Best Handed Down Poems
I hear much joy in the music,
View elation in the dance
Feel happiness in the laughter,
Soulful spirit in poetic romance.
I feel love in the language
Swelling in my heart.
Reverence for God and Goddess
In beloved families far apart.
I love the customs and the people
As they celebrate each day
Living life to the fullest
In their honor I wish to pray
That I may learn to be as humble
As loving and as kind,
To be blessed by elder wisdom
In every senior that I find.
This is a gift to give my children
To open their sleepy little eyes.
To see the value in rejoicing,
To reach for stars up in the skies.
When they learn this knowledge
To listen well to the sages,
They will know of sacred secrets
Handed down through the ages.
© 2014 Connie Marcum Wong
Categories:
handed down, appreciation, art, dance, music,
Form:
Rhyme
‘neath the halo of a full moon
Wind Talker gives music to the night
flute carved from a fallen tree
he plays to the dwindling forest
trees that remain and creatures losing habitat
softly the melody resonates through the woods
Wind Talker recalls stories handed down
tribal legacies of prosperity, joy
an era when animals were protected and revered
glory days of spiritual people
proud Native Americans who honored their culture
cast away even as treaties were signed
so much has been lost
so much
clad in soft skins
Wind Talker wishes for what might have been
if settlers had never made their way to his land
yes, the land is his
it always will be; this he knows
his heart’s sadness emanates from Wind Talker’s flute
development is approaching, encroaching
more houses, more highways
fewer trees, less land for animals to roam freely
resignation sets in
no way to reclaim the past
ceremonial drums fade in the distance
so much has been lost
so much
Categories:
handed down, native american,
Form:
Free verse
Love Was Sent, Treasure That Healed Two Crushed Hearts,
A Collaboration with Susan Ashley
Life shattered, soul crushed, another one has perished
once gone from this world was all she ever cherished
No amazing and joyful tales to tell the kids
just naked silence, from raging of black rapids
From heavens above, truest of gifts handed down
romance sent, from He that wears faith's eternal crown.
In that gloom and doom came our Spring's resplendent morn
Love, joyful sound of Living, thus we were reborn
Love, its Lights flamed, happiness needs no explaining
summer warmth came from darkness rapidly waning
O' what glory, shall your heart forever hold mine
our sweet blessing, came from angelic hands divine
Within nights, kisses that sated our hot desires
came oaths of eternal love that never expires.
In that gloom and doom came our Spring's resplendent morn
Love, joyful sound of Living, thus we were reborn
Our soaring passions’ pure as nightingale’s song
enrapturing seduction righted what was wrong
upon our heartstrings’ twilight music we did fly
as supernova lusts did unfurl ‘cross the sky -
scintillating stardust showered us with magic
our souls’ kissed in sparkling bliss since events tragic.
In that gloom and doom came our Spring's resplendent morn
Love, joyful sound of Living, thus we were reborn
Dreamy nectar - ripened wine, whetted revival
as I sipped upon your essence for survival
rousing the wild-honey luscious look in your eyes
behind ambrosial mist passionate beauty lies
on thirsty tongues of fire we burned ‘till morning’s light
melting past the pain in moonflower swirls of night
In that gloom and doom came our Spring's resplendent morn
Love, joyful sound of Living, thus we were reborn
Robert J. Lindley and Susan Ashley
(a collaboration), April 24, 2019
Poet’s note: My dear friend, it always a great honor for me to be able to collaborate with you and truly enjoy your inspirational verses! Such a blessing is to me a very precious gift you give me and my appreciation is sincere and honest in this my admiration for both your great friendship and your magnificent poetry talents!
