Long poem by
Gil Garcia | Details |
memories at the ready.
Friends inter-mingling, while great grandchildren run through the gathering crowd.
Sun streaking through branches, warming joints, and turned up faces seeking the rare appearance of the coastal sun.
The growing color of gray cropped heads blot out the distant green scape as the band arrives one by one.
Blankets spread, picnic baskets, and bottles of wine appear.
Drummer man begins testing his skins, while the Blues Brother look-alike adjust his mic.
Bass guitar man plugs into his amps then makes a run through his vibrating strings.
memories at the ready.
audience’s eyes glowing,
puppy dogs running as great grandchildren do cartwheels on the grass.
Almost ready, drummer warms up with a mixed run of sheep skin sounds.
Base man vibrates notes that rock nearby windows and flutter our wrinkled foreheads.
Pretty lady arrives on stage and is welcomed by the band like an old lost friend. She sets her music on a stand and adjust her mic downward.
Anticipation growing, memories at the ready.
Blues Brother laughing, making eyes at the pretty lady.
Puppy dogs running.
Little four year old boy in blue striped shirt plays his air guitar in front of base man who is smiling at the boy’s mimicking accuracy.
Snacks, blankets, and beer,
vibrations fill the air.
It begins _the pretty lady welcomes all. She announces that we were about to experience a ride back to the sixties, and seventies.
They start _the rhythm of Muddy Waters fills the air.
As pretty lady sings the blues.
Old necks swaying and dancing, hands clapping, as wrinkles smile again.
Eyes connecting with strangers, family and friends.
Old couples grasping their loved-one’s hands _remembering when,
as the lady sings the blues.
Before you know it, it is over.
Good-bye hugs and handshakes.
Mamas and Papas gathering their now sleeping children.
Retired professionals, doctors, lawyers and old artisans with memories now awakened begin to leave, _some older, turn their heads downward, walking in tune with their walkers, and canes as their children help them back to parked cars in handicap zones.
Cars back out, but before moving on _ a few of the elder attendees turn their head back to the park to capture one more moment in time, as they gaze upon their dispersing long lost friends, who just shared a ride back to the sixties, and seventies; when the guitar man strummed, and the lady sung the blues.
Copyright © Gil Garcia | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Rhoda Monihan | Details |
Most accidents are avoidable,
I’m sure you would all agree,
In modern society, high-tech,
Where things are more robust.
All my relatives believed in,
God, Jesus and the holy trinity,
But since there is no god here,
You just make him up, buck.
The seventies saw older folks,
Imply the incident was from god,
When their rags fell of the line,
Hanging in front of the open fire.
It was a sacred communication,
From god to the entire family,
When grandmother only alone,
Would come running to quell.
Mother would put on her hat,
Wear the spiritual cap, illuminate,
Direct words from very god, dais,
Spoken to her own mother, father.
I got involved in this whole act,
But quietly, with atheist respect,
When I advised they be careful,
With the clothes on the horse.
I ignored evil eyes from mum,
Joisted with dad who questioned,
Rejected James, bounced away,
And stubbed out lovely grandad.
Then, they inquired into my fears,
If I could cope with the situation,
So I just retorted I was not saved,
And so could cope with events.
James went off his head, nuts,
Dad hesitated, then roared shamed,
Mum made gestures with her hands,
Personality accusations she’d land.
Fires in that old Stitchill house,
Made me very angry and very sad,
About Christianity’s standing, height,
Which is just so very grand and tall.
Every family is people-driven,
If you make chat you’ll befriend,
If you organise play you’ll attend,
And if you’re careless you’ll harm.
You can put god into the equation,
Or leave him out, but family’s cell,
Only, if you add him you’ll claim,
Suffering probably as from him.
Genetics means bodily conditions,
Carelessness means injuries, burns,
Random crashes, obviously no-one,
And job loss is not your lateness.
You live best when you specify,
So yes, your MD came down,
From your parents genetics given,
Explanation stops there for kids.
My parents hated what I’d said,
To my grandmother to take care,
So told them not to respect me,
Not to do what I said, insane me.
