Know how to make
The best of what you've got in you
You do it everyday in your life
The Echo of a Soul
By Andrew Weeden
In the windswept hills of vibrant green,
Here I sit at your lonely grave.
The bright flower that made my heart beam,
Is the wilted flower I could not save.
From the beginning I did not know,
I was oblivious from the start;
Cancer’s blade cut away your happy glow
And would thrust to pierce my very heart.
Consumed in the darkness of raging anger,
Ten years I stand alone in the rain.
With death no longer a distant stranger;
My only companion in the storm of pain.
Now it seems no one remembers,
But you did not cease to be.
Your spirit still burns in glowing embers
And lives inside the fire in me.
The storm is passing; I finally see its end.
Happiness smiles again and shakes me to my core.
I realize every time I lift my pen
My Grandma speaks once more!
Reflections of your love
Weave tapestries in time.
As a singing mourning dove,
Your words whisper in my mind.
So though you had to go,
You remain in your begotten;
As an echo of a soul,
Gone but not forgotten.
I wish to leave a legacy,
A memory of me
I wish to leave a legacy,
Something my mother left for me
Death took my mother when I was three
So all she left was what she taught me
So as I sit and sew, I see
My mother looking down on me
Her hands guide my fingers as I make
A cradle for my daughter to take
For all the children that follow in her wake
Will rest in peace and sleep till daybreak
Surrounded by love for “oma’s” sake
For each child anew a small remake
Will forever preserve this family keepsake
And I will be there forever to partake
As each new child lies cradled here
All the ancestors will be near
To bestow their love and guidance clear
On the newborn and his parents dear
While we support there is no fear
Because the child will always hear
The sounds of love sincere
And know his family is near
Each day her world was getting smaller
But still to this bench she made her way
To enjoy the park, the pond, and the ducks
and watch young children that came to play
Her bench became a gathering place
Life stories told and babies kissed
They all enjoyed her wise company
Her sweet face will sorely be missed.
They still gather at that bench
And daily life goes on as before
But they still remember "grandma"
A lady they had come to adore...
The value of a precious novelty
it seems is intricate fragility.
Recall special trinkets kept in a hutch
for display only, not opened to touch.
Keepsakes in prison, upheld, unimpaired.
reminder of events that once were shared.
One is now kept in a glass étagère
collectible curio set there with care.
Awaiting the finding of a misplaced key,
a new piece tempted curiosity.
Too precious to be ignored, my granddaughter
played with it carefully, warned by her mother.
Rejecting caution, which kids oft ignore
she forgot it, leaving it there on the floor.
The next day, her brother found it with his foot.
One piece now three pieces, broken, kaput.
Comes precious moment, happening on my watch.
Crying sister faults her brother for her botch
who then returns accusations with blame.
Common occurrence, accompanied by shame.
Moment develops as we find the glue.
Are there chips still missing? We find a few.
Together, three of us talk as we work.
Accountability comes with its perks.
The most precious of moments in history -
when that collectible met surgery.
Years later it stands tall, gathering dust
priceless symbol of joint effort and fuss.
My grandma had a green thumb
She loved to garden, plant and grow
Didn't matter where they're from
Snatching cuttings wherever she'd go
Her pockets filled with seeds from trips to and fro
Labeling the envelops with names as she was home
Plant variety was something she would know
She also knew specific times when seeds should be sown
Her garden was her solace throughout her hardened life
She planted seeds and grew her plants anywhere she stay
Always fed her family through depression and strife
Many rows of vegetables were planted in her day
Years have passed and she is gone her love of planting seeds
Was passed on through her family who now are pulling weeds.
Jennifer Marie Oliver
WAITING FOR GOD
At four score years and ten
Our Gran is physically spry
But her mind is beginning to wander
And I often ask God, "Why?"
She's a most delightful lady
With smooth, porcelain-like skin
She loves her large family
And has the most wicked of grins.
