my brother does this thing where he siphons the stories from someone. Usually old people because they have the best stories

I drive through the old homestead – the fog of my emotions

Have of my memories

My father does this thing where he holds his little hands at his waist, twisting them inside one another

We are three generations eating dominoes pizza

Defined by death and divorce – not there and not existing yet
My grandfather is 90. He is stories made flesh and my brother pulls at them like a rope from a,


Because he has discovered the census data for Ham Lake from 1940

My grandfather tells stories of the missing generation

His father – can’t work because he’s a welfare brat

His mother died young

Stepmother an angel – gave him socks when his father was crying because they cut him off

My father – tells underbreath mumbles of lost arguments and lost respect – he gives me socks for Christmas

Father drank a lot. You get to pick who I’m talking about. Maybe alcoholism skips a generation. If so I fear for my children.

Grandpa joined the navy. His father got a job – everyday worked it through sickness and in health – a marriage of money and mind because the paycheck meant freedom and freedom meant everything

He finds his dad at work – navy uniform coated in the expectations of his brothers.

“So you went and did it.”

The story kind of trails off there, the way old people stories do. Kind of like young person poems

I helped my dad set up the TV we got him for Christmas

Because he never used the guitar center gift card from last year.
Hannah Cutler Feb 15
servants to society they roam
with blank, controlled minds,
meaningless obsessions fuelled
by selfish desires, unkind.

grandiose, pointless gestures
declaring nothing,
self-importance derived
from insistent buzzing.

absorbed by devices
holding existence hostage,
vacant stares, virtual prison,
lack of interest and knowledge.

Protected by the guise of
slowly ripping society
from its very foundation.

engrossed by nothing that matters,
materialism, image,
being flattered,

pretentious clones, lifestyle fictitious
there’s always a bigger picture,
but they’re preoccupied, pernicious.

disadvantaged by modern living,
people can be untrustworthy,
people are unforgiving,

misleading technology,
cruel traits heightened,
an entire race
believing we are enlightened.
When all the world was young
Where did those bright days go?
Down the dusty boardwalk
In your straw hat
So many years ago,
Brother Bill right behind you
Every step of the way
When all the world was young.

Laughing in the garden
Big sisters always near
Summers quickly passing
And so do the years.
One day you're in school
And helping out with chores,
In the blink of an eye you're seventeen
And now the world's at war.

The world aged so quickly then
And I know you did too
At eighteen you wear a uniform
Like all the fellas do.
The task is set before you
You are steadfast and true.
How is it that I never knew
The things you had to do?

You volunteered for service
To Suffield you did go,
Experimental station for
Chemical warfare, now we know.
Now we know, why you aged so
With all the damage done
So many years ago
When all the world was young.

Sixty years later
Your family receives
Notice you were subjected
To poisonous gas secretly.
Our country was at war
Is what they have to say
Thank you for the sacrifice
Of lost years you had to pay.

© 2012 Verlie Burroughs
A poem for my Dad, John David Burroughs 1924-1983. War has touched us all, sometimes without us even knowing it. After Charles Kingsley 1819 -1875  'Young and Old'  "When all the world is young lad/And all the trees are green..."
Mallory Write Jan 16
Tiny petals,
Tinted pink
Dew drops drip down,
Smooth and sleek

The wind whispers,
Gentle, calm
Dance and settle,
Within the palm

Of a small child,
Pure and sweet
Ever so slowly,
Drifting to sleep

And on,
The willow quietly weeps
Before the becoming,
Of a mindless sheep
Generations blame one another so much nowadays... they don’t realize we are all merely humans.. simple creatures bound to make and repeat many mistakes.
Charlotte Dec 2017
who watched them,
down bottle after bottle.

who are afraid to look
at a mirror, simply because
we’re scared to see
the alcoholic who raised us.

To all of us who don't look,
knowing we'll only
​see our predecessors -
those who couldn't stay sober
enough to raise us -
instead of seeing change.
Allesha Eman Nov 2017
The goal is to acquire the understanding, capability, and the hardships of living. Survival has outrun us, the race is still beginning
And as you open your eyes
The exposure of light, sound and intelligence of man
Is what will shape your morals into the prosperity of your generation
Because as much as we read or write about our past
Our future is still unwritten.
Carter Ginter Sep 2017
I never understood the hype about memes
But I search for them now
Just so I can tag you and maybe
Make you smile a little more today
Because your smile is the brightest thing
And it makes my heart sing

I know I make everything complicated
I can't promise that won't keep happening
But I will try to take the sting away from pain
Because you deserve the sun
And I'm only human
You excluded me from your world
Because you felt that I was
"Over the Hill".
I had no way of sharing my Magic
With you.
One day,
I spotted you
Shooting Heroin in your arm
Underneath a bridge.
I was too polite to ask you
Why you had refused to accompany me
For Tea
Matthew A Cain Jul 2017
They say we’re crazy
Chasing stupid millennial dreams
Too far fetched they seem and sometimes we agree
But secretly we hope and pray they become reality

Excuse the interruption but does this sound familiar for anybody else?

“Big house on its second mortgage, and a camper for when we feel like downsizing prison.
Cars each on a different loan, manicured lawn because we must show status in everything we own.
Monday, he cheated with the bottle and she cheated in her heart
Tuesday, sister came home late, crying her eyes out because the arms of her last lover were just like her fathers.
Wednesday was surprisingly peaceful, but unnerving, as sunny days were far and few between and I was thinking this was just the calm before the storm.
Thursday I saw father sitting on the floor his last straw a piece of paper "final notice" printed in red
Friday mother sat in the car for an extra twenty minutes starring blankly at the door contemplating her life
Saturday was fight night
Sunday we went to church and pretended it was all alright”

I’m sorry if my pursuit in life is simply this: Happiness.
If it looks like a retrofitted van and I live like a bum because I never want to fight about little green men
Or, if it was a tiny home that her and I could reasonably afford on land far away from the city lights and temptations that come at night
You could say It’s something about the fights we could hear through thick walls that drove us mad inside
And now we chase peace and calm, love and happiness, through any means
Because that’s something that cannot be bought despite our parents thoughts.
I started out with a completely different poem but somehow it morphed into this as I delved into my thoughts. The more I think about my generation and our obsession with tiny homes and little joys in life I believe this is what drives us to this way of life.
Anders Thompson May 2017
And yet you will not let that dead man rest his dry bones
In the dirt, in the grave where he belongs.

And yet you speak of him like he sits up north still
In his cabin, smoking his wretched lungs to flame.

And yet despite every beating, every murder attempt
In your mind he was the greatest man to ever live.

And yet even though he never told you what you wanted to hear,
In your head you make up his words: "I love you."

And yet you tell me about the lessons he taught you like a saint;
In your life you repeat his brutalities, his learning legacy.

And yet you are blind to his quirks you repeat, that
In your daughter you have made a new you:

Blind, quivering, trapped, choking on tears
She is everything you were and you try to make her
Everything you wished you were
But in your repression, your denial --
When you cling to his grave and the things you made up about him
Like a leech, like a disease, like a haunting,
You let him live again in you.

And he was not a good man.
He was a hurtful man.
A proud man.
A bad man.
A killer of your precious, finite vitality.

And just like he destroyed you,
You will destroy her.
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