Then she denied saying that,
Saying that I was insane, well,
I then knew for real deviation,
Lying, make fundamentalism.
The lord didn’t start the fire,
To test my grandmother out,
Her domesticity and devotion,
To her house, husband John.
There is no god available,
Who speaks when you allow,
There’s only hurt for others,
When you play with hot fire.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Sabina Nicole | Details |
When my mother was at the age of thirteen,
A dirty old man asked her to come clean,
He invited her over so she could make a few bucks
When she arrived he was in a black tucks
He was the neighbor across the street,
His wife was at work and he viewed my mom as weak
This man locked the door when my mother arrived,
Went to go kiss her, to feed his sick drive,
My mom ran out the back door and went across the street,
Little did this man know he was in for a “delightful treat!”
My great grandma lived six towns away
My mother called her in a state of panic and disarray
A forty minute drive, granny made it in fifteen
Granny drove her old ford like a race car machine
When she arrived, she kicked that man’s door down
She did not care if anyone was around
That man jumped up by that loud sound
She hit him so hard he fell right on the ground
She slapped him around with her left shoe
Cursed him out in Italian, while threatening him too
Later that night my mother’s dad came home
He is a little man with a loud groan
He heard the story and went across the way
Took his shot gun and made this man pay
Told him if he ever touched his daughter again,
He would shoot off his little “private friend,”
He made this man cry in his own living room,
But I promise you this man never again tried to consume,
Every little girl on that street,
He knew not to look at or he would get severally beat,
My family has many stories of my Great Granny saving the day,
Never mess with an Italians family, they handle things in their own special way.
Every family has stories that get past down from one generation to the next. I was blessed to have had my mother’s grandparents until about 6 years ago. They did not speak any English and my great granny was a crazy awesome woman. She grew up on a farm in Italy and had to do a lot on her own. She raised all the children and grandchildren but was old school about a lot of stuff. I remember my great grandparents fighting with each other even in the nursing home. They were married for 58 years; they shared a room in the nursing home that had two separate beds. My great grandma use to hit my great grandpa with her cane from across the bedroom. It was funny to watch. They may have fought but they loved each other so much, my great grandma died 6 years ago and less than a year later my great grandpa died too. Now they are in heaven together, I don’t think there’s fighting in heaven, God don't allow that;)
Copyright © Sabina Nicole | Year Posted 2011
Long poem by
curtis johnson | Details |
Life According To Me
I have observed that some of the shortest lives contributed so much more than most. We all have known of many endowed with longevity, but were impoverished of legacy.
There are those who gave it all, with nothing taken to the grave but an empty corpse. Then there are those whose God given talents and gifts followed them to their grave.
Perhaps all would agree that marriage should not consummate where there is no love. But do we dare ask where marriage should stand, if love should cease to be in the marriage? Should we not recall that most marriages were entered into, not with love alone, but also with covenant?
STORMS AND MOTHER NATURE:
Storms reek havoc to structures and infra-structures, landscapes and human lives; But those same storms breath life to dry and thirsty lands, filling dams and reservoirs.
The sun shall rise in the East and set in the West, and the world shall ever be under duress with some kind of test.
The winds and ocean waters shall sometimes connect and twist into hurricanes.
But prayers, hard work, and the will to survive will relieve the tears and the pains
WAVES OF WICKEDNESS:
Tyrants and wicked despots shall surface occasionally, but like in the past, they too shall pass. I stand with the God of the good, the tried, and the true; and have every reason to be hopeful.
I have always loved grandparents, beginning with my adored maternal grandmother.
In my lifetime, I have witnessed countless “Grands” among the unselfish and the brave. I can only imagine a world of total grief and chaos without grandparents.
I like the beauty and the unmatched presence of roses. I hear their voices speaking calmness, love, and peace.
But roses arrive with the beast of thorns, drawing blood.
JUST SAY NO:
A “No” consequence is often far less severe than a “Yes” one.
So it’s best to put our “Yeses” and “No’s” in their appropriates places
I think not that God has any use for molds. But if he does, perhaps he threw them away after making each of us. There is simply no one exactly like you, and there is a task and a purpose designed just for you. Let’s dare to find pleasure in being like non other that ourselves, and be the ‘best me’ that any can be.
Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
PEDROS FERNANDES | Details |
My GRANDFATHER loved to work. His schedule from 3 am till 6 pm we were farmers
-we is a lot of people who's here?- He asks.
With the scream of a Legendary fighter we all say "We Are" proudly looking at each other. The cows have a special meaning to WE,
They were Nurture to be Healthy and Beautiful and were a Legendary Hobby after 6 meaning that they Shine, than won all trophy's for strength beauty and behaving. Cerneja was an Imperatriz, temperamental, always ready to fight for her kingdom. Here comes the one of many risk-free situations in a natural site in the Vasdos the the Luso-Amazonia between 4 cows and dozens of Bovidae mammals, sheep and goats included, and with Cerneja out of control trying (have done before) to sacrifice an innocent well nurtured and less beautiful for Cer-kingdom standards and a solution. From HIS 2 meters of an well balanced body structure holding a horn push and propelling with so much energy, Cer smash like a meteor to the floor over the farmers and Farmer and Animal kingdom stupefaction and our daze (the best,the Queen "Cerneja" almost a myth "and what about the empire-we thought". The kingdom always goes on.
Replaced Cer was sold for good money divided between the two owners (some animals like most of the land had more than one owner). The chirurgical eye of my HEART was so right and we were so wrong that Cer killed the unfortunate brand new owner and was given to the local slaughter house for THE FARMER unhappiness our dejection and all the WOMEN in the house joy In killing one of us instead one of others and Cerneja was evil-
What stays is GULLIVER well tied to a chair by dwarves (in any pattern out of NBA tallest) while naptime warding off a fly and waking up smiling and feigning stretching the tight ropes
-It's time to work
Farmers pay back with the same coin to each other-WORK- And money comes from selling shared properties animals and milk.
Sharing HERO type of stories always with coffee, good food and wine I was always involved in the exchange and legendary people are generally anonymous - in this particular that's not true for the heroism and courage stories but still will continue anonymous. Thank You For the Kindness and Patience and I hope You continue to Produce Alike because What We Got, Get For Free We Give Back For Free, Right!
Right or Wrong?
Copyright © PEDROS FERNANDES | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
STANLEY Harris | Details |
>River Orwell and a Poppy field
By Stanley Russell Harris
(The mad Author)
I went out with the wife today.
We walked by the River Orwell I say.
Tide was out, but breeze was swell.
Ensured there was no stinking town smell.
Grasses looked so green and fresh.
Honey bees were buzzing on the clover bless.
Gathering pollen, for their queen.
Soon to be, in their hive seen.
Then we visited a poppy clad field.
Photos by the score, that field did yield.
Wife’s camera clicked away that day.
Must have been red hot I say.
The poppies were like those of Flanders red.
You know those growing for our dead.
For our brave men, who died there and bled.
Who should have returned home alive instead.
Now we bicker and do shout.
As GB from EU do want out.
Yet deep in that mud our kinfolk hide.
Red poppies now grow where they peacefully lie.
I hope our cries do not disturb them.
Our brave and gallant country men.
Who laid down their lives for you and me.
So we from chains could live free.
Was weird finding that field today.
Red poppies in the breeze did sway.
Reminded me of those days, of long ago,
when our brave men died in Flanders fields, so…
No more World Wars should we fight.
EU should now respect our rights.
As our ancestors won us the right,
to leave the EU free, if rules seem now not right.
Soon all countries in the EU will be free.
Of Brussels domination, just you see.
We might be the first country to break free.
But not the last, just wait and see.
If not, then I am sad to say
EU will sadly fade away.
Remember you read it here today.
And now I’ll put pen and pad away.
As I remember those brave men I say,
and those fields of red poppies today.
