Long Grandparents Poems
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My first car is starting to smell old
Like my grandparents house that they no longer live in
Reminds me of an antique store
With trinkets and wooden and things I’ve never seen
It smells of a jacket
In the back of the closet
That no longer fits
My first car took me anywhere
When anywhere seemed like so much
It took me to games and stores and houses and places I shouldn’t have been
But it always got me out
My subtle savior I never remembered to thank
My first car was old a decade ago
It was rusted and I never heard the end of the jokes
But it was mine.
Mine in a way a lot of things never have been
Mine like a name
Like a part of myself
Of my past
Of my shame
My first car doesn’t run
It doesn’t putter and shutter like it used to
And I can’t curse it anymore
When it doesn’t turn on
It died before I could say goodbye
When I thought we had more time
Seems like an old friend maybe
That just won’t text back
Seems like a dumb silly promise
Like maybe it will whine at me again
If I turn the key
But it doesn’t
And it won’t
FROM THE SHADOWS
I took my granddaughter, Ava, to watch the sunset
where the ocean meets the land
And I remember being mesmerized by our shadows on the sand.
At first our shadows walked beside us…two shadows blending into one
but they separated and walked behind us as we turned our faces to the sun.
And as we watched the sun drift slowly down and a cool breeze chilled our skin
I had to smile at our shadows snow standing tall and thin.
When the sun was finally tucked in marking the end of another day
I turned around and noticed how our shadows had faded away.
And it got me thinking about shadows..of how the dark and light interchange
of how tentative is our existence and how quickly life can change
And I wondered where do shadows go?
Do they too need their sleep at night
if they are going to have the energy to join us at first light.
And how a shadow is like a good friend who will walk with us…
yet we’re aware
even the times we cannot see them we know that they are there.
And I thought how grandparents are kind of like a shadow
with each granddaughter and grandson
and how we will always be behind them
when they turn their faces to the sun.
How we will always walk beside them
with our support, our love and care
and even when they cannot see us they will know that we are there.
And that they should never worry
if they happen to be mired in the night…
for whenever they need our shadow…
we will gladly bring the light.
WITHERED
Your withered hands, cradle my newborn
Beholding a strange beauty
Frail and aged
An in extreme contrast to my son’s tender, young angel flesh
I can’t help but reflect on the thought that my
Son has just begun his voyage
While you who loved me even before there
was knowledge of me
May very well leave this world forever
You, whose steady hands and patient words
Stayed many a conflict between fathers and
daughters, mothers and sons
Hands, which bonded our generations
The thought of your departure and my longing
For you to stay
Chokes me
And feigning an excuse to leave
I beat a retreat
to the hospital’s chapel
Where i must grapple
And struggle with the imminent
Loss of you
Now here i meditate
Trying to deliberate
On the best way
to prolong your stay
Gasping and grasping
Powerless with no solution
To the puzzle of how to get you to remain
For at least a few years more
And i drop my knees to the floor
Making all the promises that this time
I plan to keep
And as i reach for the good book
my fingers auto-pilot
to the prayers
We’ve said through the years
And after what seems a lifetime
My faith spent
I return to your bedside
And the moment I dread happens
And those frail hands
Those beautifully, withered brown hands
Reach Out
one last time
And clasp mine
I Dare You to Steal the Darkness and Sell Your Love
I dare you to steal grains of darkness gathered in the feathers of lonely crows,
The abundance of light to scatter it over the blind who haven't seen for an eternity,
To reinvent words for those who hear nothing but the cruel silence of the world,
And to pawn with butterflies all the mulberry leaves falling in the magic autumn.
I dare you to buy tears from those who aren't loved and drink them like wine,
And to bless your doorstep with all the abandoned children crying in cold nights,
To clothe with your coat those naked of freedom—the slaves of our times,
And to carry like Job all injustice on your back like a heavy psychedelic cross.
I dare you to stay silent with Anna trapped between bricks crushing her breath,
To carry the horizon in your arms with disabled grandparents trembling from old age,
I dare you to have patience with the one who on his cane holds his dignity alive,
Trembling not to collapse in the mud of forgetting and of sad desperation.
