"bessie" poems
Christmas Eve was coming
There was plenty to be done
There were protocols to follow
There were programs to be run
Presents needed wrapping
Elves had duties of their own
They've been doing it for centuries
They could call Christmas in by phone
Reindeer games were scheduled
Christmas Carols to be sung
There were toys to be assembled
There were bells that must be wrung
Christmas Cakes...no problem
For we all know there's just one
It gets passed around each Christmas
And that is half the fun
But, back now to the reindeer games
Donner wasn't there
But, neither were three others
It gave Santa Claus a scare
He called the elven vet in
Said "find out what it wrong"
"If I don't have all my reindeer"
"It'll ruin Rudolph's song"
The vet came back directly
Hoof and mouth was what he said
The reindeer must miss Christmas
They were all confined to bed
Santa couldn't take it
Reindeer home...what would he do?
He thought real hard about an answer
Where would he find something that flew
The vet said, "I've an answer"
"But, no questions...just your trust"
"I'll get your gifts delivered Santa"
"I just need your magic dust"
Santa said "do your best Doctor"
"We can't have Christmas end like this"
"Are you sure you have an answer?"
"We can't give Christmas time a miss"
The vet and elves went searching
They formed a team like none before
They went around to the animals
And then they knocked on Santa's door
Santa looked at what they'd brought him
His reindeer gone, but here they stood
A team had been assembled
It made Santa sink into his hood
Harnessed up before him
The vet had two dogs and a bear
A ****** goat, and donkey
And a bald, blind cat...stood there
He smiled and said "Dear Santa"
"They may not look like that much now"
"But, they'll get you where you need to be"
"And they'll be led by a brown cow"
If you hear some noises
From your roof, like bleats and barks
Some, meowing or some mooing
And other strange sounds in the dark
Remember, it's just Santa
With his new team for the season
Rex, Rolf, Billy, Ben, Bessie, Joe, and Mike
and a bald, blind cat who's freezin'
Merry Christmas to all and to all....don't look up!!
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 8:37 PM UTC
two women
a single
Gemini
of desire
the yin
the yang
betwixt
the known
and unreachable
swinging
on wide
arcs of
extremis
inhabiting
opposite
polar worlds
and all
the spaces
in between
intrepid
sailors
dare hope
to explore
T
the outer
R
the inner
T’s
tiny
name
betrays
a big
robusto
femininity
bombastically
womanly
big *****
jazz *****
perfumed musky
hips and ****
that rock
and those
lips
oh,
those ruby red
Norma Jean lips
I’m puckered
up
begging her
to paste a big
rouge smooch
on my eager lips
press those
bustling bosoms
onto my face
wrap those
arms round me
with a rasperous
hug
shake me
with gyrations
of your gracious
shimmy thang
you wow
the bow
out of this
dog
taking lovers
prisoner
with the
coy blink
of wide
eyes
flashing
lashes
batting
brow
boldly
being
a force
of a
mothers
nature
bearing
and
belting
Bessie’s
*****
blues
to a
howling
crowd
wanting
more
fully
enthralled
bedazzled
enraptured
with quixotic
hypnotics
I'm frozen
solid
hoping to
melt
into the
heat
of your
inviting
fire
R
bespeaks
whispers
from an
inner place
she lines the
lost desires
of a yearning heart
she offers the
softest curves
the delicious touch
the wet presence
of a delicate tongue
limpid fingers
hide shy sly
*******
offering
invitations
to hidden nests
humming the incarnate
dark forest secrets
of bloomed lilacs
and sweet carnations
the voice of poems
dance and flutter
from her mouth
as the lightest
butterfly
wings wayward
onto soft hearts
yearning
seducement
her
kimono
gently parts
at the slightest
suggestion
of a rising
breeze
her songs
invite lovers
to pillowed
chambers
daring
intrepid
men to
risk the
death of
desirous
tempests
I melt
into the
delicate
complexity
of your
fleshy heat
my dear
celestial
twins
the lovely
Gemini
each different
reduce me
in differing ways
to a puddle
of rippling water
reflecting
the glorious
elegance of
wondrous
ambrosial
femininity
Dedicated to
T& R
Music Selection:
Barbra Streisand
Pretty Women
Oakland
4/26/12
jbm
Apr 29, 2012
Apr 29, 2012 at 10:56 PM UTC
The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight.
