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Long Grandfather Poems

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See also: Famous Long Poems

Long Poems
Long poem by Jeannie Minor | Details

No Second Chances

I've been watching the people across the street for about a year now. We wave at each other every once in a while, not really much more than seeing a familiar face without a name. There were a couple of times when the granddaughters would kindly bring over either a plastic grocery bag full of sweet potatoes or a sliced half of a watermelon. I always knew the Grandmother was ill because of her smokers cough that echoed across the street from her frequented front porch perch. Day or night, sun, wind or rain, Grandma could be found smoking and reading on the front porch. With filter stained fingers she caressed each page like it were the only source of food for her starving yet insatiable mind. All the times I had ever seen her out there she was completely absorbed in her reading, to the point where you just know if you said something it would probably startle her, or, at the very least, rip her conscience from one existence to another like a quantum leap experience. For a long time I assumed she was practicing some sort of Bible devotional just for the fact that she appeared to be in a state of meditative stillness and I respected that she had found a place of peace and solitude. I also guessed that the seemingly constant stream of people coming and going from the little house were most likely the members of their church community, visiting or wanting to help out. Then, after quite a few months of what became the norm of the neighborhood, there was an incident that brought most of us out of our cozy confines for concern of a child. A wandering child, hardly clothed and confused about where he should be pointing when asked where he lived. After calling the police, the boy pointed to an open window at a house across the street and the police handled the rest. In the process of neighbors dispersing, I asked the Grandfather how his wife was doing, explaining I hadn't seen her out reading in a few days. He told me that she had been taken to the hospital and was diagnosed with lung cancer. She was still being assessed as to its severity but he seemed hopeful. I asked him if she was in fact reading the Bible when she was out there. You can't imagine my surprise when he told me, "No, she just reads everything she can", and then, without any prompting, he apologized for all the family and friends taking up all the street parking. I assured him my concern was not with the cars.
A few days later, I did notice a sharp increase in the cars parked around the neighborhood. That same day, in the early afternoon I looked across the street and was shocked to see Grandma sitting in her usual place with lots of people around her. The family and friends whom were taking up all the street parking were gathered around her with smiles and lightheartedness, exuding their gratitude for her presence. Children were playing while adults were visiting and laughing, much like a joyous family reunion, or maybe a celebration of life. I remember thinking to myself as I watched her bask in the glow of their happiness, I can only imagine how much love she must feel right at this moment. Only four or five days had passed and the scene had become much different. Most of the same people were once again gathered, but there were no smiles or lighthearted laughter to be found. The people just kept pouring into the little house and eventually some would come out, hands filled with tissues for tears and seeking the comfort of a hug. A sadness was hanging over the house like an impenetrable fog where everyone was somehow lost in their own level of painful loss. I wondered if Grandma was really still in there and saying her goodbyes or if she had already passed and this was the customary familial gathering. This went on for about three days. The medical supply van has been by to pick up the hospital bed now and Grandpa hasn't been out on the porch much at all. When he does come out, and I happen to see him, he's sitting in Grandmas place lost in the loneliest look I've ever seen. The family coming by has lessened over the last few days but as one would expect, there seems to be someone there with Grandpa all the time. I'm starting to see a pattern of their supporting shifts and I have to wonder if Grandpa feels loved or suffocated, or maybe a lot of both. I never took the time to get to know whom or what Grandma was all about. She will always be remembered by me so vastly different than by her family and friends. My assumptions of everything from her interests, to possibly having to fend off a hardcore Bible thumper, or both of us just not wanting to be bothered kept me from feeling anything regarding her passing, reducing it to a mere observation. Did I dodge a bullet? Or perhaps I missed an opportunity to enrich my life in ways that create but ultimately far outweigh the pain of loss. Grandma is gone now, leaving a gaping hole of emptiness on her front porch perch. I find myself looking across the street every now and then, half expecting to see her but she isn't there, just occasional glimpses of Grandpa and his painful struggle to accept a loss that I can't even begin to understand.

Copyright © Jeannie Minor | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by George Zamalea | Details

WHILE REMEMBERING

Brazil

As I drove through the heavy snow of Manquiville,
Deep in silence back to Grandfather's house, all frightened faces
Full of solemnly dreams, I remember the smell of the sea.
	The unseen Grandpa's hands, pulling and pulling
	The full net of fishes.

