~Summer’s Eve ~
I am a woman!
I am proud-
I am everything you want.
The adoring wife,
A beautiful mother,
A grandmother a granddaughter
A daughter, a sister,
A lover, the aunt.
Your enemy, your friend.
I am the working lady.
A widow left behind.
The Spawn of Adam's rib-
A mentor throughout this world.
A lady with class, sometimes a material girl.
A flower, and the sound of rain.
I am the color of the rainbow.
I am deeper than the sea.
I am the pink ribbon you wear.
I am delicate like snow.
The sun and the moon in your eyes.
A twister during dark skies.
The Daughter of Eve-
And, here is the only feeling I want to endorse.
In honor and appreciation to all the women of the world.
Happy Mother’s day!
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013
*GRANDMA WAITS IN THE GARDEN*
Hi, grandpa, it's me again!
Your dentures sit in an open glass above the nightstand
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 waits for you.
Hi grandpa, it’s me again!
The rocking chair is old and dusty
Remember the way grandma sat me on her lap?
Read many stories before I took a nap
How she enjoyed stroking my hair with her hands
I miss the way she rocked me to sleep every night
I stored your hearing aid away
Remember that special musical box in grandma's drawer?
I opened it last night, to watch the ballerina soar
I wish you could hear the tiny chimes grandma loved
I hope you don’t mind, I’m keeping grandma's favorite scarf
I'm caressing grandma’s picture frame
Remember the way she looked in the yellow pretty sundress?
Grandpa, I miss the things grandmother did for you
Like the walking cane, she handcrafted before she left
Hello, grandpa, it's me again!
Here I sit holding your hand
I have no more tears
Soon you will see her again
She will no longer be alone
Say hi to her, give her a kiss
Tell her I miss her so much
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013
It is thirty six years ago, and I am with her in the garden,
where July is a picnic of egg sandwiches, cress-stippled,
fuzzy-downed peaches, yellow-tangy lemonade.
Her fingers have the delicacy of dancers
as she deftly mixes paint on a palette blue as the sky -
blobs of acrylics bright as sweet shop candies.
Summer is a sizzling colour wheel, spinning in its heat hues -
cadmium orange, pyrrole red, gold ochre -
those fever-flames that blaze across her page.
My small world is warmed by the sun in her smile.
Russian vine stitches a delicate doily over the shed roof.
The heat-glazed garden shimmers and buzzes.
There is a twilight world under sweet clusterings of lilacs:
a cool shock of shade, pendulous-legged black flies
hovering in the murky mauve.
China white stars of jasmine light my way.
Please keep me close. Let me stay.
It is twenty six years ago, a morning of mourning,
and the notes of the dead bells toll
as, mist-muffled, they roll
through November's sleet streets.
I close my eyes and the sun in her smile parts the clouds.
Sober-suited people crush and cluster in pews;
row upon row of perylene black, winter-pale faces titanium white.
Stained glass windows filter and warm the ash-grey light
until her coffin is a vibrant palette of rainbows.
There are stories - lots of stories - anecdotes,
a crimson-backed journal she wrote,
a painting she painted, coffin-propped,
a poetry reading - one of her own -
Tapestry is a wondrous thing, in it the lovely colours sing...
Creamed rice-colour roses heap sweet
on her stone - a slate plate serving up a dead name -
and carnations splash cadmium scarlet
like blood throbbing from the gash of grief's raw wound.
It is now, and I am alone, taking a short cut home
through evening's rich palette.
Elegiac elms shed viridian tears
and the sky is a burnt sienna explosion.
October's umber seeps into November's sepia tones.
My mind is coloured with her and then.
I hold a small cameo box that held
the colourful spill of her pills: kaleidoscope planets
orbiting my loneliness, spinning off into nothingness...
Dark figures fill the park: silhouettes, shadows
following me home; spirits stepped from her portraits,
faces pushed down into coat collars, crinkled with frowns.
Paint-pinned people in their primaries and pastels,
on canvas, under glass; stopped heartbeats of the past.
Trapped moments on paper and boards.
I close my eyes and see the sun in her smile,
recall how, since her passing, life has become a free fall,
a parapet leap without parachute.
And the smudged charcoals of memory
are beginning to blur, fading like her watercolours...
in memory of my grandmother
2nd place in contest 'Anything Goes', date judged 4/12/2014
date written 11/3/2013
Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot | Year Posted 2013
See the woman.