Categories:
handed down, beautiful, blessing, happiness, longing,
Form:
Rhyme
How I loved spending a week of the summer holidays with my grandparents. Gramps would come and pick me up in his old pick- up truck, dad would bundle my suitcase into the back and I’d be on my way. Gramps would whistle as we wended our way along the winding country lanes until we reached their stone cottage. Grandma would be waiting for us to appear at the door, she always be wearing her checked apron which was flecked with flour. She’d scoop me up in her arms, and carry me into the cosy kitchen where the aroma of cooling gingerbread lingered in the air.
wheat from the old mill
freshly ground into white flour
grandma’s been baking
I would spend many hours in the garden with gramps, in the spring I’d helped him to plant lots of vegetable seeds and now summer had arrived they were ready to be harvested. Gramps would give me a ride in his old wooden red wheelbarrow, the wheel would squeak as he pushed me along the uneven ground and I would squeal with delight when we went over the bumps. In the vegetable garden we would pick perfect pea pods that were fit to burst with juicy green peas, bright orange carrots and creamy cauliflowers which reminded me of brains. All the produce would be placed into the wheelbarrow and I would help gramps to trundle it along the path to the kitchen door. Grandma would be busy in the kitchen and I’d help by podding the peas ready for our evening meal. I loved the popping sound of the pods as I pressed them to release the shiny peas.
from a tiny seed
colourful vegetables grow
harvest time arrives
Many years have elapsed, and sadly gramps and grandma are no longer with us. My father inherited their little stone cottage, which was eventually handed down to me. I now spend happy hours in the garden with my own grandson, and I’m passing on the gardening tips that gramps taught me when I was a small child. The red wooden wheelbarrow which I loved riding in is long gone; but I replaced it with a sturdy one made of shiny red plastic. My grandson loves riding in it to the vegetable patch and I love to hear him squeal with delight as I once did when I rode the same bumpy path.
the red wheelbarrow
reminds me of my grandpa
precious memories
Fiction write
For Your Poetry Journal Poetry Contest
Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart a.k.a Broken Wings
7/28/18
Categories:
handed down, childhood, garden, grandparents, memory,
Form:
Haibun
I could smell that fresh baked dough, rising up
through the air. Created from double zero flour,
from Italy, carefully prepared.
A fine effort, was made to preserve this delicious
perfection. A secret recipe handed down from
generation, to generation.
All the spices were fresh, to create an awesome
flavor. San Marzano tomatoes, fresh garlic,
and basil to savor.
The crust looked crisp, as this creation was pulled
out of a wood fire oven. Melted provolone, mozzarella
and asiago, cheeses, I was Loving.
As I chewed, my taste buds were having a love affair
with the tomato sauce. For me it would never again,
be store bought.
I would love to share a slice with you, because I know for
a fact, you'd find it delicious too!
Michael Tor 8/22/2015
Dedicated to all pizza lovers.
Categories:
handed down, first love,
Form:
Rhyme
[Verse 1]
I keep staring at the empty side of the bed
Wondering why you left without a word said
Was it the way I held on too tight?
Or did you just get tired of the fight?
[Verse 2]
You slipped out like smoke through my hands
Leaving me with questions I’ll never understand
There’s a song we used to play on repeat
Now it’s just silence that I can’t defeat
[Chorus]
Every moment’s a cell that I can’t break free from
I wasn’t there when you handed down the sentence, love
Caught between memories and what I never knew
This limbo’s a place where hope just won’t pull through
You were my lover, my closest friend
Now I’m chasing shadows that never end
Are we done? Or just frozen in time?
This waiting, this not knowing—it’s slowly killing my mind
[Verse 3]
You wanted freedom — maybe more than me
Took your Independence like a thief in the night, silently
I’m left in the ruins of all we planned
With nothing but ghosts and a ring in my hand
[Chorus]
Every moment’s a cell that I can’t break free from
I wasn’t there when you handed down the sentence, love
Caught between memories and what I never knew
This limbo’s a place where hope just won’t pull through
You were my heartbeat, my favorite sound
Now it’s just echoes I keep hanging around
Are we done? Or is this some cruel pause?
