Hello Poetry is a poetry community that raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.

If you're into poetry and meeting other poets, join us to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
It's been a while since I've seen
my Grandmother's hands.
Tough and rough,
some rest they demand.
Those talented, caring hands of hers.
Pretending to be so much, even a nurse.
Her hands have been so long on this Earth.
And they've done much more than their whiles worth.
Abby M Dec 8
My grandmother once told me
A fantastic story
Of moonlight that was lost
From beneath the moon's pale frost
She said it floated off at night
And turned into the small pale lights
That I now see in the sky
Brighter than the moon's dim eye

Oh stars in yonder sky
Born of moonlight, learned to fly
You left La Lune behind
Gently weeping faded light
Ilion gray Nov 29
When we fall,
We are not raindrops,
We are the dust of stars,
The puddles we make destroy
The concrete,
And, *** does not hear the sound
Of our bones crashing-

Though I knew
you would never be home again,
I knocked on your door for hours/

***,

Was there,
sitting
In the stair well  

But


you were gone.
          
          Three days ago,
I watched
men in black Suits,
lower the expired shell you wore,

down into The parts of earth that never age,

   Still/

I've been calling for days,

      The phone rings-
and rings...

no angel,
has answered.

I imagine
that you are dancing,
Along some coastline eons away,
In a galaxy where
words like,

age-
Weakness-
pain-
And Cancer
Were never spoken-
Where the killers aren't pills,
Because prescriptions are  scarcely  written/
And the Hours  Of delirium,
Can not Wash away clusters of days.

The tragedy of forgetting,
patiently stalks
Memory in the quiet caves;
Where the secret pieces
of us
Are hidden.

  But,

I know what I remember,

Watching your eyes,
empty Their light across the cold ceiling,
                            
reaching,
into The bone white light
Above your hospital bed,
As if your sight,
had legs and feet,
and
you could escape into it,

But,
         that's not what dying is like/

                          I knew you would leave me here/

With all the demons,
their devil fathers,
Their heavy,
*****, Sweating
calloused hands...

Dragging me
out of sight,
Through the raggedy barn doors
Of  aged alder wood
warped
From rain and wind,
And Stained
As perspiring palms
Drip
innocence that is
Black,
And Creeping,
Thick as molasses,
Leaving your body
Escaping, through tiny
clenched openings.

Rolling over the ridges
Then dripping,
from trembling cliffs of fingertips;
Shaken loose at the hinges,
                    *****,

                                Outside of the light;
                     
Down Into their whiskey dreams/
      
           And,

                      I knew you wouldn't say goodbye.

How,  when the worst wind came Roaring,
Angry
and cold-
How, You would just grow old...
                                                          ­                         And die.
i remember the fifth day of the sixth month,
when i kissed your cold body,
it lay in that ebony black coffin,
and i kept quiet, despite knowing you loathed the color black.

back to the day i saw you helpless for the first time,
you fell while walking, you drooled, and you forgot faces.
but you always said, "the day i forget you, you know...it is time"
i brushed the hair out of your face, and held back a tear.

when they said "few weeks more", i cupped your hands in mine.
i looked at them, they were frail and cold and soft,
twisted from the adversities you've faced.
this time, you tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

2 weeks later when i sat beside you, praying,
you asked who i was and why i was watching you sleep.
i ran out of the room, and screamed into a pillow.
it was time.

it was time; to let go of my muse
                                     of my home
                                      of my solace
it was time for the hardest part - goodbye.

today, as i stand near your grave, i smile
i place daisies and share a meal with your ethos.
you were an enigma of a women,
hallelujah, i say.
for my beloved grandmother, who i miss a lot.
Heather Ann Oct 30
a river flows in both of us
with the same thrum of an erratic heartbeat,
steady hands that secretly shake
and heavy eyelids that feel like weights.
we grew up on the shelf--
decorum for the dollhouse
of broken dreams.
born and raised
we rise and fall
like balloons,
but we don't always get to reach the stars.
we kneel,
not in submission,
or for prayer,
but to remember where we come from
and where we'll go back to.
we ***** and twist like dead trees
leaning from the weight.
diamonds, hiding,
in wait.
we are perennials--
we blossom and die;
forgetting we come alive again.
but when the sun has set and we lose our breath
we shiver amongst the silence,
only landmarks not found yet
Grey Oct 22
It’s been seven years and I still don’t think I’ve processed it
For most of my young life I had no mother
For most of my young life I had no father
There was only her, mother of my mother
A sharp woman with hands like sharpened scissors
Counsel and Care, the altar I was made to pray at
Her touch was soft unless it was hard, and hard unless it was soft
Like salt tossed over her shoulder,
Like warm potatoes in the sun
Like a bowl of cheerios before the bus comes
We prayed the rosary every morning
And I told her about my gods and myths
I told her about the rocks and crystals
And I cried about numbers
We prayed the rosary every morning, and I couldn’t bring myself to mind
We went to church on Sundays, and I sang as loud as I wanted
We picked out melons at the grocery store and ate them by the pool

It’s been seven years, and I miss her
And I will miss her
I’ll cry when I hear Que Sera Sera
I’ll eat saltines and still think to myself they aren’t that good
I’ll keep my rosary and sometimes I will pray
I will miss her
And I can only hope to be like her someday
And I hope that she is proud
Lucius Furius Sep 28
I
"She's lovely . . . so natural."
A corpse pumped full of formaldehyde.
My grandmother? That prodigious maker of
pies, cakes, stuffing, and cranberry ice?
That lover of Burger King restaurants,
amusement parks, presidential elections, and long summer rides?
Her flushed face is like stone.
This body is a mockery of her being.
(Her fearless motion is done.)
  
   II
She gave us life.
Crass, fond, willful. She gave us life
like turkey and stuffing.
She is the answer to our dark questionings.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem: humanist-art.org/audio/SoF_012_grandma.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
Sehar Bajwa Sep 17
ancient beauty : a
visage untouched by pain and
yet ravaged by time.
haiku.
golden days.
Next page