Long Grandmothers Poems
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...The hard-core just leave men altogether,
but in the rank-and-file there’s a trend
of these women speaking of ‘gentle’ guys,
then shacking up with the dominant men.
Tale old as time, women love the ‘bad boy,’
there instinct responds to his aggression,
some deign to marry the ‘sensitive’ guys.
but then cheat, and take half their possessions.
It is quite the cognitive dissonance,
to say one thing, while craving another,
their teaching says they should be ‘empowered,’
while their instincts cry, “Make me a mother!”
They claim in one breath, “Women rule the world!”
but then complain their man isn’t decisive,
say they want a man to take care of them,
while preaching that such men are repulsive!
And this patriarchy the women built,
nobody can say that it has not worked,
we have built up great civilizations,
freed women from most of the threats of this earth.
We’ve built huge houses, all climate controlled,
machines that will take us any place quick,
we grow too much food, our infants don’t die,
yet they still get mad, and call us all sick?
I think deep down they want what they always did,
but are convinced doing so must betray
some cause created by unhappy women
all the way back in their grandmother’s day,
not seeing that those ‘patriarchal men’
are the men that those grandmothers created,
seems kind of ungrateful, after all this,
for them to proclaim men should be hated.
Loret, our lovely lithe flutist called the rest of us to the woods
with her charming tune.
Melody called 'Song of the Women',
it was uplifting and cheery; a break from our daily work.
Where are mamas and grandmas?
A new one to the fairy forest asked.
We laughed.
The older crones no longer hear this kind of music,
so beaten down by daily drudgery.
We congregated in the woods,
admiring her handiwork, settling down to commune
The oldest, the youngest, the first born, the middle born;
we had youth in common.
We were all tired of being bossed around by our daddy’s wives,
some of us griped a bit.
My ma is so bossy, Delva said.
The rest of us agreed, but not aloud; we were afraid of her mother.
They will be looking for us soon, Christette whispered;
we knew this was the truth.
Cooking, cleaning, baking, slaving over loads of laundry,
we were all getting worn out.
Maybe we should have asked to go to war with the men,
Loret suggested. This made us laugh.
It was the first laugh of the first meeting
of the young female faerie society, but not the last.
We stayed out there for a full twenty minutes are so,
until guilt pulled us back inside
To help our mothers and grandmothers
do all of the jobs that needed repeated daily.
What drudgery we thought.
Not realizing we would never get over this thought.
We began meeting monthly,
pulled out of our houses by the lovely melody 'Song of the Women'.
Father ignores the pandemic by drinking from the flask.
Brother is yelling he won’t wear a mask.
Mother is rolling her eyes, feeling news-reel deceived.
Sister has had her vaccine and is greatly relieved.
Cousin came home from a funeral stamping her feet.
Wearing a mask would have made her feel off beat.
She left in a huff, yelling mean things to the others.
Church staff, minister, and sixty old grandmothers.
Grandma is holed up in her room, not answering her door.
This pandemic is making the whole world sore.
Uncle Henry says the Covid 19 is a lie and a hoax.
He’s on a ventilator now, dying with a bunch of other folks.
There is a truth we don’t think about when we’re young
It’s just too easy to ignore…
how youth will win the early battles in life…
but age will, eventually, win the war.
It’s inherent in our destiny…because every night we turn a page
and our youth, felt only moments ago, cedes another day to age.
It seems life is a constant struggle between age and youth…until…
age proves itself triumphant…as age forever will.
But there are moments as we grow older…as yet another page we turn…
when age consents to step aside and allow youth to return…
Like every time a Grandma holds her Grandson…
even for a little while
for as she sees him fall asleep in her arms…
it is her youth that smiles.
Her youth that causes her to reminisce …
her youth that brings her happiness and joy…
a youth transferred to the Grandma…
from the heart of a little boy.
And in this quiet moment shared together
all grandmas recognizes this truth…
and are happy age has stepped aside
and ceded this moment back to youth.
O Confederation of the West—
You were not born to conquer shadows,
But to outlive them.
Power is not noise,
It is silence understood by all.
You fear the bear in the east,
But he was your brother once—
Did you not share a winter once in Berlin’s broken breath?
Yet now,
You sharpen your swords
Where olive branches once bloomed.
He holds gas, grain, and grit—
Energy, the blood of industry.
Why then do you cut your own veins
To prove that your heart still beats?
Sun Tzu speaks:
> “If you know the enemy and know yourself,
You need not fear a hundred battles.”
But what if the wisest war
Is one never fought?
The greatest general is not he who marches,
But he who never must.
You boast of unity—thirty blades drawn,
But who feeds your people
As they choke on cold debts and hollow stomachs?
You send sons to distant deserts,
While grandmothers burn bills for warmth.
You say China is threat,
Yet buy his silk, his circuits, his steel.
Is this strategy?
Or is it ego in uniform?
The world no longer bows to gunpowder,
But to algorithms, hydrogen,
And trust.
Machiavelli warns:
> “A wise prince builds alliances with reason,
Not resentment.”
Do not call thunder to chase away whispers.
For in chasing ghosts,
You awaken giants.
Peace is not surrender.
It is the longest and hardest war—
Where patience is the weapon,
And dignity the shield.
So listen, NATO:
Conquer not by arms, but by architecture.
Let the bridges you build
Outnumber the bombs you store.
For in a world wounded by empires,
The true superpower
Is restraint.
THIS STARTED AS FAR BACK AS I COULD TALK
AS POPPA READ TO ME AS I LEARN TO WALK
HE SANG WITH ME AS WE DANCED ON NAT'S SHOES
WHILE BIGMOMMA SAT SINGING THE BLUES
HE ORDERED FOR US ALL THE JET MAGAZINES
WITH ALL THE CIVIL RIGHTS AND NAT KING COLE
THEY CALL IT A SECRECY DIARY HIDDEN FOR YEARS
UP INTIL IT WAS GIVEN TO ME ON HIS DEATHBED
HE SANG AND CRIED AT NINTY FOUR YEARS OLD
TELLING ALL ABOUT FIGHTING BUT I WASN'T THAT BOLD
AS TIME WENT ON I BEGAN TO GET SHY
POP ALWAYS SAID WIPE YOUR EYES DON'T CRY
HE TOOK US EVERYWHERE SINGING THE BLUES
WITH THE DUKE AT THE YMCA
AS I GREW SOME MORE HE ALWAYS DID SAY
HONEY FAME DOESN'T MATTER IT BRINGS GREED
EVEN THE RICH WITH TAKE FROM THE POOR IN NEED
AS I GREW OLDER I BEGAN TO SEE WHY
MY POP WAS JUST THAT KIND OF GUY
MY HERITAGE IS QUITE OLD THAT IS ME GOLD
WRITTEN BY MRS. YOLANDA NICHOLSEN
3-17-2004 DURING A BLIZZARD COPING WITH PTSD
IN LOVING MEMORY OF MY UNCLE
ISOM KEATON MY GREAT GRANDMOTHERS
CARRIE KEATON BROTHER MY IRISH ANCESTORS
FROM THE LATE 1800'S 1900'S IRISH SETTLERS
FROM ST. LOUIS MISSOURI MY NONA IRISH ITALIAN
UNCLE ISON ALWAYS REMINDED ME OF THE OLD IRISH
CHIMNEY SWEEPERS LIKE MR OKEEFE ONE OF
MY SHORT STORIES I LOVE WRITING
TRIBUTES TO MY ANCESTOR ISOM KEETON HE ACTUALLY
LOOKED JUST LIKE RICHARD DALEY SR. SO DID MY
IRISH AUNT BEING FROM AN IRISH ITALIAN FAMILY
LADY LUCK IS A PRODUCT OF MY IRISH ANCESTORS
THE KEATONS OF IRELAND
GOD BLESS AMERICAN POETS AND WRITERS
I AM CARRIE KEETON MARIETTA KEATING ISOM KEETON
THESE ARE MY IRISH ANCESTORS I BRING THEM
TO LIFE WITH MY POETRY LIVING TRIBUTES TO MY
IRISH ANCESTORS IT'S A PERSONAL PRIVATE WAY
OF HEALING COPING WRITING WITH COMPLETE PRIVACY
What became of the elderly man who habitually lingered outside the pub, a toothpick perpetually perched between his lips?
