Dara 2d
You have seen many moons,
and still the chariot sleeps,
and though many suns,
it’s sleep is ever sweet.

For it rises for the fading,
the weak and moribund of those,
yet being young at heart,
your soul is not yet old.

And even when it wakes,
to gather all its prey,
It passes swiftly by,
for it knows not your name.

(written quite a while ago)
Come and whisper soft hello mother dear as you used to long ago mothers here it will  sooth my troubled breast it will allow me interest for all I love you best mother dear oh how long it seems tonight mother dear since I saw your face so bright hover near but I know I love you more while the years are passing more than I have ever before mother dear how are fancy or and or mother dear all the happy days of your with you near how are you murmured soft and low as you kissed my cheek a glow precious child I love you so mother dear so my grateful heart Shelby mother dear with a love Though incomplete ever hear and though far away tonight yet or spirits in their flight still my mingle with the light mother dear
Belle Feb 24
my grandmother is dead and it is my fault
turns out the eating disorder doesn't just kill only you.
Mike Hentges Feb 23
As my brother and I drove away from my grandmother’s funeral he asked me if maybe grandpa called her “Anne” instead of “grandma” was because he didn’t remember who we were.

I think I’ve cried more about Hannah than I did at my grandma’s funeral. Which is kinda fucked up cause Hannah isn’t dead she just doesn’t want to date me anymore.

So I feel like kind of an asshole.
I’m kind of an asshole.

Hannah’s not her real name.

I have this blanket. On my bed. My grandma crocheted it for me – to give to me on my wedding day.

I’m not married.  
You could probably guess that.

And my grandma is dead now.
You could probably guess that too.

The blanket sleeps on my bed.
My bed sleeps in my memories of
where Hannah used to lay.
Soft slumber and figures puzzling together in the warm darkness – thick with breath
The blanket following the soft curves of her body and now I’m thinking of my naked ex and dead grandma in the same sentence and we should change the subject.

My grandparents slept in separate beds and I always thought that was weird.
Grandma was like peanut butter on homemade bread
The fancy peanut butter. Not that Jiffy crap.

It was the bread that made the difference.
give a loaf of it to each family for Christmas
My cousin got the recipe but she doesn’t make it right.

We made ramen once. Hannah and I, not me and my grandma. We didn’t use a recipe and the eggs made her sick.

I had a cold when I hugged my grandma and I fear it made her sick.

She died two days later.

Grandma once said you’re never too old to hug your grandparents.
Mike Hentges Feb 23
my brother does this thing where he siphons the stories from someone. Usually old people because they have the best stories

I drive through the old homestead – the fog of my emotions

Have of my memories

My father does this thing where he holds his little hands at his waist, twisting them inside one another

We are three generations eating dominoes pizza

Defined by death and divorce – not there and not existing yet
My grandfather is 90. He is stories made flesh and my brother pulls at them like a rope from a,


Because he has discovered the census data for Ham Lake from 1940

My grandfather tells stories of the missing generation

His father – can’t work because he’s a welfare brat

His mother died young

Stepmother an angel – gave him socks when his father was crying because they cut him off

My father – tells underbreath mumbles of lost arguments and lost respect – he gives me socks for Christmas

Father drank a lot. You get to pick who I’m talking about. Maybe alcoholism skips a generation. If so I fear for my children.

Grandpa joined the navy. His father got a job – everyday worked it through sickness and in health – a marriage of money and mind because the paycheck meant freedom and freedom meant everything

He finds his dad at work – navy uniform coated in the expectations of his brothers.

“So you went and did it.”

The story kind of trails off there, the way old people stories do. Kind of like young person poems

I helped my dad set up the TV we got him for Christmas

Because he never used the guitar center gift card from last year.
Mike Hentges Jan 30
I pull up to the house and don't recognize any of the vehicles. My mom is driving her new car she got after the accident she didn't tell me about because we don't speak as much as we used to.

It's the middle of the day and yet it's as if a darkness has worked its way between the walls of the home. There is one light. A motion light. Crunching steps activate it above the door. I am illuminated. The doghouse next to me is my reflection. Dark. Empty. Folding in on itself like a sheet. I enter and the house exhales a shallow, broken breath. Like a house of cards falling down. Like something is missing.

Obviously that something would be my dead grandparents.

