"alissa" poems
Grandpa loved angels
Kept them scattered throughout his room, his house, his life
On everything from pictures, to figurines, to trinkets
Alissa found a penny with an imprint of wings with the year of her birth on it shortly after he died
How strange, we all thought
Grandpa had a lot of things,
Luck charms, knick-knacks, practical jokes he carried just in case
He kept his humor in his back pocket
I visit my grandmother in her home that used to be theirs
She is now as vacant as the Detroit winters are cold; the ten years without him have stripped her of any warmth
I think a part of her left when he did
I enter his study and look through every drawer, discovering a part I neglected to understand when it was present
I never showed much interest in anything he told me when he was still around
I only really knew of the things he kept in drawers, cabinets, on shelves
Everything he owned is as constant as it ever was
His belongings remain untouched as if he hasn’t been gone for over a decade
I feel too much alive in this office of a dead man
I run curious fingers over the bindings of books, stopping to pull at Dickinson, a faded collection of poetry inked with flowers on the front cover
I remember the dictionary the size of my six-year-old palm that intrigued me so greatly; the ability to fit so many words into such a small area was nothing short of fascinating
It is the one physical memory I took home with me after the funeral
I had wanted it always
I now picture it hiding in the back of my drawer in my childhood bedroom where I know it still is
On his desk there are so many key chains, bills from another generation, maps, postcards, watches
So many things I am not sure what to call them
I am not sure about a lot but
Grandpa loved angels
Angels and ***** jokes
One to keep you safe and the other to make you laugh
I keep both with me always,
Just in case.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 4:32 PM UTC
Inspired by Judy Blume, inside Jokes with Liz and the poetry of Alissa Grams (https://alissagrams.wordpress.com/2017/03/06/an-open-letter-to-god-from-an-eighteen-year-old-girl/)
~
God,
it's me--
jade.
I must admit,
I've never read
Judy Blume
or the Bible,
for that matter
(I could never make it
past Genesis).
I am not well-versed
when it comes to scripture--
I am fluent in tragedy
and tragedy alone;
then again,
is there really any difference
between scripture and tragedy?
I was never one
to pay attention in church,
unless the hymns
were of a minor key,
the sermons imbued
with woe and melancholia.
Coincidentally,
as I write this,
it has only just occurred to me
that Lot's Wife
was never given a name
of her own--
it was destroyed with *****
forgotten amongst the
flames and the ash.
God,
you were wrong
to punish her
the way you did.
Have you never felt the
sting of salt
against an open wound?
Have you never watched
as all the familiar intimacies
you once knew
dissolved to cinder?
(I know you have).
Do you not see that,
if home is where the heart is,
then the heart
must surely perish with it?
God,
has anyone ever broken your heart?
(I think you know heartbreak
as well as I do;
it is the very matter
of our existence).
So I guess my real question is
why?
(and, no, this time, it is not rhetorical).
Truly,
I'd like to know why
you would ever think
to hurt your people
the same way
the archangel hurt you.
You say I sin
against you,
but did you not
create me in your image?
(Like father,
like daughter,
I suppose).
god,
I do not think
I believe in you.
At least,
I do not believe in you
like I believe in other things.
I do not
believe in you
the way I believe in
the beauty of
Van Gogh's sunflowers
(his starry nights, too);
or in dog-earing the pages
of my favourite books.
I do not believe in you
the way I believe in magic;
or in the integrity of
polaroids photographs
and listening to vinyl.
I do not believe in you
the way I believed in my love
during the final moments
before his betrayal;
or in the lingering sensation
of my past lives--
Ophelia.
Mary Queen of Scots.
Frida Kahlo.
Sylvia Plath--
and now,
dare I feel it,
dare I say it--
Lot's Wife.
(With her,
I shall share a name).
I do not believe
you are my saviour
because I do not
believe in you
the way I believe
in Poetry.
god,
it's me--
Jade;
this poem is
my hallelujah,
but it does not
belong to you
(not anymore).
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 9:56 PM UTC
I know this is a terrible thing to say,
I really don't miss you in any way,
You were no better than Anna, in any way,
You both destroy my life in your own way.
The way we live is the way we die,
You took with you to many lives,
You destroyed two unborn children,
no consciences at the time,
You thought of yourself and not the unborn life.
When we live by the sword we die by the sword,
When we cause pain we suffer with the same horrid pain.
Perhaps if you had lived your life another way,
You would still be alive to see another day.
Your children are rotten to the core, and Anna
can't even raise them anymore.
Alissa destroyed John she did not care, but where
she learned that I dare not say where?
Did you care when you destroyed my life at all?
No, Anna and you were both rotten to the core.
I hope that God shows you mercy on judgment day,
or he will send you to far worse place.
I did cry some over you because thank God above I am not
like Anna nor you.
I was your sister in every word and I wanted you to
know that I was different from you and I pray
that God shows you justice and mercy when he
passes judgment on you.
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 10:30 PM UTC
So fragile
so small
tiny hands
perfect fingers
and tippie toes
thrown into a world
where lies freely fall
If I could
I would keep you
safe from rage
broken lies
inevitable pain
Safe in my arms
Wrapped in my heart
Forever
....my sweet little Alissa
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
You know i try so hard
but i think you don't see me
cause i running so fast
we call it rock and rollin
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC