Long poem by
Callie Johnson | Details
We shuffled in
Somehow always smiles
Tables laid with afterthoughts
Of the one who couldn’t share them
Jumbled faces moving down the line
Looking for the better shrine
Through the crowded hall
Full of faded memories
And seeming dreams
To the right
Painting showing beyond where we are
Painted with longing
From the now deceased one
A funeral program
With a smiling picture of her
Such faded memories
Wobbly and melancholy
Faces full of confusion
Not a hint of despair
We move to the casket room
Whispers grow louder in here
A white casket
With gold hinges
Draped in the american flag
I dare not yet look inside
That I know are too dark to match
I’m hultsed to a waiting room
To see relatives
Some I nearly forgot
Talk about our day
And pretend nothing is wrong
Later as they’re talking
I decide to slip away
To the casket room
I take a breath and see her
She looks so real
Yet so odd
And her chest is deadly rigid
I wait for her chest to heave
For her eyes to flutter open
For her hand to rest upon the coffin’s side
So I could hear her light quavering voice once more
Yet she lay here
Wrinkled hands folded across her white dress
Amongst folded blush fabric
Skin hanging limply against her nose
Her curly white hair receding
A weathered lady
Dressed in royal purple
Seems to appear alongside the coffin
Looking down with a despairing smile
With a slight wheezing through her nose
She catches my glance
And says in a teary voice
“That’s not what she looks like”
And with a miserable chuckle
And a glum shake of her head
“It’s her body I guess”
I brush her shoulder with my hand
A reassuring look nestles into my smile
But I dare not say a word
Later the crowd gradually seeps through the chapel’s doors
Spreading to the cool wooded pews
And speak of memories
On the podium
Tears shedding around me
Blinking to keep mine away
Soft quavering voices
By a melodic quire
Mom and nine others
Roll the casket through the front of the room
The a bishop
Begging to be cheerful
Ushers us off with his words
To her final burial ground
A short ride
In Grandma’s gray minivan
Cold and windy
Bullets of rain smack against my face
The very same set
Arrive carrying the casket
Closed for evermore
They lay it gently on shivering metal bars
Mom’s eyes are red
Avery’s are wet
Copyright © Callie Johnson | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Gil Garcia | Details
memories at the ready.
Friends inter-mingling, while great grandchildren run through the gathering crowd.
Sun streaking through branches, warming joints, and turned up faces seeking the rare appearance of the coastal sun.
The growing color of gray cropped heads blot out the distant green scape as the band arrives one by one.
Blankets spread, picnic baskets, and bottles of wine appear.
Drummer man begins testing his skins, while the Blues Brother look-alike adjust his mic.
Bass guitar man plugs into his amps then makes a run through his vibrating strings.
memories at the ready.
audience’s eyes glowing,
puppy dogs running as great grandchildren do cartwheels on the grass.
Almost ready, drummer warms up with a mixed run of sheep skin sounds.
Base man vibrates notes that rock nearby windows and flutter our wrinkled foreheads.
Pretty lady arrives on stage and is welcomed by the band like an old lost friend. She sets her music on a stand and adjust her mic downward.
Anticipation growing, memories at the ready.
Blues Brother laughing, making eyes at the pretty lady.
Puppy dogs running.
Little four year old boy in blue striped shirt plays his air guitar in front of base man who is smiling at the boy’s mimicking accuracy.
Snacks, blankets, and beer,
vibrations fill the air.
It begins _the pretty lady welcomes all. She announces that we were about to experience a ride back to the sixties, and seventies.
They start _the rhythm of Muddy Waters fills the air.
As pretty lady sings the blues.
Old necks swaying and dancing, hands clapping, as wrinkles smile again.
Eyes connecting with strangers, family and friends.
Old couples grasping their loved-one’s hands _remembering when,
as the lady sings the blues.
Before you know it, it is over.
Good-bye hugs and handshakes.
Mamas and Papas gathering their now sleeping children.
Retired professionals, doctors, lawyers and old artisans with memories now awakened begin to leave, _some older, turn their heads downward, walking in tune with their walkers, and canes as their children help them back to parked cars in handicap zones.
Cars back out, but before moving on _ a few of the elder attendees turn their head back to the park to capture one more moment in time, as they gaze upon their dispersing long lost friends, who just shared a ride back to the sixties, and seventies; when the guitar man strummed, and the lady sung the blues.