I remember my Grandpa at this moment haltered
His muscles so tight that I was able to see the thin 
Veins become heavier, healthier, richer,
While his sternly eyes ahead like two brighter poisonous souls,
	Waiting and waiting and waiting, whatever the reason
	He had in mind.

I remember just to follow him where the wide sea even powerful
As he was growing now calmed through the tide waves falling
	Behind his horizon. I love see him like this,
	Where the dreadly underworld as unique as mercy
	Could not control him.

	I'm driving slowly now, and I can see the road,
	The sea behind, the trees old and shadowless,
	The town of Manquiville quieted, deathless, soundless,
	All gone and dumb, behind the weaken sun.

I remember I looked down satisfied in the way it is going,
	Who guarded the visitor’s hope, who greeted
	The intruder who more than 25 years was gone!

	What a delightful remembrance to see the dangerous
Floor through my mind beginning to murmur thousand
	Of happy slaves soon or later be caught!
	How close we are listening by the jealous Visitor,
	Always in circle, still far away from the smell
		Of the fisherman!

But there was no one. All empty and in white,
	Cobwebs everywhere, the insects had come and gone,
	Birds' nests are there, a snake emerged and hissing away,
	All seem that they don't care who I am and why
	I came back. It has been so long since the Fisherman is dead!

I remember the sea...that day, I think,
	Oh, how wonderful is the sea lyre that you are dreaming 
	To hold underneath the stormy afternoon.
	I remember the sea...the sea! Seeing the sky-blue crown
Give to my Grandpa and Me, almost tremble, the unknown pray
	Of God, which carrying golden fishes, your treasure wall,
	Deep, enormous, cold and deathly, we are still afraid of you!

	I stop my fancy car, all around is the designed 
	Of muddy roses, birds and horses, wild squirrels,
	Like a feast of yellow swamp, and I stand there,
	Dressed by tie and fancy suit, a lawyer,
	A sucked soul, coming to see his Grandfather deepened
	In the muddy ground, filled with nasty fishes.

I remember so suddenly, the nets of that day
	Became tensed, like our hearts and our eyes,
	Which it was unable to handle by myself.
	There! There! I cried all along inside the small boat
And here and there is when my Old Man becomes only one
	Where body, soul, mind, wisdom, and energy --
	Become one forcer to kill
	And as he was pulling and pulling. His old arms,
	Still strong like two brawny-whited iron pistons,
	Pulling and pulling, and the fishes as ghastly eye,
Jumping and jumping, coolly frightened, exposing themselves Completely under the half-light of the moonlight!

	Now I cannot move. Why I am here? Why did I come?
	With love, with pain, with doubt,
	All I cannot say, behind the muse I have,
	How I can explain myself the beauties of my Grandpa?


But I remember that day. Oh, what a shining light!
	What moonlight! 
	I was there, with the oak wood, deathless,
	Like tiny hands, but the spirit of some old Song,
	Helping my Grandpa.
	I remember I was wondering if those fishes have any souls.
	To live, listening the other side of my head,
	Where my Grandpa told you're not born being a Fisherman
	But as a blending poet as myself.

I remember I caught his mouth full of smile, with a promise
	To die anywhere except here in the sea.
I bend my knees, with his nostrils stealing
Of his arms, pulling and pulling like a long sound
Of violin which I never knew why he had told that.

	And I remember, you could not play with the sea
Or the hungry fishes, now handsome and wilder,
To survive like me, to become a stranger
	In the middle of the sea.

	Now here, I am growing smaller
My smile fading, no reason to be here, who before the infant
Archer who crying freedom, ready to a man,
	I bring shame to the place of Fisherman;
	I smiled sadly, looked ahead, with wishes to kiss
	The Old Man's face drawing by the ocean air
	And let that old hands of fisherman carried my hair
To my blending soul,
	And tell him I made a city boy under the sunlight,
	But never as a dream piercing through the dimly sea.
 

