Long Grandson Poems
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There is, in the Los Angeles area, a well-known brand of milk, called Alta Dena. Near also,
is the city named Alta Dena, and my grandson lives there. I asked him if he had seen the dairy there, and he told me that it does not exist. I then asked him if he had seen herds of milk cattle there and he said that he had not, and doubted that there were any. Of course I wondered why the milk had such a name, and jokingly asked him to look for at least one cow in the city, since it was well built-up, and there were no obvious open pastures at all. I told him that we could only conclude that it this had to b a very famous and rare cow that could supply all the milk needed by a large urban dairy, and thus must be insured, protected from the idle public, and secreted in some private home where she would not be disturbed. The whole story and speculation grew into a riotous family "search" for this wondrous animal. I, of course, ask my grandson each week when I see him, for a progress report on the search. Finally, I have decided to turn it into a poem:
A Search Continues
Something very hush-hush is going on
and Alta Dena folk aren't going to tell.
All cowdom secreted within its bovine lair
yet Bo would stare contentedly at us
with no incursive moo directed at the hellish
vine that she must eat, in lieu of meadow grass.
That ever-present cud must still
be masticated; yea, her celebrated udder
must be filled.
Yet none admit to having sighted her.
Beastiana though she be, no Altadenian
will dare so much as low on her behalf,
no bull, Eden-bound, is ready to exchange
his bold, testicular desire
to service mewling ruminants
who merely run away.
Nay, uncowed are they, though cowed they be,
and cowards not--and if you do not see
their wisdom, chalk it up to power,
Bo's mammary magnificence, so easily
in jeopardy before a single squeeze,
not of a nipple but a trigger
thus applied, and speeding out of sight.
Challenge, indeed, our quest to find
this noble and prolific queen
who dominates with graceful quietude
her milky empire slurping quite
without a care, lush liquid destined
not to slosh within her, rather
in those tumescent tummies
ever crying out for more.
Would I betray them for a share?
Of course. Away with those content
to sour the milk of human kindness
with deception. Let the search go on!
~
I don’t think I shall quite forget the name Camilla Martin.
She’s the teacher of me grandson at the local kindergarten.
No question she’s a lovely lady; dedicated through and through,
but the lesson that she learnt this day is one that I learnt too.
It just happened on the day I drove young ‘Gaz’ to kindergarten,
there’s a special birthday happening - it’s his teacher Mrs. Martin.
I wondered why young Gazza had this present all wrapped up,
so after telling me the reason, he whispered “It’s a cup.”
It was a special morning for all the Mums and Dads were there.
I was the only Grandpa but young Gazza didn’t seem to care.
There’s a birthday cake with candles, lollies, hats and lemonade,
and the kids all brought a present … and I’m glad I overstayed …
To see the look upon the faces of the kids who held their gift,
as Mrs. Martin stood up at the front to give these kids a lift,
by waiting to receive each offer as presented one by one,
and she really liked the cup handed to her by me grandson.
And the other little children were quite interesting as well,
as they stepped up to the podium with a similar tale to tell,
when Mrs. Martin made predications to what the wrapping held,
for she knew the parents business thinking that their gift has gelled.
She’s spot on with Jenny Damon whose family own a florist store.
Mrs. Martin beamed out “Flowers,” and Jenny smiled, “For sure.”
When the local milk bar’s Billy Cann stepped up beaming bright,
Mrs. Martin said “This must be chocolate,” and Billy nods “That’s right.”
Mrs. Martin waited patiently for ‘Ginger’ Roberts from the hotel,
who stepped forward with his gift that she thought that she could tell,
because it appeared somewhat a shoebox that did have an ominous sign;
it appeared a bottle’s leaking and she gathered it was wine.
Mrs. Martin put her finger in the liquid but the taste to her is strange,
and for a joke she said to ‘Ginge’, “Is this not Penfolds Grange?”
‘Ginge’ answered “No” so Mrs. Martin tried to guess again,
with one more taste upon her lips, she asked, “Is this champagne?”
‘Ginge’ shook his head when saying “No”, so Mrs. Martin gave a sigh,
“Well I give up,” she smiled at ‘Ginge’ “No, I’ll give it one more try.”
So on her lips goes one last taste to resolve this gift of grog
as Ginger interrupted - “Mrs. Martin … it’s a little puppy dog.”
