Long Grandchild Poems
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My favorite hobby has always been scrapbooking
It's such a creative activity to do
For pictures and poems, I'm always looking
Forever scanning magazines through and through
I look for pictures of people and places
Some happy, some excited, some tired, some sad
I try to find real emotional traces
And whatever I like, to my scrapbooks I add
Over the years many books I have made
Scrapbooks of poetry old and new
Old web sites and online pictures I raid
Some of my scrapbooks are happy, some blue
Certainly, on this hobby you can say I'm hooked
There's nothing like it to keep me involved
No one would believe how hard I have looked
For rhymes and riddles that will never be resolved
I started this past time at our church
Each Wednesday all the ladies would look
Each one in her chair quietly perched
Consumed with finding the perfect hook
Everyone knows that you must create ideas
Inspiring and intriguing to reel in a person
Someone who will cast off all their fears
And stop to read your poem for a life lesson
I love scrapbooking, it's so rewarding
It brings childhood memories back to me
School days when with friends consorting
Times that were so happy and carefree
Often I reread through my many books
Books I've created by myself
Sometimes I find things that I've overlooked
Words that reveal how I once felt
Poems about family and friends so dear
Poems about God's creatures so lovely
Poems about Nature, Seasons, and Fears
Poems about things you can't buy with money
I'm planning on leaving my scrapbooks all
To my kids and grandkids after I'm done
When this life with its troubles are just a sad pall
And all they have left is the legacy I've begun
I never had many pictures or prose
Left me by parents or other relations
That's why I suppose I strive to compose
Scrapbooks to leave to younger generations
I want them to always remember me as
The Grandma that loved them so
I hope they realize that I had pizzazz
Even though I can't leave them much dough
The things that are important in life
Aren't always the things that are seen
When you live through all the sorrow and strife
You'll understand just what I mean
A love of poetry is what I will leave
For my children and grandchildren too
For what is a life and to what will you cleave
If great poetry is missing from you
By Julia Shaw
May 2020
The day Mitchell Malden became a hero
he had only meant to go for a drink,
paced slowly into Slimbed’s only saloon,
where he noticed an unpleasant stink.
He saw Delaney Hannigan at cards
and figured that explained the bad smell,
that rustler spent his days out in the bush,
scum like him never did come off well.
He only came to town to spend stolen loot,
and for some reason the man liked to play,
Mitch himself could not understand why,
the fool just lost all his cash in the games.
So Mitch ignored him, enjoyed his drink,
tasted fine after a day running cows,
then came a loud roar, and angry howl:
“You damned cheats, throw those guns down right now!”
The poker table then crashed, upended,
Mitch look back, saw Delaney with a gun,
“I’m tired of this bar stealing my coin,
so y’all put your hands up, everyone!”
For a moment nobody dared a move,
Al knew Delany was the type to kill,
Nobody else had a pistol drawn
So they coolly acquiesced to his will.
Delaney stalked closer, saw Mitch’s old colt,
said,”Listen close and you’ll suffer no harm.
You take that iron out of that gunbelt
and you lay it down real nice on the bar.”
Mitchel did what the bandit desired,
there was no other way he could figure,
but Mitch’s hand shook, and when he put it down
his finger brushed back against the trigger.
The gun fired as it touched the bar-top,
the slug pierced Delaney’s big forehead,
he pitched backwards, the folks looking on,
when he hit the ground he was stone dead.
A moment of stunned silence fell on them,
then came a storn of folk shaking his hand.
“Making that cool think you would go alone…
Now that there’s the play of a clever man!”
Mitch was stunned, but he said not a word,
just let the procession bring him to the street,
soon all of the town knew of his brave deed
and heralded this heroic feet.
The newspapers even picked up the tale,
earning Mitch a good measure of fame,
soon enough he found himself the mayor,
and got a pretty girl to take his name.
All though he was the smartest gunfighter,
and all his life he was a sensation,
the bar where this happened still stands today,
visited by folk across the whole nation.