Copyright © Gil Garcia | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Rhoda Monihan | Details
Most accidents are avoidable,
I’m sure you would all agree,
In modern society, high-tech,
Where things are more robust.
All my relatives believed in,
God, Jesus and the holy trinity,
But since there is no god here,
You just make him up, buck.
The seventies saw older folks,
Imply the incident was from god,
When their rags fell of the line,
Hanging in front of the open fire.
It was a sacred communication,
From god to the entire family,
When grandmother only alone,
Would come running to quell.
Mother would put on her hat,
Wear the spiritual cap, illuminate,
Direct words from very god, dais,
Spoken to her own mother, father.
I got involved in this whole act,
But quietly, with atheist respect,
When I advised they be careful,
With the clothes on the horse.
I ignored evil eyes from mum,
Joisted with dad who questioned,
Rejected James, bounced away,
And stubbed out lovely grandad.
Then, they inquired into my fears,
If I could cope with the situation,
So I just retorted I was not saved,
And so could cope with events.
James went off his head, nuts,
Dad hesitated, then roared shamed,
Mum made gestures with her hands,
Personality accusations she’d land.
Fires in that old Stitchill house,
Made me very angry and very sad,
About Christianity’s standing, height,
Which is just so very grand and tall.
Every family is people-driven,
If you make chat you’ll befriend,
If you organise play you’ll attend,
And if you’re careless you’ll harm.
You can put god into the equation,
Or leave him out, but family’s cell,
Only, if you add him you’ll claim,
Suffering probably as from him.
Genetics means bodily conditions,
Carelessness means injuries, burns,
Random crashes, obviously no-one,
And job loss is not your lateness.
You live best when you specify,
So yes, your MD came down,
From your parents genetics given,
Explanation stops there for kids.
My parents hated what I’d said,
To my grandmother to take care,
So told them not to respect me,
Not to do what I said, insane me.
Then she denied saying that,
Saying that I was insane, well,
I then knew for real deviation,
Lying, make fundamentalism.
The lord didn’t start the fire,
To test my grandmother out,
Her domesticity and devotion,
To her house, husband John.
There is no god available,
Who speaks when you allow,
There’s only hurt for others,
When you play with hot fire.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
Sabina Nicole | Details
When my mother was at the age of thirteen,
A dirty old man asked her to come clean,
He invited her over so she could make a few bucks
When she arrived he was in a black tucks
He was the neighbor across the street,
His wife was at work and he viewed my mom as weak
This man locked the door when my mother arrived,
Went to go kiss her, to feed his sick drive,
My mom ran out the back door and went across the street,
Little did this man know he was in for a “delightful treat!”
My great grandma lived six towns away
My mother called her in a state of panic and disarray
A forty minute drive, granny made it in fifteen
Granny drove her old ford like a race car machine
When she arrived, she kicked that man’s door down
She did not care if anyone was around
That man jumped up by that loud sound
She hit him so hard he fell right on the ground
She slapped him around with her left shoe
Cursed him out in Italian, while threatening him too
Later that night my mother’s dad came home
He is a little man with a loud groan
He heard the story and went across the way
Took his shot gun and made this man pay
Told him if he ever touched his daughter again,
He would shoot off his little “private friend,”
He made this man cry in his own living room,
But I promise you this man never again tried to consume,
Every little girl on that street,
He knew not to look at or he would get severally beat,
My family has many stories of my Great Granny saving the day,
Never mess with an Italians family, they handle things in their own special way.
Every family has stories that get past down from one generation to the next. I was blessed to have had my mother’s grandparents until about 6 years ago. They did not speak any English and my great granny was a crazy awesome woman. She grew up on a farm in Italy and had to do a lot on her own. She raised all the children and grandchildren but was old school about a lot of stuff. I remember my great grandparents fighting with each other even in the nursing home. They were married for 58 years; they shared a room in the nursing home that had two separate beds. My great grandma use to hit my great grandpa with her cane from across the bedroom. It was funny to watch. They may have fought but they loved each other so much, my great grandma died 6 years ago and less than a year later my great grandpa died too. Now they are in heaven together, I don’t think there’s fighting in heaven, God don't allow that;)
Copyright © Sabina Nicole | Year Posted 2011
Long poem by
curtis johnson | Details
Life According To Me
I have observed that some of the shortest lives contributed so much more than most. We all have known of many endowed with longevity, but were impoverished of legacy.