But her mind is beginning to wander
And she's now starting to live in the past
It's hard for her to remember
Who's who at the family repasts.
She loves to be among the children
But she doesn't know who they all are
Not only is her mind beginning to wander
She's now taken to walking afar.
One day we couldn't locate her
We walked twice around the block
We had to call in the police
It gave us all such a shock.
We found her sitting at the bus stop
It really was quite odd
We asked her what she was doing
She answered, smiling sweetly, "Waiting for God."
© ELR 2013
Certain things are just not said,
When we're in certain comp'ny.
Words and phrases seldom heard,
Are often looked at funny.
No longer is good common sense,
The rule of thumb, the norm,
So often plainly spoken words,
Will take on different form;
'Cause most folks just don't listen,
To what is being said,
And oft the words go rattling 'round.
Inside an empty head;
Then they draw their own conclusions,
Concerning what you said,
Even though they've not a clue,
The story they will spread.
If what you hear sounds strange to you,
The facts a little off,
Consider who you're talking to,
Before you laugh and scoff,
At someone you may barely know,
If in fact at all,
And what you heard is hearsay,
Just gossip all in all.
When others speak, just listen,
And make sure you understand.
Keep your mind upon the topic,
Don't short change your fellow man.
Remember to speak plainly,
Not to be misunderstood,
And remember too that gossip,
Don't do anybody good.
(Have you ever noticed that those who talk the most are usually the ones who have little else to do? And often they really don't know much more than we do. My grandmother used to say the dog on the shortest chain does the most barking.)
In the fifties, my sister and I would play store;
selling ice cream and candy just like our grandpaw.
Granny let us delve into her spare button box
where we found the coins for our special cash drawer.
We sorted them all out by size and by color
marking some as quarters, nickels, pennies or dimes.
Imagination was the best of our playmates;
we even had half-dollars, the rarest of finds.
Last year we two met to go shopping just for fun;
can you guess what awaited me and my sister?
Brand-new buttons made of honest-to-God live coins.
We found all the reg’lar ones, but no half-dollar.
We giggled as we shopped, pretending like old times.
Strangest thing we discovered along with this find -
the penny buttons? no cheaper than the quarters.
The cost of the buttons did not match with their kind!
QUOTE ME BY CHAPTER AND CURSE
No, seriously there are people worse then me, and I’m a lothario and a liar
But then there are bastards who see an empty warehouse and for fun set it afire
I commit crimes and hold people I have pity for as hostage while holding a gun
But stoned cold junkies, unlike me, do horrendous things solely for fun
I knocked down and old lady……………….. cane and f*****g all
Once I had her bread you think I gave a damn that she’d fall?
S**t, I’d rob my grandmother and later on promise her a soft and silken shawl
And listen, when robbing an inhabited home the floorboards will squeak
if you walk but not if you crawl
Turn your back on me b***h, I dare you, and leave that diamond ring right there
By the time you turn back around the diamond is gone and my running footsteps is all you’d hear
Invite your folks over for dinner on Thursday but tell your mom you want to see some jewels
You keep them busy, while I rob them blind because one thing I ain’t is one of those fun-loving fools
What I am saying essentially and I hope effectively is that there are certain people you simply can’t trust
The ones who think havoc is a game, for there are none so blind and ashes to ashes and dust to dust
I’ll climb up a six story building to an apartment because I know there are riches in apartment six “B”
Christ, I’ll beat a man half to death if I want something of his and he doesn’t agree
So look out for the ones who lie like a Lothario and will rob you blind
And you all deserve to be robbed because you’re rich and undoubtedly unkind
While the old lady was dressing I was undressing her closet of gold
And when you stare into my sky blue pink eyes realize you’re missing things that I’ve sold
I’ll wield a sword honed so sharp and a very frightening knife
And believe me my acts of thievery would be rotten and rife
I harm, threaten and rob people and then go home to my wife
She makes a really good pot roast, and knows I could never really take a life
© 2011.….Phreepoetree ~free cee!~