Copyright © George Zamalea | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Neil Thirstrup | Details

Grandpa

Allen “Gene” Claibourn
08.12.1932-08.05.2013
 
Grandpa showed me the way to 
get things done and how to do 
them right,  he showed me how 
to make a knot but i could 
never get it quite as tight. He 
showed me how to splice a 
board to support a shaky beam, 
he taught me how to get that 
row boat easily upstream. He 
showed me how to be polite 
and to act with dignity, showed 
me that respect and honor go 
one and one with common 
courtesy. He told me to have 
Pride and honor in all the work 
I do, do it right the first time 
and it will surely repay you. 
You have to sacrifice in life to 
get the things you want, keep 
your wants last put your family 
out in front . Always take two 
steps back before that one 
ahead, don't stress about 
material things you can't take 
them when your dead. I only 
started realizing how right he 
was as I grew into a man,our 
lives pass by so fast like air 
through his  homemade blower 
fan. I wish I had just one more 
week with him or even just one 
day, maybe do his metal runs, 
junk a car and maybe hear him 
say, I had that once "took exlax 
"then adjust his hat with his 
thumb and index finger, look at 
someone smile shake his head 
and say "humdinger", maybe 
hear him whistle an old tune 
that I'd never heard, sit on the 
porch in the morning with him 
while he mimicked every bird, 
go trim some trees, cut some 
weeds, maybe dig some more, 
the list of things to do never 
shortened that's one thing I 
know for sure ! He was a family 
man who knew what life was all 
about, he worked hard so his 
family wouldn't have to go 
without. He helped and helped 
oh yeah and then he helped 
some more, never turned his 
back, wide open is how he kept 
his door. Your hungry then 
come eat we have plenty is 
what he'd say, then give 
someone his money for the bill 
they couldn't pay. But most of 
all the greatest thing my 
grandpa's ever done, was ask 
my Grandma Shirley if she 
would be the one? I don't know 
exactly how they met or where 
they went on their first date, 
but I know one thing for sure 
this was no accident a Love like 
this is Fate. I guess I 
underestimated the power 
LOVE can hold, I witnessed it 
recently  it was worth more 
than any amount of Gold. 
Grandpa loved You Grandma he 
fought so very hard to stay, he 
knew he'd get one more Eskimo 
kiss if he could make it just one 
more day. I'm telling you first 
hand at night he laid there so 
very still, but when you walked 
into the room magic is all that 
u could feel. I know he's up in 
heaven driving through a small 
ol country town, looking for the 
perfect place to settle his family 
down, I'm sure it'll be near 
some water a quiet place where 
the view is really nice, he'll 
gather up those with him and 
start building the second 
Claibourn's  Paradise. He'll have 
a big jug of water filled with ice 
to the brim, smiling and 
working with loved ones all 
surrounding him. No more pain 
no more strain, no more clear 
plastic pill dividers, now he's 
relaxing working a crossword or 
showing people how to make 
those paper airplane gliders. He 
loved his kids so much 
endlessly I'd say, he tried his 
best to be there even on the 
darkest day. I could go on and 
on about my Grandpa there's 
so much more to say, these are 
only my thoughts imagine the 
countless others  in this room 
today. I Love you Grandpa, 
Grandpolio and thank you for 
being you, I hope one day I can 
be a legend to my family too. 
See ya when u get there....

Love ya Grandpa,
Neil Thirstrup

Copyright © Neil Thirstrup | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Timothy Jacks | Details