It is no coincidence that on the 1st of July 2016 we will be remembering the action of those gallant men who's lives were sacrificed in those blood stained fields of The Battle of the Somme. July 1st to November18th 1916.The same fields where those bright red poppies grow. You might see pictures of our poppies on my Facebook page if you so wish. Although not a war poet, I would like to dedicate this poem to those gallant forefathers or ours. Many of course who still lie peacefully in Flanders fields. Stanley (The mad Author) PS This will be in Poems Book 10.<
Copyright © STANLEY Harris | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
MoonBee Canady | Details |
(Prov. 22: 6 / Heb. 5: 14 / Deut. 6: 6-9 / 2 Tim. 3: 13-15, 16 / Matt. 19: 13, 14)
- cont. - from Part 1
And The Same Can Be Said
Of A Young Child’s Impressionable Mind
It Needs To Be Nurtured At Home
Or It Will Eat Every Junk & Stuff They Find
And You Can’t Let A Child
Follow Its Every Whim …
No Matter How Brilliant or Smart
Dumb Things Will Make Them Dim
But Parents Try To Remember
Just When You Were Young …
Didn’t You Just Want To Act Stupid
And Have Some Friends & Fun?
Every Child Needs To Know
What & Who They Can Trust …
This Is More Important Than That Job
& Making Big Bucks
Every Child Needs Guidance
Even If Parents Are Just Guessing
But There Is A Book of Instructions
To Keep Parents & Child From Stressing
(2 Tim. 3: 15, 16)
It Is A Compass & A Map
& Its Like Reading A Diary of Confessions
Where Both Parents & Children
Can Learn About Real Life Lessons
(Matt. 4: 4 / Matt. 19: 13, 14)
And We Need To Start Training Them Young
From The Crib & From The Womb
Give ‘Em Plenty Space & Privacy
But Know What’s Going On In That Room!
‘Cause Newsflash! … Now Hear This
When Children Get Wrong Ideas or Tears
It’s Up To Loving Parents & Families
To Steer Them Free & Clear
Yes, Newsflash! … Now Know This
Children Don’t Know Nuthin’!
It’s Up To Responsible Adults
To ‘Try’ & Teach Them Somethin’ …
Their Bright Little Eyes & Minds
Are Looking To Us For Advice
And We Have To Watch Their Little Heads
So They Don’t Get Infected With Lice!
Yes, Their Bright Eyes & Minds
Are Looking To Us For Advice
& There Is Not Enough or Too Much Time
That We Could Sacrifice
And Without The Rod of Discipline
Whether Spanking or Time Out On The Floor
Loving Communication Is What Keeps Them
From Being Spoiled & Rotted To The Core
Look – Grandmamma Used To Tell Me
“If Everybody Is Sticking Their Head In The Fire
And They Tell You It Won’t Hurt …
You Tell ‘Em ‘You’re A Liar!’”
Listen, We All Can See That This World
Is Going To You Know Where In A Hand-Basket
But You Don’t Have To Let Them Group You & Yours
Into That Casket …
And When A Child Wants To Eat Candy
‘Cause It Tastes Good – All Day Long!
When You Tell Them “No!”
Listen … You Ain’t Wrong!
Written & ©: 7/16/2013
By: The MoonBee
Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Shanity Rain | Details |
Have you ever written anything without sub combing to tears ?
My Family portrait in my mind , 2 older sisters , 2 brothers
My Mother caring about all five in different ways
Just with Mom & Dad there having the best of Holidays
My sisters laying out on the deck of river bank for 4th of July ~
Listening to " Honkey Chateau " and all by Elton John.
music a great memory ~Disco , Donna summer , Grease ~ Jaws !
Dad's records to Tony Bennett , Hank W Sr. , Count Basie & Louis Armstrong.
The music takes me home in a wagon filled with children and a dog "Lucky "
My Older brother , athletic , always fishing & hunting.
My younger , my Rock , Swimming and netting for fish,
feeding our Fat cat Perch off the rocks patiently awaits her food
the yelling , slamming of doors , tempers Flare , passion
Our Parents , passionate love yet passionate Hate .
After being a Family of Seven , Divorcing their fate ..
Why did that show " Dallas " bring out the Divorce in all ?
Scottish ~ Irish ~ French Iroquois ~ Cherokee
No matter what the mix ..Our curse Alcohol ~
the Screaming , Drinking , this memory I wish to shut the door on .
