Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Timber Jan 30
Brittle and crackling
bones that snap and pop
your older now
popping
snapping
breaking
someday you go
when time is okay
those bones dust away
slipping into the unknown
Lorrin Jan 30
Her wand'ring mind doesn't know us,
but we're written on her heart.
Her spoken words have faltered,
they've stopped and just won't start.
Her shaking hands no longer hold
the ones she once held dear.
Her eyes see blind
and her ears no longer hear.
The memories she had of me
are slipping further each day.
Her glassy eyes are showing
she's here, but gone away.
For the grandma I never got to know, because Alzheimer's took her mind away long before her body.
Olivia Jan 7
I thank God for another year of life, for keeping you here longer each day.

I remember as a child I would pray my heart out to keep you safe forever, “God don’t take her away from me,” I’d say.

You told me at age 50 you prayed the same “God keep me alive till she’s grown,” you’d say.

28 years later and he hasn’t let us down.

It hasn’t been the easiest of years but God please forgive me of my sins.

Not today she’d say, not today.
kelsie Jan 2
I wish I knew how you spend your days,
singing and dancing in glorious praise.
Do angels soar through golden gates?
Do heaven’s sunsets shine like the lake’s?
Do you walk hand in hand with your life-long love?
Do you feel the warmth of your mother’s hug?
As time goes on I miss you still, I believe I always will.
So I’ll wait for my time, who knows when,
maybe you can tell me then.
Strawberry Jan 3
The new year is never happy for me
It marks a new year without you
Another month without a gathering
Another week without a lunch outing
And another day without a phone call

I talk to you still
Less often than when you first left
But every new year I'm sure to catch you up
The kids have gotten so big
My parents have finally matured

I've finally grown up
Can make responsible decisions
Not living purely on my emotions
All of this growth stems from you

It hurts my heart knowing you'll never see any of it
You exist one minute and are nothing the next
laura Dec 2018
I am from ***** Farmer candies
From old roller skates,
and falling apart jump ropes
From making up games,
rather than them being handed over.

I am from having to go to the neighbors house for the TV,
And from not getting one until 7th grade.
From the Milton Berle talk show,
that aired in the 50's.
From American Drama series,
such as Fireside Theatre starring Gene Raymond.
And from brunette Elizabeth Taylor,
and The Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.

I am from “Waste not, want not,”
and “A penny saved is a penny earned.”
I am from Laura Lee Hope and the Bobbsey Twins.
From longing to be a nurse and becoming one.

In my heart, and 27 years in Milwaukee, Wisconsin,
those moments are kept,
Those memories may not seem very valuable,
but to me they are everything.
This is what came out of a long interview with my grandma
Penguin Poems Dec 2018
My grandmother gifted me a jar of buttons when I was little.
There were so many inside the jar that it was impossible she collected them by accident; impossible that she had collected them for the purpose of sewing old clothing back together.
Her button jar serves as a reminder to me, a reminder of how perfect she was that she never needed them to mend old shirts she had torn,
because she was too perfect to have torn any in the first place.
I wonder if she gave them to me on purpose, or on accident.
If she had given them to me as a keepsake of her, to show all she had collected,
Or as a precaution, because she knew I was going to need to mend so much of my future.
A rough draft.
halfmoonprincess Dec 2018
I have retired,
long ago, from my duties
my wonderful job
That has made me millions.

You best think twice
before your arrogance rolls
from the tip of your tongue.
Know, when you undermine me
Next to others among,
That I have made millions.

I’ve fed mouths
Raised beautiful souls,
Scrubbed till my skin cracked,
Squatted till my bones ached,
Cooked art till my heart was content but,
I have no right to complain
I never look back on my life with shame,
because I have made millions.

I arose at the glint of the sunrise
Filled my ears with the bellowing
Of vendors and their creaking carts
Sacrificed my sleep
To sustain my job
because my efforts are worth millions.  

I was dedicated,
Worked hard for my family,
my tendrils of hair askew
I continued my work
Masked my emotions,
Even when I was feeling blue
all because I was too busy making millions.

I kept my “office” ***** and span
Invented my own tips and tricks
since I was passionate
about making millions.

I wonder if you think I am worthless but
I simply sit back and smile because
I tell myself
I was a queen in my line of work
I didn’t just make beds,
I made wonderful souls
It never required money
I never had to get paid  

Now,
The thin wrinkles on my hand
Remind me that
I am more than satisfied,


Because I know
I’ve made millions.
Poem I wrote for my English final this year... I wrote this on my grandmother.
V Dec 2018
Grandmother had told me tales of the past,
Fairytales that we’ve all heard of,
The maidens in the scullery maid attire,
transforming to the princesses with the
embroidered and jeweled gowns; rivulets of silks and satins,
blue as the sea, greener than the highlands, more purple
then the dusky skylines, a true stamp
of royalty, poise, eloquence, and beauty.
And ensembles topped off with gold
encrusted and amethyst crowns.
Sure, the fairytales were what I lingered
onto during the years of my inexplicitly
innocent childhood, that I wished I still had.

I missed it, the tales, the anecdotes
that shaped my perception on love, hope, and faith,
far off from what I viewed in the looking mirror today.

I missed my grandmother’s hands, brittle and worn,
but kind and warm; I still thought about them
as I cleaned out the attic in which I’d forgotten existed.

And I grew up, my memories of it faded,
now covered in cobwebs and bristling wind
that sent a chill up my spine, but I found
much more than what my memory had allowed me to collect.

Amulets from what I assumed to be my grandmother’s youth
were stowed and tucked away in the alcove of a velvet shelf,
hidden by the splintered of decaying wood.

Next to the swell of the dresser, the door of the
furnishing remained ajar, revealing manila
colored increments of letters, some harbored
by the envelopes, some pierced out in the open.
The edges had crippled away,
flecks falling to the sandalwood bottom.

They were timeless, old, maybe not important,
to the wandering eyes of a stranger.
But to me - they held a mystery
that was waiting to be unraveled.

A story of my grandmother’s life she never shared with me,
just as private as she was open, perhaps I’d find in those envelopes
the same mindset I also had when I was young.
Perhaps she believed and dreamt of fairytales I had once done,
paraded around in the jewels and bangles hidden way,
basked in the ambiance of a sweet love
that was doomed to end in the decay of both parties.

Little figurines of silver and gold were placed under one
of the drawers parked away in the furnishing,
toys form her childhood, weighted by standard and price.

Her words I had adored as a child,
ate them up like sickly syrup and supported
them as if they were undiscovered treasure, but
now I finally got to “see” my grandmother’s
treasures deposited in her attic, the very place she
had hidden the most interesting stories that she
left for me to discover after she left.
kiran goswami Dec 2018
" Short stories to make you fall asleep. " Typed the insomniac.
After 15 minutes ...
" Where are grandma's fairytales? "
The kid inside her wondered.
Next page