"gramma" poems
Vermillion lips smile knowingly
across the room, so at ease it's
almost angelic to see.
He grips his wine glass to almost breaking point,
what the **** is she doing here?
More to the point ,How is she here?
Relationships are like cats, let them out,
and well they'd better be neutered.
That's what gramma said!
Slowly, sensually almost, she sashayed
over to him, she could see his tension,
but not his fear.........yet.
Face to face they smile, but her smile never
reaches her eyes, he stammers, drops his glass,
'Here, she says you need air'
Outside, he's composed
'No one knows, no one knows' he keeps repeating
Who are you talking to darling? She whispers
Not me,I'm dead, you shot me,
I was there, then kicks him hard
Vulnerable alone with his red mouthed wife he screams.
Guests rush out, to their host babbling,
Incoherent, confessing to ******
screaming over and over, blue lights in the distance
Closer and closer, guests now witnesses.
Host now completely within the pain of a mental
Eternal mind slip.
She, moves closer to him, soothes him, sirens closer,
reassures him as he screams,that yes his wife is dead
appeased he looks up in bewilderment.
Oh, me, oh darling brother in law did you forget?
Jo's twin, the one au-pairing abroad when you married
Pleased to meet you
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
I TOLD THAT ************ TO SWING ON ME,
TAKE A CHANCE
MOTHEFUCKER,
TAKE A CHANCE,
I WANNA GET MY *** KICKED,
LET ME
CHILL HERE ON THE EARTH
WHILE YOU STAND OVER ME,
SPITTING
AND
DISSING.
BUT WHEN I GET UP
IMMA BE MAD
ENOUGH
TO SCREAM
AND ****
IMMA BE
A MANIAC
ON YOUR DOORSTEP,
IMMA BE
A ******
WITH NO CHANCES
WHEN I'VE GOT THREE.
SO WHEN YOU SWING ON ME ************
SWING ON ME
AS YOU TRY AN CALL ME A *****
JUST KNOW THAT IMMA COME AT
YOU
WITH A THOUSAND GRENADES
IN MY FINGERTIPS,
AND WHEN YOU DON'T SWING,
AND DON'T DO ****
I'LL KNOW HOW YOU'RE MADE,
IMMA KNOW THAT ALL THAT **** YOU TALK
IS JUST A MISNOMER.
MY FINGERS GRIP MY HEART
AS MUCH
AS THEY GRIP FISTS.
KNOW THAT IMMA CATCH YOU
WITH A RIGHT HOOK
FULL OF VEINS
AND A MAGAZINE
WITH YOUR NAME ON IT.
CHECK ME,
IMMA HIT UP SOMETHIN TONIGHT,
IMMA BRING MY FISTS
LIKE BURNERS,
MAKE YOU FEEL THE FIRE OF HELL,
CAUSE I'M ON THE EDGE,
AND THIS GIRL ****** UP MY HEART,
MY GRAMMA IS AT THE END OF HER ROPE,
MY MAMA IS STILL POOR,
MY SISTER STILL DOESN'T KNOW HERSELF,
AND MY HOMIES
ARE FAR AWAY,
FARTHER THAN YOU CAN SEE,
SO IMMA CHILL ON THIS PULSATING LEVEE.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:30 PM UTC
(a diary for today)
a hungry man
on the corner
cinnamon graham crackers
mom, tattoos, and tears...
tears streaming
for death past
and death future.
for life future.
for life now.
gramma.
violet.
a child laughing,
laughing so hard she sounds
utterly maddened.
stories and lights and wax and
wretched, wretched
life.
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 7:49 PM UTC
Hello baby
Hello Love
Hello sweet heart
Hello
Hello meanie
Hello ******
Hello *****
Hello
Hello Daddy
Hello Sister
Hello Gramma
Hello
Hello me
Hello you
Hello all
Hello
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 1:10 PM UTC
I quite like the virginity of a fresh notebook
the way my wrists and palms drag across its leaves
breathing life between lines in pink magic marker or the severity of red ballpoint
I like the prickly practical meticulousness of a shopping list:
a dozen eggs
one pineapple
one bag of fresh spinach
one bag of English muffins
one bottle of dish soap
I like the tender impressions of curlie cues and firty cursive
communicating endearments placed on counters such as:
TAKE OUT THE RECYCLING YOU LAZY OAF ******* <3 XOXOXO <3
I enjoy the audacity of a wandering doodle
meandering
cartwheeling
hopskotching
between
and under and over
indices
and spaces
between shopping lists and death threats
i enjoy the lingering ghost of prose shaped caverns
carved onto seemingly empty sheets that carry on for pages
until they fade like whispers into an evanescence
I crave the obnoxiousness absurdity of a to do list
daring me to take a day off from procrastination
until tomorrow
call Gramma
rent due on the first of the muuuuuuuunth
take the GRE
update resume
be awesome. like a boss.