See the face behind its age.
See the beauty of her form.
See the way her way becomes her.
See past her once taught skin, as it was
when it enflamed many a man.
See the way she holds her head;
the tilt of her neck, the ease
of her being.
See the strength that binds her jaw,
unrelenting in its flex.
See her hurt displayed, as shadows
fall like night upon the earth,
eager for rest and resolution -
for the one she could not save.
See her darkness. See it very well.
See it shatter like glass, glinting,
when she giggles like a girl.
See her shine.
As the shades of dark days rise,
See the years that grace her eyes,
like rays of her own sun
exponentially shining forth.
See forgiveness in her patient hands
as they weave memories with a touch.
See the breadth of her breasts,
for they have quenched her children’s hunger,
soothed their frantic cries,
and became the safe haven for her beloved.
See her empty, scarred abdomen –
round and perfect in its imperfections,
once holding the essence of all things;
carrying creation within –
see the divine home of God.
See the innocent baby,
the impetuous youth,
the voluptuous woman,
the devoted wife,
the selfless mother.
See the wisdom of the grandmother –
the epitome of every moment lived
for someone else, and the realization
of the circle.
Hear the acceptance in her sigh.
See the gifts she has given –
see the woman!
See the goddess!
The beginning and the end!
See the infinite that bares the name,
See her for all that she is and isn’t.
Smell her scent and know you are home.
Taste the strength of her words on your tongue.
Hear her experiences like your own.
To touch her soul is to touch perpetuity!
See her face in your mirror.
See the tears that fall proudly
upon the woman you’ve become,
and hope yet to become
when you have lived through all that has been
set before you –
tasted each woman’s tears as if they were your own.
When you enter that perfect union,
when you become,
when you come
you will see yourself in all things,
and your journey, will see you back
*Reposted for Chris's Get Your Rebel On, Contest! This was written with my Beautiful
Grandmother in mind. She saved my life in more ways than one. love you, Gran. This one's
for you. (and every woman, and woman lover, here)
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009
Once, it sold cultivated
pigment, before it became
a catacomb of cardboard drapes.
Makeshift out-of-business signs
made me wonder if the gallery owner
intended his display,
subtitle: irony frames rage.
Gone, the watercolour
weeping chartreuse, a harsh backdrop
of morose blues; Gone, the oil
on wood, knife strokes applied
so thickly, it almost moved; Gone,
charcoal sketches of thunderstorms
greying the shores of Port Elgin.
Dark, now, halls that sheltered
dreamscapes, art undisciplined, squeezed
into corners, elbowing for attention.
for one dove
that clung to an azure sky,
the coo of my name,
but I'd been unable to take him home
to my cube cage. He deserved
a rectory or a view that would provide
sanctuary. His wings had beat against
pulse points; one feather
tickled a memory
of a robin that aimed
for a cloudless sky but
collided with a picture window —
its point of contact left a scarlet smear.
Grandmother carefully wrapped
the corpse in yesterday’s news.
I trudged to the garbage can,
unseen, found D-E-A-D
in its shroud, snuck to the garden
and buried it under tall phlox,
florid snap dragons; a child sobbing,
wrenched by a world
where beauty is fragile,
Today, people walk along the street,
hold devices that fail to signal
that something living slowly
starves to death, atrophies; I watch
a happy girl point to a puddle,
but her mother fails to see
the large coin it holds.
There had been a portrait,
like a sun shower, its perfect fault lines
of light and rain, a woman shoed in waves,
almost overtaken, her footsteps
stolen by unnatural foam…
I am so sorry, artist unmet,
do you even know
into a shut window.
Copyright © Cyndi MacMillan | Year Posted 2012
You can see him now, dirty as a horse
that slipped in the mud, planting petunias
with that infamous shamrock thumb
(Irish from his Pop Appendage from his Mum)
stopping every now - and again -
to breathe deep that fragrance
rich with pheromone nostalgia
just like Grammy Georgina used too do
the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
I can still see her now, in her glory days,
with lovely lemon locks soaking up the summer sun,
rooted in that old-fashioned train of mind:
You don't stop your work until it's done!