It’s only I, his great-great-great grandson,
who knows the truth of what happened back then,
but who am I to tell it like it was
when everybody does so love the legend?
Why Do I Write?
I was born in an era when Shakespeare, Shelley and Wordsworth were kings. Reading them was like hearing beautiful music and after all these years…it still is. Then I fell in love with Emily Dickenson and the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam…what wonderful words of wisdom they imparted!
I write because it allows me to express myself…my thoughts, my compassion, my soul… much as my singing has done all my life. Now that that part of my life is waning, I can still be a “diva” in my own eyes! lol
I write, because my heart tells me to in the wee hours of the morning when sleep eludes me. I write because these thoughts and words which are choking me...screaming to be free...must be released.
I write for those who mourn, or who suffer illness, to console them and say I understand. I write for the lonely, for those who have no hope. whose stories tug at my heart. Since I can't hold them close to me, I try through my poems to convince them there is hope and tomorrow will be better.
I write to be heard...to show I am still relevant and have viable thoughts and opinions to share with the world. Experience is still the best teacher. I write to protest injustice wherever I find it. To be silent would be cowardly.
I write humorously about inconsequential, everyday situations, to bring a laugh or two into our lives. I wrote my memoirs for my grandchild, to preserve the past for future generations. I wrote poetry to release grief and sorrow when death came to call, to help me find peace and acceptance.
I write my religious poetry…not to flaunt my religion…but to praise God and thank him for his sacrifice for me and for the peace his presence brings to me.
I also ask his blessings for my friends and loved ones and for the heavy in heart, so that they might find peace and deliverance from the evils of this world.
I do not expect my work to be published…I have no illusions about my talent…I write for everyman, most of whom would shy away from the literary world and consider it elitist in the extreme, but when tragedy befalls them, they take comfort in simple words of encouragement and consolation.
But most of all, I write for the sheer joy of it and because my soul requires it!
Copyright©2008 Beatrice Boyle
(All rights reserved)
For Frank's "What turns you on" contest
From the moment we became grandparents we have felt conflicted
at the way, in books and media, grandparents are depicted.
But we’ve been grandparents for a while now
(one grandchild just graduated college)
So we believe it is time to share some grand-parental knowledge…
When a cartoonist draws a grandma her hair is invariably in a bun
If she’s not wearing a sweater…chances are she’s knitting one.
When she walks it’s with a cane and we will forever take offense
how she’s always wearing glasses and has no fashion sense
When a cartoonist draws a grandpa he is never very tall
His hair is a vibrant shade of gray or white…if he has any hair at all.
His plaid pants never match his shirt…his glasses are as thick as a window pane
He could be in a wheel chair or like Grandma…walking with a cane.
If you look around at grandparents today, you’ll find us agile and nimble and spry
In fact you’ll discover to your amazement those old stereotypes don’t apply.
Deborah doesn’t wear a muumuu…her hair is never in a bun,
If you ask our grandchildren what they think, they’ll say their Nana’s fun.
She’s creative, she’s compassionate, she’s patient and I can verify
She’s great with babies, loves to bake and sings a soothing lullaby.
As for me, though I am a little bald, I don’t wear plaid pants, never would.
snd if I do say so myself, I make the clothes I wear look good.
I do not fish, don’t watch much TV, I don’t read the Farmer’s Almanac
When my grandchildren ask to play football…guess who’s the quarterback?
Deborah and I will try jumping rope, playing soccer and climbing trees too
because in this day and age, in our generation, that’s what grandparents do!
We are a mix of old and new, we are much cooler and hipper than before
(Even though I’m pretty sure people don’t say cooler or hipper anymore!)
We embrace some of the traits of our grandparents, yes the good ones have survived
but speaking for Deborah and the grandparents I know, a new generation has arrived!
So cartoonists when you draw Deborah draw her with style, grace and fun
And if you’re drawing her baking cupcakes, make sure they’re funky ones.
