Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
kenz Sep 2021
Banti (ban-tee)
Such a odd name
But the name I called him
Him.
My beloved grandfather
The man who pushed me to do my best but without the pressure
The man who was always there
The man who put family above anything else
The man who was the easiest person to talk to
My grandfather
Gone.
Leaving behind the people who needed him
Leaving behind his family
Leaving behind the pain that he had to push through
Selfish.
Selfish is what I am
He was in pain and sick
He had  a whistle because he couldn't get up
This whistle is all I have left
He made his mark
A great mark
A mark that will forever stay with everyone that knew him
A mark that left his dog depressed for days without eating
A mark that left many crying for days
Gone.
Whistle.
Mark.
Keywords that tell his story in my words.
His story.
My words.
Banti
My grandfather…..
“He loved his family above all else.”  (quote from his obituary)
Inspired by my creative writing teacher.
Jason Drury Sep 2021
“Keep your nose clean”

His intent was momentous.
An ant like phrase,
with mountainous exorcism.

“Keep your nose clean”,
His voice like Zeus,
thunderously subtle.

Echoing and vibrating,
through regret, sin,
and fueled debauchery.

This phrase kept me true,
on-course through,
dark seas.

A map to navigate,
knowing when,
to steer away.

“Keep your nose clean”
I hear him still,
his voice sobering.

“Yes, grandfather.”

“I will”
For my grandfather
He had the soul of a moribund man
Clinging to the same bottle
He wished to drown himself in
Taylor St Onge Jun 2021
I’m in the dream again:                not the one I had while awake in
the catacombs of St. Callixtus in Rome.  Where the darkness was
so impenetrable that it began to echo.  To look like the mixture of colors
that burst when you rub your eyes too hard for too long.  Like the
neuron rupture before death.  To shape and morph and become liquid.
Where the darkness cobbled itself into a physical form.

Not the dream where                    I kept seeing
flits of my mother out of the corner of my eye.  Behind
                                                                ­                               every street corner.
                                                                ­                   Every turn.  Every tunnel.  
      Reflected in the casts of the bodies in Pompeii.
Mirrored in the waves of the Trevi Fountain.

I’m in the dream where          the soil churned from the bottom to the top.  
                               where          the hand outstretched from the grave.  
                               where          my grandfather clawed his way out and returned to my grandmother﹘sopping wet, covered in thick mud, socks torn, skin sallow and jaundiced, spitting out the wire the embalmers put in his mouth, melting makeup, and ravenously hungry.  And it’s been so
                                                                ­                   long since he was hungry.  

“He came back to me, Taylor,” my grandmother tells me. 
“He came back to me.”
                                        I don’t have the heart to tell her that he’s undead.  
                                        I’m physically unable to spit out those words.
And it’s a dream and it’s a dream and it’s a dream,                   but
it just fits so perfectly.  That he would come back to her.  
That death would not be a barrier.  I can’t explain it.                It just is.  
My grandmother is a shell without him.  
The body that’s missing the limb.  
The body that keeps score.
write your grief prompt 10: amorphous prompt
s y kalindara Jun 2021
I confessed that I cried
while reading bright dead things,
and my mother smiled
because I'm the delicate kind,
and said that I loved poetry the way my grandfather did.

Shuttered eyes, slipping into the realisation
that it's funny how spirit skips a generation,
and all at once I'm bleeding blue,
recalling the pictures of you,
coated in tears that wet my lashes
like grass in morning dew.

I dress myself in pearls,
from what I've heard,
they were his favourite,
and walk to the Siren's sea,
in honour of a memory
that's not taken from me.

Because I still see him in my cousin's face and every gentle soul I meet.
I greet him with our mirrored mannerisms and the phrases I repeat.

I treat him with every plateful of pomegranates and sugarcanes.
I feel him every time this desert rains.

I hear him in his many namesakes,
hear his absence ringing in my mother's heartaches.

I'm near him when I pass his Phoenix palm in our garden,
towering tall, touching his ghost in the seventh heaven.

And when it's my time to drop the curtain,
and my poem fades into the mist,
I'll step into the afterlight,
and tell him all about it.


Copyright © 2021 by S. Y. Kalindara. All rights reserved.
To my grandfather, I wish I had known you for more than five years. I hope you're at peace.
I was brooming below the bed once,
and suddenly swayed

a flashback rushed my head

we used to play that game,
do you remember?
until dementia took you away
https://www.instagram.com/wutheringsbronte/
Christina Dec 2020
Albert.

He was a wonderful, gentle soul
Always had everything under control
Born one of many
Back in nineteen twenty

Enemies weren't ever  made
He fought as a Master sergeant, facing the dark crusade
With people he saved

Went home after the war
To his wife, who he adored
Was a father of two
Who was very close to

Mr. Fix- it
Which he never once quit
Had four jobs to progress in life
His wife never once left his side

A Simple man, at best
Never had the chance to take a rest
Loved his hot, cozy comfort food
Never once saw him in a foul mood
Always robust with happiness and soaring energy
But time passed on and began to get elderly

As the years grew closer
And he got older
His health was at risk with his heart
Not wanting to begin to fall apart

He slipped away on Christmas Eve morning
Not giving us any warning
In nineteen ninety-seven
Now he resides in heaven

The only time he comes back alive
Is in my mind, fast asleep
When at times, I can hear his ghost creep
Silently into my room
And then suddenly wake up feeling in a slight gloom
Even though I can't see him I can feel his spirit all around
Wishing how he could’ve lived in our small Tennessee town

Albert left a legacy
Of how people should act and be
But those kinds of ways are all gone
He would've loved his life, living on Saint John
It's been Twenty-three years since he's passed
It's crazy how one's life can be gone in a flash
Ken Pepiton Oct 2020
See if I can say
what we were thinking, regarding
hows and whys,
rules and regulations

the mortal world you imagine I share
with you is exactly as you think it is.

Your mind makes a make-do, each day,
from sleep to sleep,
very much a Wachowski vision,
without the likes of which,
my people perish, the we

of me and thee, dissipates, vapor

sswoosh and gone, like flowers,
here today,
more tomorrow, say the flowers,
to the bees, now we make seeds,
casting all future hopes
into the wind, like a wish or a prayer.

See you when the winter's past,
says the squirrel to the frog.
Story threads at the fringe of my attention span
Next page