To empathize with the hunger of beggars on the road where sweet bread was with jam,
To place the bowl of broth as alms in the cemetery so the dead may be satisfied,
To give them a spoonful of myrrh—to bring them back to life at least in their dreams,
To tax with dew all the morning grass when the fog runs through its knees.
To discover how clouds flee overturning the knees of fog like wounded birds,
To give the plow a wing when you knead the earth's womb—the soil begging for love,
And to light the lamp at the eaves for the lost ones of the world who can't find home,
I dare you to have mercy on all those without mercy—the most lost of all.
To reclaim all the darkness hiding in light like a hidden parasite,
To confess your sins only when you can't commit them—anticipated forgiveness,
To drink comet milk strained in boots—liquid and celestial magic,
I dare you to sell your love to the one without luck—to fall in love with me!
We used to go to grandma’s for Christmas
She had bubble lights on her tree
Dangerous ones that will burn your fingers
We all learned it the hard way
We had one cousin who was awkwardly mean
Everyone did their best to make him happy
Willy was an unhappy guy; we finally learned to leave him alone
Because he liked being a bully
Many Christmas days we visited Willy in prison after we were grown
I thought it was a waste of my time; he did not seem to want us there.
But after our grandparents died, I continued to go
Because I wanted to please them and I knew they knew I was there.
Willy never changed; he was surly and bad-tempered.
After awhile I stopped going on Christmas, because it made me sad.
But I did go once a month, because I felt sorry for him.
Incarcerated for fifty years must have been hard.
Sadly, he deserved it though.
~ I Remember All The Days,
Eight Times,
The Cradle,
Rocked Away,
All The Nights,
We Slept On,
Cold Floors,
Eight Pairs,
Of Bare Feet,
Good Morning,
Dirty Dishes,
We Had Nothing,
To Eat,
Flipped A Switch,
No Lights,
Were There,
One Brush,
For Tangled Hair,
Baths Were Scarce,
Three At One Time,
Water For The Tub,
In Winter,
From Shoveled Snow,
I Fell On The Ice,
Retrieving My Cleanliness,
On Both Knees,
Leaving,
An Ugly Scar,
Of Eternal Remembrance,
Discipline,
Came From Trees,
Switching Little Legs,
As Father's Words,
He Spit With Rages,
Fists,
Making Their Way,
Always Finding,
My Mothers,
Already Bruised Face,
She Became,
An Expert,
At Making,
Fudge On A Plate,
To Appease,
Father's Sweet Tooth,
He Ate And Ate,
As Eight Mouths,
Drooled,
For Just A Taste,
Thank God,
I Was Rescued,
On A Fall Day,
By My Grandparents,
Who Turned,
My Fairy Tale Page,
The Warmest Bed,
My Full Belly,
A Grandmother,
Who Smelled,
So Sweet,
Her Lap Warmed With Love,
Soft Words,
That Lulled Me To Sleep,
As My Cradle Rocked,
The Other Way,
I Did Not,
Utter A Peep,
Forever,
In Thankfulness,
With Everlasting Joy,
I Shall Reap ~
In whirlwinds of dreams, where silences dress in whispers,
I urge you to steal from the night fine grains of darkness,
To lay them in raven feathers, gathering divine secrets,
And to spread the torch of light over hearts deaf and blind.
I urge you to carve from words new echoes for dead souls,
To mortgage with butterflies, in their dance, all the mulberry leaves,
To buy tears from those forgotten, rejected, lost in love,
And to bring solace to your doorstep, to each abandoned child, wronged.
I urge you to share your cloak with those deprived of freedom,
To bear the world's injustice, like Jesus, on your back,
To be silent alongside Anne, caught between cold walls,
And to cross horizons in the arms of forever disabled grandparents.
I urge you to be patient with the old man who seeks his dignity in a cane,
To empathize with the hunger that begs for a little kindness on the streets,
To offer the bowl with broth, in the cemetery, for those who have passed into non-existence,
To pity the hearts that know only the garment of misunderstanding, distance.
I urge you to tax the morning grass with dew, to discover how clouds flee,
To wing the plough, to light the lamp for the lost, to no longer hide,
To confess your sins when you can't commit them, to drink comet's milk,
To sell your love to the unlucky one, to fall madly, completely in love.