And when you take your pencils out don’t draw me in a rocking chair
Instead…draw me climbing up a tree or in a top hat
and if you want…
you can add more hair.
I have always loved you daddy and I always will
Even though its been 2 years I feel it stinging still
I miss your touch, your laugh, your hug
But what I miss the most of all is the warmth of your love
It is all the little things, that I miss the most
Like how you always smelled like grease, and that slight diesel note
All the happiness and all the joy came to a sudden stop
When that morning I was given news that your condition had horribly dropped
My heart sank and I began to cry we all knew it was the end
I wasn’t sure on where to turn I was going to lose a friend
He was my friend, my teacher, my father of course
And he was the root of all my knowledge; it was him that was the source
But he was so much more than that to me he was superman
So how could something like this happen through anything he could stand
All the things he taught me and all the things I knew
Could not prepare me even a bit for what we had to do
We made the decision to set you free to take away the pain
The doctors said you wouldn’t make it not even another day
So as I stood there and held your hand and told you it was ok
I knew that deep inside my heart I wanted you to stay
I grasped your hand and held you close and whispered in your ear
“I love you dad and I always will I’ll take care of things down here”
“Just let go I’ll take care of mom myself and even Bryan too”
I do believe this was the hardest thing I had to do
As you turned to look at me I knew what you would say
“I love you son and I always will and I’m proud of you this day”
Then you took your final breath and shed a single tear
Crying, and sobbing, and screams of why are all that I could hear
That was it and he was gone, I will never forget that day
I cant stop thinking about how I love him and wished he could’ve stayed
I wish he were here to see me grow up, and to hold his first grandchild
But most of all I wish he were here so I could see his smile
But I don’t give up and I stay strong because I know he is proud of me
And he’s no longer sick or in pain cause now he is set free
No more pain no more fear he is in a better place
But that doesn’t make me wish any less that I could still see his face
But now every morning when look in the mirror do you know what it is I see?
I see my father and that’s because his legacy lives through me
God Made Me A Smooth Thorn,
Poking The Eyes Of My Neighbors,
Oh They Despise Me; So They Envy My Black,
See I'm Beautiful Yet Filled With Simplicity,
I Walk Earth Like Any Other Living Creature,
Honestly I Think Above And Beyond Stature,
Cause I am A Confederate Of Good Nature-
I Breathe, Eat, Sleep- How Can I Not Deserve The Same Right?
As The White Man That Lives Across The Street-
My Color Might Be Different- Black
But My Black Is Worth Breathing,
And As Far As Worthiness Is Concerned, My Black Is Priceless.
I am A Simply Complex Beauty,
Thus Humanity Justifies- Thence A White Life;
Hath No Greater Value Then Mines-
So Why Am I Being Whipped?
Why Am I Made To Weep?
As My Father's And Mothers Stand Witnesses,
Why Am I Ill-treated?
Yes Mr. White, So What's Your Worth, If I May Ask?
Cause As Far As Worthiness Goes My Black Is Priceless;
See You Have Been Dragging Me;
Since I Was A Grandchild;
And Now That I am A Grandfather-
You Still Proceed To Humiliate Me,
I am Counting My Scars; Sparks Of Survival;
Yet You Fuel My Undying Heat;
Can't You See I'm Struggling To Contain, The Fires Inside,
But How Will I Still Hold It In;
When You Killed My Brother?
Yes He Was Black; Oh, Thus You Despise-
But He Was Also Advocate Of Humanity,
That Bit You Failed To See,
So How Can You Judge Me-
When I Start Acting Like A Monkey?
For You Think You're The Lion,
Won't I Retaliate The Only Possible Way That I Know-
Indeed My Color Is Different-
And I, As The Wounded Tiger; I Cry Silent,
But As Far As Worthiness Goes;
My Black Is Priceless.
There Still Are Reasons- I Contemplate About,
Why Do You Choose This Route?
