Long Grand dad Poems
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I remember the joy of
the weekends, no school
No home work, feeling good
I have memories of my family
Sitting around the table
On a Friday, eating fried fish
and grits or fried bologna
After my grandma went
Fishng and caught a
Mess of fish for dinner
Or when my grandparents
Had to much to drink an
Ended up rolling around
On the floor, tussling
I can laugh about it now
Or the time we were at
A cookout, my grand-dad
Was watching the barbecue
Chicken on the grill so, hard
He felled, face first in the dirt
The man who was grilling said,
There's plenty of chicken left
Or the time my Sister cooked
Her very first turkey an
It wasn't done on the inside
She cried
Those are the fun memories
I'll never forget
Ricky was just eight years of age,
As a single mom, had to down stage,
That his papa could die any day soon,
I remember that night, there was a full moon,
Doctor said that it would be a long night,
We watched my brave dad fight,
Withered to a skeleton, down forty kilos,
Bed sores were protected by many pillows,
Cancer had eaten away his life,
Married forty five years, to his devoted wife.
My son and my father were inseparable,
Their love for each other immeasurable,
Ricky went to bed, my Mom and I on alert,
Death was in the air, with my dad it did flirt,
My father was very, very ill
Time dragged, it almost stood still.
Night passed and morning came
The doctor came to visit, things still the same,
Took Ricky to school, drove back, sat to have tea,
With my mum when the unavoidable had to be,
Two caregivers by my dad’s side, the one
Shouted help quick, we ran, it was too late
Dad was on his way to heaven‘s gate.
It was eleven thirty in the morning,
A new era without my dad was dawning
My first thought dear God help me tell Ricky.
I drove to his school at the usual time,
Not wanting to alarm him, regular home time,
His teacher guessed as I tried not to cry,
And tried to keep a dry
Eye, what’s wrong mom Ricky asked, is it papa,
Yes my darling, Ricky sobbed, oh no mama
He sobbed and he sobbed, people came
And so did his friends, what a shame,
All thought of the relationship he had
With his beloved Grand-dad.
The next morning, my son,
Said quite bravely, mama
Going to school, have a spelling test,
What a wonderful little boy, I am blessed.
When I collected Ricky he said,
I spelled everything right from A to zed,
Papa helped with my test, the clouds in the sky
Spelled every word, I felt him so close,
I could touch his nose,
But after break all I did was cry!
The Golden Street
As I sit here all alone
And reflect on the home
My son invited me to share
And I readily agreed
This is where I want to be
With my son ,and grandsons
Living within a realm of love so rare
I recall my youth when
My Grandpa was my best friend
And he welcomed my Daddy and my Mom
There in his two room shanty
Where Mom gave birth to nine
And he expected nothing from anyone.
And Grandpa christened me
Irish lass. His Dad was born in Ireland
Way back then I can recall
Meals were few and salary small.
But I tasted wealth in the presence of Grand-dad
And I was told how Grandma moved away
After her first four were raised
She left Grandpa
And three young ones all alone
While she sought excitement
In Montreal, Quebec
Grandpa labored daily and spent nights
Void of warmth
Yet he never spoke of regret
And he loved her from his marriage to his grave
Grandpa took his responsibility
Seriously
Regardless of how his children turned out
Grandpa stood by them consistently
He accepted the negative
He praised the worth
Because Grandpa understood
He was responsible for giving them birth
And maybe I am old fashioned
But I believe Grandpa was right
If you bring a child into this world
You'd better treat them right
You had better be prepared to love them
In the good times as well as the bad
You had better be prepared to dry tears
To comfort them when they're sad
And if you fail to love them unconditionally
If you toss them away where doom they meet
Then you don't deserve them in the first place
And you don't deserve to walk The Golden Street
by Joan Donnelly Ellis April 14, 2016
(earlier this January 18th, 2019 belatedly
to acknowledge my LX birthday.)
Mine eldest sister
as I continue in the circle game
of life, (ye dear Amelie
McGeehan) darling dame
a modestly lofty poem I aim
to dash off (while riding away
high in the sky - belay
ying at Macht shnel blazing
saddles laser optic speed
in a white horse open sleigh),
and plaudits of course
without moment's delay,
your husband Richard,
one hunger re
chap, who wolfed
down his entree
(who introduced me
to fictitious song
titled Richard, Cory),
plus Harris patriarch Boyce aye
aver as gregarious soon tub be
a nonagenarian papa,
also one grand dad dee
glad this sole son did see
our father (thou wart tin...)
maintains sharp mental
a cue witty,
which does not mean he
willoughby immortal
till et tern knit tee
since the gradual
onset of death I bee
leave actually begins at
birth, but whee
ving and bobbing
(like a sponge at sea)
waves each person
closer to thee
cosmic creator, or re:
incarnate tid (three
times a day) tis key
unless otherwise specified
(if questionable issue at stake,
sans not so ease zee
as apple pie with gray vee),
hence power of attorney
in demand, cuz
this brother-hood
generated bupkis, and made prithee
coon fuse, nary a whit,
asper executor signed...
yours True Lee!
silhouetted against the vast farmland,
western Sun set put up a painter’s dream,
it lit the place up like house on the strand,
stillness of silence and the flowing stream!
inherited it from my great grand dad,
was history rolling on a grand scale,
antiques, tapestry, gothic arts it had,
handed from generations, not for sale.
on the mantle at the humming furnace,
a telephone of antique perfection,
bejewelled, stylish, decorated face,
the cable was old without connection.
one day at dinner under candle light,
we heard a stir in the far living room,
our old phone was ringing, wide eyes in fright,
we walked slowly to it, fear and gloom!
with trembling hands I picked the phone up
heard voices exchanging romantic thoughts,
wondered if it was a prank or set up,
but knew they were voices that time forgot!
the telephone now rings from time to time,
I pick up to hear lovers say their hearts,
whispers and sobs, from victims of some crime,
hate, jealousy that had torn them apart!
