2015
It was a dazzling day.
In the park where we gathered.
I watched the sprinkler spray.
Whilst Oleander got lathered.
A pierce of minty laughter.
Came from my mother.
The day, now full swelter.
Brought mephitic curses, from father.
A piece, of distinct edges, shapes, and color.
My Father’s piece,
Gossamer... A ghost in the Parlor.
My aunt buzzes ‘round,
Looking to peck.
Her greatest skill,
Tearing wealth from flesh.
She is an ugly thing,
Constantly tithing kin.
Her tabs busted,
Only darkness within.
My uncle walks water,
Crying divine inspired droll.
Then he sees foreign breasts,
And his eyes start to roll.
He is piously loathsome,
A delusional winner.
His piece, contrasting color,
A chronic Casanova of a sinner.
My grandmother sits,
By a row of briar’s.
From here smelling sweet,
Closer and the peril gets dire.
She is a dandy,
Addicting to be around.
But when her corner piece shows,
It can cut to the ground.
My grandfather rests,
In the middle, on a bench.
The tether that keeps,
We are bolts, He is wrench.
To us much renowned.
His piece is the core,
It holds me around.
There it is, my family puzzle.
And on the fringes I sit.
See, I’m an edge piece,
That doesn’t quite fit.
With my teeth on a muzzle.
Copyright © Jacob Bellville | Year Posted 2013
Black as the pit in the well of my dreams
slumber is dark, and the silence is long
on the loneliest road that the mind travels on
I'm engulfed by the pitch and the feeling of dread
Dead reckoning beckons to hold up its head
I'm encircled by whirlwinds and fierce prairie wind
I open my eyes, and with the last of my breath
I see a field of tall wheat, I am gasping within
My grandmother's house is a waving mirage
and seen in the distance, as once it had been
What do I fear? Is it life after death?
Perchance this is slumber, and the sleep monster haunts me,
A nightmare is taunting as it calls through the dark
I am playing the part, as a child with a spark
of the fire that wants me, as the field is engulfed
Heroic, and fearless, alas, not afraid
An arm reaches out, and shows me the way
Keeping brave as I can, she lends me her hand
"Stand by my side, let the flames be your guide"
How brave, that I am, when deep in the place
in the trace of the vaporous face of my dreams
The shades of fire, and smoke of the night
will consume me, if only, I fight off my fright
It is only my fear, that consumes while awake
of the things that are real, and things that are not
Not bending wheat strands, or the flames of the fire
Standing tall when I wake, I will wake with new power
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014
At times it feels like the world is out to get her. Sometimes it seems like no one is on her side. She has been left by her father. Been told she's fat by her grandmother. Nothing she ever does pleases her mother. She has been cheated on and lied to by most past boyfriends...take that back. ALL past boyfriends. Older guys look at her with wondering eyes. Everyone tells her hello...but they also say goodbye.
She's finally tired of being told a handful of lies. She's tired of hearing the same ole goodbyes. She's tired of betrayal and constant hurt feelings. She's tires of thinking she's not good enough for the sexiest guy to be with. She's tired of meaningless "I love you"s. She's tired of these damn trust issues.
Copyright © Rehnesha Santos | Year Posted 2015
Before morning would emerge
The infants stomach became large,
Usual infant's cry became scarce
Where is the mother
Tell them to surface.
Mother cried as she saw her babies face,
"Thou unusual thing, where from?
Bring me the broom
Mother needs the broom
In Africa, brooms
Cures gloom And doom.
Mother flogs the infant
Yet she was not triumphant
Weeping became enormous
Like an elephant.
Mother cried a river,
While grand mother sat
In a corner,
Without the sign of anger,
worry, ponder or wonder.
But cherishing laughter.
She picked the broom to
Where is the preacher?
Where is the preacher?
Mother seem to remember
Needed is his attention
Tell him to his God, mention.
Grand mother squeezed her face
For things were about to be in place.
The preacher was summoned,
Prayer was altered,
Some one confessed.....
The unusual grand mother
Sibling of Lucifer....
such things really happen down here, we only watch and pray.
Copyright © Charles Melody Lightning Ink | Year Posted 2010
From England's dark blackout
We came to these shores
I and my siblings
In refuge from war.
How enchanted we were
With all we saw.
First Sydney's fine harbour
And her bridge of one span
Then the azure blue sea
The long beaches of sand
The beautiful city lit up at night
To our youthful eyes a wondrous sight.
The Aussie soldier in his famous slouch hat
The long train journey to the far outback
The Cockies screech the Kookaburra's cackle
New sights and sounds for my brain to tackle.