And let that page come out of you--
Then, it will be true.
I wonder if it's that simple?
I am twenty-two, colored, born in Winston-Salem.
I went to school there, then Durham, then here
to this college on the hill above Harlem.
I am the only colored student in my class.
The steps from the hill lead down into Harlem,
through a park, then I cross St. Nicholas,
Eighth Avenue, Seventh, and I come to the Y,
the Harlem Branch Y, where I take the elevator
up to my room, sit down, and write this page:
It's not easy to know what is true for you or me
at twenty-two, my age. But I guess I'm what
I feel and see and hear, Harlem, I hear you:
hear you, hear me--we two--you, me, talk on this page.
(I hear New York, too.) Me--who?
Well, I like to eat, sleep, drink, and be in love.
I like to work, read, learn, and understand life.
I like a pipe for a Christmas present,
or records--Bessie, bop, or Bach.
I guess being colored doesn't make me not like
the same things other folks like who are other races.
So will my page be colored that I write?
Being me, it will not be white.
But it will be
a part of you, instructor.
You are white--
yet a part of me, as I am a part of you.
That's American.
Sometimes perhaps you don't want to be a part of me.
Nor do I often want to be a part of you.
But we are, that's true!
As I learn from you,
I guess you learn from me--
although you're older--and white--
and somewhat more free.
This is my page for English B.
2.9k
O flower at my window
Why blossom you so fair,
With your green and purple cup
Upturned to sun and air?
'I bloom, blithesome Bessie,
To cheer your childish heart;
The world is full of labor,
And this shall be my part.'
Whirl, busy wheel, faster,
Spin, little thread, spin;
The sun shines fair without,
And we are gay within.
O robin in the tree-top,
With sunshine on your breast,
Why brood you so patiently
Above your hidden nest?
'I brood, blithesome Bessie,
And sing my humble song,
That the world may have more music
From my little ones erelong.'
Whirl, busy wheel, faster,
Spin, little thread, spin;
The sun shines fair without,
And we are gay within.
O balmy wind of summer,
O silver-singing brook,
Why rustle through the branches?
Why shimmer in your nook?
'I flutter, blithesome Bessie,
Like a blessing far and wide;
I scatter bloom and verdue
Where'er my footsteps glide.'
Whirl, busy wheel, faster,
Spin, little thread, spin;
The sun shines fair without,
And we are gay within.
O brook and breeze and blossom,
And robin on the tree,
You make a joy of duty,
A pride of industry;
Teach me to work as blithely,
With a willing hand and heart:
The world is full of labor,
And I must do my part.
Whirl, busy wheel, faster,
Spin, little thread, spin;
The sun shines fair without,
And we are gay within.
2.5k
Day breaks on Doubletop Mountain, shadowing villages below.
Three-thousand eight hundred feet tall, it captures the eye!
And standing at attention there in front of me, a battalion of Sugar Maples in full…. Fall…. Regalia!
Cascading tones of Crimsons, Burgundy, scarlet reds and Golden Hue.
Gazing over Dunk Hill as farmer’s plow fields, turn again for fertility,
There are only brief streams of life giving sunlight, and now the sky turns to a pale grey.
Me, well I live for this time of year….enjoying the evening autumn constellations,
Or Moms dining table adorned with Indian corn and blackberry canes!
Bessie's Margaretville home begins the fall ritual of canning and drying.
Breaking out winter clothes…as she proclaims "no whites after Labor Day"!
The last bit of warmth now dwells just behind the Catskill’s Harvest Moon,
And the V of geese honk their good-byes to the summer sun.
