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Gabriel May 2022
I rest, as once more
my legs are crossed upon the floor;
the old armchair not looms but graces
the room, and our two listening faces.

Conversation leads the wane,
the world waxes, yet I remain,
the armchair not yet old but so;
solemn comes and solemn goes.

But long since years have passed me by,
nineteen there, twenty nigh,
and still the armchair's yet to fade;
in grace and hope, and heart pervade.

And silent sit I lend my ear
to stories told first time this year,
of decades past and my existence
just a spark, universal resistance.

Generations part the seas
like Moses, only I believe
in stories told from familiar tongues,
not sung, and yet exist in song.

The armchair rests in praise and strength,
the day shall pass, familiar length;
and that familiar person there
much to rely, and all to share.

In trust, in grace, in hearted love,
and stories from which I will carve
a narrative in which I fit;
one day this armchair, I shall sit.
I wrote this for my grandad when I was around 19. He has since passed, and in the latter months of his life I was his carer. I miss him every day, and that old armchair in which he sat and talked to me about life.
Ind Feb 2022
I wonder why it took another mans tears for your ears to open to the truth.
Years I’ve spent crying over you,
Getting drunk off the whiskey residue on your skin,
Spinning in and out of your life
Alarmed and dizzy.
A meteorite that never quite hit the mark.

How were you to know you used to be the sun,
That you’d cast us into an ice age?
We will orbit you until there is nothing,
Spinning ourselves into oblivion.

I wrote once that your hands cradled dust,
But that doesn’t do justice the worlds your hands crafted
Or the lives you lived.
A father, first and foremost.
It saddens me I will never know all your children.
I doubt you feel despair that you never knew them either.
Zywa Jan 2022
A glimpse of grandad,

he left immediately --

yet I still smell him.
"Außer sich" ("Beside Myself", 2017, Sasha Marianna Salzmann)

Collection "Ya, a tightrope walk"
Opal Wood Jun 2021
Grief is the never ending burden we attach ourselves to because we can't forget our loss and what it changed 💔
-In memory of my brother and Granddad I wrote this x
Alan S Jeeves Apr 2020
If grandad really loved me...
(he told me so, he said)
He recited scary stories
As I lay in my bed.

He lit the fire that warmed me
And kept it burning bright,
He gave me cheer throughout the day
And comfort through the night.

He shared my weekend tea with me,
We two a jolly team;
Pouring out the ginger beer
And serving cakes and cream.

His cleverness he lent to me
And showed me what to do
He taught me how to spell my name
Keep my own council too.

But granddad never told me,
And I could ne'er perceive;
If grandad really loved me so
Why, then, did he leave?

Hugo Pierce Jan 2020
the root was missing,
but paired with the grand prefix,
depicts all I need.
Alienpoet Dec 2019
Sitting in your old arm chair,
With a devil may care,
Talking about the ingratitude
Of youth.
Watching TV,
Eating microwaveable meals,
I still love you,
I remember the times when I was young,
and you helped me,
when I was stung,
by a wasp,
or fell over.
Life is hard,
it makes you,
grumpy and
Please think of the things you’ve shown me,
Rather than talking about the things that make you despair
I know behind the passive aggression you still care,
I know I sometimes take the ****,
But really Grumpa,
I can see all your tricks,
There is still, to my surprise,
magic behind those eyes,
And bedtime stories waiting to be read.
Don’t lose the thread
We all need a grandfather like you,
For you have all the experience,
You will know what to do!
ashley May 2019
my earliest memory of yeye (grandfather)
is one with the garden
it was once a large space of emptiness, yet
sometimes emptiness is not a lack of but an opportunity
for planting and for growing

in this garden he planted memories
looping a hose around the garden suddenly created new meaning
chasing after turtles my cheeks turned rosy and drenched in the sun the details are so clear
it’s like watching a motion picture in slow motion, the speed of everything melting into a single emotion i can only describe as childish joy.

and when the sun slept the garden was still alight
with firecrackers and sparklers
the sizzling sound of springtime spirit
he kept the garden glowing, bustling and radiating with life.

as i grew the flowers did too,
a new type of rose, fruit, bud each time i came back
and this is where i learn
how life begins and ends
just like flowers we must seek the sun
wilt and
root and rise
and only then
can we bloom
and he bloomed so bright that the Lord hand picked him

and so he may have left his own garden
but he has not wilted
he only continues to bloom
this time in the garden of heaven.
my granddad passed away recently. this is what i read at the eulogy.
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