The grazing sheep the fields of wheat
The fun of the master the blistering heat
The long hot summers with respite at the sea
Where we swam and surfed in unspoilt glee.
School days were spent in city or mountain retreat
Strict was the discipline our uniforms neat.
Happy the friendships spacious the grounds
Nuns telling rosary beads flitting around.
With firmness and patience they taught us well
Recreation was announced by the tolling bell.
Oh the joy when the holidays came
What fun we had on the old school train.
It trundled along past wilga and gum
Past meandering creeks and billabongs
Past Emus grazing and Roos hopping along
Through wide open spaces rich in bird song.
At the graceful homestead with veranda surround
Stood the welcoming grandmother so recently found.
With parents far off she gave care and love
How proud we were of her pioneer blood.
She cooked and scrubbed and chopped the wood
She could do everything she really could.
But tragedy stuck
With her soldier son killed.
She grieved and withered and lost her will.
No longer in her life
Would he take part
Months later she died of a broken heart.
There came a time when with many tears
I bade farewell to this life so dear.
I had no choice I had to go.
The years passed on
I missed it all so.
This time when I came
I touched down by plane.
New visions flood my startled brain
Australia I find is absorbed in change
it makes me feel so very strange.
The laid back Aussie with his old world charm
A computer wiz now and amazingly calm.
The coastline is cluttered highrises abound
The noise of the traffic an ugly sound.
But the song of the Bellbird is still a wonder
It soothes my senses as I ponder.
For no land on earth has so much to offer.
So I’ll settle here I will not hover.
Perhaps the maternal ancestors smile from above.
For at last I'm here In the land they loved.
And I'll spend the twilight of my years
In this country I've always held so dear.
Copyright © Gerry Dawson | Year Posted 2005
Many Christmas stories are told every year,
and many songs are sung with pure cheer;
do I have a good story, at least one, I can tell,
or a simple song I can hum and spread good will?
When Lisa's grandmother passed away unexpectedly...
by her dying bed she kept an ivory music box,
and to her lovely granddaughter she gave it
to saying," Take care of it, and smile when you think of me!"
The day after granny died, she went down the dark cellar
to hide the ivory music box in an old dresser's drawer,
and once in a while she would open it and play it and listen to it sadly;
the pretty angel swirled...and Silent Night played as Lisa touched it tenderly.
It was almost Christmas Day and the pine tree wasn't decorated yet,
she rushed outside carrying a red basket with ornaments in it;
how could she had forgotten to adorn it with bulbs and garlands?
" Oh gosh, I feel like the Grinch!" she displeasingly uttered to herself.
There was no snow predicted for that evening and the illuminated town
was lacking Nature's magical snowflakes to make it festive and vibrant;
five minutes to midnight the choir from the nearest church gathered outside,
and waited for a miracle...silence...tranquility...every heart felt so alone.
But Lisa with an indomitable spirit ordered them to sing,
and they began singing looking up the clearest, starriest sky;
everyone seemed sad and some of them wanted to cry,
but before sadness set in...snowflakes began falling.
Lisa knew that it was the miracle she had been waiting for,
but something was missing from the snowy scenery...
she remembered her ivory music box she had put away,
and running, with awe in her bright eyes, she opened the cellar's door...
Clutched in her caring, careful hands, she carried the ivory music box,
laid it gently underneath the twinkling, scented Christmas Tree;
Lisa kissed it tenderly...until the golden angel started to swirl at midnight,
as that divine music filled the nippy air...making all cheeks so peachy.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009
~The Beautiful Hands of the Bridegroom(A true story)
"Imagine a lovely garden, tea for two, and this story . . . "
~My grandmother called me one day disturbed by a recurring open vision,
saying, “Two beautiful hands were let down unto me from the ceiling.
“What does it mean? I keep seeing these hands every night after
I lie down in bed.”
~Immediately, I knew the answer. I said, grandma, the left hand has
a wedding ring, on the left finger, does it not? A brief silence on the
other end of the phone, “Why yes John it sure does, now that you
mention it. It is the most beautiful wedding ring that I have ever seen.”
To which I replied, “Granny, it is your Lord assuring you that He is your
spiritual husband. Do not be sad when He comes to take you home“
I reassured my eighty year old grandmother. She said, ”Yes that is exactly
what it means. I had not thought of that.”
~This was a divinely granted clear plan given to my granny afterwards
she was never frightened of death again.
~A few days later, my expression of principle said,” One day soon I will
awaken your granny New in the night and tell her to go into the living
room and sit on the couch, for it will be the time that I will take her
soul home with me.