‘Twas way back in them days
when the ranch owner’s ways
was just about the only law there was around
Rancher’s money was king
and gun violence reigned
till marshal Ben Miller made his way into town
Well that town was real rough
till Ben said ‘twas enough
that’s when he used his guns to bring law to the street
But there's always that one
thinks he's fast with his gun
would soon find himself face down covered with a sheet
For the next twenty years
Ben had kept the streets clear
of any no-gooders that might drift into town
Then folks started to say
Ben was showing some gray
maybe his old age had started to slow him down
The councilmen all met
said it is with regret
that we tell you it's time for you to settle down
They baked him a nice cake
a few speeches they'd make
and introduced him to the new marshal in town
Town folk gathered and cheered
told him how twenty years
was a long time to stay on this side of the grave
Ben took a look around
rode his horse outta town
with his new gold watch and the few dollars he'd saved
That is often the way
a cowboy's life got played
long ago when the country was still just a pup
When a trusted hired hand
gave his life for the brand
honest and loyal was the way he was raised up
If you think this is sad
or Ben's life turned out bad
well then this might be a little good news for you
Was the very next week
Men lay dead in the street
they had robbed the bank and stole the mayor's horse too
When they tried to get Ben
to come marshal again
sure don't take no book smarts to know how he replied
Well, he asked widow Jones
if she'd like to go along
and off to the wide open Montana they'd ride
Was a day in March when
Jasmine married old Ben
Though they had only been courtin' about a year
Said they was gonna go
where the tall grasses grow
gonna try their hand raisin a few cows and steers
Well they made it alright
through frozen winter nights
mostly cause they hadn't built up much of a herd
When the next spring turned mild
it brought both calves and child
after that first year their ranchin' blood had been stirred
It’s been thirty years since
granpap left Defiance
now I stop alongside his grave near' every day
I watch over his spread
more than five thousand head
as they grow fat right here on the Rockin’ Bar J
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?
History of the Star Spangle Banner
Maybe idea of Major George Armistead
The glory of Americans who scan her
Of Mary Pickersgill she was begat
The creation of the original flag
Be still a subject highly debated
Mary Pickersgill was not one to brag
Old Glory she made, beauty wind inflated
Armistead first requested it to be
A large garrison flag for reason
So the British have no trouble to see
Good to see our flag has flown in season
Fifteen colonies equal fifteen stars
Having eight red stripes and seven white stripes
Red and white stripes run in parallel bars
She flows in glory apart from other types
Rumor has it two glories were first made
For a small and a large Mary did charge
A document exists a bill was paid
Though small one be lost or is still at large
The varied small Star Spangled Banner
Never made it home to the Smithsonian
Would be nice to see displayed in some manner
In national museum the large is on loan!
For Contest Dazzle us with History
For Carolyn Devonshire and James Frazer
The History of the Real Star Spangled Banner
The creation of the original flag is still a debated subject.
However, the general story accepted by most historians is that Mary
Pickersgill was commissioned to make the flag by Major George Armistead
for $405.90. Following the victory at Fort McHenry, the flag was preserved
by Col. Armistead and it remained in the Armistead family. A smaller one
which was flown during the actual battle, and a larger one that was
flown as a replacement immediately after the British retreat.
This was a common wartime practice of the period.While no one
can say for sure what really happened, documents exist that show that
Mary Pickersgill was paid for two separate flags, a small one and
a larger one. If the smaller flag exists, its whereabouts are unknown.
In 1907, George Armistead’s grandson, Eben Appleton, expressed
interest in donating the flag to the state of Maryland or to the city of
Baltimore. After discussions with Maryland’s governor and the Mayor of
Baltimore, Appleton eventually placed the flag on loan to Smithsonian Institution
and it was displayed in the Hall of History at the National Museum of American
History. The loan was converted to a gift in 1912 and can still be
seen at the National Museum in Washington, D.C.
How I loved spending a week of the summer holidays with my grandparents. Gramps would come and pick me up in his old pick- up truck, dad would bundle my suitcase into the back and I’d be on my way. Gramps would whistle as we wended our way along the winding country lanes until we reached their stone cottage. Grandma would be waiting for us to appear at the door, she always be wearing her checked apron which was flecked with flour. She’d scoop me up in her arms, and carry me into the cosy kitchen where the aroma of cooling gingerbread lingered in the air.
wheat from the old mill
freshly ground into white flour
grandma’s been baking
I would spend many hours in the garden with gramps, in the spring I’d helped him to plant lots of vegetable seeds and now summer had arrived they were ready to be harvested. Gramps would give me a ride in his old wooden red wheelbarrow, the wheel would squeak as he pushed me along the uneven ground and I would squeal with delight when we went over the bumps. In the vegetable garden we would pick perfect pea pods that were fit to burst with juicy green peas, bright orange carrots and creamy cauliflowers which reminded me of brains. All the produce would be placed into the wheelbarrow and I would help gramps to trundle it along the path to the kitchen door. Grandma would be busy in the kitchen and I’d help by podding the peas ready for our evening meal. I loved the popping sound of the pods as I pressed them to release the shiny peas.
from a tiny seed
colourful vegetables grow
harvest time arrives
Many years have elapsed, and sadly gramps and grandma are no longer with us. My father inherited their little stone cottage, which was eventually handed down to me. I now spend happy hours in the garden with my own grandson, and I’m passing on the gardening tips that gramps taught me when I was a small child. The red wooden wheelbarrow which I loved riding in is long gone; but I replaced it with a sturdy one made of shiny red plastic. My grandson loves riding in it to the vegetable patch and I love to hear him squeal with delight as I once did when I rode the same bumpy path.
the red wheelbarrow
reminds me of my grandpa
precious memories
Fiction write
For Your Poetry Journal Poetry Contest
Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart a.k.a Broken Wings
7/28/18
I enter the room breathlessly,
Somehow anticipating that tonight will change everything.
I sit quietly among strangers lost in their own worlds.
Cell phones buzzing, coffee steaming.
We all glance at watches,
Even some that aren't wearing any.
The air is electric as everyone is keenly aware
That tonight has the power to change the world.
I know that my love has not arrived yet,
Although I have never met or talked to him before.
A tired looking woman beckons me from the back room
And robotically I answer her call.
And in another room full of people and chaos,
I immediately see HIM.
He is perfect, though not at all what I expected.
Our eyes lock briefly, I smile and wave.
I'm wishing I had a mirror and had taken the time to "freshen up."
Other women in the room are as obsessed with him as I am.
I grab the barrette from my hair,
And like every ingenue I've ever seen on TV, I shake loose my curls coquettishly.
I think I have caught his eye, but suddenly his entourage rushes him from the room.
My heart slows a bit and I feel the color draining from my face.
Someone is holding my arm, sensing my weakness.
"He'll be back in a minute, why don't you sit down?"
I sit and for the first time, I notice HER.
Glowing, happy, giggling . . . the center of everyone's attention.
And the game just became REAL!
For it is she who stole my last love.
We make small talk, pretending no animosity exists.
Until a door opens, and HE is back.
New clothes, blue to match his eyes,
And I can't keep a little gasp from escaping my lips.
Of course, he flies right into the arms of my nemesis.
I move in, touching his arm, briefly holding his hand.
Even brazenly stroking his dark curls when SHE looks away.
And I see him respond -- glances in my direction, guarded smiles.
I am lost in a world where only he and I exist.
The room and everyone in it disappears and the two of us are floating away.
Without warning, I realize she must have seen our exchange.
And the room and everyone in it comes back into focus.
I look at my nemesis. She looks back at me.
"Would you like to hold him?" she says, seemingly without guile.
I cannot help myself. "YES!" I say, a little too quickly and loudly.
Unselfishly, my daughter-in-law gives him up. At last, my newborn grandson and I can start our love story.
7/14/2015
A Song With no Name
From my grandfather and my dad and performed by their son and grandson, me.
It was an old melody with no name of a ballad my grandfather wrote a long time ago.
The melody was soft and mesmerizing creating a feeling of melancholy. One couldn’t help but feel the love, though the sadness was the melody itself with ambiguous, bluesy sounds that contrasted with our emotions.
As a child, I recalled how my father had gone off to war under the guise of killing commies, but had died there in a muddy hole in Vietnam; souring the celebration of his sacrifice.
But this was a beautifully written melody.
Blue notes written in the right places left us feeling the absence of love. I played it on my trumpet muted with a Harmon mute giving the piece a sorrowfulness ala Miles Davis playing in his Blue in Green record.
Later, I came upon a lyric written by my father stuffed in an old satchel, I took it and merged it with the music and got a singer to sing it and when the people heard it there was not a dry eye to be seen.
When you heard the lyric your heart jumped out of your chest.Though the only word LOVE that was mentioned came at the end but with the bass playing low Tibetan-like notes being held to the end; one felt it soul deep.
I whispered into the mike, “To my dad and granddad, I love you and miss you.That ended the ballad, but the bass sounds of the diminuendo were haunting coming to a final moan slowly vanishing to a soft triple pianissimo.
The crowd remained silent for a few minutes
then erupted in a five minute standing “O”.
I simply told the audience, “I never knew my grandfather, in fact, I barely knew my father, and any musical talents I may have were gifts from them. I found the sheet music among my grandfather’s things and later I found the lyric was written by my father.
“My performance tonight was my tribute of love to them. I’m grateful to have performed their song for you from them with great gratitude I accept your applause on their behalf.
