I hit post and send my words
into this busy, glowing website
where I’m fifteen, the youngest voice,
surrounded by grandmothers’ stories
and grandfathers’ quiet smiles,
moms who cheer me on
and dads who nod like it matters.
I don’t mind being the baby here
your words feel softer than home.
You read my late-night poems,
drop comments like warm blankets,
and make me feel safe
when walls at home feel cold.
You’ve cheered my every awkward line,
Took the time to read what no one else does,
and loved me more
than I’ve ever known in my real world.
Here, I’m more than just a kid,
I’m part of a little family
built from hearts and usernames.
So thank you for each encouraging word,
for telling me to keep writing,
for being my virtual grandparents and parents,
for becoming the safe place
I never knew I needed.
I’m grateful for you all,
my internet family,
who love me more than home.
My aunt told me a story
Which I’d never heard before
About her grandpa, which took place
Around the Second War. *
Some men were playing pinochle,
A card game, in the park,
With money on the table
When, before the sky turned dark
Some cops appeared, arresting them,
Her grandpa in the mix.
He had to go to court, a tale
That surely does transfix.
The judge, however, gave a speech
Admonishing the police.
Arresting 4 old Jewish men?
He ordered their release.
This story, passed down through the years,
Brings laughter even now.
My great-grandpa arrested?
All I’m thinking’s - holy cow!
*World War II
My Great-Grandfathers
are swapping improbable yarns.
It’s a dream of course,
the dead that linger close to our own dreams
dream also -why would they not?
They are telling tall stories to each other,
one exaggeration after another,
until frankly
I am shocked by the outright lies.
From time to time,
one or other of the old men
dismisses a tall-tale with ribald jeers.
I get the feeling
that their memories are blinking in and out,
that these stories have been told
many times before.
I get the feeling
that life and death
perhaps dream each other.
Yea it is truly said:
that the dead never grow old.
Bilum is a type of woven bag in Papua New Guinea (PNG)
...............................
How grandfather’s bilum, which
Across my father’s bare chest,
In a loving embrace slung.
Like the Leleki baskets’ blest
How while so pregnant swung.
How dwelleth he my father in its rich
Splendour till handing-over of its rest,
Then over my clothed chest again sways.
O this old bilum! like all other blest
No longer is laden with in my days.
For its treasures I search in earnest,
That I may grandfather’s mind know.
O this bilum is no longer pregnant!
Along the way, maybe some time ago,
How many treasures fade; this instant
Till my sleep, I’ll summon eagerness
To my modern soul strengthened to seek.
Grandfather’s treasures may be hidden;
Yet through a new eye must I ever peek
For glimpses my days have forbidden.
By: Jeffrey Febi 25 Oct 2010
Impressionable young hearts do tell the grandest lies
When learned from grandfathers with sparkling eyes
Grandfathers living renewed through the breath of a grandchild
Oh grandfathers’ whoppers told in all kindness and glory
The bigger the whopper makes the child’s lies the cute little story
Thus the grandchild’s faith breeching walls of reasonable reality
Simply because beloved grandfather had told the story
My grandfather said it was so- tiny voice of pledged belief
And I believe him -for grandfather would never lie to me
So sleep little one- dream the telling’s of funny grandfathers beloved
For their little lies to you are meant to not make you a worried
But make you believe in the impossibilities of grandeur and extravagance
There is a Santa Clause
The fish really was so big it couldn’t fit in the boat
I wrestled a grizzly when I was just about your age
For in the telling of such blessed little lies
A remembrance of grandfather will never die
The wisdom and laughter thus remembered in each time’s telling
Will warm you over and over- as little lies do you begin the telling
Grandfather’s Church
A visit to an old church in Ireland,
Built by dirty hands, their will never tiring
Green lightly stroked, God’s fingers the wind
My eyes, refracted light perhaps distort my sin
My prayers; ancient glories, and ornaments
Incense permeation my senses adoring
A natural longing to kneel and know Him
Perhaps aspiration false, hope abandoned
Yet ‘tis my flesh asking for comfort, not spirit
Faith no longer my keep, His story a symbol
Cloaks of color, His messenger a protection
From faithful words, their fault: no true redemption
No magnificent calling, no love for Thee
‘Tis a cry, a mournful wail, heard only by me
‘Tis not I who will seek, daring I suppose though
To tell him my loss, thy burning the only glow
I have outlived my life.
My son-in-law opens doors for me,
drags my oxygen tank around
on a metal cart.
I stop at every intersection,
waiting for honks.
I cannot see the lights.
Sometimes,
I go out to dinner,
alone.
“How many tonight, sir?”
“Just one; just me.”
I follow the hostess to a booth,
set for two.
She smiles at me as she removes
one set of silverware,
and I stare
at the empty space
in front of me.
This statue of four done the American way
For the Black Hills of Dakota, with the Lakota should stay
Carved to commemorate, the first one hundred and fifty years
This new nation built, on Red Indian tears
Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and Roosevelt
This area Six Grandfathers, the Fort Laramie Treaty has dealt
Then the Indian Wars in the years 1876-77
What happened to perpetuity that was taken from them
Somewhere through the years a decision was made
Carved by the Borglum's to the Lakota they degrade
An AIM occupation, as recent as 1971
In memory of The Six Grandfathers, who were once their ancestors sons
Time has moved on further from those days of long ago
But the Six Grandfathers memories will once again flow
For in the Black Hills of Dakota, they will once again rise
For the Crazy Horse Memorial, will proudly be seen through the Lakota's eyes
The modern America you see, will know it simply as this
Mount Rushmore and four Presidents, against the Lakota's last wish
Time moves on and it certainly never stands still
Its the history of us humans, that we take at will
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Rushmore
He looked like he was attempting a hug, I deliver a hand shake
Why I think, Seems like regret rest within every decision I make
Illness trickles of grandfather; I hope I’ll have another chance before it’s too late
havoc has bestowed me so much my emotions don’t flow easily or show
but if I have another chance to hug my grandfather I’ll never let go
(My grandfather is currently in the hospital. Cancer amongst other illnesses has weakened
him to an all time low. Please keep him in your prays)
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