~About eight months later the shuttle truck for the elderly stopped at
my granny’s door one morning to take her into town for dinner with her
friends. She did not answer the door. The body could be seen through
the window, sitting upright on the couch hands folded in lap with head
leant to one side as if asleep. The fully clad body wore house shoes...
This was the adoption of my dear granny… Martha New.
Copyright © john freeman | Year Posted 2011
Her eyes, though once bright, are cloudy,
Shrunken and fragile the form
That long was brimful of vigor
And a will to outlast life's storms.
She stares past a blank horizon
Through a door that I do not know;
The colors she sees are mem'ries,
Scents and sounds of the long ago.
A kaleidoscope of faces
Turns merry-go-round in her mind;
While trees out her window whisper
Soft lullabies long left behind.
The sound of my cheery greeting
Draws her back to this metal room,
Away from a creaking rocker
And her mama's sweet, gentle croon.
If is not my name she whispers
As I bend down to kiss her cheek,
But a name more dear than ever
Mine was is the name that she speaks.
"Papa," the feeble voice quavers.
I'm no more a part of her world;
The grandma that soothed my sorrows
Is once again Papa's wee girl.
© 1987, Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2014
The Church cannot forget her mission
Was made possible by the Motherhood of Mother Mary
Who conceived and bore a Son
Who is God from Eternal God
True Eternal God from True Eternal God
Mother Mary is truly the Mother of Lord Eternal God
Whose motherhood as the vocation to motherhood
Bestowed by Eternal God on every man raised to its highest level
Thus, Mother Mary becomes the mother of the Church and to be New Mama Eve
The mother of believers, the mother of the living
Copyright © Jacqueline R. Mendoza | Year Posted 2013
By Curtis Johnson
Over the years, through the valleys, over the hills and mountains, I have come to believe. In good times and bad, in stormy experiences that made me sad, or in seasons of joy that made me glad; In the dark nights of pain, or in the brightest days when I thought that I never deserved such blessed gains. In times when I was spanked by the moon, frowned upon by the stars, or awakened and kissed by the rising sun; When life was tough, and every path it seems was rough; when some dreams did not come true, but crashed at my feet; Through poverty and disrespect; through pits of despair, and periods when it seems that heaven itself had gone silent;
There are the moments and fazes in life when we thought we had all the answers; but yet we fail to even ask the right questions. So in the midst of this life of beauty and beast, and this battle of bitter and sweet, what is it that I have come to believe?
One of the things that I have come to believe is that neither happiness nor success in life is ever achieved alone, nor yet in isolation. I have come to believed that God purposed that an understanding of duality is greater than the concept of singularity. We require connectivity in both the natural and spiritual worlds, which portray to us that everyone needs someone else.
As a child I not only had someone else, but I had someone in my life through whose eyes I could do no wrong. If God smiles on such a one with such a person, and our eyes are open to behold such love, one will never forget it. God forbid that such a person should ever be your pastor or your teacher, nor yet your father or your mother. If there is any notion, please perish the thought that that person would ever be your sister or your brother.
In my case, grandma was always there for me, believing in me, encouraging me, and making me feel truly special.
I beheld and received such love, and I can only hope and pray that I shall be found worthy of such love. May I also give love unconditionally. cj010308
Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015
Granddad saved change under the paper in his dresser drawer.
We never dared to look and see how much he had to share.
He saved it there with a purpose; to give when I was there.
For a nickel I would comb his hair; a quarter bought a shave.
He loved to give me money; I loved the way he cared.
A playful sort, he loved to laugh; he always teased and joked.
There was endless time to play with me; that’s how my granddad was.
My granddad grew a garden, the prettiest one in town.
I would help him plant the rows of corn.
Three seeds dropped in each hole that he made.
Row after row, together we worked our way down.
And when the work was completely done, it was time for fun!
A shave, hair comb, and a pedicure would make him fall asleep.
Grandma brought bright red polish to decorate his feet!
When he'd wake up, I’d sit on the floor, knowing what was next.
He would bring out coins from his dresser drawer
And laugh about his toes… (A tradition as my grandmother knows.)
He was always amused while I counted all of my loot.
He would tease and laugh and taunt. To me, he was number one!
At age eighteen, while in the Army, the horrible message came.
Granddad had died from an allergy; life would never be the same.
I tried not to cry, like I promised him; I could not bear the pain.
He loved me so and I loved him. I felt so alone.
How could I go through life and never hear his voice.
I must go on; we had talked of this; even now, he still is missed.
I didn't go home for many years; when I did…he wasn’t there.
Emptiness came over me, and an ocean full of tears.
Then, Grandma took me to his drawer… “He left these here for you.”
© July 9, 2011
Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen | Year Posted 2011
if i am not elected:
you will be able to sleep that night
if i am not elected:
the very next day, you will hunger
if i am not elected:
young children will cry - for their mothers
if i am not elected:
some grandmother will fall - and break her hip
if i am not elected:
crimes will be committed,
and dogs and the derelict will wander the streets
if i am not elected:
people worldwide will cry, and laugh
if i am not elected:
some will, and some will not care, about you
if i am not elected:
you - yes you, will look into the distance
and wonder perhaps
if it would have made a difference
if i am not elected:
our momentary democratic lives will
continue to their inevitable democratic end
i ask for your vote in the upcoming election,
not for me, as i intend to think - and perhaps nap,
but for yourself, yourselves, you who might
hold dear to the promises of tomorrow
i promise you will find some fulfillment there
© Goode Guy 2012-08-27
Copyright © Goode Guy | Year Posted 2012
Get On With It, A Letter To My Brother
By Curtis Johnson
You might have been too young to remember, but there is a certain line that Grandma use to say to any of us who was sent to the store. At the time, I never determined the complete meaning of what she said.
I just assumed that I knew enough about what she meant, and went about completing the mission. As I thought about it more recently, I tried to explore the depth of what she was saying. I have wondered if she was being half poetic and half realistic. Poetic because of the rhythm of her words, and realistic because of the true meaning of her words.
Grandma would often say, “Go in a haste and come in a pace.” I never quite understood the ‘pace’ part. It seems a bit contradictory that one would hurry to fetch a purchase, but return at a pace with the item. Grandma knew what she was saying, and she must have been rather confident that we also understood her. Assuming she meant for us to complete the assignment as quickly as possible, we always did our best to follow her every command. I’m also sure that Grandma was not asking us to hurry without thought, or to the point where ‘haste’ makes ‘waste’. She was simply saying for us to get on with it and stay focused to the finish.
Grandma could not read or write, but the lessons she taught have lasted for a lifetime. Michael, I have tried to get on with it, to Pursue the Course that God laid out for me, and to Stay Focused to the end. Like everyone else, I have had set backs and ‘knock me down blows’, but by the grace God I kept getting up.
So Michael, whatever mission that God has assigned to us, may we ‘get on with it’.
From time to time as we endeavor to get on with it, it will be necessary to set a certain pace, realizing that the finish lines are often far away. Learning to listen to God and his wisdom will greatly assist us at certain junctures.
Though we did not realize it at the time, our grandmother's words were very strong and powerful. Those words uttered from the lips of one who could not read or write, speak volumes to me now.
No, it doesn’t matter so much that we fall down or get knocked down sometimes; but it does matter that we ‘get up and get on with it’ to fight another round, and another and another, until the fight is over. That was grandma's way.
Cj07052014 “Get Up”
Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015
Of course, as soon as a new poetry contest was posted I had to immediately enter. In this
contest, you had to email the sponsor to get your own, unique theme.
Off went my email; back came her reply: “Write a poem about what inspired you to write
She even included one of her poems as a sample of what she was looking for. A beautiful
poem indeed; relaying the story about how her Grandmother inspired her to write.
So, I tried to emulate her with my story.
I wrote a poem about my football coach who taught me real men can write poetry without
feeling emasculated. A nice poem, albeit, total fiction.
I penned a verse about my first love encouraging me to write about our romance and how
the subsequnt breakup inspired me to write about the sorrow of love lost. A passionate and
beautiful poem, although pure BS.
I rhymed the touching story about how my mother, on her deathbed, confessed that she
knew I was writing poetry by reading my secret journal for years. Her last words to me
were to follow my passion and write poems for her in heaven. Problem is, my mother is
alive and well and has never shown any interest in reading my poems.
The fact of the matter is, I cannot pinpoint a moment in time; a person; or, an experience
that inspired me to write.
Just as I need no inspiration to breathe in order to stay alive; I write poetry as a reflexive,
Just as I need no inspiration to eat in order to satisfy my hunger; I write poems to placate
my yearning inside.
Just as I need no inspiration to dream when I close my eyes at night; words, rhymes and
stories fill my mind whenever I find a moment of peace in my hectic day.
Whereas, I envy those who know where their inspiration came from, I am less blessed with a
birth of inspiration and am more cursed with an innate need to write.
In my email to the sponsor, I bragged how I was up to the challenge, but, alas, she
presented me with a theme I cannot relate to.
I will continue to breathe words of poetry through my keyboard.
I will continue to nourish my hunger through prose.
And, I will continue to dream in rhyme and meter.