(but a walking contradiction, just like her grandson,
... rose to her nose like ruby rebellion)
the tree doesn't grow solely from the ground
Water's an important player too,
especially from grandma's showering can
(laughing tears the shade of crystalline blue)
Course you can't forget those lifetime lessons either,
from dear ole Georgie, speaking with a sunny kind of seriousness,
about the importance of patience,
the fruitfulness of labor,
plucking up the surviving winters' courageous cucumbers,
the ground isn't just a place for our feet
Cause with her and I, we incinerate the stereotype:
young blood reflecting on infinity,
old knees dancing like she's got chipper chipmunks
for toes giggles in the background like a photobomb
to the expected chapel silence
(it's not all peaches and cream though,
sometimes we get violent)
Orange slush, flying miles behind us,
at times getting grazed in the face
by nature's food fight
our feet between the squish squish of the crab apple
We were two peas, if you please, in a curious pod,
like a whimsical joke from a laughing God:
Me, the champion of her scallions,
the guardian of her garden,
leaving all sensibility befuddled
with an, "I beg your pardon?"
I wonder if she knew then the gravity of the situation,
watching mama scream bloody murder,
as I came into this world ...
... was she scratching her head, lips curled, in questioning amazement,
just like Newton must have been, when developing his theory?
What d'you suppose they both were thinking?
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree ...
Written March 27, 2016
For the Cliche Contest Hosted by Silent One
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
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 "
Copyright © Wilma Neels | Year Posted 2015
Footsteps on stairs,
little feet pounding, running,
child faces peeking round the kitchen door,
expectancy alive, dancing in their eyes.
They know that love is always here
waiting just for them.
Each one thinks he is favorite;
in his or her own way, it is true.
Each is the most special
not for anything they say or do,
just for being.
We have our rituals -
breakfast French toast and bacon,
back rubs and funny faces,
ice cream after church,
backyard camp outs,
lots of love, laughter.
Happy takes me by surprise
each time I look
in my grandchild’s eyes.
© September 11, 2015
Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2015
“A Missive To My Granddaughters”
My dearest girls,
How can I begin to tell you
how much your smile warms my heart,
or the enrichment that penetrates my soul
when I feel your arms embrace me?
With you, I am a girl again reliving my own youth
When you share each new life experience with me.
Once again, my own fervor for life springs forth,
As I listen to the enthusiasm that emanates from your cheerful chatter.
Your joy rejuvenates me.
Your smile pierces my heart and finds its way
To a special place reserved only for you.
Your zest for life gives me hope again for a better world,
And I thrive on your courage that abounds with each day that passes.
That I have saved countless wishes for you alone -
A heart that is forgiving and true,
A mind that is forever open and exploring,
And the courage to face and overcome any obstacle.
I wish you a taste for beauty in whatever presents itself,
A flair of your own like no one else has ever experienced,
An infinite appreciation for all of Nature’s bounty,
And a magnanimous spirit for others less fortunate.
Please know that when I am gone,
I will be with you always in spirit.
Whether it is the sweetness of a Spring rain,
In the coo of a morning dove,
Or the scent of a summer rose,
You will be reminded,
And you will know
That I am there
Until we are together..…again.
Copyright © Jan Pearce | Year Posted 2016
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.)
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013
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.
Copyright © Jay Loveless | Year Posted 2012
Empty yard full of memories
Memories of laughter and songs
Songs of love under the fern trees
Trees that shade grandma’s empty chair
@ Ronald Zammit - All Rights Reserved
Inspired by Nette's contest Four Lines Only
Copyright © Ronald Zammit | Year Posted 2015
those days the sun flew like corn flour
freshly ground at the millrace
even in winter it was yellow
when I pressed it down with my thumb
like an unfastened button on my chest
I hardly cut my way with a stick
through the tall weed field
until my knee high socks
were filled with thistle tassels
jumping over the fence like a thief
into our apple orchard
so no one knew where I was
when the Big Dipper rose over the barn
I slipped on the manger’s opening
inside freshly cut grass
stealing my grandma’s small chair for milking
singing for the young foal with caramel skin
those days all hearts were red and warm
in the shape of a gingerbread heart
each star was a story
whispered by fairies in the daffodils’ glade
Copyright © Cristina M Moldoveanu | Year Posted 2014
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?
Copyright © Mike Samford | Year Posted 2007
I never met my maternal grandmother -
She died from cancer when my mum was aged only eight
Her sepia photograph sits in a silver frame on mum’s dresser
Many years ago mum gave me a ring that belonged to her mother
It’s delicate and pretty with three small red garnets and opals
The first time I slipped it on my finger it fitted perfectly!