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
you will fade away
you will fade like the others
did too
you will fade, my SOS
and leave me with this island's truth on solitude
i rode as passenger once
in a boy's car
i had named Bessie
Bessie grunted and took naps
like a narcoleptic
we drove together
me and this green-eyed boy
in ol' Bessie
through the construction of the Yards in the summer
with our windows
rolled down
smoking cigarettes
under overpasses
on a highway bridge
the city swelling, heaving
over us
and the wild winds
splashing my face
hair tantalizing
impatiently over to his side,
my downtown apartment waiting like a desert flower at dusk
throbbing to bloom
David Bowie sang heroes and i believed the song
could never mean anything more
than our moment shared
years pass and summer nights choke me again
i'm in love again
thundershowers knock on my window
David Bowie sings
but i don't think of that green-eyed boy anymore
now, it's you
tall, spectacular man
spritzer of mystery magic from your hands
i think of you
but i'm alone in my apartment this time
i climb out of the fire escape
thunder cracks the sky
and i let the rain soak my bones
i want to hold you, but
you will not have me
completely
like how this storm
is finding
its way to the last inch of me
i close my eyes and
give
myself away
you won't be the last of them
i know
my story of heroes and lovers sits on the doorstep
of a vacant home
you won't be the last of them
i only dreamed you would
like the sight of a ship too far from shore
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 9:48 PM UTC
Jazz history teacher scattin about
swing
Now, war on drugs ****
wait, kansas city night clubs
Territorial Deviants howl the blues
dragging themselves bar to bar to jam
Teach has jeans and a black long sleeve
shows off his impressive gut
27th and manhattan, playin for pete
everynight bald head shinin
bass thumpin, saxophone whinin
count bessie, chick webb, rotating stage
Bothersome lesbian
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 4:01 PM UTC
In old New Orleans
Musical lumberjacks
Legitimizing their axes;
Just piano, clarinet,
Bass and the drums.
Bringing jazz back
And then some.
The cat could play
That skinny long black horn,
Hotter clarinet than
Anybody ever born,
He kept hitting notes
So pure and high
We felt each note
In our eyes!
And, if you chance by
Remember this,
They don’t allow dancing.
But when the drummer
Makes works those skins
And makes them talk out
There is plenty of toe-tapping
And nobody ever walks out.
Then, when the guy
Plays that bass fiddle
He adds an underscore
To top bottom and middle.
It’s an underbeat of grace
That will fill the rest space
And the hearts of all
In this overcrowded place.
Vintage jazz roars out
Of an old, old piano
Played by a happy madman
With fingers afire, he knows
He’s got them hooked;
He’s making them wild
As he wails on those keys
He looks out and smiles
And he puts the Satchmo touch
On those old-timey songs
And once in a while
They ask us to sing along.
For the past forty-six years
Those ugly plastered walls
Have never hear so many
Gratefully rendered curtain calls
From an audience of clerks and swells.
On Bourbon Street’s Fritzel’s.
Through hurricanes and beers
Like stepping back a hundred years.
Fats is still playing, Bessie singing
Original jazz music is still swinging.
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
The winter I turned twenty-two
I was down as down could be,
Then I heard this sultry temptress.
Croon her soulful songs to me
Miss B. became my sweet soulmate,
I loved her from the start.
That sultry singing empress -
I learned all her songs by heart.
I sang the blues and harmonized;
Played her tunes both day and night.
I connected to the passion
that within her burned so bright.
As time went by, I learned to stop
and thank the stars on high,
To love and laugh, and let life flow;
Like my soulmate in the sky.
Bessie Smith - I've Got What It Takes (1929)
https://youtu.be/Lb2Ckwsf1ZA
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 9:05 PM UTC
Once in a place long ago,but not that far away
Lived a Missouri “Show Me Girl”named Bessie Grace.
It was here, at her Catskill home in Margaretville NY that she made all visitors feel welcome.
Goodness, Kindness and tranquility abounded in this place on the hill.
She always found a way to answer my perplexing questions,
With a soft rhetoric that was sure to make you smile.
In a million years I’d never forget all those canned comebacks of hers ,
“The World is a Stage young man” or “We're Like two Peas in a Pod or “Someday I'll mingle with the stars and throw a party on Mars”
These metaphors were her way of teaching you about the world.
One day, my first love ended and Bessie quickly responded “Didn't you know that once your heart's been broken it grows back bigger”
I just looked at her with tear filled eyes and kissed her cheek.
She had such a broad view of life’s peaks and valley’s.
She once said “you know I feel like a cow with a name like Bessie”.
I told her “ With a name like that….You should just pass wind and go full sail ahead.
We laughed until our sides hurt.
Most days she had a pocket full of lemon drops and she would say
“Take a few to sweeten your day honey”
As time passed by quickly, eventually so did Bessie.
And in 1967 she had her party on Mars.
All the stars were there to welcome her to her new home.
