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Will Geer (March 9, 1902 – April 22, 1978) who played grandpa on The Waltons, was as gay as a picnic basket.

WIKI: Geer married actress Herta Ware in 1934; they had three children, Kate Geer, Thad Geer, and actress Ellen Geer. Ware also had a daughter, Melora Marshall, who was an actress, from another marriage. Although he and Ware divorced in 1954, they remained close for the rest of their lives.

In 1932, Geer met Harry Hay at the Tony Pastor Theatre where Geer was working as an actor. They soon became lovers.

Harry Hay, April 1996, Anza-Borrego Desert, Radical Faeries Campout
Born Henry Hay Jr.
April 7, 1912
Worthing, Sussex, England
Died October 24, 2002 (aged 90)
San Francisco, California, U.S.
Nationality American
Movement
LGBT rightssocialismcommunism[1]
Spouse Anita Platky

​(m. 1938; ***. 1951)​
Partner(s) Will Geer (1932-1934)[2]
Rudi Gernreich (1950–1952)
Jorn Kamgren (1952–1962)
John Burnside (1963–2002)
Children 2

While working on a play, Hay met actor Will Geer, with whom he entered into a relationship. Geer was a committed leftist, with Hay later describing him as his political mentor.[67][68][69] Geer introduced Hay to Los Angeles' leftist community, and together they took part in activism, joining demonstrations for laborers' rights and the unemployed, and on one occasion handcuffed themselves to lamposts outside UCLA to hand out leaflets for the American League Against War and Fascism.[67] Other groups whose activities he joined in with included End Poverty in California, Hollywood Anti-**** League, the Mobilization for Democracy, and Workers' Alliance of America.[70] Hay and Geer spent a weekend in San Francisco during the city's 1934 General Strike, where they witnessed police open fire on protesters, killing two; this event further committed Hay to societal change.[71][63] Hay joined an agitprop theatre group that entertained at strikes and demonstrations; their performance of Waiting for Lefty in 1935 led to attacks from the fascist Friends of New Germany group.[72]
howard brace Apr 2011
Rows of stone houses, all back-to-back
lined by the side of streets cobble set
housewives with shopping, segs in their heels
clopping down ginnels with ringing footsteps.

Cast iron lampposts, corporation green
daily were reset by clockwork it seemed
casting more shadow than light which to see
brimstone edged steps, scrubbed 'elbow' clean.

Sweeps on their rounds, in Summer would rush
cleaning the flues with rods and brush
kids in the street, staring in wonder
at soot snowing flurries, from porcupine pots.

Nutty slack in the grate, drawn by the pan
coal smoking stacks, pouring out grime
creels of damp washing, stealing the flame
when years end smog, jaundiced the sky.

A trip to the 'flicks', Saturday morning
'thrupence' for best seats, 'top-a-the-stalls'
rounds of cheers as good-un's were chasing
the bad-un's were boo'd, soon to be caught.

In 'wellies an scruff,' we went to the 'flea-pit'
with 'ha-peth o' cheap spice', soothing the throat
food for thought, all week long
and played them all, the films we saw.

Cowboys and Indians, cap guns held high
annoying the neighbours, 'bye it were grand'
riding the range on imaginary horses
best we ride on, with slap of the hand.

'Play in yer own street', my recallection
and 'geer off mi steps, they've jus-bin-swilled'
yet still we 'mucked out' with die-cast toys
against the 'midden', and on the walls.

No more adventure, making own fun
young-un's today don't know how it's done
cartoon and serial, games of war
we'd launch to the moon, upon the see-saw.**

...   ...   ...
Hey, it’s ten o’clock,
Time for another snort,
The Elixir: Clan MacGregor
“Blended Scotch Whisky,”
Spelled without the e,
“Imported from Scotland,
Distilled, aged, blended &
Shipped, by Alexander MacGregor & CO.,”
Our boys in Glasgow
“Mixing up the medicine
I'm on the pavement
Thinking about the government.”
(Read more: www.bobdylan.com/  us/songs/subterranean-homesick-blues#ixzz3aKTl­eIUb http://www.bobdylan.com/  us/songs/subterranean-homesick-blues#ix­zz3aKTleIUb)
To quote my pal, Rabbi Zimm,
Which is what we called Dylan
Back home in Minnesota.
No wonder he left town.
He’s been heard to blame the winters,
But I know it was the rabid,
Anti-Semitism, driving
Robert Allen Zimmerman
(Hebrew name שבתאי זיסל בן אברהם
[Shabtai Zisl ben Avraham]),
Driving his escape outta town.
It was virulent Jew hatred
Driving him away,
Exiling him from Duluth.
But, I digress.