This is my urging, wrapped in magic and melancholy,
A poem that crosses the spectrum of humanity, with its goods and ills,
Urging compassion, courage, to dare to love,
To be light in the darkness, to open your heart, to simply be your best self.
The Historian searches the evidence for truth, diligently.
What merit in the study of old bones and pots- what
Worth perceiving how societies and cultures developed?
What value do we place on the work of the those
Who seek understanding of antiquity?
The “ologists” of science endeavor to relate modernity
To former diversity.
Knowledge relevant to the present, derived from the
Ancient Sumerians,Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans-
Who were God’s first historians and what, to them, do we owe?
What if the scribes, recorders, chroniclers, poets of scripture
Had not been inspired to write?
Would we grasp the awesomeness of His creation? His loving and just engagement with human beings?
From each generation arise those who tell history, through oral tradition or written word, so that the next generation can know.
If true that “all history is local,”
Who heeds the call of the Historian?
The ones who find pleasure
In digging up and digging through
Chronicles, journals, archives, tombstones, and other written treasures?
The Historian claims the journey a joy beyond measure.
Who selects the family’s keeper of the past?
Surely it is the One who gives passions to those while still in the womb.
Look for the one who loves to immerse oneself deeply
In the old stories-
Stories rehearsed each year at the family table.
The one who loves to traverse the memories of
Great-granddad’s mother’s diary to better define
What immigration meant at the age of nine?
Diaries and letters, medical records and legal documents
Newspapers and photos- can leave the readers slack-jawed
Secrets revealed. Surprise!
Inaccuracies remain a mystery at times.
Stories are human, and humans are flawed.
Historians hope to see beyond the bias.
Copyright 2026 Michelle Waters
Marigold Merriweather was a true beauty, a lovely girl with eyes of blue.
Her eyes and smile and skin would dazzle you.
Her skin was as pretty as flower petals, and she could smile your life away.
Several men wanted to date her when she came to town
in the 60’s, but they did not.
They were way too intimidated by her beauty,
which you do not see every day.
The fear factor held them back from asking, they were afraid of being rejected.
She was movie star pretty,
magazine cover pretty, just too pretty for her own good.
She never knew they were interested,
because they would not even speak to her.
The men of this town wanted wives other men would not look at,
that was this neighborhood.
She became a recluse, staying in her home,
away from the husbands and their wives.
She stopped going to church, and they all talked about her
and what a sinner she was.
Marigold tried to ugly-herself up,
but it did not work, she was still beautiful.
Luckily, when she began aging, that all changed and
they welcomed her and her fuzz.
She was ninety-six when she ventured out again,
one of the few her age still alive.
But the younger people welcomed her gladly,
and she taught them lots of interesting stuff.
None of them realized she had been shunned by their grandparents
for a silly reason.
She did not gossip or spread ill-will,
she was a beauty but had a life that was tough.
CHRONICLES OF ALENE COLLINS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alene Collins, a tender soul in tumultuous terrain,
Touched by turmoil, torn by tenderness & pain.
She grew in her teenage testimonies, trials & tears,
She's her grandparents' guiding light across the years.4
Separated at birth, scared and unseen,
Sorrow silently settled in her serene.
Without a father's face, she learned to thrive,
A mother's love she longed to feel alive.8
Separated at birth, in silence she grew,
Her heartache hidden, her dreams askew.
7 years young, her grandparents' arms she found,
Firm foundations 'midst chaos she abound.¹²
Fractured bonds with a mom who drift
And whose choices caused aching rifts,
Frayed edges of their bond breached & swift,
Broken & burdened with unspoken shifts.¹6
Fueled by love, though bruised and scarred,
Fathomless forgiveness, her heart unmarred.
Despite the pain her mother's actions bade,
Love and respect within her heart stayed.²°
Fighting demons, depression's dawning frown,
Frail fragments of hope, her darkness did drown.
Facing forwards forlornly, fighting fears,
Flourishing through floods of fallen tears.²4
Grandma's guidance, a strict & sturdy hand,
Guarding gently in her life's shifting sand.
Through the fog of hardship, she found her way,
Glistening resilience in the light of day.²8
Alene Collins, a tale of strength untold,
In her resilience, she holds a heart of gold.³°
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
VICK MANUEL POETRY {VMP}
FORM: Aliteration/Rhymes
Copyright ©?29th February 2024.