Aunty Gertie may be an ol’ girly
But that doesn’t imply she can’t be flirty
The gleam in her eyes
Comes as a surprise
As aunty Gertie is three times thirty.
Gertie lives a life full of joy and fun
She’s an angel delight to everyone
She can do the splits
As well as high kicks
What’s more is that Gertie can’t be outrun.
Gertie dresses alike a beauty queen
Her hair it glows in a silvery gleam
She makes up her face
With dignified grace
The prettiest grandma one’s ever seen.
Aunty Gertie’s a poet, it’s the truth
Good poetry too, though she’s long of tooth
She writes through the night
In gleam of moonlight
Gertie’s a walking, talking dream come true.
If I had seven giraffes, my life would be complete.
It would make my days tasty, my entire weeks sweet.
She is my aunt, but crazy, if you ask me or cousin Lou.
We figured out why she dated a keeper who worked at the zoo.
He brought in six more giraffes for her to put into her pot.
They were struggling to get away, our aunt is kind of a snot.
We waited until she went to sleep and let the giraffes all go.
Knowing the next morning our lives would be full of woe.
Auntie Whee the absurd arrived, on her hat, a red bird.
Her jacket is ever so loud! I knew it meant she is proud.
She is not like the others, not the sisters or mothers.
Living in New York, and not eating burgers or pork.
Don’t let her rub off, I was warned, but I scoffed.
Her life looked brilliant to me, she was wild and free.
Her stories were a delight, I stayed up half the night.
More please I said more than twice, she was gentle and nice.
She’s different than us you see, said my uncle Lee.
Actually, different than him, but much the same as me.
When I grew up I would go to New York, and stop eating pork.
I wanted to be wild and free like my Dear Auntie Whee.
I am getting myself a retail therapy cat said my aunt.
I met one once, and I am telling you that you simply can’t!
She had made up her mind and brought home Mrs. T.
A well-dressed cat that was persnickety, stuck-up and snooty.
She won’t speak to me and she puts on airs, said my Aunt Lee.
I told you not to bring one home I said, laughing a bit with know-it-all-glee.
Mrs. T was outfitted in round dark shades with white rims.
Her leopard cape was elegant without any kind of extra flair or trims.
She was carrying a black patent leather purse when out popped a mouse.
The creature was wearing a mink pillbox hat that outclassed our house.
A mouse too! Said my aunt. What on earth was I thinking?
The mouse ran up into a wall and died there, so now things are stinking.
Her Christian name is Constance, but I call her Auntie Confidence.
She spurts self-assurance as easily as a strawberry popsicle in July.
She oozes confidence. Some of us stand close, hoping it will drip on us.
If you say, “women can’t,” she will show you that this woman can.
Dare I brag, she was the first female engineer in the aerospace program?
Our family falls under Auntie Confidence’s spell when she stops by.
She is like a meteorite - teaching us to be real, to be confident
To be ourselves and let no one stop us. I am blessed to know her.
Precious Auntie
You are in heaven this Christmas holiday
But without you,
everything seems so grey
Losing you is very hard for us this year
our hearts are heavy, we've cried lots of tears
I will never forget your warm smile
tight hugs and sweet laugh
Though it's been a while
My heart is in great pain
and I will miss you
till we meet again
Home from a chemo session, uncle lights up
a cigarette and collapses
to the slick plastic that covers your chaise
lounge, auntie. He thumps the upholstery
with his legs and elbows for blood
to circulate again. A flake
drifts. Dehydrated lips, uncle
inadvertently kisses ash. Cushions
puff up, deflate. Uncle floats
smoke rings to prove he still has breath.
Your bulbous urn ruptures his rings
on contact where curvature
casts uncle’s warped reflection, all mouth and smoke,
as he would rise to reach your urn on the mantle.
Uncle slouches back, watches his sports channel.
I head out with his hamper
and forget to check pockets before washing clothes,
his soggy receipts - - once grocery lists? - -
and tissues, torn apart, clumped up, fake snow
I have to scoop out of washing machines.
Absent-minded tasks at the laundromat, auntie,
where you’d bend in pain. Lint trays reinstall
fluff. I snap
and snap airborne dryer-flakes off towels.
Yesterday, I received Auntie Mabel’s end-of-the-year letter
Seems, after another bout with arthritis, she is some better,
She reports that Aunt Lula Fay’s nephew is no longer in fetter
But, unfortunately, he’s only out on bail, she being his “setter.”
Sid, Auntie Mable tells me, will never be much of a go-getter,
Reminds me for Christmas she sent me a warm woolen sweater.