Girl, living like this is a slow, quiet loss
[Bridge]
If you wanted to leave, just say it plain
Don’t bury me in silence or leave me in pain
I’m drowning in questions, no lifeline in sight
You wanted your freedom — you got your Independence that night
[Outro]
Forever locked away, and I’m still here
Haunted by memories, haunted by fear
Longing for answers I’ll never get
In this limbo where I’m stuck — can’t forget
Categories:
handed down, angst, betrayal, break up,
Form:
Lyric
I've been musing lately about things that really make a home complete.
One thing for sure - a happy home is one with laughter and love replete!
'Twill be a place with affectionate parents who dearly love each other,
And blessed by a couple of kids - a little sister and her big brother!
A home ain't a home unless you have a faithful dog and inscrutable cat,
And a stoop on which to greet folks whereon lies a welcoming mat!
A grandfather clock to intone the inexorable march of time is needed,
And a fireplace with a cozy fire by which to reminisce unimpeded!
There'll be a library of classic tales with yellowed and dog-eared pages,
And a Bible that is read, having been handed down through the ages!
Displayed on the fireplace mantel will be pictures of folks from the past -
Folks from the family tree who set standards for honor unsurpassed!
There'll be a white picket fence and a trellis with climbing yellow roses,
And a huge front porch with a swing on which to enjoy pleasant dozes!
At the kitchen table, the family dines, discusses the day and grace is said.
Later the kids say nightly prayers before being tucked in their featherbed!
Marks to measure the kid's height mar the wall nigh the kitchen door.
Happy holidays and birthdays are celebrated that will add to family lore!
Though the dog and kids may create havoc as about the house they roam,
If I may quote Edgar Guest, "It takes a heap o' livin' to make a house a home!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Categories:
handed down, family, house, family, dog,
Form:
Rhyme
For Carolyn
By Carolyn Devonshire & James Marshall Goff
My hand
Wet with tears pouring down my face
Reaches out and finds nothing
Empty spaces where familiar voices
Once comforted me
My only hope
Is sleep, where dreams, in sketchy
Re-wind, promise a glimpse of lost
Loved ones, maybe a voice, if fleeting
Even, to soothe me
Those still with me
Look to me for strength, my motor
Memory urging me on, focusing
On the well, deep in my heart,
Cycle renews
Another beloved soul passes
Light they find
But darkness they leave behind
Grief
Hungry monster
Selfishly consumes my life
Devours all glimmers of hope
Leaving me
Destitute on a perilous plane
Mere existence
Not life as it once was
Sanity
Confronting memories, loneliness
Trek on an unbalanced bridge
Connecting life and death
Emotions purged
Shadows of yesterday surround me
Wisdom of loved ones
Permeate my thoughts
Filled
With clear vision, handed down to me
From my ancestors
Unpublished
2014
Categories:
handed down, visionary,
Form:
Free verse
Edwin C Hofert
4-14-15
I was born in nineteen sixty the lion is my sign.
All my clothes were handed down there was nothing I called mine.
There were six of us called siblings we didn't turn out too bad.
Raised by a single mother, raised without a dad.
I used to love to be alone, I played all by myself.
Bottle caps and string for toys, just one book on my shelf.
One time sitting in my room there finally came the day.
My mother came to where I sat and sent me out to play.
Time went on the way it does I struggled to be cool.
I made friends all on my own and found my way to school.
Then came the day in the fifth grade I'd never be the same.
The teacher said to write a poem, a poet I became.
Times were hard and we were poor somehow we all got by.
Laughing when the laughter came and learning how to cry.
There were times throughout my life that there were things I'd lack.
The worst times of my life it seemed, poetry called me back.
Molested as a little boy there's things we can't control.
He might have stole my innocence but God still saved my soul.
Often in the dark of night, my prayers for childhood dreams.
Drowning in the drunkenness and in my mothers screams.
There's really not much more to say some things we cannot plan.
Time went by the way it does and I became a man.
Haunted by the memories I admit there's tears I cried.
Told my father died when young then I found out she lied.
Again my world came crashing down I crumbled to my knee.
Once again I found my voice inside my poetry.
Better for the life I lived not in the normal fashion.
Somehow I learned empathy, somehow I learned compassion.
Learning through my darkest days there's battles we can't win.