My Grandfathers Dying Wish

See problems they no worry Timothy
He was raised by his Great Grandmother
One day she taught him
Miho you can make life beautiful or ugly
Work hard, find a woman who has a strong back
Beauty fades it doesn’t last long
Now let me tell you 
A woman with a strong back may not be your perfect companion
Times are changing, I think Faith is more important these days
I say okay Grandma, can I have the horachata now that you made me
No hush up! You can have it when I’m finished talking
Timothy come your poor Grandfather wanted you to have this
It is his Journal and I have never read out of it
She hands it to me
I am struck by it’s cover, it is brown and plain
Yet it spoke to me by it’s elegant style
These words were printed on the cover “Blanco Vendetta”
I was drawn and pulled in untill I was covered by the spell
The first page I open too it says “My first Mil Besos”
The Temptess that blew my heart away
I turn to page 33
It says “The story of an Apache Warrior”
There are no rules to an Apache Warrior when it comes to fighting
He says if you are my enemy I don’t care how but I’m gonna kill you
Page 41 is like a fist full of words thrown across the page
Barrio boxing, The protection of the Shield of Faith
Brokenhearted for my careless speech has left her heartbroken
Strengthened by Love “Amor”
Nourished by the sunshine in her hand
There is healing in its beams
Blessed by her presence Del Dios I am Greatful
I’m like Grandpa what did you say wrong
Then these words come to me
Give her your full attention when she speaks to you
Because the Heart of the Wise studies how to answer
So I close it and my finger brushes a bookmark
It’s the Last page
It says To: “Timothy my son who is as mighty as an army”
I Thank you for the Greatest Gift
For the Greatest Gifts are as small as your small hand that touched me
I plant these seeds and they will take root and grow because you are good ground
Timothy let me say That without you I would of never found my Faith in GOD
Listen for it is your Grandfather who is dead and speechless
Timothy you see the good in everything
And I know you will understand my words clearly
If a man gives you his word
Promise me not to plan your future on it
And if you give your word my son
Do everything in your Power to fulfill it
AND NEVER Promise more than you can deliver 
For it is better to put out more than you promised
Everyman is considered unwise when he appears foolish
I wish I could give you some insight about women
But your Great Grandmother may help you better than I can
But never timothy, Never be quick to fall in Love 
Or give your heart to a woman
Listen carefully to her words when she speaks to you
Cherish Her give her your full undue attention 
Because the Heart of the Wise studies how to answer
Love your neighbors as yourself
And do not strive against another man
If he has done nothing wrong to offend you
AS much as it is possible live peacefully with all men
And it is okay for you to speak these things with your Great Grandmother
She is a very wise and God-fearing woman
Amor take the greatest care of her, I Love you Son
Timothy when the time comes to avenge my death
Hit harder then you ever have before
But not in a Duel son, not like an open Vendetta
Marry his daughter Maria
The one who is pretty and Two years younger than you
Oh! He will suffer greatly!
And it will kill him to know that I chose this way to repay him
And remember son to be ready to fight any man at the drop of a hat

Copyright © Timothy Jacks | Year Posted 2012

Long poem by Brendan Simons | Details

The Bench in the Labyrinth

Deep in a silva of the Emerald Isle there hides a peculiar coppice,
Shaped in a spiral labyrinth which is seen only on the summer solstice. 

As the sun rises to its highest of tides and the day overwhelms the night,
Those with fairy sight can find this forest where magic is entangled in setting light. 

Inside the twists and turns of the path which winds throughout the wooded thick,
There sits a bench at the center of this maze which was mapped with archaic arithmetic.

Locals call this legendary seat the Bench of Brohan's Boskage,
Named for a fairy who built and grew the bosk as a family homage.

The bench was built with metal and wood made of brass and burdock root,
Blended in an elderberry and copper snood of alloys and the flora's fruit.
 
The root of Thor and the berry of elders ensure that those who sit can stand,
The staccato of lightning that perpetually pours upon the enchanted bench's land. 

For above the labyrinthian garden an unending mystical tempest warns,
Those without the fairy sight who seem to fear the wrath of thunderstorms.

Once a fearless boy who hadn't knew that his blood was brewed in the Brohan clan,
Took a trip on the twenty-first of June and found the forest after he grew into a man.

He took a walk in the night as the sun was still high when he had heard a whisper,
Willing him to follow a blow of a feathery zephyr in the air which had never been crisper.

Although lost he knew the way for the forest's nymphs ferried him on,
Towards the middle of the woods where to the bench he would be drawn.

Lightning bolts webbed above the weaving walls of shrubs,
Whose leaves were rubbed by the static clouds' electric scrub.

An astronomer, the man could sense the occult horoscopy used to map the mazes,
Whose constellated crevices were crafted by extraterrestrial objects and their phases. 

Meandering through the astrological charted garden, east of Aires and Aquarius,
He found the bench which sat in the galactic center, twenty-six degrees of Sagittarius.

The seat, which was half stone and half plant, shined beneath ionized sky,
A copper conductor untouched by the lightning which the elderberry nullified. 

He sat upon the bench and gazed upon a damiana and why he had not known,
He closed his eyes and knew this breathing bench of stone was his own throne.

Memories of ancient celtic kings and queens who reigned in pagan days,
Flashed in slideshow reels inside his racing mind as if he were watching a play.