There are those who gave it all, with nothing taken to the grave but an empty corpse. Then there are those whose God given talents and gifts followed them to their grave.
Perhaps all would agree that marriage should not consummate where there is no love. But do we dare ask where marriage should stand, if love should cease to be in the marriage? Should we not recall that most marriages were entered into, not with love alone, but also with covenant?
STORMS AND MOTHER NATURE:
Storms reek havoc to structures and infra-structures, landscapes and human lives; But those same storms breath life to dry and thirsty lands, filling dams and reservoirs.
The sun shall rise in the East and set in the West, and the world shall ever be under duress with some kind of test.
The winds and ocean waters shall sometimes connect and twist into hurricanes.
But prayers, hard work, and the will to survive will relieve the tears and the pains
WAVES OF WICKEDNESS:
Tyrants and wicked despots shall surface occasionally, but like in the past, they too shall pass. I stand with the God of the good, the tried, and the true; and have every reason to be hopeful.
I have always loved grandparents, beginning with my adored maternal grandmother.
In my lifetime, I have witnessed countless “Grands” among the unselfish and the brave. I can only imagine a world of total grief and chaos without grandparents.
I like the beauty and the unmatched presence of roses. I hear their voices speaking calmness, love, and peace.
But roses arrive with the beast of thorns, drawing blood.
JUST SAY NO:
A “No” consequence is often far less severe than a “Yes” one.
So it’s best to put our “Yeses” and “No’s” in their appropriates places
I think not that God has any use for molds. But if he does, perhaps he threw them away after making each of us. There is simply no one exactly like you, and there is a task and a purpose designed just for you. Let’s dare to find pleasure in being like non other that ourselves, and be the ‘best me’ that any can be.
Copyright © curtis johnson | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
PEDROS FERNANDES | Details
My GRANDFATHER loved to work. His schedule from 3 am till 6 pm we were farmers
-we is a lot of people who's here?- He asks.
With the scream of a Legendary fighter we all say "We Are" proudly looking at each other. The cows have a special meaning to WE,
They were Nurture to be Healthy and Beautiful and were a Legendary Hobby after 6 meaning that they Shine, than won all trophy's for strength beauty and behaving. Cerneja was an Imperatriz, temperamental, always ready to fight for her kingdom. Here comes the one of many risk-free situations in a natural site in the Vasdos the the Luso-Amazonia between 4 cows and dozens of Bovidae mammals, sheep and goats included, and with Cerneja out of control trying (have done before) to sacrifice an innocent well nurtured and less beautiful for Cer-kingdom standards and a solution. From HIS 2 meters of an well balanced body structure holding a horn push and propelling with so much energy, Cer smash like a meteor to the floor over the farmers and Farmer and Animal kingdom stupefaction and our daze (the best,the Queen "Cerneja" almost a myth "and what about the empire-we thought". The kingdom always goes on.
Replaced Cer was sold for good money divided between the two owners (some animals like most of the land had more than one owner). The chirurgical eye of my HEART was so right and we were so wrong that Cer killed the unfortunate brand new owner and was given to the local slaughter house for THE FARMER unhappiness our dejection and all the WOMEN in the house joy In killing one of us instead one of others and Cerneja was evil-
What stays is GULLIVER well tied to a chair by dwarves (in any pattern out of NBA tallest) while naptime warding off a fly and waking up smiling and feigning stretching the tight ropes
-It's time to work
Farmers pay back with the same coin to each other-WORK- And money comes from selling shared properties animals and milk.
Sharing HERO type of stories always with coffee, good food and wine I was always involved in the exchange and legendary people are generally anonymous - in this particular that's not true for the heroism and courage stories but still will continue anonymous. Thank You For the Kindness and Patience and I hope You continue to Produce Alike because What We Got, Get For Free We Give Back For Free, Right!
Right or Wrong?
Copyright © PEDROS FERNANDES | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
STANLEY Harris | Details
>River Orwell and a Poppy field
By Stanley Russell Harris
(The mad Author)
I went out with the wife today.
We walked by the River Orwell I say.
Tide was out, but breeze was swell.
Ensured there was no stinking town smell.
Grasses looked so green and fresh.
Honey bees were buzzing on the clover bless.
Gathering pollen, for their queen.
Soon to be, in their hive seen.
Then we visited a poppy clad field.
Photos by the score, that field did yield.
Wife’s camera clicked away that day.
Must have been red hot I say.
The poppies were like those of Flanders red.
You know those growing for our dead.
For our brave men, who died there and bled.
Who should have returned home alive instead.
Now we bicker and do shout.
As GB from EU do want out.
Yet deep in that mud our kinfolk hide.
Red poppies now grow where they peacefully lie.
I hope our cries do not disturb them.
Our brave and gallant country men.
Who laid down their lives for you and me.
So we from chains could live free.
Was weird finding that field today.
Red poppies in the breeze did sway.
Reminded me of those days, of long ago,
when our brave men died in Flanders fields, so…
No more World Wars should we fight.
EU should now respect our rights.
As our ancestors won us the right,
to leave the EU free, if rules seem now not right.
Soon all countries in the EU will be free.
Of Brussels domination, just you see.
We might be the first country to break free.
But not the last, just wait and see.
If not, then I am sad to say
EU will sadly fade away.
Remember you read it here today.
And now I’ll put pen and pad away.
As I remember those brave men I say,
and those fields of red poppies today.
It is no coincidence that on the 1st of July 2016 we will be remembering the action of those gallant men who's lives were sacrificed in those blood stained fields of The Battle of the Somme. July 1st to November18th 1916.The same fields where those bright red poppies grow. You might see pictures of our poppies on my Facebook page if you so wish. Although not a war poet, I would like to dedicate this poem to those gallant forefathers or ours. Many of course who still lie peacefully in Flanders fields. Stanley (The mad Author) PS This will be in Poems Book 10.<
Copyright © STANLEY Harris | Year Posted 2016
Long poem by
MoonBee Canady | Details
(Prov. 22: 6 / Heb. 5: 14 / Deut. 6: 6-9 / 2 Tim. 3: 13-15, 16 / Matt. 19: 13, 14)
- cont. - from Part 1
And The Same Can Be Said
Of A Young Child’s Impressionable Mind
It Needs To Be Nurtured At Home
Or It Will Eat Every Junk & Stuff They Find
And You Can’t Let A Child
Follow Its Every Whim …
No Matter How Brilliant or Smart
Dumb Things Will Make Them Dim
But Parents Try To Remember
Just When You Were Young …
Didn’t You Just Want To Act Stupid
And Have Some Friends & Fun?
Every Child Needs To Know
What & Who They Can Trust …
This Is More Important Than That Job
& Making Big Bucks
Every Child Needs Guidance
Even If Parents Are Just Guessing
But There Is A Book of Instructions
To Keep Parents & Child From Stressing
(2 Tim. 3: 15, 16)
It Is A Compass & A Map
& Its Like Reading A Diary of Confessions
Where Both Parents & Children
Can Learn About Real Life Lessons
(Matt. 4: 4 / Matt. 19: 13, 14)
And We Need To Start Training Them Young
From The Crib & From The Womb
Give ‘Em Plenty Space & Privacy
But Know What’s Going On In That Room!
‘Cause Newsflash! … Now Hear This
When Children Get Wrong Ideas or Tears
It’s Up To Loving Parents & Families
To Steer Them Free & Clear
Yes, Newsflash! … Now Know This
Children Don’t Know Nuthin’!
It’s Up To Responsible Adults
To ‘Try’ & Teach Them Somethin’ …
Their Bright Little Eyes & Minds
Are Looking To Us For Advice
And We Have To Watch Their Little Heads
So They Don’t Get Infected With Lice!
Yes, Their Bright Eyes & Minds
Are Looking To Us For Advice
& There Is Not Enough or Too Much Time
That We Could Sacrifice
And Without The Rod of Discipline
Whether Spanking or Time Out On The Floor
Loving Communication Is What Keeps Them
From Being Spoiled & Rotted To The Core
Look – Grandmamma Used To Tell Me
“If Everybody Is Sticking Their Head In The Fire
And They Tell You It Won’t Hurt …
You Tell ‘Em ‘You’re A Liar!’”