Going to A & W or making Cheerleading ,The Bears of course~
Excited in Chicago ! seeing Elton John in the Summer of 1976 ~
Cubs , museum of Wax , Museum of science & History , Pizza !
Expeditions of discovery ,little brother & I finding arrowheads on the Shore.
Our Grandparents Faithful Celebrations ! Chiffon cake , Apple strudel `
Our Cousins on Holidays , going for ice cream cones ,
scent of wet rain on oak leaves ~Before Halloween was bought in stores.
~ That is the Family I Love ,
that is the Family I choose to miss ~
Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Robert Ronnow | Details |
The circle closes over the dead woman's space.
Family and community heal, the scar tissue
between a young girl's breasts. She had
shared conversations with my father about
the holes in their hearts. My heart, the
muscle, not the spirit, flutters when a
young girl bikes by or the heron flies.
By September flies are down, we can come
out of our canoes and risk the woods. Summer's tissue
is torn each night. Space above gives perspective
to the life one had. Jesus speaks your name?
And is Barbara now traveling astronomy's corridors
at the speed of light, aware of herself, to the blessed heart?
Raymond too is moving on, wary of his dispatcher.
Much of the family gathered. My grandfather, Bart,
it was remembered sold his house to none other than Duke
Ellington and Lena Horne lived up the block. Andrew
played with her daughters, sons. Until every Italian
had moved east into Long Island, thinking themselves
better than blacks. I find each and all --
Hindus, Muslims ? hard-earned bone and prone to scratch.
We are most happy the dead one's not us.
The chosen one, the unfortunate one, the
one whose name Jesus spoke, is gone
and is no longer one of us. She is the other,
as distant and separate from the family
as a black man or Hindu's sister. Missed less
than last night's sleep or meat and grateful
for such peace. I will be too if it won't
come too soon or too often. My observation is
54 or 84 you always seem to want more
what was accomplished or never finished isn't
enough. Greedy, overweight and blameworthy
is how I've felt about every wasted day.
Summer's tissue torn by the first frost night.
Judging by her feet, Judith will be a big
woman, great granddaughter of Bartholomew,
who sold his redlined house to Duke. See how she
stands near her mother, Jeanette, who
resembles so fiercely my grandmother, Concetta.
The circle closes over the dead woman's space.
Summer's tissue is torn, the family is lace.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
christine a kysely | Details |
I have a Bentwood Rocker
It's the most cherished thing I own
It is made from the willow branches
of an ancient tree at my grandparent's home.
It embraces me on my back porch
both in the morning and at night
when a pair of cardinals come to visit me
at both the first and last day's light.
I rock in a gentle rhythm
sip my coffee and watch the clouds
and think to myself life's worth living
As I just sit and rock without a sound.
Sometimes I hum a favorite tune
and sometimes I just rock silently alone
somehow this chair seems to center me
It motion washes away life's rough edged stones.
As I sway and think of days gone gone by
of my brothers and sisters and me
climbing up among the branches
of my grandparents big old willow tree.
We used to swing on all the branches
Like the Jungle Book's Tarzans and Janes
Laughing and swingly wildly, never quiet nor mundane
Yelling out profusely, howling out all the Jungle Book slang.
We used to weave together the branches
into leafy wreaths without any thorns
improvised crowns of the greenest splendor
Just as Julius Caesar would have worn.
Sometimes we added in flowers
Daisies and dandelions were always in season
Sometimes we just sat in that old tree
Just happy to be there, for no given reason.
And so decades and decades of years have gone by
My Grandparents have long since passed on
But I think of them often as I rock in my chair
Cherished memories to always remember.
And now the winter has settled in
My cherished rocker sits covered in snow
Waiting for the days of the songbirds return
Waiting for warm days instead of the cold.
It sits silently waiting for Springs blossoms to arrive
for a day when I can rock without being froze
for an evening when relaxing in my comfortable rocker
will signal the end of one of my beloved warmer days.
Copyright Christine A Kysely December 14, 2010
(c) Copyright 2010 by Christine A Kysely, All Rights Reserved,
Copyright © christine a kysely | Year Posted 2010