I have written this morning’s poem
Many times before, giving it the title
“BUKOWSKI MORNINGS” last time.
I get my Clan MacGregor at
Wal-Mart, $16.97, 1.75 liter,
40% ALC./VOL. (80 PROOF).
Another astonishing value &
Habit I can afford.
One more shining example of
Walton Family benevolence,
Give us our daily bread,
Give to us,
Us the many,
The many shamed 99%.
The Walton crystal ball,
Anticipating the future way back when.
Going even so far as to
Sponsor a beloved family TV show,
1972 – 2010?
Is a run like that, fecking possible?
Still broadcast today,
Hallmark Channel.
The Waltons:  John Boy, Olivia
Grandma Esther &
Grandpa Zebulon,
Played by, his Reverence,
The cherished Will Geer.
How could you not esteem The Waltons?
The Walton Family: shrewd grocers of
Bentonville, Arkansas?
Lovable Sam—the one with the Club—
The association, not the clubfoot
Nor, the giant troglodyte club,
Wielded by Old Sam--
Mr. Walton, truly a swinging-****
In his day, intergalactic, a Mega-chain
Retailer of “a vast selection of Food, Apparel,
Home Goods & Electronics, not to mention
Garden shrubs & Patio Furniture.”
Again, I digress.

Clan MacGregor: no single malt liquor;
No Glenfiddich “Robert the Bruce Flagon,” $300 bottle;
No Balvenie “21 Year Old Port Wood Finish,” $200.00.  
No Laphroaig, no Glenlivet.
No Highland, no Lowland,
No Islay, nor Speyside . . . for me.
Not one drop of single-malted
Mist of the moors shall pass my lips.
Maybe I don’t know any better?
More likely, I can’t afford to,
Scotch snorting snobs be-******,
Clan MacGregor does the job nicely,
Nicely, thank you very much.
I espy
Three people wandering around
through the busy hubbub
Of the Old Town
They have four parrots
Perched, upon their shoulders
I hope they don't poo
Anything that smoulders
"Give me a gottle of geer!"
Said an invisible parrot
In my right ear
I leapt from my seat
Much alarmed
And checked myself
But remained unharmed
Not wanting to be seen
Talking
To an invisible parrot
That was now squawking
That no-one else could hear
This invisible parrot
Squawking in my ear
"It's okay" said the parrot
"I can hear what you think"
"I like you in blue"
"But prefer you in pink!"
"Well" thought i
Feeling a little shy
"There's nothing i can do"
"As i have no pink dye"
"And besides, i prefer rainbows!"
"From my head"
"Right down to my toes!"
"Including your pinkies?"
Said the parrot in jest
I laughed out loud
in front of a crowd
So i left the Ille Cafe
As was now to embarrassed to stay
As the invisible parrot
Simply flew away!

by Jemia
AngLe Aug 2017
Down cobbles rose garland sways
still sweeet fox pollon
seep down alley ways
exhaust for-seen resource in shadow

wisk e-hers tinber lit darkness - ray-linear  
Ultra violet ultra steep
o wains and candles
tis summer gleam & beneath tomorro unseen
O castle ablaze let side leave wake till dawn day breaks drawn arrow

Sea Aparts nor seperated dose stars leaves flower beswayed fairy
rings set... pon cusion
Jestered not geer'd ad-sole speech
Healerrs only hear to kKill
And angels hide in coast drift demons
and darkness impervise light

Sweet to kindle
Awe lonely hears
swoop and fain in wistle of nestle

math to flame
crossed goldenfields than adorn
& Spaninsh crux+, shall meet morn

settle anew conflict
will decide on hieght brother
conduct fist to system a sword
yours Shall swing on daymakers eventual deprive
bell to chime and hymm see rise & yawns
Surbhi Dadhich Dec 2017
My progenitor of curiousity
My prophecy of endured awakening
Gives me serious *******
Of doubts and clearings
Oh! I wish I'd break your call
Your advice yells my mind
Driving the bitter truths with your soul
Those attacks would be reality
Those advice would be precautions
Sacrificing the very reputed dignity
To your free and fair auction
I must confess
With forgiveness and apologies
My progenitor of deep memories
My prophecy of soul awakening
Let me geer up with your summoning...
Traveler Dec 2020
Catching up
I take a crash course
The end is near
And I’m just now
Shifting geer

What is real
That can’t be seen
Ever changing
My infinite needs

It seems we can only know what it is to approach death
and not the nature of the beast itself
that awaits our IMPENDING arrival!
Traveler Tim
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2018
psychologists only have children,
procreate...
       in order to have an
upper-hand in us. childless,
left akin to fathoming cats...
          but you know what you can't
say when taking care of children?
you can't smoke...
    oodly enough tobacco
       is an ease-mechanisation
for the domesticated animal,
esp. feline to fall asleep...
                           i, have,
an, inability, to, care, for,
human, infirmary....
                                   animals?!
first posit.
                 no questions asked.
and in this world with all its grandeour...
and the football score...
    there were never any
grammatical plays of pronouns
involved...
                           there was always
a merger ploy, or rather:
                a plight,
                   akin to experiencing
petting cats....
                          dogs need a leash...
cats?
        who knows where a cat
wanders off to, without the cat it"self"?