Listen, We All Can See That This World
Is Going To You Know Where In A Hand-Basket
But You Don’t Have To Let Them Group You & Yours
Into That Casket …
And When A Child Wants To Eat Candy
‘Cause It Tastes Good – All Day Long!
When You Tell Them “No!”
Listen … You Ain’t Wrong!
Written & ©: 7/16/2013
By: The MoonBee
Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
James Edward Lee Sr. | Details
You look at me so uninviting;
I may have some missing teeth, stumble when I walk, bout' to FALL!!!
Stutter when I talk, but yet I'll still call;
Might smell like ole mothballs or mint or maybe even Old Spice;
You see me and you stare, you're looking at the patches of my skin YES! it's different (maybe diseased ) different;
different colors and wrinkled on my face, the gray in my hair;
Yes you still stand there and stare. . .
I may talk bout RCA, Philco record players you say "what's that;
I might talk bout Annie Oakley, BoZo the Clown, Captain Midnight, you say Whose that;
Well child let me tell you all...
Don't throw me away;
Cause I'm just like you;
Don't put me out cause I'm too slow;
You think I'm in the way and I can no longer grow;
Don't throw me away, place me in a rest/nursing home;
Don't put me away because you think I'm in the way;
I', senior don't talk bout me in front of me I don't understand a word you say;
I'm alive, I have more brain cells and I got all my memory, well;
That's more than I can, say for you huh-hey!
Imagine if I'd treated you such;
But I wouldn't cause I've got God's love in me so much. . .
Love you see
So I just suck it up turn the other cheek;
I may tumble but I won't fall;
I may forget something's but not all;
And yes I still eat meat;
Cause I got all my teeth;
remember your just trying to get where I am at now;
I'm a senior don't throw me away;
I'm telling you I'm history and I'm a part of God's glory wanna hear, come here;
Come here and sit down, I sit in a chair can hardly rise or go anywhere;
You see me and you stare I drive slow you begin to cuss and swear;
I won't do you ill;
I won't act like you will;
I'll take you today......
But I won't, I will NOT THROW YOU AWAY
Dedicated to all Gods people's 60 years of age to 100 years
Thank you for your wisdom, thank you for your life. . .
Written by James Edward Lee Sr. July 6 2015(c)
For the book Poetry to Bridge Generations University Of Nebraska at Omaha 2015(c)
Copyright © James Edward Lee Sr. | Year Posted 2017
Long poem by
Jenny Linsel | Details
I'm sitting in the garden
With my small son on my knee
He looks up at me with big brown eyes
And says “Tell me about Granda's tree”
My father planted a tree
In nineteen forty two
He nurtured it and hadn’t bargained
On just how big it grew
When I was just seven years old
I had a love of climbing trees
Many times mum put plasters
On my bloodied and skinned knees
I can remember one day
Wearing my new party dress
Peering in through the window
A grubby bedraggled mess
I’d climbed as high as I could go
Then heard a quite loud crack
The branch it snapped in two
And I landed on my back
I’d excelled myself on this occasion
You could say I’d gone the whole hog
I’d landed on a little offering
Left by next doors dog
I remember as a little girl
My father built me a house in the tree
A sturdy wooden house with windows
Especially for me
When I was in my tree house
I could be almost anywhere
In a tropical jungle
Or in a cave hiding from a grizzly bear
Hanging onto my rope ladder
With a plastic cutlass on my hip
I could be looking for buried treasure
My tree house a pirate ship
Underneath the carpet
In the middle of the floor
My father had lovingly made me
A little brass-hinged trap door
Whenever I got fed up
Of being stuck inside
I’d open up that trap door
And go straight down the slide
Sometimes I would stand
For maybe half an hour
And pretend I was a princess
Imprisoned in an ivory tower
Some days I’d be a cowgirl
On a wild west ranch
And sometimes I’d pretend to be
A monkey swinging from a branch
One day I picked some flowers
And mum asked what they were for
I said “they are for my cottage
With roses around the door”
My son is looking wistful
Then he smiles at me
He says “mummy I would love
To see my Granda’s tree”
Tears come into my eyes
My son’s smile turns into a frown
I say “The tree's no longer there
The new owners chopped it down”
My son says it is sad
That the tree's no longer there
But no-one can destroy the memories
That my son and I share
Copyright © Jenny Linsel | Year Posted 2017