When I wear the ring it makes me think of my grandmother
How I wish that I had had the chance to meet her.....
But sadly it was not to be
Wearing her ring makes me feel close to her
It’s almost like her hand is on mine
Contest Sponsored by Broken Wings
Old jewelry or just old things.
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2016
Dancing all around
Frolicking through fields
Just like you!
Copyright © Smail Poems | Year Posted 2013
To be called ..
~ Grandma is a Honor ~
I have been blessed with 4 Grandchildren
~ one lays in Heaven " Kaleb " He is God's Angel ~
~ His twin brother he will always watch over , and be in his soul~
For he loved his Brother so much in the womb ,
he chose Heaven which gave life to his twin
~ I feel his spirit when I see the other Grandson ~
Time passed another gift to see
we are " Mickes" and Loved
Our Dad held the title in Baseball
~ that's how we roll ~
those children are Grandmas hero's
The Irish they love big and Family is everything
The brothers will protect the beautiful sister
~ as many lads will be calling ~
Every time my Grandson hits a home run
There will be a Angel watching proudly in the stand
It will be as if the Angel lifted him when he runs
~no one runs faster then my Grandson~
either baseball or Art ~ you shall find your gift given
These children have been blessed~
~ a beauty to hard to describe
If you think not ~~ Take a look at the Mom
That girl can stop Traffic
after raising three and still~
"Inspired by the gift and loss of Grandchildren "
May our precious " Kaleb " softly rest where Angels only Dwell
Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013
tiny lass who graced this world
joyfully brightening her grandmother’s life
less than 12 short years
smile so angelic, it could crown a Christmas tree
never seeking sympathy
Joycie’s zest for life drew admiration
leaving her gracious memory
in her family’s hearts
much we can learn from Joycie
who never succumbed to self-pity
each day, a celebration of life
albeit far too brief
her smile still shines in heaven
glowing beacon in the night sky
her grandmother finds comfort
seeing Joycie’s face -- a glowing star
Dedicated to Joyce Johnson and based on her poem “Joycie”
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2014
I Remember last Wednesday,
I can see your smile, your eyes.
If I only knew it was the last day
I would have only stared into those eyes.
Where are you?
If I only knew
You used to visit me one day
Every week after school,
Always on Wednesday,
That was a Golden rule.
Now I know you rest,
And I always keep in mind:
to me you were the best.
Copyright © Federico Londono | Year Posted 2013
My heritage is a mixture
Of backgrounds. Let's start on
My Dad's side of the family.
My Dad's mom is Irish and English.
My Dad's dad is Irish and German.
My Mom's mom is Scottish and Irish.
My Mom's dad is blood Hungarian.
So in other words,
I'm a mutt! or as others say,
Copyright © Sarah Cassleman | Year Posted 2013
Her voice was music to my ears.
She would always wipe away my tears.
I loved the smell of her powder and perfume
If i ever needed a place to stay, she would always find room.
The smell of her apple pies and home cooking
would slip another gift for me under the christmas tree when
no one was looking.
Copyright © Michelle Edwards | Year Posted 2015
A pinch of salt, a dab of pepper, a spinkle of Mrs.Dash
Lets mix it all together
Gifted hands starting at the age five
Helping grandma in the kitchen all the time
Choosing to say in the house to learn all the ingredients
Instead of going outside to play hide and seek
Grandma always told me my hands are special,
You wait, watch and see what I tell you
Gifted hands is for certain people only
The miracles that you will be able to do
Don't forget what grandma told you
6 bars of 10oz cracker barrel cheese, eggs, carnation milk,
seasonings, salt & pepper
When you put it all together, this makes macaroni & cheese
One of the gifted hand's favorite dishes
It will melt in your mouth like a piece of candy
Grandma always told me my hands were gifted
Now I cater for a variety of people
Gifted hands is one of my best qualities.
Contest-With these hands
Copyright © Nerrissa Jenkins | Year Posted 2013
There's a little history to this particular poem. I know I wrote it when I was 11 or 12 years old. I wrote it for my Grandma Dorabel, who is today 90 years old. I also wrote it for my uncle John who had been taking care of her at the time; I didn't want to leave him out so I put on the letter: For Grandma Dee and Uncle John! I wrote this short little poem along with a drawing of a cat and some flowers. However, I actually never sent the picture to her! My parents and I must have forgotten to send! To me that was unacceptable! I thought to myself today when I found the picture, I must send it now! The picture is now on its way to her, so I am happy she will at last receive it.