He learned that the fey could once be seen and that his exponentially great grandfather,
Was a king who laid with a fairy maid before the Church had all the pagans slaughtered.

A war of righteous wickedness had driven the fairies who fled for the hills,
Who can be heard in screams when one of their human kin is to be killed.

After the man watched this history in a celluloid dream filmed in his thoughts,
He sat up from the bench and all he just learned had been immediately forgot. 

He looked down at the bench then up at the sky and for some reason he felt scared,
In haste he exited the woods and wondered why when he entered he had ever dared.

When he returned to the bed and breakfast in which he was staying,
He reached in his pocket for a cigarette,
And found a small note which in written letters addressed to him was saying,
"Now, my grandson, you must never forget."

Copyright © Brendan Simons | Year Posted 2017

Long poem by Ray Moody | Details

I Came Back to You in September

I came back to you in September
you were quiet then
still,
like you used to be,
when men were men
and I was just a child

When the smell of the fish docks
mingled well with the stench of the slaughter from the cattle market
and an early morning crescendo of hooters 
meant work
And you had to go 	
When your father
and my father 
crowded down on the docks
desperate to catch the foreman's looks

And from where so many fathers 
were turned away
broken
yet unbitter men

Returning home like so often you did
to pray and dream of better days than these
and you hoped that things would change
but for you
you knew
that they never would.

And then the war came
and I was sent away to fight for my country
this country
the one which had kept us all alive on a few pence a week
and I left behind the smell of the fish docks
the reek of the slaughter
to earn my place in that world
Your world

And one day I returned
fell in love and made love
amongst the ruined ashes of what once was
of what could never be again
I lay planning out my life while the bombs fell

And I sat amidst the solitude of that old terraced house
frightened to death by that silence
that stillness
as ceaseless clocks 
ticked slowly away
an era
an end
and I looked at your face
and tried so hard not to see my own

And I returned to that war
that cruel bloody war
fighting one inside me even greater than that one could ever have been
but that war ends
and I returned to that war
your bloody war
the one you pretended you never saw

And the world returned to the smell of the fish docks
the reek of the slaughter
to that broken down world
full of broken down lives
grey faced men 
greeting
faceless, shapeless wives

And long before faces could ever begin to smile
you died 
quietly giving up on your life 
like you had so many years before
and I died
as they buried you in an already forgotten part of that world
and I could linger there no longer
and left behind the smell of the fish docks
the reek of that slaughter

And I came back to you in September
back to stare at a world which once was
and yet could never be again

Only a few old buildings remained
standing empty and silent 
like when the bombs came
and I looked into that face
and tried so desperately not to see my own

And I stood aloof to a world which could no longer reach me
yet still I trembled
lest some derelict echo from the past drew me back into that world
that old cruel world
where all men ever wanted to be was men

And yet how I loved you in September
as time once more stood still
and oh 
how I loved that stillness
as I returned to where childish laughter once filled empty spaces
places where I had so long ago ceased to dream

Amidst the dark dancing shadows 
where love becomes so physical 
that the poet's dreams are so finally shattered

And on the cracked broken pavements where the bombs fell
where you fell
where we all fell
so many years before

And silent leaves fall on your grave
on my grave
like falling tears
my tears
for so many wasted years

I came back to your in September
you were quiet then
still,
like you used to be,
when men were men and I was just a child. 


Copyright © Ray Moody | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by cherl dunn | Details