My mother's voice greets me and I'm startled. The tone sounds awful cheery for someone who, as of 15 hours ago, doesn't have parents anymore. Exhale.

The house is the same as I remember. I was here last week for fucks sake. Here to watch my grandma. She never liked to be home alone after she got back from the hospital.
After part of her got back from the hospital.
After the hospital.
She was never the same after that. Only the same conversation with a skipping record.
Eat carrots to avoid bloody noses. (Yes grandma.)
You should move to Hollywood. (I'm not that good of an actor grandma.)
Your other grandma hates me. (She doesn't hate you grandma.)

We don't talk as much as we used to.
We didn't talk as much as we used to.
It's death in two parts.

We're in grandma's room now. Sheets are being folded. There's a coffee ring in a half drunk cup of coffee. She'll never finish it now.

An innocent question (Did you find her in the bed?) Opens a wound with turns into a story which bleeds into a card game where we used to have Thanksgiving dinner because my mothers eyes are cracking floodgates and she needs time to repair them before she drives home.
She lives alone.
And we don't talk as much as we used to.
The sound of cards slapping a table.
My mother says that talking about what happened has helped her and her voice sounds like someone who as of 18 hours ago, doesn't have parents anymore.

I leave the house and it's.
Still. Dark. Black.
Every light is off. Even the dog is dead.

I leave the house and it's
empty inside. This time I don't mean metaphorically, I mean physically actually devoid of people, and I don't think this feat has happened in 35 years.

There's one light.
Motion light.
It turns on when I leave,
and then it never turns on again.
Ashley Lingy Jan 10
I see her hands when I close my eyes
long fingers and perfect, natural nails,
delicate veins.

I feel her feather-light grip on my back, as she holds me.
And she says
"My perfect girl"

She looks at me with her sky blues.
She smiles.
Goodbye, I love you.
Samantha Dec 2017
Is the one who
  Sacrificed her comfort
   For 9 months for me.
    She taught me
     To play, cook,
      And be a good person.

Is the brother
  I've had since age four
   Often annoying, but
    Still so sweet
     The best brother
      I could ask for.

Is the grandmother
  Who has been making
   Some of the best food
    In the family
     She's kind and sweet
      And I love her to bits.

Grandma and Grandpa
Are the grandparents
  I couldn't thank enough
   For all they've done.
    Together, we
    Our time
  I wish it
Wouldn't end.

Is the father who...


Gave me half his DNA?
I guess?


Poem's over, bye!
We are family!
Louise Johnson Nov 2017
I was sitting on the edge of your hospital bed,
thinking about my mother, your daughter,
and whether the smile she was masking the pain with would falter;
when the jagged rhythm of your breath had altered

I jumped to my feet, and let my mother take my place
as we listened to gasps of breath change the pace.
The nurse said it was normal that you couldn't feel any pain
but it was the sound of your death that I was scared we'd retain

I stood in the corner watching my uncle and mother create a wall with their figures,
as if them looking away would put a hand on the trigger

After 10 minutes your breathing got quiet, so quiet we thought you were gone
Then with the whoosh of your lungs, louder than before, it was like you were saying "so long!"
The silence replaced it, I still stood in the corner and noticed that no one had moved,

As if a moment so final needed it's minute to say goodbye to the body it used.
This is a poem describing the last few minutes of my Grandmother's life. We called her 'Babs' or 'Nanny Babs'  because she was the baby of her family so it has always been her nickname. I wasn't close to her. I loved her but we never got a chance to really know each other until the end of her life so I struggled to find an honest way to write about this moment. It may seem quite distant and unemotional but I respected her greatly and wanted to portray the moment as accurately as I could.

Thank you for taking the time to read my poem for the loved Babs
Angela Rose Nov 2017
Most days she does not remember what day of the week it is or what time it is
But she always remembers how much I love her
Sometimes she calls me by the wrong name and can’t get her words right
But she always remembers to tell me how beautiful I look today
Most days she cannot form a full thought or complete a full action
But she always remembers she wants her tea with honey and lavender is her favorite scent
A lot of days she asks me the same question 17 times and gets the same answer each time
But she always remembers to tell me how much she loves me
You see Alzheimer’s is tricky and it toys with her head
But she always remains a beautiful soul with a heart full of gladness and an undying love for orchids
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