most of all
I love the pain and joy of a poem
the way it slowly leaks from heart to mind to hand to paper
staining
spaces
urgently
faster than muses whispers
barely escaping onto lines
prolific terrific poetry
sporadic spacious atrocious poetry
I croon over the denial of the last page of a beat up notebook
the way the paper hangs onto spirals haggard
littered with stringy remnants of lists and reminders and death threats and poems and goodbyes
Dec 5, 2012
Dec 5, 2012 at 12:43 PM UTC
Sitting in this dusty old attic
listening to the shingles flapping in the wind
I flip through a dog-eared book from my childhood.
As I skip through the pages,
I look up and notice the fine inlaid
carpentry work of an old chest.
Going over, leaving prints on the dusty floor,
I lift the lid. With reptilian slowness
a lazy fat spider edges away.
Inside this trove of ancient treasure,
magnificent finds of days gone by.
Mementos of a honeymoon, a parachute jump.
Gramma's best biscuit recipe. A photo of
Sam the hound with spittle running down his jowls.
A picture of a babe at his mother's ******
A permutation of these tucked away articles
give meaning to a life well and truly lived.
Closing the pages of these treasures I
wander away to watch my grandchildren
make memories of their own.
Sep 20, 2011
Sep 20, 2011 at 8:49 PM UTC
People live forever in Jacksonville and St. Petersburg and Tampa,
But you don't have to live forever to become a grampa.
The entrance requirements for grampahood are comparatively mild,
You only have to live until your child has a child.
From that point on you start looking both ways over your shoulder,
Because sometimes you feel thirty years younger and sometimes
thirty years older.
Now you begin to realize who it was that reached the height of
imbecility,
It was whoever said that grandparents have all the fun and none of
the responsibility.
This is the most enticing spiderwebs of a tarradiddle ever spun,
Because everybody would love to have a baby around who was no
responsibility and lots of fun,
But I can think of no one but a mooncalf or a gaby
Who would trust their own child to raise a baby.
So you have to personally superintend your grandchild from diapers
to pants and from bottle to spoon,
Because you know that your own child hasn't sense enough to come
in out of a typhoon.
You don't have to live forever to become a grampa, but if you do
want to live forever,
Don't try to be clever;
If you wish to reach the end of the trail with an uncut throat,
Don't go around saying Quote I don't mind being a grampa but I
hate being married to a gramma Unquote.
2.8k
Gramma always had cookies in her cookie jar
No one ever ate them but me
The jar was her self-portrait
The silvery bun was it's lid
The slight clanging of it as it opened or closed
The smell of it
Even the thought of it,
filled me with joyous anticipation
of its internal goodness
When I was sad, or did a good job
When I worked hard, or was a good helper
When I was sick, or had a rough day
But particularly when I was in trouble
That is when it was most special
She would sneak me off to the kitchen
With a steady hand, like that of a surgeon
She would lift that lid slow and steady without a sound
A feat I have yet to accomplish
Then, in silent winks and sideways glances
When the coast was clear
I got to choose a decidedly undeserved treat
It was in the belly of that cookie jar
That I learned that she would always love me
No matter what
That cookie jar, abandoned and dusty upon a shelf
Recently found and cleaned
Laid in wait upon the table
It had been weeks sitting silent before my visit
I noticed it the moment Ma opened the door
Before the hugs, "hello"
We reminisced about that old empty jar
The jar that never matched her kitchen
The one that was poorly painted by hand
To her its beauty was hideous
She obviously did not know the secrets it held
Our secrets, mine and Gramma's
Happy to be rid of it,
The torch has been passed
As it takes its place of honor in the center of the counter
I notice that its yellow dress and red apron
Match my yellow walls and the red flecks in my curtains
It is at home in my kitchen
Even if my kitchen was purple
Now, its lessons of unconditional, eternal love
Are to be bestowed, unknowingly to my children
They will learn just how much a cookie can fix
And the secrets that are kept deep within
The belly of the cookie jar
Aug 17, 2010
Aug 17, 2010 at 9:00 PM UTC
The swing set was an old thing
like the brittle bones of an elephant
so worn that it had started to forget;
that's what her Gramma said, at least.