FOR MY FATHER IN LAW

He was a man of few words, except for what had to be heard or said,
Loving, caring and gentle this simplest of souls, proud in respect,
And reverence always bowing his head to a higher powers resolution,
This man I’ve called father, friend and mentor!
In our sacred country’s name, did this honorable soldier fight four
God, Valor, and kindship, and beneath freedoms flag, he saluted in graceful
Step, with the marching of our national anthem’s rheum!
Nay in the kindred hills of Ireland did his ancestors dwell, but it was
Here in America that his roots took hood, amongst the immigrants whom
Wished to live free, in this land of promise called the U.S.A.
Growing up I never knew hunger, or the feeling of cold upon the streets
Of poverty, thanks to his sacrifices of toiling, beneath the harsh yoke
Of hard work, and the struggles of the every day’s monotonous
 Daily routines.
Oh father in the grand adventure beyond do you so travel onward's now,
Onto a higher roads path within the clouds of paradise amongst the meadows
Of heather, here you’ll know the peace of forgiveness, the pleasure without
The pain of your physical existence, and the glory of God’s eternal grace!
In faith’s devotion did you walk in a spiritual light of loving, here you’ve
Left a legacy of generation fulfillment, you this gentlemen whom blessed
Our lives with your tenderness, thoughtfulness, and simple wisdom of life!
In moments of the fallen, you picked up your children and put our feet
Upon the righteous path of the living, it was you whom feed us the 
Strength to go onwards, in this we will always remember you, father,
Grandfather, and secrets cherished friend!
Within memories treasure box of remembrance, I’ll hold your memory
Nearest my inward heart, to endure always as a value more precious
Than any costly tender, or golden token given, for yours is the gift
Of love without regret, or remorse!
I’ll raise a glass in your honor’s memory, and greedily drink its 
Contents of laughter, and joy for you’ve raised me in the Irish
Tradition to celebrate life, to live it to the fullest extent of my 
Being!
On the distant roads beyond you’ll be waiting there for me,
My beloved father, I shall join thee at the feasting table of our
Ancestral fire, some day so be at peace gentle friend, until we are reunited
Again on the shores of the heavenly divide of the eternal!
He was a man of few words, except for what had to be heard or said,
Loving, caring and gentle this simplest of souls, proud in respect,
And reverence always bowing his head to a higher powers resolution,
This man I’ve called father, friend and mentor!

09-13-2015
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Done for my father in law whom was like a father to me,
And in the loving memory of his family members I've written
This in there behalf, we'll miss you always, Thomas Patrick Dunn
Whom died on September 7, 2015 of natural causes, at the age of 88!

Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2015

Long poem by Laura Loo | Details

Rest In Peace Grandpa

To: My Grandpa ~1918-2016~ Grandpa was sharp as a whistle up until the very end. Old age and time passing just took a toll on his poor body. Ninety eight sure is a long life to have lived. He was the second in generation. My father is the third, my brother is the fourth and my nephew is the fifth. What a legacy to leave for our family tree. Married over seventy years is definitely an inspiration and a great example of what true love really is. Grandma took care of him since the day of their wedding. Long life of love and sweet memories with children, grandchildren and great grandchildren to watch over as they grow up. Heart surgery about thirty years ago, and stayed healthy until the very end. Its a sad thing to see your grandpa deteriorating like he did. He had such a passion for the world of golf, and played up until he was ninety years old at the West Shore Golf Club. I heard that one time he shot his age! Always smiling and even though he was old, we could still hold a conversation with him. One of my fondest memories of him was how beautifully he could whistle. He carried a tune like a tiny bird full of life and contentment. Beautiful crystal blue eyes with his favorite cardigan sweaters from Land's End. Black slippers to keep his feet warm during the cold days of winter. A few silly memories we have are when he would ask us about how our lives are going he would always say, “Is that right?” in a silly way and knowing how much he really was interested in all of our well-being. A silly thing we remember about him is his favorite verse, “and how!”. I have never heard anyone say that phrase before so my siblings and I have always joked about it for years, in a silly way. His favorite drink scotch on the rocks. A loving husband creates a family with his wife, a wife takes care of him and their children, Ninety eight years is such a long life, His life created a balanced fulfillment. A loving father works hard to support, while nurturing six children out of love, the game of golf was his favorite sport, I bet he's shooting par from up above! A loving grandfather happy and proud, he created this wonderful family tree, his whistling created a soft tuned sound, and leaving four generations as a legacy. A loving great-grandpapa with smiles, all five of them enjoyed their visits, creating a sensitive life worthwhile, On the golf course, I wonder how many divots? We all want to thank you from below for all your kindness and caring rest in peace with your friends and family, and your granddaughter Karen. ~Date Written: March 6, 2016~ ~Written By: Laura Loo~

Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2016

Long poem by Terry Trainor | Details

A Trip to Heaven

Sitting working in my private room a grandfather clock ticks and tocks so very loudly,
Like a metronome tuned into my mind my eyes become heavy my lids slowly begin to close,
My mind drifts into very dark places, jet black places with a tiny white dot way off,
I walk towards the dot and after miles and miles it started to grow so much brighter.

Looking behind to see where I started there was nothing just the darkest of dark black,
I have no choice but to keep on walking towards the white dot now confused and scared,
After hours and hours I reach the dot but it is not a dot now it is a new bright world,
There were green fields greener than I have ever seen the trees had heavy velvet leaves.

People walked towards me they were smiling they were happy I wanted to shake their hands,
But they hugged me and held me and talked so kindly my troubles and worries disappeared,
Young children skipping, my new friends laughing it seemed I had known them all my life,
Being with these people was pure happiness we walked up to a white mansion we went inside.

A beautiful girl came running out to meet us she stood in front of me and gave me a rose,
It was the reddest rose I have ever seen it was frosted and gilded and drops of dew fell,
A man with grey hair and a white suit sat by a piano and began to play the sweetest tune,
I leaned on it's shiny surface and could feel the beat of soft hammers on wire, pure music.

All smiled and clapped when this maestro had finished my friends giggled as they saw my joy,
They asked lovely questions nice questions I enjoyed answering as they made me feel good,
We got up and began to walk back to the place where I had first met my wonderful friends,
We talked we laughed everything was about nice things I could feel the smile on my face.

Then the man with grey hair and the white suit said it was time that I made my way home,
Still smiling I desperately wanted to stay forever he saw this and said to have patience,
They stood in line by the entrance each person hugged and kissed me tears ran down my face,
The next thing I knew I was in my private room the grandfather clock still going tick tock.

I thought about my wonderful dream those wonderful people and still felt very warm inside,
It was all so very real and was very disappointed knowing it was just a lovely sweet dream,
Those people in that beautiful garden blessed with such loveliness they seemed so very real,
Standing up and stretching I saw something by the door it was a beautiful rose frosted and dewy,
It was the reddest rose I have ever seen.

Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013

Long poem by Al Amin Abdul Moin | Details

The Bad Man

Atuk was a bad man,
He split his family, lost his money
He drank the dark tearful sorrows away,
As he walked he abused,
The syahadah he refused,
He was a bad, violent, angry dark man.

He made people cry, 'specially his wife,
As he stormed through life, he did it his way.

Make no mistake, he loved them.
In his own bad selfish way, he loved them.
His rough weaknesses distorted that love,
Beer upon beer, drinking made it curve,
and bend and warp and coiled,
His accidental failures destroyed,
decimating every life that was in
proximity! his life murdered plenty

This wasn't just love, this was a family
and that success never comes easily,
Nobody finds that they can live happily
ever after; like the themes of Kafka

Family conflicts with love,
Love is a constant deed,
A family needs, a father must feed,
A father creates; a father, he failed.

Love? Love is a feeling, an intention,
The warm rocking of the waves, they push you
The gentle breeze; it caresses you too,
Love is romantic, it is a concept
Life has other plans for this dreadful man

Atuk gave me my first book, you must know this
He defended me against the rest of
my angry, confused, frowning family
Like an unused broken facsimile
He couldn't stop, He never stopped.

Those long talks at the corner of the bed
Colored me long after; now I get it
he would've smiled at me once I got it

He would've smiled that sweet and toothless smile
Through the Benson & Hedges fog he smiled,
The bad man in his tattered kain pelikat
and that strong mixture of Old Spice and sweat


He was a charmer; handsome when he smiled
Man with a secret life, an angry wife,
Separated children, He smiled;
even when he was filled with strife


Never for me, I hope
Coz When he left I moped,
My mind on dope,
I lost that hope.

Atuk was a bad man, so it seemed
He beat, He screamed, He troubled and he dreamed
He failed and he broke until he was broke,
He drank He cursed He left
He left God Damn It He left

He comforts He talks He gave me chocolates
He gave me books he gave some proper words.

This horrible rojak that I concoct,
Proof that words are all I have ever got,
And the bad man with that smooth toothless smile ,
He gave these words to me
The bad man; He loved me,


No matter where you are, handsome bad man,
Know that I love you, man
Oh, charming bad man with the toothless smile,
For the last and first time, let's chat and smoke.
Goodnight, bad man, Till we meet again, Tok.

Copyright © Al Amin Abdul Moin | Year Posted 2016

Long Poems