But, I have no story to wow you with about what motivated me to do so in the first place.
The irony in all of this? After admitting this truth about myself to a complete stranger in an
otherwise meaningless contest, I am inspired to continue to feed my curse and write poetry
Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2010
On this day 16 years ago a beautiful baby girl was born.
As I cried they took her away.
My grandmother watching as if nothing were wrong.
Photos came for a brief moment then stopped
She was gone never to be herd from or seen.
It seemed as if she just vanished.
The agencies said her new family had moved.
No forwarding address to be found.
They apologize for the inconvenience.
Trying to convince me not to give up hope.
Hope what is this, something I find hard to have.
Years have come and gone and not a word.
The last photo I reserved she must have been 3 or 4 years old.
My search it still continues today,
but not a trace of her or her family do I see.
On this the anniversary of her birth
I still cry for the loss of my baby girl I bore so long ago.
Copyright © caroline mackey | Year Posted 2007
Birthdays come but once a year
A day we celebrate, a day to cheer
We all know the day we're born and our age
For birthdays bring us joy or change of stage
The day I celebrated my fourty-ninth year
On the other side of the world fear
Horror for a young girl named Heather
Who was swimming in ocean waters from boat tethered
Swimming around the ocean deep
Working up an appetitate for something to eat
Was a great white shark fourteen feet, whopper
Jaws powerful enough to bite through copper
At home I thought I had turned fifty
I figured this year would be very nifty
My father who was in his nineties
Reminded me that I was only fourty-ninty
In a land way down yonder
A girl named Heather was pulled under
Great white figured she was good meat
Nice and tender a very tasty treat
A girl named Heather was saved
That very day lived to be one to praise
People who worked to keep her alive
She praised God who lives in hearts and on high
Sara lived many years
Saw her grandsons through tears
She was the strength and glue
Who saw her family's problems through
Just in recent years in a land down under
A fourteen foot great white shark did blunder
Caught in a fisherman's net
He'll probably live this mistake regret
No, the fisherman cuts the lines
Frees his catch and shark from bind
Now the shark he named Cindy
Follows him around even when windy
Follows him everywhere he goes
Let's him pet her on her nose
Rub her belly and dorsal fin
She even grunts and tries to grin
Which of these do you think is the most grateful
Heather who is now disable
The shark who was spared his life
Or Sara the mother, grandmother, and wife
(The story about Heather is true. The shark circled and bit her right leg. Then circled and
grabbed her left leg. The people on the boat were hitting the shark and try to pull her into
the boat and the shark took her whole left leg off. She was only attended by a nurse who
was on the boat and radioed a doctor on shore as to what to do. She was 20 hours away
from the nearest doctor. She was lifeflighted to a hospital in California where she had to
have multiple surgeries and now has an artificial leg. The story about the shark caught in
a fisherman's net was really not true. The grandmother here was a true story.)
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2009
Alive with tone
Yet sharply censored
By a mind's take on years
Of historical notes
Tongue no longer sweetened
Or spiced with
Suddenly all I taste is
So predictably dull
Night steps forward quickly
Like a woman whose
High heels carry her too loudly
Over hardwood floors
I hear her sharp
And definite approach
Darkness surrounds me
Soft to the touch
But cruel in creation
I lay my head down
And begin to dream
My lonely place in the
Like a curtain
To reveal a carnival scene
Where pale pink cotton candy
Weaves itself gracefully
Around paper cones
I taste the
Its pure reminiscent aroma
So filling with the
Portrayal of childhood innocence
A time lost and
So light in texture
I draw the moment in deep
To remember it well
My grandmother is with me now
Baking her rhubarb pie
Picked fresh from the garden
I'm sitting at her table
A bright-yellow vinyl tablecloth
Neatly drapes itself around
Loud carnival music
Compliments my meal
I open my mouth wide
Grandmother, serving the perfect balance
Of sweet and spice,
And then walks away
I see the faint outline
Of a crowd in the distance
Lining up to take their turn
On the Ferris Wheel
I'm driven to the
Perfectly straight horizon
Vividly painted beyond
And to them
A wise-cracking clown
Telling off-color jokes
And showing me "the ropes"
On how to effectively
Cut in line
I see my lover
Jeans torn and hair
Perfectly backlit by
The midday sun
He is at the front of the line
He is waiting
All those behind him now
Have grown impatient
The clown presses my hand
Firmly to my lover's
Like a rose forever saved
Between brittle pages
And with a wink
The crowd is cheering now
As brightly-colored balloons
They have found
Their rightful place
In the sky
Copyright © Sandra Smith | Year Posted 2005