You can send me a bouquet of flowers,
You can order me a box of chocolates,
You can buy me a fancy outfit,
But flowers don't last,
Chocolates eventually disappear,
Outfits get out of style,
Yet Love never fades,
And it's the most precious gift of all
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2013
With the gentle
touch of hand
She brought feelings
Her smile lit up the
Love radiated from
You found peace and
in her warm loving
Compassion in her
A gentleness of an
in the midst of her
In all her trials
her spirit was not
It was God's
carried her through
The precious moments
spent with her
memories of my dear
Copyright © Phyllis Babcock | Year Posted 2013
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.
Copyright © Mac McGovern | Year Posted 2010
Hot jasmine tea
My grandmother liked to drink
Everyday at 10
While tending to ancient herbs and oriental spices
Before Day’s of our Lives
She never understood it but she liked it anyway
And after her afternoon nap
She always had an aroma like that unforgettable liquid
In the green bottle by her bed
While the rice cooks
Steaming white fluff
That chokes your throat when you swallow too fast
Floating along the rice there’s green things
I learned not to ask
You must clean your bowl
Otherwise you’ll end up too skinny and get sick
When the sun hits your head
Eggrolls, plump and short
Loved to waddle around in fish sauce before it jumps into mouths
Just like the chickens with the head cut off that Bac Phoung
Plucked the feathers off accompanying that sticky sweet smell of death
Like sweet cake and dumplings
Stolen from the wrapper
Left on the table that grandpa forgot to put away
Cousins come and go
Hugs and kisses, fights and shows
From 36 of us
We hold games and play with the hammock
Disciplined with chopsticks
We knew better then play Street Fighter all day
Though it’s happened once or twice
New Years is the best however
A dollar from each aunt or uncle
Lasts only but a day
Until the icecream man comes and we spend
Each and every dime
On Bullets, Tweety Shaped Popsicles and Lucas
Ninja turtles and Daffy Duck with bubblegum eyes
Copyright © Bella Cardenas | Year Posted 2007
I saw a picture just once a long time ago
I don't know the artist's name or from where he came
But the image I'll never forget, that much I know
I hope its beauty to you I can explain
A small child's hand reached up so round and small
Bashfully grasping from seemingly no where at all
Towards what appeared to be his grandmother's hand
Weather worn and wrinkled hanging down
Tattered clothing and swollen knuckles, calloused palms
Yet still reaching
Reaching to guide and help yet another young life
Who still needed her strength
Their fingertips touching, left me wondering
Would she live long enough for him to grab hold?
Copyright © Donna Jones | Year Posted 2013
Grandma passed along her string of pearls to me.
I knew I've been entrusted with a special gift from her.
Nothing but pride crossed my mind that day.
Taking her pearls from its box, I still feel her love,
Whether it was tender or tough,
It was done with the intent
On making me feel pride within myself.
Grandma cherished her pearls for most of her life.
This was her 'Pearl of Wisdom' she passed down to me,
"Pearls are classy enough for a fancy affair
Or just a simple dinner out.
Diamonds are a girl's best friend,
But don't get between me and my pearls.
The attachment is for life, it's beauty knows no age."
Every time I put on her string of pearls, I still giggle.
Copyright © Connie Gildersleeve | Year Posted 2013
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.
Copyright © Dave Collins | Year Posted 2013
When little CJ comes to visit
She asks me for her "colors,"
The bright, fat crayons that "nanna" keeps
In a recycled butter tub.
We share the color book; CJ scribbles
on the left, the crayon squeezed tightly
in her tiny fist.
I color on the right, carefully converting
the puppy outline into a masterpiece
of paper art.
The puppy must have chocolate brown;
The grass and trees need green, of course.
I stay within the lines, modeling correctness.
CJ helps me--smearing first a purple nose
on her kitten's face, trailing to my page
to add a purple splash to the tail
of my puppy.
I never am quite finished
when she decides it's time
to find new pictures and begin again.
I doubt we'll ever finish those we leave behind,
but I haven't the heart to tell her
she might be wasting pages or coloring them wrong.
Mayhap, our lives would be none the worse
for errant purple outside the lines
or a few pages left unfinished.
Copyright © Karen Ruff | Year Posted 2014