But Calpurnia Gray loved it
sat in it
till the seat sagged before she sat down
inviting her to rest.
Calpurnia Gray preferred the city
but the suburbs were what she got
and the swing set looked over some deep gulch of the woods
where even the suburbs ended.
Wilderness.
It filled her with such strange fantasies
of leaping through the trees like an ape
tearing off her clothes
and chasing down game
like some odd Tarzan with cobalt blue painted toe nails.
That would be the life for her if only she could go back
back
to the wilderness on the other side of the suburbs.
To the place where concrete monoliths lit up the sky at night
and rivers of asphalt carved always changing paths
for some intrepid explorer
to find a new bookstore
or museum
or something strange.
But Calpurnia didn't have either.
She had the suburbs.
And the swing set.
The swing set that always sat there, that never got away
the swing set that was crumbling with time and stagnation
but at least it was what she knew.
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 9:21 PM UTC
a home of unrest survives in my old town where
madness seeps through jaundice colored halls,
lapping life from rotted brains.
grim photos of grandchildren
deform walls,
but old folks don’t remember.
they wear nametags.
who am i? residents wail
for mommy, their ’86 kitten,
a bus pass from chicago or
the wrong god.
her eyes are sallow.
tunnel vision, they say.
cloudy hues without purpose.
bags under gramma’s lids hang
like dead gangsters
and bifocals settle around her neck,
in case she gains a pang
of clarity.
Lovely Rita,
once a fat cook is now slender as a fang.
she forgets to eat.
my guttural granny, she stutters
incoherent, mostly.
but today, she babbles
an omen.
watch o u t
thing s are
g o nn a
h h h appen
she retreats,
deteriorating.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
Love, love, love
It runs so deep like the roots of a tree
Connecting together
A flower attracting a bee
Love, love, love
Runs so deep
Heals you and cleans you
The way alcohol does a wounded knee
Love, love, love
You will see
When my gramma looks at me
Love, love, love
smells so good
My grammas baked goods
My grammas pillow case
My grammas hair
And her whole face
Love, love, love
It's everywhere
From the smile formed with her lips
And the softness of her strong gramma hips
To the apron that she wears
And the so tantalizingly familier scent my mother shares
Because
Love, love, love
Paves the way
It will never lead you astray
Love, love, love
It runs so deep like the roots of a tree
It is embedded in you the way it's embedded in me
Love, love, love
Has us entangled
From the inside of beating hearts
To the dirt under the earth.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 9:14 AM UTC
I am from
A yellow house and a little red bike
Bruises and Band-Aids on my knees
From learning every time I fall
I am from
The Band, The Beatles, Buddy Holly, and Bruce Springsteen
Our small kitchen table and Christmas cookies
From a family that almost fits on my Grandparent’s front porch
I am from
Summer memories and freckles and the Field of Dreams
The swimming hole, egg salad sandwiches, popsicles and pecan sandies
From Gramma and Fred and the Mill Road
I am from generations of tiny waists and dainty wrists
Of Marlise and Melissa and M’s
Brown eyes and pine needles and Big Rock
From denial and acceptance
I am from
Tea with my mom and driving with my dad
My beautiful Hazel
From the Harvest Party and my beloved barn
I am from soft white clouds of comforters
A room painted the shade of pink lemonade
Arizonas and cosmic brownies and Matt’s Honeydew melon Sorbet
From Quickway and the Gazebo and Cherry Valley
I am from a collection of keys with no locks
Chewed cuticles and paper cuts
A mouthful of words and a bad habit of tripping
From the love of glue and sharp scissors
I am from years of ***** bare feet
And freedom to be me
Getting the mail everyday except Sunday
From picnic tables and corn on the cob
I am from a love of language and words and poetry
A love of planes and tractors and the Superbowl
A big family as strong as the Brooklyn Bridge
And just as supportive too
I am from my dream catcher
Catching my fantasies of fast cars and shooting stars
A bottle full of memories and polaroids taped to my wall
From hip hop and coca cola and heart shaped sunglasses
I am from the baby freckles on my shoulders
A love of sun and freshly mowed green grass
Brave New World and Brandy Melville
From tweeting and handwritten letters
I am from the studio floor and my ballet slippers
My favorite black leotard and Fuentes
12 years of pointed feet and tutus
From the dressing room and the barre
I am from the Star of David and 8 burning candles
Suburban Philadelphia and Black Friday
Diners and Chinese Food and Fortunes
From my dad
I am from the cornfields and red barns
Chickens and cows, fresh eggs and warm milk
Valedictorians and Ivy leagues
From my mom
But most of all, I am from the puzzle pieces of myself
The dark, dusty, unexplored corners of my brain
The fear of death and rats and failure and loneliness
From the love of life and belief and hope
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 2:58 AM UTC
Tis near the day that you was lost away
departed from this earth yet met with love
into another place
such peace within yet a knowing time was thin
Im happy thats your there with gramma,grandad
love and care
seem strange so long ago we had your madness
love and woes
but now I am at ease that freedom found you and found me
mum i still do see the love you had and gave me
i share it with my son yet hide the troubles that were done
your kindness and your smile
a love of scarborough ..Christmas syle
so another year flies by and yes i'm saddened
oh i bless
take care mothers child see you up there
mum of mine
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 2:47 AM UTC
i was screaming,
right out loud,
as loud
as i could.