I now do not pick the phone up no more,
let it ring and ring for ever some nights,
they break my heart those two lovers of yore,
they both are long gone, but their pain still bites!
Musical inclined as a kid at 15
Played a Portable Organ which my Grand Dad brought me
Listening next door was my neighbor hearing of my organ playing
She was a Musical Teacher at a School, but also being a Professional Opera Singer, and I attended numerous of her performances at a Downtown Opera House
I was later introduced to a Professional Male Concert Pianist
I learned the fundamentals of the Piano Ivories keys taught by the Concert Pianist
The Female Opera Singer also gave me voice lessons included
All this was happening when I was a teenager at 15
I play the piano by ear
Musical background was beginning to form
At the present, I haven’t played any organ and piano in quite a while
I am sure it would come back
I am advising you to get your ear plugs as what you might hear won’t be secure
Better yet, run for your life
Musical pattern that was a beginning
My musical past
Time that went fast
Musical blend that didn’t continue nor last.
I remember I was a little girl
sent off on an errand by my dad
surrounded by a small group of men
marveling at the questions I answered well
their surprise subsiding when they heard
the tax collector was my great grand dad.
He was an actor, merchant, ran a bank
a poet and play writer as well
on stage wore a suit made of shells
to announce his entrance with a laugh.
A generous, good looking man
when he died, my dad was maybe ten
at his funeral in hundreds they went
to honor their tax collector friend.
It was a village of grand street lamps
individually lit by hand
women carried burdens on their heads
skirts to their ankles and in black
to honor the memory of their dead.
Grapes were stampede, olives pressed
wheat shafts were gathered by hand
stone ground and slowly turned to bread.
The houses were unlocked and people slept
for each person knew the other well
the only new in town were the birds
The book that he composed I never read
it was lost to be never found again.
I inherited his spirit as they said
and for that I feel humbled and glad
A saying repeated by my dad
to chase away fears and give strength
probably invented by his grand dad
that I like to immortalize with a pen:
Make yourself a lamb and the wolf will eat you.
When a Woman insists that she does all the work
and the man does nothing
what is this condition called.
My Great Grand dad said it
was called "silly Bytch Syndrome"
but I have come to find
it is calle Female Imposter Syndrome.
Is it that she wishes
the maintaince of the home
to be done on system that
doesn't include seasonal fixes.
Or just getting by comes from
his ablity to service and moniter
certain things that need to be done
during times of the year
where it is more favorablly done.
Like cleaning the chimmey in warm weather
so, we don't have to huddle around
a space heater
while the repairs are being done.
or putting the new pipe on the
stove in Summer so that all you
have to do is prepare the areas for
work durning the actual winter season.
having enough wood to
last until seasons end.
But even still when your husband
asks for the extra three hundred dollars
to fix the hot water heater before
the winter comes
but you rather
eatout with the
Sister Gippy
and uiy a new dress to
eat in.
and stay all weekend at
Gipsey's sister's house
who doesn't like me( or you).
And she's the one who tells her
to leave you,
well then we need additional help!
the next big one
might include.
I thought I told you
to fart outside!
When you died
We wept and cried
So much you left
Inside unsaid
Buried with
Unexpressed regrets
Nothing to do with
Your grand children
You adored us
Unconditionally
Our youth our zest
Our innocence
No judging ever
Pure candid love
We gathered
When it happened
And I was the one
Who insisted
I’d sleep in your bed
I felt so privileged
Never doubting
You had visited
And kissed my head
Watched over me
Nestled there tiny in
The palm of your hand
Keeping me warm
All night till morn
AP: Honorable Mention 2026, Honorable Mention 2021
“HOSPITAL HUMP”
(a tall tale – or not?)
The wind and the cold on the hill
they stood still
as two shadows arrived
near the peak
above what was known
as “Hospital Hump”
a devious, dastardly,
butt crushing bump.
So started the legend
a Grand-dad and Grand-son
who challenged the hill
“OH, just for fun!!”
The younger had shouted
“Papa, do the hump”
to which he replied
“it’s just one more bump.”
They stood at the top
no fear…..maybe traces
looked down on the horrified
frost frozen faces.
Thus the legend was born
of a daring descent
toward the “Hospital Hump”
and all that name meant.
Bright blue of their chariot
rippling with speed
gathering momentum
approaching the deed.
Then, as all of nature
and man stood aghast
they hit “Hospital Hump”
going way, way too fast.
Frozen in time
against pure blue-black light
Papa and Grandson
about to take flight.
The toboggan drew air
as the partnership crumbled
the younger continued
the older – he tumbled
back flipped and rolled
in the feather cold snow.
The toboggan continued
its arc o’er the trees
as the terrified crowd
fell to their knees,
the kid – now alone
looking down on the trees.
Grandpa was up!
Tracing the arc
wondering if
it would touch down
by dark.
The crowd gathered near
unsure of their place
straining they saw
two eyes and a face,
under the snow
an ice covered grin
shouted “C’MON PAPA
LET’S DO IT AGAIN!”
6/30/2016
submitted to – Tell a Tall Tale – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Jesse Day