But you can never lose the war if once more you rise again.
So I'm standing once again through times as dark as night.
Helping, healing others in the healing words I write.
Edwin C Hofert
Categories:
handed down, betrayal, childhood, conflict, confusion,
Form:
Rhyme
An English Life
It is midnight the Milk train pulls into darnall station
No ordinary passengers here
Steelworkers with their families
Loaded with fishing tackle, sandwiches and maggots
The Fossdyke in Lincolnshire, their destination
The fare Half a crown for happiness
The long walk in the dark,
A stairway to heaven in my memory
Dawn on the Foss and a cup of tea,
Fever in the blood, the first eel of the day
Our cane rods lovingly handed down from father to son.
I remember, Pheasants looking for mates
Shrieking their songs of love
Swans begging for scraps
Their majestic white necks, nodding,
A greeting into their kingdom
The mist off the water revealing families,
being together, laughing, enjoying what was free.
For tomorrow the grime returns.
A conversation with a stranger then out of a bag,
The rabbits, sometimes hare, sometimes pheasant.
Onions and carrots, shortly follow
The smell, forever linked with summer
The scent of my childhood
Summers were hotter then;
At times I drank the Foss, for I was nature’s child
Being clean was never a priority,
Catching fish was, never killed always returned,
Our Covenant with Nature.
For it is the sport that we honour.
And with age comes reflection,
Poor I may have been, my education neglected
But I have a Doctorate in nature, for I have seen the dawn
Away from the factories, where the pheasant runs free
And where the swan reins king, I was part of them.
It was here I learned what family was,
To share, my last drink of pop with my neighbour,
A simple life, maybe, but what a life
For I have seen what Constable painted
Lived every word that Wordsworth wrote
Understood the Fragrance of the Flowers
And revelled in the poets dream.
I loved every colour, every sound, every scent,
And every fish I ever caught.
Father and mother are gone now,
Never complained about their Station in life,
For they found paradise on the Foss.
They left me the seeds to their heaven
And the key to my happiness
A key forged in a mans worth
To open up my soul to the beauty
That surrounds us all.
Dawn on the Foss, was my church
My soul was cleansed here
And my heart was shaped here
My memories kept safe here
And the Foss fever still resides here
I will die on some bank side, one day
Rod in hand, and I will be content,
So Tight lines my fellow Anglers.
Categories:
handed down, childhood, happiness, passion, education,
Form:
Free verse
Memories Contest
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
We built a remembrance sight just for you, dear sister,
a granite bench with a poem engraved with your name,
I could always count on you to be my number one listener,
dear sister, since you died we’ve never been the same.
After your burial we had no clue what to do with your memoirs,
so every piece of memory you saved was stored in my garage,
I let the boxes sit for a few years like a natural reservoir,
that one Friday night I could’ve sworn I saw your mirage.
High school yearbooks, basketball awards and report cards,
also an old jewelry box I handed down to my daughter,
I can’t believe how your dear niece took your death so hard,
but faith and acceptance I am hoping to have taught her.
I still watch your videos so I may always remember your voice,
rewind…play…rewind…play… I hope to never forget,
somewhere way deep down I realize you always had a choice,
now I live in this depressing world full of sorrow and regret.
Flashbacks of the appalling last few weeks of your short life,
all the mania, car accident while drinking and driving,
you left us all tortured from your loss and ruined your wife,
this is why my pen flows freely as I continue my writing.
Tiny mementos and pictures placed gently all over my home,
frames with cards from you and letters you have written,
It’s hard but when I recall good times I know I’m not alone,
in the backyard I sway in the rocking chair you used to sit in.
There was an unfortunate flood during a mid-summers day,
I had no clue that the garage window was cracked,
all the items I was saving were sadly washed away,
those tangible memories I will never get back.
Date Written: May 5, 2016
Categories:
handed down, death, sister, suicide,
Form:
Quatrain
Take time to show
The people around you that you care
Time is an unpredictable force
When you turn around there’s no one there.