To Treat Me Lesser Then You Treat Your Pet Dog-
You Incarcerated My Whole Generation,
Yet You Can't Tolerate The Few That Survived Your Obliteration,
I Realized You Can't Condone My Breathing,
As If You Are Violated By My Living-
Isn't That Your Reason To Why You Eliminate,
Everything That's My Strength And Power;
He Who Kills Family Killed Humanity;
See You Can't Stand My Beauty,
It Hurts You, It Taunts You, It Shows You Your Ugliness,
So You Resorted To Oppression-
Which I Believe Is Because; I am Black And Unfathomable;
So Mr. White, What's Your Worth, If I May Ask?
Cause As Far As Worthiness Concerned My Black Is Priceless.
My grandfather and I had a special relationship.
When I was young we lived near his home in Baltimore. But, my family moved away from
Baltimore when I was five and we lived most of my life in another state far away from my
grandfather. Whenever he called, however, I was the one grandchild he always wanted to
talk to so we could discuss his beloved Baltimore Orioles. I was the one grandchild who
followed sports closely and always remained a true Baltimore sports fan.
Later in life, I learned that my grandfather was actually a gifted baseball player himself when
he was young. In those days, he would explain, professional baseball players did not make
enough money to support a family so he had to make up his mind to either play baseball or
get married and raise a family. As it turned out, his love for baseball was only surpassed by
his love for my grandmother and, although he hung on to the newspaper clippings that
labeled him a “can’t miss professional baseball prospect”, he hung up his cleats and glove,
married my grandmother and went out to find a “real” job.
But his love for the game survived and year in and year out, he and I discussed the
intricacies of the game and enjoyed or lamented each baseball season based on the
successes and/or failures of the Baltimore Orioles. As crummy as the Baltimore bums are
today, I was fortunate enough to experience and share many more successful seasons than
poor ones during those limited years that I shared life with this amazing man.
I always felt sorry for my grandfather, considering him a victim of poor timing. Had he
been born about 50 years later in life, he would not have had to pick between being a
baseball player or earning a living – in fact, with his talent, he could have earned a much
better than average living while enjoying the one thing he loved most in life.
When my grandfather passed away, I was sure that he was joining a heavenly nine to once
again strap on his spikes and don the leather. Without a doubt, they must play baseball in
heaven. And I wait for the day that I sit in the heavenly bleachers and cheer on a young
grandfather playing this wonderful game with other boys of summer.
(Inspired by, “is there baseball in heaven”, by Constance, A Rambling Poet)
You can see him now, dirty as a horse
that slipped in the mud, planting petunias
with that infamous shamrock thumb
(Irish from his Pop Appendage from his Mum)
stopping every now - and again -
to breathe deep that fragrance
rich with pheromone nostalgia
just like Grammy Georgina used too do
the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
I can still see her now, in her glory days,
with lovely lemon locks soaking up the summer sun,
rooted in that old-fashioned train of mind:
You don't stop your work until it's done!
(but a walking contradiction, just like her grandson,
... rose to her nose like ruby rebellion)
the tree doesn't grow solely from the ground
Water's an important player too,
especially from grandma's showering can
(laughing tears the shade of crystalline blue)
Course you can't forget those lifetime lessons either,
from dear ole Georgie, speaking with a sunny kind of seriousness,
about the importance of patience,
the fruitfulness of labor,
plucking up the surviving winters' courageous cucumbers,
blushing beets
the ground isn't just a place for our feet
Cause with her and I, we incinerate the stereotype:
young blood reflecting on infinity,
old knees dancing like she's got chipper chipmunks
for toes giggles in the background like a photobomb
to the expected chapel silence
(it's not all peaches and cream though,
sometimes we get violent)
Orange slush, flying miles behind us,
at times getting grazed in the face
by nature's food fight
our feet between the squish squish of the crab apple
We were two peas, if you please, in a curious pod,
like a whimsical joke from a laughing God:
Me, the champion of her scallions,
the guardian of her garden,
leaving all sensibility befuddled
with an, "I beg your pardon?"
I wonder if she knew then the gravity of the situation,
watching mama scream bloody murder,
as I came into this world ...