And to paraphrase the great Lou Gehrig, the New York Yankees Hall of Fame first baseman, who retired in Yankee Stadium overfilled with his fans, in his speech he said,
‘Today, I am the luckiest man in the world. Well, ladies and gentlemen tonight, I am the luckiest son and grandson in the world, thank you for acknowledging their sensitive hearts.”
One Halloween night as the tired Gran, was
Putting her wee little darlings to bed at last,
The youngest begged her for a bed time story,
Make it scary grandma, please, oh please,
Just one story?
Scary she said, to the wee little lad, well
Then you will go to bed without a fight.
For your Gran is tired on this night
Of fright, the tiny wreck agreed, I will her
Grandson whole heartedly did, promise,
And thus begins our tall tale my spooky,
Friends!
Did you ever hear about the Halloween night
When the old witch had her enchanted pillow
Case was stolen, by a mischievous child?
At first it seemed just a harmless prank,
The youngster went house to house,
Begging as the others did, trick or treat,
Did the lad shout out, and each gave him
A tasty sweet treats confection.
But as the night wore on people started
To run out of their goodie candies delectable
Gifts, but the pillow case wanted more!
At the last house on the young lads block,
The lady beneath the lamp light post,
Shouted to him, sorry son I’m all out,
Better luck next year!
Then just pillow case began to twist and shift,
At hearing this ill news, the child didn’t
Understand what was happening, he
Realized the bag had a hold of him,
And would not allow the child to
Release his grip?
Give me candy or your life will I
So take, what a trick to play on this
Halloween night, the pillow case
Spoke in an eerily haunted voice!
But there is no more the child shakenly,
Replied then it’s your life.
Then just then, in a swishing flash
In swishing flash, the witch came down
From the darker side of the moon.
Bad pillow case, what have you done,
I’ve come to take you home with me,
From this thieving son of humanity!
The lad was instantly released,
As the old hag retrieved her stolen
Merchandise, I’m sorry, so sorry,
The child spoke shakenly, I won’t
Ever do anything like this again,
I so promise, and vow?
As the witch flew away, she said
Next time I’ll let my pillow case eat
You child of man, as she hackled
With a witchery laugh!
Oh my Gran, I’m too scared to sleep
Now, the old gran looked at her
Grandson, and politely spoke, go
To sleep young man, or I’ll get out
My pillow case, it’s hungry and wants
Something sweet to eat, then she so did
Laugh, with an eerie cackle, herself!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Did You Learn Anything?
Go ahead.
Put your shoes on.
Walk outside and face the nervous day.
Know that your lungs will not resist you.
Know that your heart will still stir.
Put the key in the ignition.
Now turn the crank.
You are back there now.
As if in a dream so ordered.
It is 1937 on Hoover Street.
The oleanders are bleeding.
Perfumed orange trees spit white loogies.
Clean children emerge from green digs.
Mothers hang clothes on uncomplaining lines.
Your grandmother is back there.
She’s wearing black reptile oxfords.
Go ahead.
Walk down the long gravelly driveway.
Pass the back porch steps there.
Pass the red-blooming bougainvillea.
There she is, alive again as she was.
Unfurling laundry with old clothespins.
Singing an old Salvation Army song.
Go ahead.
Talk to her.
Tell her who you are.
“Baba. Baba, it’s me,
Your surviving grandson, Harry.
I wanted to tell you,
I am a poet now.
An engineer of the human soul.
A standard-bearer for the mad,
Dressed in mindful metaphor.
You look young despite the goiter,
There inside your sinewy neck.
It appears and seems as if,
The goiter is a python at sleep,
Scrunched up inside there,
All rolled up like kneaded bread.
I hope it doesn’t hurt you.
I come from the future, Baba.
I know that sounds crazy, but
I am visiting from the year 2020.”
The world of my time screams
In lockdown, like medieval Europe,
People of every nation and tongue,
Too afraid to emerge from their walls,
Too fearful of even breathing in,
Imbibing in, with lost enthusiasms,
Mountain fresh air from the antipodes;
Fearful of catching and releasing It - the
Corona Virus monster microbe moving
Silently across the terrified landscapes,
Devouring the cool mornings,
Aside the neon evenings, even
Robbing the noon day of hopeful turnings.
“Baba, can I stay here with you,
In this golden simple time of 1937?
May I remain here now,
A happy and relieved rider,
Astride this awful depression horse?”
Go ahead.
It is time to return.
Baba died in 1963 and cannot hear you.
Turn the key off in the ignition.
You are back now where you belong.
It is 2020 in the United States of America.
Baba is sleeping in the graveyard now.
You are being held hostage by a germ.
Kick your shoes off now and think.
Did you learn anything?