She had everyone's attention and to cheers she exclaimed...."My name is Bessie Grace...I'm a Missourah Girl and I've just learned that the day which we fear as our last is but the birthday of our eternity”
At Home with Bessie Grace was added
Sep 7, 2016
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 11:41 PM UTC
It is the jovial, gentle gradient of your first love
Transcending from the kind of blue that swims under a blanket of flesh on the topmost part of her wrist
Into an orange so pale it could just be pink;
Reminiscent of the peach of her cheeks
Dampered by the dreariness of a stormy Sunday noon
Light shrouded in the mysticism of "what if's" and "why"
It is the turbulence of heartbreak
Escaping with the breath you held in too long
Sighing a song of failed attempts and discarded hope
Dressed in the melancholy of grey-blue, exasperatingly clouding over in surrender;
The kind of dark that makes you wonder if it is pathetic fallacy
Or maybe just a coincidence that the sky can seem so sad.
All at once placid
Milky and cold and fresh as the first glass of Bessie's byproducts
It is the clarity accompanying self assurance
The comfort in the knowledge that blue is just a shade away from blue-grey
Cotton ***** on a sheet of glassy water
Just enough to get you through midday
Until scorching it sets, and your cat nap is marked with a rigid back and stood-up hairs
It is a blaze of passionate glory
The first crimson drop from the blood orange
Only to dilute before you into a tangerine so vivid you have to question if maybe your eyes are just over-dramatizing its hue.
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 4:43 PM UTC
Force is mechanically
easy to solve
like a heart squeezed
in a surgeon's gloved
hand deep in cracked chest
Rib cages dried bones
in High Plains of Reno
or was it White Sands of Nevada?
Nuclear blast equations
of forgotten love ancient hate
and modern little cheats among
the billion of us Forced
over seconds to leave
deep craters
How strange the integration
happens to give same the area
but different under curved ***
Do we like long hot shafts
or voluminous D-cups?
H-bomb holes or a Grand Canyon?
A quick poke or grinding strokes
watered down over centuries?
The math's the same
sung in Smithery
in Bessie lilt
about a little sugar
in our bowl
about a hot dog
between our rolls
"Stop your foolin'
and drop somethin'
in my bowl"
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
little flame-headed child
i should have held you more.
i should have scooped you up in your little patchwork-dress
and read to you when you asked.
i shouldn't have left you alone
outside
on purpose
i shouldn't have let you cry
over
and over
and over.
i shouldn't have made fun of you
for making friends with the air
for talking to them
when you were lonely
you were only
a child.
little flame-headed baby
i should have done so many things
as many things as i shouldn't have
i did wrong by you
so many times
and when i was given a second chance
our mother robbed me of it.
that's karma, i guess.
little flame-headed child
you forgive me,
but your patchwork heart doesn't
it's alright,
i deserve it
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
pick corn all day
wear my hands raw
on cotton bolls
redden my neck raw
in the hotness
milk Bessie,
fatten up the golden calf,
or catch the gold of sunsets
the shine of moonshines glistening
or writhe this poem of us,
in a field in spring
me spinning around you
you drinking me in
in this fair field tonight,
me love.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 11:42 PM UTC
Bismarck Bessie was her name
n’ she could shoot as well
as Calamity Jane
She could out run those bad boys
(like Jesse James)
riding her horse backwards
n’ put ‘em to shame
Now, Bismarck Bessie was on her game
Ahead of her time that’s for sure
cause she was all about women's rights
Oh, she raised some hell
and, liked to spit n’ fight
n’ speak her mind
Hell, on any night!
She had a flame in her soul
and, furious eyes
that could light up a room
when she spotted lies
She was brave, and bright
n’ true to herself
never believe’n in some White Knight
Oh, sure there was Bill n’ Bobby
and, Robbie Joe…
one things for sure
this I know…
Bismarck Bessie was true to her soul.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
A KISS...
Why such commotion for only a kiss?
Asking that do know this;
It was the most earth moving thing,
It was summer and winter, autumn and spring.
Something truly special many will miss.
It was Christmas and May and unending bliss.
It was heaven and earth, fire and ice,
Ten thousand fold more than only nice.
Eloquence without a single word,
Mad secret frenzy... never heard,
Warm lips even caressed by tantalizing fingers,
And a certain feeling that not only lingers…
Hurried urges up and down a spine;
"Be mine! Be mine!"
Both exuding passion and infinite charms,
Being close with much more than only arms.
It was me and you what else did we do…?
Indeed done too…
But with a kiss it all begun,
And now my Sweet Bessie we are One.