... was she scratching her head, lips curled, in questioning amazement,
just like Newton must have been, when developing his theory?
What d'you suppose they both were thinking?
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree ...
Written March 27, 2016
For the Cliche Contest Hosted by Silent One
Two Months
(Since you've been in Heaven)
By Franklin Price
03/18/2021
Dear Lord, today marks two months since my Barbara left this life
Since You, in love and kindness, took away her pain and strife
You waited 'til our daughter Dani, could be with us on that day
We held tightly to each other as you took Barb's soul away
Thank you Lord and Savior for the ultimate you gave
Your only son, upon the cross, for our sinful lives to save
Barb's with you up in Heaven for she believed that this is true
I'll join her when it's my time, for I do believe it too
Dani stayed with me 'til Sunday. The two of us, both laughed and cried.
We celebrated lives together, knowing Barb was by your side
Part of all our lives, is death. The ones left, then must progress
Dwelling on the dear departed, can make the left one's lives a mess
Alone and left with sorrow, thinking only, “woe is me”
I heard her voice from heaven, “It will be okay, you'll see”.
Facebook posts, and phone calls, E-mails, cards, more than a few.
The love was overwhelming, allowing life to start anew
God, you blessed me with my poetry to help me try to understand
Sent an old time friend to visit, to help me out and hold my hand
Last week I went to Florida to see my family and friends
All of them brought joy to me, For those I missed, I make amends.
I have more friends than I deserve. Time was through before I knew
I love you, though I did not see you. I know there's more than just a few.
God, I want to thank you for everything you've given me
For touching hands, down here on Earth, for my friends and family.
You safely brought a new life, to my down trod mourning scene
A Great grandchild to celebrate, and his given name is Dean
We're going out to see him when Barbara's birthday comes around
On the twenty-third of April, we will hear his first hand sound
You read right, I'm saying we, Barb is always in my heart
She'll see Dean through my own eyes, though she's seen him from the start
I know that she was looking down when he took a breath and cried
From Heaven she was watching, for she would not be denied
Although I'm still in mourning, it's with a forward facing smile
I know that's what Barb wants for me, for a frown's just not my style.
I recognized you in an old photo
taken long before I knew you
You were among the ancient ones
The ones on whom you depended
You were brother, son, nephew
and cherished grandchild
I recognized you by your quiet demeanour
gazing with those watchful gentle eyes
I have witnessed that look many times
I am sorry I have not asked you more questions
Too often I am too busy to make time
Please tell me stories about the ancient ones
the ones who laid your foundation
Tell me about your happy and your sad.
What did you dream about for your future?
Have your expectations been met?
What is your greatest joy?
Two photos, one of you, one of mom
a handsome man and pretty girl
Were they taken before you were one?
Your family knew you both so well
They gifted you a lifetime
they knew you would endure
Together you have traveled far
You have accomplished so much
Another photo of your VW Bug
The six of you with that seventies vibe
you were all accustomed to close spaces
You and mom were courageous adventurers
You moved to this strange new world
This big empty city with ghost-like streets
white unfamiliar faces
I can’t imagine how scary it must have been
the sound of voices you could not understand
In a country that was not always welcoming
How did you survive your lonely?
Hours and days working away from home
You persevered, knowing what was important
Family has always been your priority
You were not seduced by the unimportant things
You are a good man William
Slow to anger, gentle of spirit
You see with kind eyes
I appreciate your smile
I appreciate being part of your picture
Your gifts have been passed to your children
your children’s children and their children
Your ripples have traveled far
There is another picture of us
We are standing on a staircase
Your children their spouses
and with children of their own
Without your breath
none of this would be possible
You and mom together
are the heartbeat of our family
Your Ninety years have been well lived
Thanks for blessing us all
Thanks for being a good and faithful man
Happy 90th Birthday Dad
You are greatly loved!
By Richard Lamoureux
Dedicated to my wife's dad for his 90th Birthday.