I often pondered the significance of that toothpick—it seemed to serve as a silent emblem, a mysterious token of his unspoken thoughts.
As children, we absorb the world around us, processing our myriad experiences as we grow. When we reach adulthood, we find ourselves striving to unravel the complexities of those early moments.
I’ve always been captivated by the habits of grandmothers, particularly the way many would discreetly tuck their money beneath the layers of their skirts. I can still picture her, clutching her cherished apron, its fabric soft and faded, evidence of countless meals prepared with love. Even when we navigated the lively streets of the city, that apron was her unwavering companion.
Now, reflecting on those customs I once found peculiar, I recognize how the toothpick and the hidden money represented their ways of coping with life’s myriad challenges. The old man who so often graced the pub’s entrance has since passed, joining countless others who have left us. We gathered to honor their lives, sharing fond memories and kind words at their funerals.
Yet for me, the echoes of their lifestyles continue to resonate, capturing fleeting moments of nostalgia that refuse to fade away.
Injustice has a name!
Twenty years in prison, detained because he refused to kill
his fellowman in wartime, was against his conscience and will.
Twenty years in prison, arrested without real cause
freedom of conscience there, means nothing at all.
Twenty years in prison, not even charged with committing a crime
With the whole world watching, now they are running out of time.
Twenty years in prison, without even having had a trial
Without any human dignity, experiencing all that is vile.
Twenty years in prison, he's languishing in squalor
government officials not answering, they have no valor.
Twenty years in prison, even warned by the UN and others
but they keep on arresting even children and grandmothers.
Twenty years in prison, subsistence living, no healthy diet
what if it happened here, would everyone keep it quiet?
Twenty years in prison, the world says enough is enough!
Yes injustice has a name...it's called ERITREA!
John Derek Hamilton
January 13,2015
“Grandmothers are voices of the past and role models of the present. Grandmothers open the doors to the future.” – Helen Ketchum
You passed away many years ago
several decades before I was born
A person that I’d have loved to know
your sudden death still makes mum mourn
Your photograph in an ornate silver frame
has pride of place on mum’s dressing table
Not a day passes when she doesn’t say your name
Mum talks about you whenever she is able
Mum keeps your jewelry in a satin lined box
one day it will all be passed on to me
Simple pieces, not huge diamond rocks
knowing they were yours makes me happy
I missed out so much in my childhood days
envying my friends (although I didn’t show it)
But my genetic link’s apparent in poetic ways
because like my grandma, I too am a poet!
my grandmother’s face
captured in a photograph -
I wish I’d known her
Poet’s notes - although I knew my aunt and uncle both wrote I only discovered 3 years ago that my mother and grandmother also wrote poetry, sadly none of my mother's or grandmother's work exists for me to enjoy
Forms used, rhyme and senryu - classed for the contest as rhyme
Writing Challenge 1, August 2019 - Just Write - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart
8/11/19
Household Auction
Saturday and Sunday
Refreshments
I must sell some family heirlooms from grandmothers attic,
there are many items, jewelry, glass, lamps, and some furniture;
but the most treasured item is a mahogany sideboard quite exquisite,
beautifully carved, and ornate with dragons and scrolls and gorgeous feet.
I noticed you arrived a half hour early and saw you wandering,
many times you returned to the sideboard and caressed it so gently;
approaching you, I offered you a coffee and we had time to chat a bit,
I told you that the sideboard had sentimental value for me, it was grandma's.
People came and went and many lingered with the lovely sideboard,
you know it is in pristine condition, has never been repaired or refinished;
it is a scarcity, hard to find a vintage piece as profusely carved and deeply loved,
in an antique shop they would mark it up 500%, I am auctioning it at a reduction.
I will not be long-winded, if you are interested, you can trust me,
dishonest, I will not be, this mahogany sideboard is the real thing, no rip-off;
take your time, have another coffee and then we can talk again if you want to,
I am no antique dealer, just a girl with some beautiful things that I need to sell.
In the end, I could not sell the mahogany sideboard . . .
________________________
February 24, 2016
Narrative/The Mahogany Sideboard
Copyright Protected, ID 16- 761-247-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.