i don't know, and...
        i don't want to know...
      it's like watching a cat
experiencing a receding heatbeat
in deep-sleep...

   the jaw drop disappears...
the tail stops flitching...
the open eye (yes, not eyes)
is less Gandalf...
                  with  a peregrin took,
"enterprise"...

           how well does the individualist
globalist (fiddled past the
double -ist -ist?)
                    take to relearning
german?
  ja! gir-man!
                       not s'oh fein,
ver vey?!
                                vs. vacany
on the ready?
    vell... ja...
                   ** best bitten zee doost?!
              apparently, üß!
                                          (that's a T
without a rhyming couplet... mr. bean
sorry, sorry...
   you know how hard it
is to compromise on an apology...
within, or without an ethnic
sentiment... that could be
                            comprehended?!

you can't exactly say sorry,
when it's so exaggerate-made-uniform
in the english format of use-with-and-
especially-without-applicability)...

   who are the glorified neo-anglos?
no, i'm petting a cat...
   the last woman in my life
"involved"
               is but a shadow...
i'm testing the use of tobacco
                          on... even breathing...

blow one puff into the room...
heartbeat drops,
jaw drops...
  eyes slightly open...
        
i known that the only reason
behind psychologists' vehemence
is in having children...
  and they have it, own it...
       they'd be echo chambers without
the end-result of procreation...

no wonder, with child and wife
in tow...

              i'm a metaphor of schrödinger....
given schrödinger is a cat
that's strapped to the "metaphor"
of Ísland (e's'land... ice, no ice:
**** schtill ein land...
                                            iz-land)...

******* saxons...
migrant saxons...
        contamitated the assortment
of speaking pristine germanic, nordic...
  mongrel: every day any ****
bollocking public prepubescents...

but there is no i in: if "i" were the raj
of hindustan...
                       don't know...
sick 'em with a narration borrowed from
the biography of buddha?!
apparently that conjures
twice the expected dog...
     ever wonder why the geer-mans
bred the finest specimens?!
    
  romans apparently had war hogs...

   so...

         why didn't people extract
a bull, for a cavalry charge...
     to topple horse-riding empires
akin to the mongols...
        before setting foot on the moon
and crippling the brothers grimm,
for even marking a-brick-for-a-wall
mark, in history?

     bewilderment...
  how horses overtook bulls
                               in a cavalry charge...
            it's only yesterday,
and it's only today,
   and it's just about tomorrow...
and it's...
              a complete detachment...
with what is,
was,
                      and could be...

           because that "be": never... is...
within the confines of
              wishful "thinking"...

               elsewhere reduced to
cogs, machinery and...
    
                   something resembling rust.
Amanda Shelton Mar 2021
Me: Don’t you come any closer!

I am warning you!

Please don’t come over, please.

I am trying, I am calm.

Don’t come back please!

I don’t like you.

Your horrible.

I hate you, your a monster.

Why are you here?

How do I stop you?

Go away!

Ouch! I am crying and oozing.
I want to bang my head into
the wall. I can’t set still.

It hurts so bad.

Cluster headache: Hahaha! Geer!
I bite you and stabe you in the eye.

You can’t stop me!!!

I will be back, you won’t see me coming.

©️ 2021 By Amanda Shelton
I have suffered from cluster headaches from babyhood. I had three years without them. I started suffering again in 2016. Its the worst pain I've ever experienced. Worse then when my gallbladder was full of stones. Some doctors call them suicide headaches because some people don't want to live through it. I am a fighter and I want to live my life even if sometimes I have pain. My passion for living keeps me going.
Ellen Corby

'The Waltons': Married TV Couple Grandma & Grandpa ...

Pinterest · averybusymo0119
1 year ago
ELLEN CORBY GAY from www.pinterest.com
On-screen, Ellen Corby and Will Geer were simply Grandma and Grandpa Walton, a happily married couple. But both were actually gay and guarded their careers.


Corby as Esther "Grandma" Walton in the television movie The Homecoming (1971), a precursor to the series The Waltons
Born Ellen Hansen
June 3, 1911
Racine, Wisconsin, U.S.
Died April 14, 1999 (aged 87)
Los Angeles, California, U.S.
Resting place Forest Lawn Memorial Park, Glendale, California, U.S.
Occupation Actress
Years active 1933–1999
Spouse Francis Corby

​(m. 1934; ***. 1944)​
Partner Stella Luchetta

— The End —