Long poem by
Tommy Boy | Details |
She was pretty, fit and able,
living life as Anna Gable.
He was youthful, strong and handsome,
ornery smile, but always winsome.
Now they're old and sick and feeble,
two of life's forgotten people...
She stares at the ceiling most days and rarely leaves her bed. Family never visits anymore, too busy with their own lives. But the ceiling, with it's white blank canvas, has become her theater, where action scenes burst forth in all their colorful splendor. When she sleeps dreams paint random, intermittent pictures; a dusty lane, the babbling brook that ran the length of the farm where she was born and raised, the moo of the cow, the crow of the rooster at dawn. But when she is awake the ceiling comes alive with vivid memories of her days on the farm. She recreates entire moments of her past. Though the stroke robbed her of her movement and silenced her once beautiful voice, she controls these moments. Yes, her mind is very much alive and active! Yet she has no one to share these memories with. She wonders what will happen to her when she dies, what will really happen! Will she simply turn to dust? Will she be with Jesus? Will she live again at some future moment in time? But for now, she indulges in a memory from the past. Her mother baking an apple pie from scratch while she takes in the aroma from her bedroom, studying for tomorrow's big exam. She is twelve years old.
This is where Anna lives.
From his window he watches the birds. Flitting hither and yon, foraging for food. He wonders what it would be like to fly, to soar through the heavens with nary a care, to feel free and happy. The heart attack left him without any strength. Most days he can barely make it to the bathroom. Sometimes he doesn't. His only daughter comes to see him once a year, on his birthday. This year he will be... well, he doesn't remember how old anymore. The aide who gives him his daily bath is a pretty, petite brunette. He tries to flirt and she plays along, ever the accommodating actress. But deep down he knows he has no chance with her. He is old. Gray, feeble, and old. Ah, but when he was a young man he had his pick of the ladies, to be sure. Dashing and strong, with a shock of red hair and freckles galore! Then came the day that he met his future wife. She was shy and cute with a dimple in her left cheek. How he loved to make her smile and see that little dimple come out of it's hiding place! The day she passed away was the worst day of his life. Forty-two years together and then she was no more. For twenty-three years he has lived alone. It is in this place that he will likely die, lonely and heartbroken. But for today, the birds provide him with a bit of amusement. Flitting about, soaring toward the heavens... happy and free.
This is where Andy lives.
Note: If you have a loved one in a nursing home, why not try your best to visit more often? No one should die alone...
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.
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;)
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.
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?
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
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 ~
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.
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,
christine a kysely
Long poem by
Neil McLeod | Details |
A Ship In A Bottle
My great Grand Father sailed to New Zealand on a ship called the Wild Deer in 1872. I have always loved ships in bottles, and one day decided I would drain a pretty bottle of its contents and put the inspiration back inside. It took three months to complete the project.
It sits there on the sideboard
Or on the mantle shelf,
And after such a long time
You don’t notice it yourself.
But should you have a visitor
Or younger child come by
It will spark interest anew
And gasps of “Me oh my!”
It’s then the curious wonder
How the ship was put inside,
And where the opening’s concealed
And was it hard to hide?
And if you put it in there
How many times you tried?
And if it went in through the neck
How could it be so wide?
It’s then you tell the story
Of going to the store
To find a bottle of good clear glass
With a shape worth planning for.
Dimple Haig is famous,
Carduh’s pretty fair,
The first one is triangular,
The other one is square.
The bottle must be decanted,
When empty cleaned and dried,
And a careful measure taken
Of the dimensions inside.
It’s then you render drawings
Of the ship you want to make,
And plan out going backwards
Every step you’ll have to take.
First you carve the hull
Of wood with grain that’s fine,
Then step the masts with hinges
So they fold down in a line.
You add the sails and rigging,
Check how they’ll erect
When’s time to pull the halyards
Through the bottle’s neck.
It takes months to finish
Doing a little every night,
I had my children watching
And remarking at the sight.
They saw me put in plasticine
To mold and shape the ocean
And carve wave crests with a spoon
To give the water motion.
When at last the time is right
And everything is ready
You carefully set the ship upon
The sea and hold it steady.
Then pulling on each halyard
The sails are slowly raised
And those who watch the process
Stand enchanted and amazed.