With Love and then some...
Always Yours,
Willoughby
Copyright©2013 by Kari M. Knutsen
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 1:19 PM UTC
Black clouds circumnavigate the pine forest , trees cull their mouths for Summer rains ! Black crows banter in the welcome cool breeze , Bessie's cowbell clangs at the molasses lick ! Pie pans glide across the hayfield , scarecrow comes alive , looks right then left ! Nanny goat calls her kids to the pole barn , head rooster crows , brings the hens to order !
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
set sins in stone
wrap blanket in birds
and
let them atone
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 1:07 AM UTC
10/15/2015
down by the ravine twisted woods,
By boxelder and sweetgum,
a timber rattler in the field over,
you say "those are dangerous"
"Mhm" all I mumble, stifling in the memorial of that sticky sunny summer in the forest
you say sooner or later
"Barely is enough sometimes"
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 10:05 PM UTC
They stood together for a photograph; Aunt Bessie and Irene.
One the aging matriarch, the other still a teen.
Irene’s hair was a fiery red well matched with eyes of blue.
Bessie’s days are numbered now, life’s journey nearly through..
Bessie’s one hand held her cane, the other Irene’s arm.
Irene was a vision, heading off to senior prom.
One has all her life before her, for the other just a past.
Irene looks much as Bessie did, when Bessie was a lass.
I have seen old photographs, creased and Sepia toned
When Bessie was Belle of the ball and stood beside some crone.
Jun 23, 2017
Jun 23, 2017 at 7:58 AM UTC
I KNOW THAT YOU GONING TO DEPART FROM ME FOR A LITTLE WHILE, BUT AS YOU GO REMEMBER ME BY THE SOUNDS OF THE BIRDS SINGING A LOVE SONG,WHEN THE SUN COMES OUT THAT SHINES SO BRIGHT AND WARM, TAKE ME IN YOUR HEART AND REMEMBER ME.
AS THE GRASS AND FLOWERS TRUN MANY DIFFERENT COLORS TAKE LOOK ACROSS THE FIELD AND LOOK UP IN THE SKY AND DON'T FORGET ABOUT ME,BECAUSE I LOVE. LISTEN TO THE SOUNDS OF THE TREES AS THE WIND BLOW SOFT MUSIC TO YOR EARS AND REMEMBER ME, I LOVE YOU.
WHEN YOU HEAR THE WATER ROLLING OFF THE MOUNTAIN TOP, IT'S ONLY ME, LETTING YOU KNOW THAT I AM STILL HERE AND I WILL ALWAYS BE WITH YOU.
WHO AM I;
YOU MIGHT ASK;
I AM YOUR FRIEND AND MY NAME IS JESUS.
SUBMIT BY: BESSIE MCGEE
3-21-92
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 12:27 PM UTC
They were toxic bestfriends
both of evil similarity
Annie thought Amy was a parasite
who manipulated her popularity
6 months were spent on careful conspiration
all the while they were still friends
till the fateful day of its execution
is where this story ends.
9am one Friday morning
Amy gossiped during Spanish class
Annie hated when she flicked her hair
& stole all her attention from the mass
while Amy spoke of Bessie-
saying she's dead weight- a waste of space
'so will you be' Annie whispered
under her breath with a demented face.
10pm that very night
the girls slept over at Amy's home
Her parents off on holiday
a spontaneous luxury trip to Rome.
Nearing 12 & the time feels right
the tv plays the ending scenes of 'Saw'
Amy dozing off in her seat
as Annie returns in a stance of an outlaw.
Fixated on the rise & fall of her chest
diabolical thoughts run through her head
Clasping a butcher blade at her own behest
she inches closer towards the dread.
Seconds away from agony,
her eyelids flutter open to a vile scene
as Annie pulls the knife down on her
lacerating through her skin.
Stab after stab
the gashes splattered gore
that stained the velvet couch
& trickled on the floor
she felt her rapid heartbeat
quiver through the knife
and stabbed her one last time
-enough force to end her life.
Blood sputtered everywhere
as she took her final gasps of breath
flailed her arms around
and faced her gory death.
Amy lay in a pool of blood
her favourite Crimson red
Its metallic fumes in her nostrils
started messing with her head
Annie stumbled over the corpse-
the knife slipped from her grip
as regret clutched her heart
across the hallway- made her trip
legs dragged feebly with lament
eyes dazed with disbelief
lightheaded and psychotic faced
stone in her throat gave no relief.
In the bathroom mirror
a sinner took the frame
white tee smothered in scarlet
gruesome was her image,with shame
trembling fingers at her sides
fixed on the bulging red
a sinister curve formed on her lips
'Just like in the movies' is what she said.
Jun 29, 2021
Jun 29, 2021 at 4:29 PM UTC
In the dark we groove for light
Awaiting again the lion's roar
To awaken us from a stupor
A Maniac infuse to our culture
Mislearnig adventures incured by our search
Searching for light with the touch in hand
Searching within the endless tunnels of knowledge
Bellowing our rich forest and mangroves
Bastadizing the deep sea of life bestowment.
True and of a truth...!
Silence is a guide but we lost touch of the hunters skills
Skills that unwind the pantheon, crossed the hyaenea
And put paid to the antics of the Foxes
Our quest is now an inquests
Following the foxes of this sphere in a hide and seek dance
A salient dance of alienation between the Hunter and the antelope.
Will the lion ever roar again..?
Chinua Achebe, Kofi Awenora,Senghor, Bongo Mbeti,
Dennis Brutus, Alex La Guma, Anthol Fugar
Nelson Mandela, Cyprain Ekwensi,
Christopher Okigbo and now Gabriel Okara
....And other great lions
Living and dead whose roaring sounds
Cascades our spheres and beyond.
The great lioness;
Bessie Head, Nardi Gordimar,Mariana Ba,
Mabel Segun, Amata Aido,, Doris Lessing
Helen Oviagere, Buchi Emecheta.....!
Your breast has not dried up yet
And your ******* still drips with milk of knowledge
Only we lack sulking skills to quesh the hunger and thirst
We cry for trivialities searching for food outside our barns and homesteads
We long and thirst for great sayings with Witt
Idioms with Music accomplishments to rummage deep into our marrow
Pickerng into our very being .....Healing!
We long for the roaring Lions
Seeking sounds to penetrate deep into our persons
We long for true words and essences
Piercing through the very depths of our soul
Written by
Otuogbodor Okeibunor Abuja, Nigeria
— The End —
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 12:25 PM UTC
I know life goes on and time waits for no one
The moment we are up there is something that needs to be done and sometimes even re-done.
Now what if all that was to come to a halt one day?
Your usual check-up with the family physician turned into something dreary?
He does not welcome you with his usual smile but frowns at you instead
Looks over at the small sheets of papers in his hands and quickly leaves the room
To have an elderly nurse come in and all tell you that your time is short
You have only 3 days on earth
Today is Friday and you expire on a Sunday
The day of rest…
The long lasting feelings of fatigue
Your fine hair thinning out
Hunger, no longer an issue
Thinking that it just stress and sleepless nights responsible for your horrid state.
Your mouth isn’t working but hands reach your eyes and to your surprise there are no tears
You don’t have time for that either
On your home you think about what you will tell the mother who looks forward to seeing your face first thing in the morning
The father who patiently waits for you to take over the family business so that he could stretch his legs
The baby sister who expects you at her wedding dressed in your finest
And the sweet man who promised you that sleeping alone will soon be a thing of the past
What about your dream?
That child like wish you held on to for years to become a superhero wearing a stethoscope and handing lollies to all the sick children left and right
Suddenly the path to your house, the same one you grew up in is over
And the heavy oak door opens up
To let out frenzy of noise complete with laughing children and talkative adults
Bessie the friendly black Labrador is there too
You look to the sky and sigh “I guess this can wait till after the party”
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 10:15 PM UTC
Time waits for no one,
And the memories we cherish nourish our hearts.
It was loved ones that meant so much to us.
Mom with her infectious smile,
Brother Paul who left us far to soon,
Cousin Tom who taught me to milk the cows and,
Grandma Bessie with her soft rhetoric.
They've all left this world!
These photos of my ancestors adorn the walls of my home.
I stare into their eyes and I try to connect with their identity.
Pointing to a picture, my grandson asks, "who is this Pepaw?"
We talk about all the memories and I remark how time flies by silently.
And looking into my eyes, my Grandson says, " I would have loved to known him".
I give him all the details and memoirs of this person so he can pass it on one day.
Those we love never really leave us.
There are things that death cannot touch.
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 1:17 PM UTC