Take time to hear
Each story from the past
Handed down through generations
They must be shared in order to last.
Take time to see
The stranger standing next to you
A friend wears many faces
Only prejudice blocks the view.
Take time to listen
To what your child has to say
The clock is ticking swiftly
Tomorrow they’ll be going their own way.
Take time to ponder
The path you have followed through the years
Your mistakes became your teacher
As your courage was born from your fears.
Take time to feel
The cool grass beneath your bare feet
Life is a precious gift
Each day is a momentous treat.
Categories:
handed down, inspirationaltime, time, prejudice,
Form:
Rhyme
Passed down through generations I hold a gift of soup poetry,
it doesn’t matter if it’s hot or cold, as long as it comes in rhyme,
free verse is also tasty when I add a good analogy,
and sometimes I add a little bit of limerick and thyme.
The flavor that I savor is in the magic of the recipe,
boiled in the heat of the night or chilled during the day,
I have tendencies to stir and sip quite constantly,
just like my great grams used to do and say.
She wrote journals of emotions holding dreams of aspirations,
when she died they were handed down to me,
I learned that while making soup poetry I need inspiration,
and keep craving verses that will set me free.
The combination of deep love and gaining old age,
brings me satisfaction when thirsting for release of pain,
sometimes it’s nice to add some haibun and sage,
because adding a little cilantro can leave a senryu stain.
Footles of noodles and chicken marinated in raspberry villanelle,
reminds me of growing up when I was sick with heart ache,
my soup poems were yummy in my tummy with some garlic ghazal,
and when feeling the sorrow of loss, I’d add a fibonacci flake.
The soup poetry that tastes the best are the recipes from the soul,
and when the cooking is done I can sip from a poetry soup bowl!
My Poetry Soup Recipe
January 26, 2017
Categories:
handed down, poetry, silly,
Form:
Rhyme
Many journeys I have traveled, no doubt I will have many more,
all the twists, turns and pits falls in life, all the things I had to endure.
Coming to terms with my life, is by no means an easy feat,
this is the sole reason I write, it is to understand me.
In my words I can escape, from the harshness of reality that's always in my face,
the only place i'm safe, where I can truly be free, in this world there is only me.
Free from judgement, ridicule and shame, in this world no one knows my name,
a place to reflect and contemplate, a place to analyze, to rectify my mistakes.
Not all things broken can ever be fixed, so I turn to my writing for inspiration.
You'll soon come to see if you read what I write, every thing you'll read is about my life. You see i've have been my own teacher, no one has ever been by my side,
struggling to understand things has always been my plight.
I feel what I write and I write what I think, and yes sometimes it does come out raw,
but there's no escaping that reality, when that comes knocking at your door.
As my life unravels in front of your eyes, you'll will all see what I mean,
but hey... I know there are people out there that have it a lot harder then me.
This is the beginning of a new journey, something for my children to see,
when they hit pit falls in there life, they can always refer back to me.
Daddy's life on show for all to see, like I really care,
the more I start to talk about myself, the faster it is to heal.
Not everything in life is able to be handed down,
but words are forever, and forever they can be found.
For in this world when I've been out for the count,
my writing is the only thing that pulls me out.
I write to heal....
I write to hide....
I write to live.....
I write so I can survive.....
M.Mahauariki © 2012
Categories:
handed down, dedication, education, hope, life,
Form:
Bio
I know we've grown apart
And lots of things have changed
But I want you to know
There is one thing that remains
I loved you from the moment
They brought me down the hall
You where just a minute old
So innocent and small
You had no idea
That you already had a friend
In the form of a big sister
That would love you to the end
We did everything together
In our fenced in backyard
Tried to dig to China
but we didn't get that far
Explored the sky around us
And learned about the stars
We've had lots of fights
And many battle scars
Mischief was abundant
And the groundings handed down
But remember little brother
I will always be around
If your ever feeling empty
Like your world,
falling apart
I will do my best
to hold it all together
Just for you
With all my heart
Categories:
handed down, brother, courage, growth, life,
Form: