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Jackie Mead Sep 5
We’re going on a duck hunt; just granny and me!
We’re going on a duck hunt, let me tell you what we see.

We are going to the river, with a bag of stale bread.
Fighting off seagulls and pigeons as they hover above our heads.

We will pass by the riverbanks where grasses and trees grow tall.
Watching and listening to the river as it tumbles, rolls, and roars.

We will see flowers of different colours.  White daisies, yellow buttercups, blue cornflowers, covering the parklands in a dazzling display.
My Granny says seeing the kaleidoscope of colours makes her day!

We will pass by rabbits hopping about their homes of grassy mounds.
Every now and then pricking up their ears; listening to every sound.

We will pass by geese gathered in a gaggle.
Big bottomed geese walking with a waggle.

We will pass by swans gliding with their necks held high.
Several young cygnets tucked in and swimming by their mums side.

We will pass all these wonders of nature as we make our way to the ducks.
Listening for every quack and cluck.

We reach our goal with a bag of bread in-hand.
Throwing the bread to the ducks who say thank you with a “quack” and a “cluck.”
Before you know it, the swans are there too.  Then the seagulls and pigeons “shoosh, go away you!”

Ducks are the best of the lot you see.  They make me laugh; I think they are funny.
No particular reason but my granny says, “It is because I am only three.”

We’re going on a duck hunt; just granny and me!
We’re going on a duck hunt, to feed the ducks their tea.
Ah, the best days are spent with my three-year-old grandson.  It's the little things we cherish.
Francie Lynch Aug 24
We can't repeat
Your inner sleep
Of solitude and peace.
But by your feet,
While you sleep,
Angels guard you always.

So, Sleep, Ciaran. Sleep.
Let no one claim your dreams;
Listen to your childhood rhymes;
Worry not of place or time,
For all is still
As it seems.

Oh! Sleep, Angel. Sleep.
Shield your heart
As a secret power
In your waking hours.
Spread your winged smile
With candescence,
To brighten, and alit,
Where Angels sleep.
Written for the occasion of the birth of my fifth grandchild, Ciaran James Lynch Grey, 10lbs. I can't imagine...
Ken Pepiton Jun 29
2020 - day 181

Monday, June 29, 2020
9:39 AM

one new day with no agenda, plenty of water and fresh air,

I walk a mile according to GPS, encouraging me
one daring deed done,

what's next? Write readable words, breathe life into readers,
read them,
without you, there are no living words, dear reader, rare
as you can imagine you are,
unique, an itty bitty unique being, on the grand scale.

Living words live in living readers... hmmm, never imagined
that,
did we become farmers first or story tellers?
it's in the meme's
more than the genes, the giants men imagined in the past
memetics passed in spiced wine mulled with stones
from the edge of fire
where we entertain such strangers as come upon us
unawares

⌱⌱

the price of my attention is what I choose to pay.
is it mine?
my attention, yes,
it
is my own to pay with.
What am I buying?
Whence comes this
currency
most valued in my time?
2020 vision plainly placed to catch
those of us,
our kind, dear readers in times of performance art
acting right... as deemed
by the academy
of performing artificers...

Daedelus, make me an imaginary universe in which I may
be mayor.
May shall be
my word, but here, in mine and mr. hicks peaceful kingdom,
may is yours to use as you will,
dear reader role deafault mode,
may being the impetus in the petition we agree to re
petere
to pass those impearled palisades of instuted gnowns
holy-way-outer-otherwise
saints and disconnected, click
st. peter -- all those pearly gate jokes, those pearls financed
nuance novus ordum did dump dump dump

-- look what the pigs ate.
-- naquered NAND gates in series, shitcity wecan go any where, from here

we could build a Yeti world from yak turds, according to
grandaughter number two's review
of Smallfoot, the -- what is this? new truth to reveal the old truth
which is this truth re

presented as drama of original intention, aimed at children,
my grandchildren,
memes reinforcing heresy as a silly gift intended for kidding... poking
stuck in the mud old dudes into the now,
your now, my future...

nice

haecceity, I think is the term that yoosto mean uni-kitty,

quit. really, as real as you may imagine --- There is a character,

known well to my granddaughter noel,
Unikitty -- quit, you are kidding
(playing by saying an unbelievable thing, testing an olden
rule,

is this that, ex-act, post-done? only kidding, we yoosto say.}

to ti esti, as Aristotle is said to have said, in Wikipedia,

{beta galactic encyclopedia, eh, 2020 tech is enough,
we can finish art ify ing the substance of hope,
set a watchman,
build on that rock,   -- kidding, I see the key peter issue lock
spring open

in my future, may hap or no, who knows?
Eh?
He knows what grows, who knows what seed he sows.}

Were we to agree we listen to voices singing the same tune,
often in time with more mind in default
wandering mode, fretless, fectless functional bliss,

in some songs we get carried a way, a meme away a meme away
we
leavened a world with new hope ***, and boom,
babies, all over the world,

and war claims the reason... the worth to be set on historic scale,
of winning the power of the
cultural corporate mind's will to POWER, bogus sci-******* vision,

woe is us, the truth has been eradicated,

we stand, one nation, under God... since the summer of 1954.

But words and pictures, now, for history, we have witnesses
who, technically, cannot lie.

we have moving pictures in technicolor with grand artworks of music
tuning us in to to

to ti esti, the what it is question's answer. What it is?
Word, old dude, Blue Mountain Rastaman, to ti esti, be

******* way t'say what it is. Tiswhatis.

Watchadoinswatchadoin t'me. I'm fine. Made up m'mind t' be agreeable.
Jes' don' lie, fit me to d' T. {wink} AI mind if you mind, but not much.
__ if you pay the attention, you got what you get when the seed dies. Life works like that.
Paige White Jun 25
I received a few little letters
Scattered by my shining sun
Digitally mastered, he has overcome
Somewhat (insert a pause)
(I struggle for the word
For mixing up letters - you know the one)
DYSLEXIA!
He enquired about his grand sire
Wanting to know everything
Every little thing
For he perished when he was very young
He then recounted to me
His one remaining memory
Of finding a tiny little turtle
With great glee and awe
On a walk between our two houses
And their interchange there and back
Now I can but wonder
Would he have any idea
that one small adventure
Would be all that remained
In a boy’s mind, now a man
With two boys of his own
Of their short time together in life?
When he swung his walking stick
And batted that tiny turtle into the pond
Would he have reached over
And picked it up instead?
Or let the boy who was so excited
To find a tiny turtle on a walk
With his beloved Papaw
That memory has the same impact
As your walking stick on a tiny turtle
I suppose.
I do indeed wonder as I sit to compose
Words for my grand babes to find
And come to know me by
And I let that Sun’s memory guide me
On our little walks now....
We might find a little tiny turtle.
True story. I would appreciate honest feedback. I’m leaving a revised version in my journal for my children and grandchildren when I am gone.
Ken Pepiton May 30
Five brighter than average grand children
for the weekend.
I should not brag,

but they seem brighter and less selfish than most
other people's
grandchildren. It is not genetic,
it's something in the wind.
Saturday begins at dawn.
Ranged four to eleven, waking youngest to eldest,
there begins a session of
Grandpa did you know?
Which I find great fun.

The narwhal's horn is its tooth, says Gabe, middle child.
I did not know that.
Grandma says she did.
All the children laugh.
I am a blessed man.

A verse to reverse your attention, attendere, wait and see,
bring up a child
in the way he should go,
be he wombed one or un,
and when he is old,
he'll not depart from it.
Please, note, the lack of total dis
order-- revisted 2020 day172
Julia B Shaw May 16
Scrapbooking

My favorite hobby has always been scrapbooking
It's such a creative activity to do
For pictures and poems, I'm always looking
Forever scanning magazines through and through

I look for pictures of people and places
Some happy, some excited, some tired, some sad
I try to find real emotional traces
And whatever I like, to my scrapbooks I add

Over the years many books I have made
Scrapbooks of poetry old and new
Old web sites and online pictures I raid
Some of my scrapbooks are happy, some blue

Certainly, on this hobby you can say I'm hooked
There's nothing like it to keep me involved
No one would believe how hard I have looked
For rhymes and riddles that will never be resolved

I started this past time at our church
Each Wednesday all the ladies would look
Each one in her chair quietly perched
Consumed with finding the perfect hook

Everyone knows that you  must create ideas
Inspiring and intriguing to reel in a person
Someone who will cast off all their fears
And stop to read your poem for a life lesson

I love scrapbooking, it's so rewarding
It brings childhood memories back to me
School days when with friends consorting
Times that were so happy and carefree

Often I reread through my many books
Books I've created  by myself
Sometimes I find things that I've overlooked
Words that reveal how I once felt

Poems about family and friends so dear
Poems about God's creatures so lovely
Poems about Nature, Seasons, and Fears
Poems about things you can't buy with money

I'm planning on leaving my scrapbooks all
To my kids and grandkids after I'm done
When this life with its troubles are just a sad pall
And all they have left is the legacy I've begun

I never had many pictures or prose
Left me by parents or other relations
That's why I suppose I strive to compose
Scrapbooks to leave to younger generations

I want them to always remember me as
The Grandma that loved them so
I hope they realize that I had pizzazz
Even though I can't leave them much dough

The things that are important in life
Aren't always the things that are seen
When you live through all the sorrow and strife
You'll understand just what I mean

A love of poetry is what I will leave
For my children and grandchildren too
For what is a life and to what will you cleave
If great poetry is missing from you

By Julia Shaw
May 2020
Written for my grandchildren
Jackie Mead Jun 2019
Daisies a flash of white in a field of green
One of the most beautiful sights you ever will see
The daisy spreads itself far and wide
Fastly covering the countryside
Butterflies and Bees hover by
You even attract the common fly
Strength in numbers, you grow and give;
Your nectar for other insects to live
The Daisies wanting nothing in return
They just ask you show some discern
As your child runs through the fields; making daisy chains
Ensure when they leave, some daisies remain
Had a little walk with my grandson Roman today and the park was full of daisies, buttercups and the canal had really small brightly coloured fish and dragonflies, which were bright blue. It was really energising to see, I wish I could post a picture for you.
Masha Yurkevich Apr 2019

God has no

grandchildren



Only children

Therefore, if you are born in a Christian family, it means absolutely nothing except that you are exposed to God's word. You need for find and accept God for yourself.
Francie Lynch Jul 2018
I like what I see
In my kids;
Others may say, They're like her's or his;
That's okay, but they don't see
The subtleties revealed to me.

They were listening when I spoke,
And now they hear other folks;
They were watching when I'd act
In sync with our social contracts.
Please and Thanks was our mantra,
Repeated now as personal dogma.

I didn't see they were watching,
Watch they did, and they were copying.
Believe me, I'm not being boastful,
If that's the case, I too am blameful
For anything that causes pain,
Though unintended, it's the same.

I'm so pleased with my kids,
And they aren't just like
Her's or his;
They're mine.
And I like what I see in their kids.

Do you like what you see
In mine?
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