Long In loving memory Poems
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We were 19 months apart, and it was clear to me
From the start that he was dutiful to remind me
That he was the older and I best bowed to him
And his every command or there would be trouble.
He picked fights for which our dad disciplined us both.
I never understood why dad didn't bother checking to see who was right or wrong. So I was always left confused about fairness.
Anyway, we grew up and went our separate ways.
He passed away at 58, and I never got to know what it
Would have been like if the two of us had grown old together.
It is clear to all our family that he was a troubled soul, but there
Are two things about our relationship that I dearly miss.
I found him to be very generous toward me which I believe
Grew out of his strong faith in me. He did not care for what
I believed in as much as that I deeply believed in it. He never told me,
But I knew he was proud of me and my work. He also shared with me
His joy of seeing others of his friends succeed. Those are not qualities
seen every day, but I was blessed to see them in Cal many years ago.
070120PSCtest, In Loving Memory, Regina Riddle. 6P
Her Best Cup of Coffee
In loving Memory: Zenaida
Reflections of her are reflections of you
Her tears are caused by your tears
Her smiles were your smiles
Your dreams made her dreams
Her life lived is your life lived now
All she did was all for you
Her life was never complicated
Her life was always blessed by you
Her kisses were meant for the roses in her life
Her heart always full of joy
Her last breath was not a goodbye
But a calming breeze
Her love will stand strong
Her arms will always be open
Those hugs will be forever seen in the light of heaven for you all;
Her best cup of coffee to date.
My Nonna lived to age eighty-six.
I still remember her salt and pepper
hair, so long- but wound up in a bun.
From Italy, she settled in New York,
became a seamstress and as such-
it was she who taught me how to sew.
Dear Nonna did outlive her only son,
who she lost to World War II.
And- she outlived my Mom, who
succumbed to cancer at age fifty-five.
To lose two children, way too young-
a double tragedy for her, it was.
And so, we bonded closer after that.
I still remember her loving arms
around me, soft but very strong,
and the security I always felt within.
I so much miss her still today-
my loving, caring, sweet, Nonna.
June 29, 2020
Contest: In Loving Memory
Sponsor: Regina Riddle
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
My day began with mommy
making beef patties all morning
I helped cutting the veggies for
the curry soup while sipping ginger
beer I remembered the curry for her
special curry goat we were preparing
for her sisters to visit from Trench town
my head spending day dreaming about it
anything other than our family tradition
the Caribbean bakery we were the
descendant no if ands or buts about
granddad made home made gingerbread
cookies while uncles peeled sugarcane
the elders brought raw cocoa from the
Mahogany trees coconut husks hung
sparingly as we drank coconut milk
while the storms brewed over the
shanty town of Kingston the cock
crowed throughout trench town as my
cousins played keyboards and guitars in the
street to the the sweetest sultutry sound of
St Elizabeth infamous Caribbean beat
In loving memory of Dad
Caribbean Bakery 1539 Howard street
Chicago Illinois..
Written by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
THE MANY SPEAKSIES JAZZ SESSIONS BLACK PANTHER DAYCARE BREAKFAST PROGRAM CIVIL RIGHTS RIOTS WITH MY FATHER GROWING UP IN CHICAGO I WAS BORN IN THE MIDDLE OF THEE COLDEST BLIZZARD IN CHICAGO ON SAM COOK'S BIRTHDAY THE BEGINING OF THE YEAR OF 1963 MY DAD DOTED ON ME SINGING I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU ALL OF MY LIFE AFTER RETURNING HOME FROM EUROPE FACE TO FACE WITH BEING EMOTINALLY TRAUMATIZED TO WEARING WIRES PREGNANT FOR THE FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATIONS ARLINGTON HEIGHTS ILLINOIS MY DAD WAS VERY CONERNED ABOUT ME AND MY FOUR LITTLE CHILDREN I MOVED IN BACK HOME TO THE GARDENS WITH HIM 1989 AFTER MY NONA DIED OF A STRANGE BRAIN CANCER MANY OTHERS WERE DYING AS WELL EVEN INFANTS BORN WITH BRAIN TUMORS LUNG PROBLEMS I REMEMBER AS A CHILD I WAS VERY SICK EVERYTIME I WENT TO THE GARDENS SOMETHING ABOUT REACHING 131ST I WOULD VOMIT ALWAYS SO SENSITIVE TO TOXIC FUMES NO ONE COULD PREDICT WHAT WOULD BECOME OF THE PEOPLE OF ALTGELD GARDENS IT WAS THERE SINCE 1945 AFTER POP RETURNED FROM WW11 I SUPPOSE ALTGELD GARDEN WAS BUILT UNFORTUNATELY THE GARDENS WAS A DUMPING GROUND OF TOXIC CARCENGENIC CAUSING CANCERS MY DAD WAS SO DISTRAUGHT HOW MY NONA COULD LIVE BEING BLIND ALL THESE YEARS AND OUT OF NO WHERE BRAIN CANCER WE ALL WERE IT WAS 1988 HER PASSING WAS DEVESTATING 1126 E 131 STREET NOW MY CHILDREN AND I WERE BACK 1989 IN THE GARDENS MANY REPORTERS TO LAW GROUPS HEALTH DEPARTMENT IT WAS THERE WE ALL SIGNED THE PETITIONS TO REMOVE THE ABESTOS TOXINS FROM ALTGELD GARDENS RESIDENT ISSUES MY DAD AND I WERE BLESSED TO HAVE THE CHANCE TO SIT AND TALK WITH BARACK OBAMA COMMUNITY LEADERS SIDE BY SIDE FIGHTING FOR ENVIROMENTAL CHANGES AIR QUALITY IN LOW INCOME COMMUNITIES THESE ISSUES WERE VERY IMPORTANT ISSUES TO MY FATHER AND TO MYSELF PENNILESS LAWSUITS WERE FILED SETTLEMTENTS AS WELL THE LOSS OF LIFE THE BROKEN DOWN QUALITY OF LIFE JUST BY LIVING AND BREATHING AIR IN THE DONUT DISTRICT TODAY I HAVE PULMONARY ASTHMA REMEMBERING MY FATHER FIGHTING FOR ENVORMENTAL JUSTUCE IN LOVING MEMORY OF MY NONA LIKE AN INFANT DEVELOPING BRAIN TUMORS WHILE BEING A LONG TIME RESIDENT OF ALTGELD GARDENS
Born December 5, 1961,
blonde cherubic, lips of rose buds,
eyes of the bluest baby innocence.
Remember the 1960's brother,
Massapequa proud, Long Island.
Our Cedar Street,
lined once with what now are
vintage Chevys, Buicks,
our lime-green Rambler.
1964-65 World's Fair in Queens
at the fireworks show-
we briefly lost you there,
found you with a good-hearted
police officer,
brother of our souls.
Us siblings watched Romper Room,
Wonderama, Lassie, Flintstones,
the Wonderful World of Disney
on Sunday nights,
so idyllic then,
before the tragic Vietnam War roiled
the country.
Christmas Eves waiting for
Santa's reindeer stirring on
the roof.
The decades, they passed too soon,
us siblings scattered and aged
out of our youth.
Life, it can take us on roads
far apart,
but I thought often of us,
brother of our souls.
You rode horses
Western style,
your Stetson shading your
fair freckled skin,
keep riding above the bounds
of the mortal earth,
your journey here is done.
Remember the 1960's brother,
that was the times of childhood,
of us,
and they will live on,
brother of our souls. ~
In Loving Memory of
Gerald DeGruchy
December 5, 1961-January 30, 2024
Depression is not treated by putting on lip stick
you stand in the mirror and put on the tears snot
drooling in your mouth behind the curtains awaiting
to go out on stage and face an eager audience depression
stings like a bee you painfully feel it you can't hide by journaling
writing poetry being clinically depressed takes constant
medication to control the chemical imbalance inside the brain
every brain in different although everyone gets sad it's a human
emotion being depressed for life is a cancer that has to be
treated professionally or the consequences can be very fatal
millions die every year from suicide sadly homicidal suicides
no one should encourage anyone in such a state to just write
a book glamorize depression this euphoric thinking results
in suicide notes and suicide planning this can be a dangerous
ticking time bomb without medication why all suicide notes are
poetic lyrics mental health ptsd are not a greatest hit anyone
I mean anyone in such a state needs to put down the lipstick
put down the pen stop typing suicide notes do yourself a favor
and make that call I did thirty years ago I am still taking
medication in therapy and writing poetry I'm alive I survived
my own suicide many are not alive to tell their story or just
write poetry or publish a book don't be a deadline the greatest
poets are read only after death don't make your suicide note
a greatest hit on your own life save yourself save someone you
love get help stay own your meds clock is a ticking notebook
by: mrs yolanda joy nicholsen
written 2-14-2024 2:07 am.
valentines day.
In loving memory of Virginia Woolfe
When winter paints those frosty ferns on my windowpane
I find myself a little girl up on your lap again
In that old house there by the sea where you wove that tapestry
With all the glorious memories of your life upon the sea
With weathered palm so deeply etched with every season past
You rubbed a porthole in the center of the frosted glass
Where outside in splendour lie a winter-wonderland
As halos rose above your head from a pipe bowl in your hand
And there upon a rocking chair as smoke rings filled the air
We rocked across a sea of dreams wind tangled in our hair
To lands I’d never been before...we stepped upon those shores
And through your eyes I saw each one...and still I wanted more
The morning passed in dreams between two pairs of eyes of green
As the world outside held its breath in a sea of snowy cream
And when the chill of winter melted from the windowpane
The whistling kettle on the stove brought us home again
You held my hand and looked at me with that twinkle in your eyes
And told me you would be my Captain 'til the day I died
So...when winter paints those frosty ferns on my windowpane
I find myself a little girl up on your lap again
~~~
In loving memory of my Dear Papa
When winter paints those frosty ferns on my windowpane
I find myself a little girl up on your lap again
In that old house, where you wove that coloured tapestry
With all the glorious memories of your life upon the sea
With weathered palm so deeply etched with every season past
You rubbed a porthole in the center of the frosted glass
Where outside in splendour lie a winter-wonderland
As halos rose above your head from a pipe bowl in your hand
And there upon a rocking chair as smoke rings filled the air
We rocked across a sea of dreams wind tangled in our hair
To lands I’d never been before we stepped upon those shores
And through your eyes I saw each one and still I wanted more
The morning passed in dreams between two pairs of eyes of green
As the world outside held its breath in a sea of snowy cream
And when the chill of winter melted from the windowpane
The whistling kettle on the stove brought us home again
You held my hand and looked at me with that twinkle in your eyes
And told me you would be my Captain 'til the day I died
So when winter paints those frosty ferns on my windowpane
I find myself a little girl up on your lap again
~~~~~
Written: Jan 15, 2011
Author: Elaine George
First Place in Brian Strand's contest: Let's See
4th Place In - Anything goes contest
In loving memory of my Dear Papa 'Captain James George'.
Authors Note:
When I was a child of three, I Went to live for a year with my Grandparents in Nova
Scotia. At that time my Grandfather was a retired Sea Captain of a Three Mast
Schooner. He had spent most of his life at sea, taking lumber and coal to New
Brunswick and various ports in the U.S. and in the winter months, would carry on to
pick-up and deliver cargo in the West Indies. Although my time with him was short,
the memories we shared have comforted me through-out the years.
~~~~~