crying for
my gramma,
because she
is gone,
and she is
*someone that
i loved.*
and as
i was screaming
her name,
my phone lit up,
vibrated,
and made a sound.
it was my sister.
and at that moment
my little ham,
my own little nephew,
blood of my blood
had realized
that he was
going to
die
someday.
and now i
can't breathe,
for the absolute
severing of my heart.
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:28 PM UTC
I have to tell you girl
you're tempting
like that bowl of sweets
gramma lay down
You're the mystery
in the foil
and I wanna taste
I could put you in words
I can paint you with my fingertips
smear the red of those lips
with my tongue
Wanna run my hand
down the warmth of your curves
down all 6 ft. of you
Wrap my fingers through your hair
that platinum blonde
pull you in
You wanna know love?
I'll come up for a kiss
and show you
Gonna bite the bottom
of those suckable wet lips
taste your sugar
The soft of my skin
my ******* resting on your smooth
from your toes to your hips
Gonna swallow like fine wine
Oh passion lust desire
You could have me
All of me
copyright 2005 Bellabloom
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
It seems so long since you've been gone
Although it hasn't even been a year
I hope your in a better place now,
but I need you so badly down here.
Things are changing so fast for me,
Everything can seem so unclear,
you always had the best advice Gramma,
you always filled my day with cheer.
I wish I could call you on the phone again,
and we could talk all morning long,
How I miss that laugh of yours,
How I miss your song.
I miss when we'd cuddle,
and rock on your comfy chair,
I miss my footy pajamas,
and watching with you, pooh bear.
I miss going to your house,
and running to you with all my might,
But I didn't know how sick you were,
I missed your entire fight.
I miss when you'd sit me down,
and put horrendous ribbons in my hair,
I miss everything about you,
I miss it all, I swear.
Where ever you are right now,
I hope you always knew
that this little girl loved her Gramma
and that this young woman will love her too.
I love you dearest Gramma,
and even though my life must go on,
just know down here we miss you,
I can't accept you being gone.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 7:15 AM UTC
Oh those dixie paper cup
Forgotten childhood love
Dead dead heart
Dead dead soul above
Wake up deary, now
Story book picture bow
A great job done
Illegal fun
Before word gets out
Someone said wake up
Someone said get out
Mirror dreams and fever parts
Damp rememberings
Softly summer breeze
With lilac smell
Feeding bees
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC
Little bird
his back turned down in his cage
the fluffy down beneath the feathers
reminding me he was once a chick
and not so long ago
(though far away in bird years).
The stillness of him seems
like it should dash away soon
and he will flip himself back up
and start fluttering
and calling in that way
that zebra finches do
saying "hey, hey, hey, hey"
As his feathers fall into place, though,
the stillness sets in
slowly
like pouring syrup on your pancakes
Death, sickly sweet
crystallizing over his beak and legs
orange and stiff
like hard candies my great gramma used to eat.
And suddenly, even the movement of death stops
and there is nothing left but death.
Frozen as a candied bird
Oh, little bird
I'll be there soon
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC
Why are you awake?
Because daddy wanted you to live
Mommy wanted you to love
Your siblings thought you words through out your life
Your exes kept your mind preoccupied
Your future lover is picture perfection in your mind,
And your future children are standing in a line.
why are you alive?
because
mommy and daddy love so much
gramma and gramppa approved and blessed them
uncles and aunties pleased with the love surrounding
sons and daughters too young to even walk
but some could hear them talk
nieces and nephews are so very confused
while they sip on a cup of honeydew
Why do you live?
Because I love you.
Mar 27, 2016
Mar 27, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC
Everyone says I should love myself
But they don't realize this life I call hell
I'm supposedly part of West Medford's ghetto
I don't think of it that way
I've lived in it my whole life
I didn't even have the thought to ever cry
People would tell me not to be weak
Not to cry, keep an eye open when you sleep
My grandpa died and everything went down
I hated my life
I learned how to cry
And my daddy saw
How bad I wanted to die
We didn't do anything
Until I was 13
Now I love my life, most of the time
I think about my Great Gramma and I have those bad thought
She died while I was in treatment
I still can't believe it
I didn't talk to her before she died
I feel so bad for all the lies
I just lay there and cut and cry
I'm trying so hard
I even stopped cutting
But it's getting bad when I don't have anyone with me!
Jul 8, 2013
Jul 8, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
I WANT TO SPEND CHRISTMAS AT MICKEY'S HOUSE THIS YEAR.
I WANT TO STROLL DOWN MAIN STREET, EATING A CHOCOLATE EAR.
I WANT TO RIDE ON DUMBO, CLIMB IN ROBINSON'S TREE.
I WANT TO SPEND CHRISTMAS AT MICKEY'S HOUSE WON'T SOMEONE PLEASE TAKE ME.
IF I MUST SPEND MY HOLIDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS, PLEASE MAKE IT SPACE OR SPLASH.
I'LL HOLD MY ARMS ABOVE MY HEAD, AND SMILE FOR THE CAMERAS FLASH.
I'LL SEARCH FOR HIDDEN MICKEY'S WHILE I STAND IN LINE.
OH' WHEN IS THE THREE O'CLOCK PARADE, I MUST BE THERE ON TIME.
I WANT TO SPEND CHRISTMAS AT MICKEY'S HOUSE THIS YEAR.
I WANT TO STROLL DOWN MAIN STREET EATING A CHOCOLATE EAR.
I WANT TO RIDE IN A TEACUP, DID THOSE PIRATE'S GET THAT KEY?
I WANT TO SPEND CHRISTMAS AT MICKEY'S HOUSE WON'T SOMEONE PLEASE TAKE ME!
IF I GO ON A CRUISE, IN THE FRIENDLY JUNGLE, LET IT BE,
AND LATER HAVE A PALE GREEN GHOST, SITTING NEXT TO ME.
I WANT TO SPEND CHRISTMAS WITH THE PRESIDENTS IN THEIR HALL,
AND MY FAVORITE FRIENDS, MICKEY, GOOFY, DONALD, AND THEM ALL.
I WANT TO SPEND CHRISTMAS AT MICKEY'S HOUSE THIS YEAR.
I WANT TO STROLL DOWN MAIN STREET EATING A CHOCOLATE EAR.
I WANT TO RIDE A SPORTS CAR, LISTEN TO A STORM IN THE OLD TIKI.
I WANT TO SPEND CHRISTMAS AT MICKEY'S HOUSE THIS YEAR, WON'T SOMEONE PLEASE PLEASE TAKE ME!!
IF NO ONE WILL TAKE ME, I'LL HIDE IN SANTA'S SLEIGH.
HE'S ALWAYS IN THE CHRISTMAS PARADE, SO HE MUST BE ON HIS WAY.
I KNOW I WILL GET THERE, IF I HAVE TO RUN, WALK, OR CRAWL.
I WILL PROVE TO EVERYONE, IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL.
I WANT TO SPEND CHRISTMAS AT MICKEY'S HOUSE THIS YEAR.
I WANT TO STROLL DOWN MAIN STREET EATING A CHOCOLATE EAR.
OH' PLEASE MOM AND DAD, WHAT'S GRAMMA'S AND GRAMPA'S NUMBER, MAYBE UNCLE DONNIE'S, OR AUNT KATHY'S.
I WANT TO SPEND CHRISTMAS AT MICKEY'S HOUSE WON'T SOMEONE PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, TAKE ME!!!