As soon as I receive the sweater, I’ll send a note of gratitude
Failing to mention the gift, Auntie Mabel would cop an attitude,
When one lapses in manners, Mabel doesn’t give much latitude
Considering such a failure both thankless and unseemly crude,
Since she’s a family connection, I’d hate if she became unglued,
I don’t want to get a reputation for being an ungrateful dude!
written December 26, 2021
Orange pumpkins and yellow gourds arranged in a pretty way
October greets me from my Auntie Em’s delightful doorway.
Come in! She exclaims She has hot chocolate chip cookies and tea.
I love her sunflower motif, it has always made me feel glee.
Her orange tabby is curled up under the table, so I am careful for sure.
I love my Auntie Em, and her Kansas kitchen, with love incredibly pure.
We drink our tea, and laugh about the relatives who are now gone.
My uncle is in the other room sleeping, with his TV a little bit on.
Autumn is wonderful, I say, and we plot out where we will soon go.
There are many fall festivals, and a world-famous craft show.
Em shows me her latest creations, a ghostly white tea cake.
I file this memory away in my file of favorites things she doth bake.
You crossed, at your time to cross,
Your death, not unexpected,
But my heart still feels the loss
Of the light that you projected.
You were the bottom storeys
On which my life has been erected,
The library that stored the stories
Of my childhood, recollected.
The memory of all that went before
In you, was resurrected.
Of whom I am, can I be sure
Without those stories you collected?
The great spirits began to dance their thanksgiving song
Grandmother Forest watched with pride and thoughtfulness
Auntie Running Bear had formed Brother Fire, and was seeking
Truth from her nephews’ spirit animals.
Wise Owl was there, summoning his power animal.
Hooting in the trees verified he had reached his inner truths.
Sly Fox was trying his best to concentrate, but he was distracted.
Irritated that Wise Owl’s spirit guide was verifying his presence.
This is not a competition, Auntie Running Bear cautioned her charges.
Communing with your spirit guides is something we do individually.
They come in their own time; know they are here, to be summoned.
Creeping turtle felt her spirit animal’s presence, for she was clairsentient.
What if we feel she is here, but we cannot see her?
You have reached a Nirvana that the medicine woman cannot dispute.
Grandmother Forest watched and listened in fascination.
Thrilled she knew how to hoot like an owl. What sound does a turtle make?
Jittery and panicky is her truth.
A spinster who laughs harder than mothers,
She is my father’s cousin, Auntie Ruth.
Much more dazzling than lots of others.
Some say she is peculiar and can say-sooth.
She is insane, laughs some of my brothers.
She is hilarious to me, most uncouth!
I love her better than pretty much all of the others.
When my muse is busy dodging fire and brick
how can it scribe beautiful things.
With pepper spray in the eyes
batons and viruses whirling overhead
balls of anger and hate wanting to lay me into R.I.P.
How can it see pink horizons glazed with songbirds
or morning suns sprinkling silver sprigs over lily ponds.
For now, my muse is smashing baseball- apple pie and Chevrolets
smothering smiles-putting on yet another game face.
Bolting riot gear into heavy metal bones-chewing cans of mace,
etching cracked skulls and caskets onto burning pages
for now-this is the way my muse is gonna roll
until Uncle Riot and Auntie virus head for home-
Auntie Emilina was a character for sure.
Did I mention she was busy and not very pure?
Fancy lady with exceptional taste.
Delicate, fragile, but not very chaste.
Exotic feathered headbands left behind.
Wearing them after eighty seemed unkind.
Perfume bottle; we all want favorite blue.
With a vibrant green, it speaks to us too.
She liked this one also our cousin says.
Sis climbs out of closet, wearing rhinestone fez.
She would love that! We tell her, knowing Aunt Em.
She was wild, exuberant, witty, crazy, and totally fem!
If I was Auntie Mame, I would be excited about everything.
Kicking up fun wherever I am invited.
Even places I’m not, but everywhere being the zing.
Bringing people together, making them united.
I would be like giant puppies, leaping into lap places,
Sure I am welcome, not aware if I am not.
Knowing they are thrilled I am licking their faces.
I would throw up my hands, and dance around the lot.
I would be insanely, gloriously, uncommonly happy.
Unaware of disapproval or disdain in any way.
Oblivious to others’ discomfort, I would be loud and snappy.
Thinking their laughter is for me, I would continue to play!
Because I am the party, I do not want anyone to sleep.
Let the party begin! Bring out the chips and bar stools.
Take a chance, open that door, come out, and take the leap!
It is me, and if you have read the script, Auntie Mame rules!
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