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Michael R Burch Apr 2020
All Things Galore
by Michael R. Burch

(for my grandfathers George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Paul Ray Burch, Sr.)

Grandfather,
now in your gray presence
you are

somehow more near

and remind me that,
once, upon a star,
you taught me

wish

that ululate soft phrase,
that hopeful phrase!

and everywhere above, each hopeful star

gleamed down

and seemed to speak of times before
when you clasped my small glad hand
in your wise paw

and taught me heaven, omen, meteor ...

Keywords/Tags: family, grandfather, grandchild, grandson, teacher, mentor, example, guide, guidance, guru
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Sunset
by Michael R. Burch

This poem is dedicated to my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt, who died April 4, 1998.

Between the prophecies of morning
and twilight’s revelations of wonder,
the sky is ripped asunder.

The moon lurks in the clouds,
waiting, as if to plunder
the dusk of its lilac iridescence,

and in the bright-tentacled sunset
we imagine a presence
full of the fury of lost innocence.

What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame,
brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim,
we recognize at once, but cannot name.

Keywords/Tags: sunset, aging, death, grandfather, grandson, grandchild, family, grave, funeral, loss, twilight, night, transcendence, heaven
Kim Essary Nov 2019
One moment she lays watching his innocence glow across his soft little cheeks as he nestles closely beside her and falls quickly asleep.
She has lost so much more than she has gained in this life
As her body has grown weak and sickness overtakes her yet her will to go on still fights within her.
Once it was pills she took to keep her going or so she thought not knowing it was the pills that was killing her
Thoughts of giving up the fight often entered her tired soul as she fought  through her pain often times she wondered where she gained her strength and will to fight.
She held on to hope for the ones that had left her as thoughts of them returning were fading away
That little boy that lay nestled beside her and the man that she loves was the medicine she needed to fight for one more day.
Just as the others had gone now so did he
Now she lays all alone , no more bedtime prayers or supper at the table
No more knowing he’s sneaking behind me with a smile on his face thinking I can’t see him rushing to my bed to sleep.
He has no clue how much he means to me and how that precious little boy has kept his mawmaw alive just knowing she was with him almost every day.
My grandson was my medicine to get through my days. Now I don’t get to see him because his mom moved away.
Jackie Mead Mar 2019
He runs, he jumps
He splishes and he splashes
He falls, he looks up
He smiles and he rolls
He is Granny's brave little soul
He gets to his feet
He rinses and repeats
He runs, he jumps
He splishes and he splashes
My 2 and a half grandson makes me smile
Kim Essary Jul 2018
I sit here this morning and stare as he sleeps.
So precious and perfect in every way, if I could only erase the memories he keeps.
He was born into this world to love and raise ,
to teach him morals and respect and give God his praise
He's seen more in his life than a little boy should .
I would take it all away only if I could.
He looks up to you now in every way.
At least he has up until he asked me today.
A question I didn't want to hear or respond
Although I'm sure I know the answer and it's all wrong ..
You're the one special man he was so proud to say .
Maw maw , Corey is going to be my step dad one day.
I can only hope that you love him  enough that you won't let him down.
This little boy, my grandson, deserves a happy home and a good father figure around.
The love of a grandmother is not made of blood nor water it's pure love
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.
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
Have you found a Saviour;
One to emulate,
Then denegrate,
Whip and crown and tree?
Then turn, and say,
It wasn't me.

Would I have seen the god-like qualities,
Listen to the sermons,
Eat the fish and bread,
Drink the watery wine?
Would he raise me from the dead?
Could my feet fit the prints
On the sands of Galilee.
Would he admonish me
For having two coats,
Finishing my smoke
With one straw in my coke?

I have found my Saviour.
His name is Xavier.
ShFR Sep 2016
Lone star walking roads,
crowbar in hand
cowgirl I'll die for,
I died and I died again,

fluent in 6 country's,
passports; pardons
no cargo,
but luggage is a stainless steel flask,

half full,
half way,
to the moon
if you asked me?

Cadillacs in space,
expensive taste
that's masked with
— the cheap stuff,

inspired souls,
they walk,
and this forsaken path,
they'll never make hell a ***** deed or two from heaven,

counterparts
we're equals,
we're lost
they're my colleagues,

a scandal from remembrance,
remember we followed rules?
no response
****!

there's a shift
in the rubix cube, 
a memo from the warden,
no weapons in the visit room,

coordinating sin,
a taste of gin
before the see you soons,
world was much warm before stone replaced the sand dunes,

scoff at the elixir,
cordially
she casts stones,
******* of a demon crossing ponds is all the child knows,

tales of the fishermen,
who heard it through the corridors,
all and all departed,
with a fear of the other gods,

strictly prohibited,
a swig of the forbidden fruit,
who are you to judge me,
When Your Son Is Not Of Holy Proof!

wedded to a mortal said your honor,
absent i do's,
abstinence is bliss
and your crime ascends civilian law,

guilty -- you're filthy,
your son will never know your soul,
I know my role and play it well,
Your god never admits he's wrong,

so why would I?
— a baby cried,
I'm present for my son's birth,
and leave before an open eye the practice of a perfect curse.
© 2016 by S Fraz All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of S Fraz
Francie Lynch Aug 2016
If you'd been here
When I was young,
You'd not forget
What we'd have done.

We'd climb roofs,
Jump in the river,
****** neighbour's pears,
Then skedaddle,
Laughing with sweat-matted hair,
Wiping off those grown-up cares.

We'd bumper-jump in four inch snow,
And never let our parents know.
Oh, such fun we two would do,
If I could stay as young as you.

We'd skate and bike,
Play street ball,
Act up in school,
Stand in the hall;
We'd hike with jars
Along country brooks,
Read and trade
Our comic books.
Lie in the sand,
Burn in the sun,
Forgetting it was time for home.
We'd never tire of our treats,
And often we'd forget to eat
Because we're having all our fun:
If you'd been here when I was young.

We'd play Tag and Red Rover,
Flags and Chase,
Then have sleep-overs.
We'd swap tomorrow
For daily pearls,
Then swap each other
For pretty girls.

We'd be up to our shenanigans,
Sleep the sleep,
Then start again.
This is the way
We'd have our fun,
If you'd been here
When I was young.

But now you're here,
And I'm much older,
The things we'd do
You'll do with others;
But when you need a  boost to climb,
This old man has a shoulder.
Yes,
I'll sure have lots of fun,
For you're here now.
That keeps me young.
For my new Grandson, Xavier (b. July 23rd.)
Thanks for all your readership and support. I hope you enjoyed the read as much as I enjoyed the write. Peace.
Joe Cottonwood May 2016
Infant of painful belly
sleeps only when held upright,
gently bounced,
seeking skin contact,
the family scent, family touch,
flesh to flesh.
My daughter, so tired,
new mother, must rest.

Men need to do things. At least, I do.
The porch rail remains half-built,
the truck idles roughly,
not this evening’s chore.
Just as I once rocked my daughter, now
her babe sleeps with warm little cheek
against my stubbly old,
hot puffs of breath
on my grainy neck.

Some day, grandson, you may wear
my scent of sweat, sawdust, motor oil.
For now you smell of milk, mommy, peace.
Life is so basic with a baby:
doing nothing, giving comfort,
the work of love.
I had to delete this and two other poems from Hello Poetry while a journal published it. The journal, an anthology called Dove Tales, is out now, so here's the poem back where it first appeared.
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