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Y Rada Jun 2020
"Ninety-three years seem long
But life is short -
How youth seems strong
But life is short -
How you love and give,
Life is still short -
How "is" a few minutes ago
Became a "was"
Oh, life is so short."
I wrote this minutes before my grandfather died. It's sad that he went in this pandemic time. It's heart wrenching that we live on the same island yet separated by different region, province, municipality. So near yet so far. And we couldn't get into him and see him being burried.
Rochelle Foles May 2019
her grandmother        stood at the window in the kitchen

             the corners of her mouth turned up into
                  an unconscious slight smile
                  at the sight
                             of a spinning yellow blur  
                              under the big oak
                              in the middle of the pasture
                              surrounded by green grasses
                                                       wonderous hues of wildflowers

she quietly called out to grandad
                             come see this

                the lanky cowboy sauntered in
                             from the breezeway
                             with his umpteenth cup of coffee
                              peered at the blur of yellow
                              opened the side door
                              stepped out on the deck beside the metal glider and
                                   called out in his smooth baritone voice

                                      sheeeeeelllllliiii  lllllloooooooooo...

she might have
                             been 4
                                   or perhaps five

              precious in the way
                  innocent girls that age are

               dressed in smocked yellow lawn
                                                white lace
                                                patent leather

                                                  up to her shins in spring grasses
      slowing her spin
      she turned toward her name

       her face radiant she took a wobbly step or two
      then broke into an off kilter run
                                                 arms stretched out before her

      he took a few long strides
bent his tall body low
offering a bent knee
                 wide open arms

she flew into them with all her might
                   knowing she would be caught
                   rough housed with
                   and given a wickereye


                   from the window her grandmother took it all in
                                said to herself
                                         hold this dear
                                         hold this snapshot of the soul

                                         for.                           ever.
my granddad and i had a love-love-andmore-love based relationship.  he’s my greatest hero and the man John Wayne wished he was in real life.  we worshiped each other and i will forever and all ways n always hold him close in my heart.  what a lucky girl i’ve been!
Bohemian Feb 2019
Joy alike to mine residest in the wet smile of that granddad with
whose son every stranger wishest to play with and giggle with
Joy alike to mine residest in the eyes of that goon whom approached thee
with a wish of disappearing his misery
Joy alike to mine residest in those
those sculptures who were freed after the perennial to get broken
Joy alike to mine residest in those drizzles departest who from the cloud,their master for good
A joy,brought to me by thee,unrelatable and unreasonable,
when showest understanding and trust,
there assures though no tyrst,
something that blooms out of broken pieces,
drenched in love
ever and ever
Above all constancies,there's one common and constant to all that which gives happiness,
name it.
Steve Page Oct 2017
I sat on my hard, green footstool, still, in my grandma's front room, musing over the warm madeira crumbs on my blue-veined white plate.

I climbed up onto my granddad's chair, as familiar as the aroma of his St. Bruno flakes, infused into the dark promise of his worn, warm desk, impatient for his return.

I'm waiting still.
My paternal granddad and grandma died when I was a teenager.  My childhood memories are peppered by visits to their home in Tonbridge and in Catford.  My son wore his wedding ring at his wedding last week.  Good to have continuity.
A Henslo Sep 2017
Little girls can be sad
Or is her blue gaze but fixed into the bubbling fountain
caught in a tale that adults cannot grasp?
Pops taps her shoulder
We must go, he mutters
Granny is waiting

Little girls can be sad
an ugly word
a wrong dress
an angry teacher
a friend gone astray
lack of purpose for a long walk downtown

Little girls can be sad
Holding grandpa's hand she performs
a subdued dance to the music in her head
not touching forbidden stones
and without Pops noticing
a quick splash in the puddle

Little girls can be sad
But not for long this time
First publication Sep 28, 2017,
allie May 2017
counting down
10 [sighing thoughts, aching fingernails]
9 [ugh where do i go now]
8 [falling apart...]
7 [my eyes are slowly blinking now]
6 [at the sight of your frail broken body]
5 [the quiet beeping next to you]
4 [my own heart is picking up]
3 [oh god oh god oh god]
2 [the beeping is rising the beeping is rising]
1 [i'm crying now]
Love you Granddad. You mean the world to me, and you left. I love you so so so much.
Steve Page Nov 2016
I sat on my footstool,
In my grandma's front room,
Staring at the warm madeira crumbs
On my blue white plate.

I climbed onto my granddad's chair
As familiar to my eight years
As the flakes of his St. Bruno.
And I was found there,
Next to the smiling promise
Of his dark desk,
Waiting for his return.
Memories of family.
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