Dec 25, 2021
Dec 25, 2021 at 11:36 AM UTC
What a small room - my finger traces dust across the plain table.
What did Grandma DO here? I glance around for electrical sockets - none to be seen.
Her life was spent staring out the window, at 3D life, but only seeing memories.
I go to the wall and test the switch
a bare light bulb illuminates an area with a hot plate.
"Jesus", I mumble.
Why would she live in this shabby room?
Was this a punishment? Like a place where a nun would live?
No, I self correct in my mind Gramma was the sweetest person on earth.
I walk three steps, twirl and flop on my back, on the bed.
Dust explodes off the bare mattress in the sunlight
slanting through the grimy, half-open, shadeless window.
I wave and blow the dust away and now I'M lost in memory..
She was ninety-three - I never heard her say an unkind word
In that tiny, sand-papery whisper of a voice.
She always wanted me to sit in her lap, she wanted to brush my hair.
From 10 on I was bigger than she was and afraid I'd break her.
"Don't you worry over ME", she'd say with a chuckle, "I'm an old piece of leather."
Her cheeks were pink and wrinkled like old rose petals. Her hair a white bun.
"I miss you Gramma", I whisper.
Jun 25, 2020
Jun 25, 2020 at 10:29 AM UTC
War is warning of chaos if the dragon is slain,
whathe-el, yes,
god, yes,
we have a myth for for this, for now,
a metaphor, aforethought, it is
that Promethean redemption,
aha, the sun goes down,
let the healing begin,
this is a classic,
not every inspiring thing has origins in a book.
Word, gramma say, way back,
-- reminds me, I put gas in the Prius today,
as I walked in to buy some papers,
in the little store where the
**** bays was, back when I first heard
Johnny Cash, thinking' he was some kinda
man in black, from assorted darkness legends,
I hear him singin'
I fell in to a burnin' rang o' fire, went
down
down,
the flames shot higher…
I was about seven… **** bays was where
hot-rodders and cruisers hung out,
if you grew up on a paved road
to California and Nevada,
at a junction in time and space,
~ 150-170 miles south of all the tests,
same winds that brang rain t' St. George…
The moment, the music, a crossover hit,
hallelujah,
like
-- reminds me,
as I walked in to buy some papers,
in the little store where the
young Chaldean manning the store hears me,
as I -- say, ********* HAHA, as I re-cogitate the first
bars of I walk the line, then I see the
guy behind the sneeze, wall agree,
I love this music, we both say,
and he goes on to say,
I wonder what it was like to be alive
when he was alive…
I swipe my card and say, it was like
being alive when I was alive.
like
-- reminds me,
mark that fact - you spoke to an old man
buying papers, this is the future,
did you never read of the last being first?
the boy bade me have a nice day.
So I did.
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 8:31 PM UTC
When Grampa and I first started going together he took me to the state fair and we got on the Ferris wheel. Ya know Gramma is scared of heights. Well we went on the Ferris wheel, and stopped at the very top. Then grampa just started a'rockin the seat. I was so mad at him, and promised I'd never go on another ride with him. And I didn't until the grand babies came along.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
She was washing dishes,
Putting things away,
Glad for a little quiet after the fray,
Hospital bills would be coming,
Juggling bills to pay,
But she was glad for the quiet today.
Sam came in with dirt on his face
From playing "trucks" on the drive,
And trailing a gritty wet trail
For a cookie or two and some milk with his Mom.
She milk-dunked an Oreo
Looked at her son, and said,
"What shall we do for today?"
To the milk-mustached boy
Who'd barely made it to five.
"How 'bout checkers?" he asked,
And she looked hard at him,
"Where did you learn how to play?"
"At the doctor's," he said,
As he dipped cookies in,
And startled his mother again.
"Honey, who taught you to play?"
"Max and I played. He showed me how,"
He said with a straight, serious face
As she spilled the milk from her glass.
"Honey, Max has been gone for two years!"
"I know, Mom, and now he is six, and not three.
In heaven, you get to decide.
And Grampa and Gramma came up to say hi,
And numbers were swirling around."
She paused, now uncertain, and mopping up milk,
"So did you see Jesus?" she said.
"Yup, Jesus was there. He said I could visit,
but I had to go back," Sam looked at her matter of fact.
"Can I go play now?" And outside he went,
Brown smudges still stuck on his chin.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC