"grampa" poems
You're the wind the blows the treetops
It rustles through my hair
The hand that touches my shoulder
Quietly, you are there.
You're the story left unfinished
A poem left untouched
For 20 years you fought alone
20 years escaped Death's clutch.
For 14 years you held me
Through plays and concerts all
You filled up puzzles and read the books
Alone, you stood so tall.
You told me all the stories
Answered that question many times
Why I never did see Grampa,
Why I never saw you cry.
You showed me all the pictures
Played Santa on Christmas morn'
We made fruit salad on holidays
You've loved me since I was born.
Not once did I say goodbye to you
See you later, kiss goodnight
I'd see you in the morning
Bananas and donuts under the counter light.
You were a genius in your own way
But never flaunted it so
You taught me games I'd not thought of
You loved me more than you could show.
We offered you a guard dog
A cat to spend your days
You never were an animal person
Dependence is not your ways.
You got home from bingo one night
Laid down to rest your head
Your sister woke to call you
Somehow, you weren't out of bed.
From then on you hid your voice from us
Never to be heard again
Tests and cards and flowers, too
Not one, not two- more than ten!
Leading up to then, you'd had enough
Enough for a lifetime, I suppose,
Because one night you took your final breath
Your cheeks lost the color of rose.
I've never been the hugging type,
And I handle sadness on my own
Crying in front of others
Is something I've never been shown.
The next week had been quite tough
But your sister was always there
Your sister, my Nana, the only one
She told us she would always care.
We said goodbye, a final one,
I tried my hardest not to cry
I'd only said goodnight my life
Not once have I said goodbye.
Sometimes I wish we got you the dog
Maybe we'd share another morn'
I love you for the rest of my life,
The one I miss and adore.
It was the night you'd not return
None of us know why
But now we know you're happy
Playing bingo with Grampa in the sky.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 4:02 PM UTC
I remember my old Grampa
And the way he used to look
He had so many stories
He was much better than a book
I remember on our visits
While the folks would head outside
Gramps would get us grandkids
And take us for a story ride
He'd hitch up the hay wagon
We'd get up and off we'd go
Then gramps would start to talking
And so began the show
He'd tell us all the stories
Of our folks when they were young
Some he had to censor,
And sometimes bite his tongue
Now, Grandpa told the stories
Whether we were in or out
And we'd all sit and listen
To what they were all about
When we'd gather by the fire
He'd pull up his rocking chair
He'd have his pipe and all us grandkids
And his dog, Whiskey, always there
We'd all sit in front of Grandpa
We'd want to take in every word
And he would speak up louder
To make sure that we heard
He'd tell us tales of Cowboys
Of bank robbers and the trail
Of how the west became the west
And how his horse once lost his tail
The folks would gather round too
When it was almost time to go
But, Grandpa, being Grandpa
Wasn't set to end the show
See, he'd told the tales forever
To our folks and all their friends
You could tell that some were truthful
And in some the truth....well....bends
The older ones among us
Knew deep down that most were fake
But, to see old Grandpa work the room
Man, that man just took the cake
We'd get together monthly
All us kids stayed close to home
We weren't like lots of others
Who had that built in urge to roam
The stories, we'd learn later
Were mostly from TV
He'd be talking of those cowboys
And of how things used to be
A few years back we lost him
His dog had up and died
Gramps old heart was broken
He couldn't take it, though he tried
My brother tells the stories,
Not as good as Gramps at rhyme
But, the kids all hunker round him
I'm sure that he'll be good in time
We still go on the hayrides
Tell ghost stories now instead
To all us grown up grandkids
We still hear grandpa in our head
Each month we get together
There's near a hundred now in all
The kids go with my brother
And he tells tales ten feet tall
The stories are consistent
Of old cowboys and the west
I can close my eyes and listen
And still like Grandpa's versions best
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 11:47 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
Just because they have disappeared
does not mean that
i'm clutter-free.
It's a cluster-free, a clusterfuck of ******* insanity.
My uncle left right after
my Grampa's funeral,
split like a chicken's *****
"he's in the airforce
or some other human-processing factory,"
Ma would say to me.
My aunt mable,
dipped out
dripped out two kids
then split
like a pillsbury biscuit.
My aunt pat's mom,
left Aunt pat on Aunt FLo's doorstep,
in the sole of her instep,
stepped out on a kid
and a husband
with a left shoe,
the right one
was left behind.
My pops
was forced out,
I saw him drag Ma
through the halls,
saw him whip her face in
with the brass-end
of a leather belt,
everybody's face was leathery
when the cops came in.
There is a litany of disappearing faces
in my family picture, a litany
of the disappeared
who reappear
over thanksgiving and christmas dinners,
when we wax nostalgiac
or hurt
over turkey,
gravy,
and biscuits.
Over love
and how many are missing.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 12:24 AM UTC
—Flash Forward—
A day of reckoning.
A small boat crosses
the Hudson River,
no warning horn.
Destination New Jersey,
of all places.
A. Burr isn’t warned
that Hamilton will not
fire his pistol.
Destiny predetermined.
“Death doesn’t discriminate
Between the sinners and the saints,
It takes and it takes and it takes.
History obliterates.”
—Flashback—
General.
Colonel.
Aide-de-camp.
Immigrant.
“Don’t engage, strike by night.
Remain relentless ‘til their troops take flight.”
“We escort their men out of Yorktown.
They stagger home single file.
Tens of thousands of people flood the streets.”
“Took up a collection just to send him to the
mainland.
‘Get your education. Don’t forget from whence
you came.’”
—Stepfather of the Union—
Treasury secretary, author of the Federalist Papers,
lawyer, speechwriter, confidante, opponent of slavery,
member of the Constitutional Convention.
“History has its eyes on you.”
“I’ve seen injustice in the world and I’ve
corrected it.”
“The Federalist: Addressed to the People
of the State of New York.”
“Goes and proposes his own form
of government.”
—Family and Marriage—
The Schuyler Sisters – Eliza.
Maria and James Reynolds – adultery and bribery.
Philip Hamilton – successor son and victim.
Philip Schuyler – father-in-law.
“And if this child
Shares a fraction of your smile
Or a fragment of your mind, look out, world!”
“I know you’re a man of honor,
I’m so sorry to bother you at home.”
“I’m only nineteen but my mind is older,
Gonna be my own man, like my father
but bolder.”
“Grampa just lost his seat in the Senate.”
—Why, How, How long?—
Why not?, biography,
genius, rapid-fire rap,
hip-hop, historical vertigo,
Lin-Manuel Miranda at the White House,
a cast talented beyond measure,
the Great White Way,
2017-18 and forever….
“…13 percent of the population is foreign
born, which is near an all-time high;
that one day soon there will no longer
be majority and minority races, only a
vibrant mix of colors.”
‒Jeremy McCarter, from Chapter I of
Hamilton: The Revolution
*© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016
With credit to the book:*
Hamilton: The Revolution
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
My Treasure Box
My treasure box may never
behold
precious metals like
silver and gold,
It's contents are simple
worthless to most
but still I'll cherish
until I grow old.
My mother's voice
on an old cassette tape,
I listen as I journey
to work every day.
A butterfly pin made
only of brass,
that once was my Grandmother's
way back in the past.
To the world they're worthless
but for me a treasure,
no price tag attached
mine forever.
My Grampa's poetry every
verse he wrote,
though the lines have faded
I remember them so.
My treasure box may be simple
it's true ,
filled with gifts from the heart
and memories too.
The things that matter most
in this life,
can never be bought
no matter the price.
Written By Kathy J Parenteau
Copyright © 06/28/2014
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
I miss the look on your face when you saw me
I miss the smell on of the smoke on your skin
I miss the small, silver camera you held in your hand
I missed you the moment you'd taken me in
I miss the long drives past rolling corn feilds
I miss the tissue crumpled in my hand
I miss the trailer sat 10 feet from your porch light
I missed you the moment that I knew I can
I miss the family that I'd never known there
I miss my neices blue eyes, curly hair
I miss when Aunt Nikkie painted my nails green
It started chipping, but I didn't care
I miss the fireflies that I couldn't catch
I miss the movies you forced me to watch
I miss the ashtrays all over the house
I missed the jokes I continue to botch
I miss the grapes that you stuck by my bedside
I miss the feel of my neice on my lap
I miss my cousins attempting to drown me
I even miss Tristan, whom I wanted to slap
I miss the day that they took me out shopping
I miss watching movies with them late at night
I miss winning money on Grampa's 10 slot machines
I miss how hard those mosquitos would bite
I miss the day that you bought me a pizza
I miss the way that smoked everyday
I miss the drive to the airport that morning
I miss your face, as you drove away
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
For those among us who lived by the rules,
Lived frugal lives of pubis-scratching desperation;
For those who sustained a zombie-like state for 30 or 40 years,
For these few, our lucky few—
We bequeath an interactive Life-Alert emergency dogtag,
Or a dog, a colossal beast of a pet,
A humongus Harlequin Dane dog to feed,
For that matter, why not buy a few new cars before you die?
Your home mortgage is dead and buried.
We gave you senior-citizen rates for water, gas & electricity—
“The Big 3,” as they are known in certain Gasoline Alley-retro
Neighborhoods among us,
Our parishes.
Our boroughs.
All this and more, had you lived small,
Had you played by the rules for Smurfs & Serfs.
We leave you the chance to treat your grandkids
Like Santa’s A-List clientele,
“Good ‘ol Grampa,” they’ll recollect fondly,
“Sweet Grammy Strunzo,” they will sigh.
What more could you want in retirement?
You’ve enabled another generation of deadbeat grandparents,
And now you’re next in line for the ice floe,
To be taken away while still alive,
Still hunched over and wheezing,
On a midnight sleigh ride,
Your son, pulling the proverbial Eskimo sled,
Down to some random Arctic shore,
Placing you gently on the ice floe.
Your son; your boy--
A true chip off the igloo, so to speak.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 10:22 AM UTC
" i always wondered if fish drooled ? " she said... and left it there like a cartoon tumbleweed, caked in glitter and sprite phlegm. she stood across an ocean on an island of outlandish abandonment, where all the mirrors crack. her passing quakes the stain off her daily betrothal
to a toothless bigot in the land of freedom's end in the hovel of her heart's fall from appointed grace. a place of a thousand cuts and no car. waaaay out in the country of her diminished affections, her eyes could be seen wandering the burnt out villa of her lost love, where she recalls the fairy rings piercing her lips and the trembling of her youth, finding a slow hand to explore the wet *** without peril, soaring with her palm, plastered to a feathered bed in a guest room, in a time-share.
grampa sleep. and bird's nest pitch black.
" i always wondered if fish drooled ? " she said... she slept through it... on to the next disconnect to get intimate with. she left me there, like a chocolate mint resting on a pillow made of shards of habitual flagellation by candle light and instinct; resting on a bed of nails rusting
in the flood plain of her fondest wish.
she left me there
to conspire with her better demons, to witness - the benign desperation of her frenzied exploration
of actual actualization... to watch her ****** from the jaws of a dire wolf,
her bleeding heart and her ransom.
with her bare teeth and a naked
Truth.
you should have seen her face.
i tattooed her secrets on the iris of a blind ghost, i swore it " abide in her broken heart like an open door with a cool breeze slinking through the fetid air of her self defeat and stale bread bumble bees.
and to abide by her rules
when she finds them... then to ghostly fall
upon his ghost sword by midnight
with a smile that tells hell it cannot claim what rises.
a smile that spat at the devil and pitied his children.
a ghost smile that stole a book from a museum
and never told his other
books why.
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 5:07 AM UTC
Grandpa?
Tell us about the flowers again.
"I don't like to tell those stories anymore little Bug."
but you write allll your poems about the flowers
you have so much love in you papa!
"I don't remember the flowers, Bug."
you have to remember the flowers!
you spent years telling the world about them on stage!
How the sunflower invited you to an occupied bed
and you stayed there for shelter
imagined a future with her, another child
But You found your child in the pansie
when the sunflower left for Hotter adventures.
You really loved the pansies Grampa
"Yes I did, more than anything."
Every time you met a flower you left them for the pansies!
the pansies are so pretty
they had you obsessed grandpa, you were addicted you said!
how they smelled, how they felt on your fingers
but they were always getting into danger and never listened to you
they made you feel like you were broken
and they were withering away
All of your flowers always went without eating grandpa!
why didn't you water them?
"I promise you bug, I watered them plenty."
crying on them doesn't help grandpa,
you needed to feed them
"I fed them plenty"
Did you feed them enough sun?
you always said you kept them in
with the windows shut, that's why they withered
until they all left you for the sun
"The sun left me, they didn't leave me for the sun."
No the forget me nots took the sun from you
you said that a lot
how she stole the happiness from you and gave you this poetry
how you really can never forget her
and you hate that it's her favorite flower
because it seems enchanted on purpose to haunt you.
"Let's talk about a different flower"
Ooh the daffodil didn't eat either
she wrote poems about it! and she even wanted to plant a bunch of poison for you
she kept coming back too! all the flowers came and went with the seasons
she gave you so much that you practically died when she left
you were poor and got sick from not eating
crashed your car and tried to **** yourself
"these aren't casual things you should be talking about in passing with your grandpa bug"
but it's all in your poetry!
the pansies really loved you grandpa.
The sunflowers gave you Charity because it's what they knew
The daffodils supported you when you both needed each other
the forget-me-nots are the reason for all your trauma and will stick with you for the rest of your life
but the pansies kept coming back because they loved you
you didn't offer each other anything other than love
you didn't drive each other or pay for bills
you didn't even like to go out but you did, because it was a reason to be together
What's your favorite Flower Grandpa?
"I never had one when I was asked"
when was the last time you were asked?
"when the pansies first told me their name"
what did you say?
"I said goodbye...
but not for long
you know me and the pansies"
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 2:46 AM UTC
For years
the square inner courtyard,
surrounded by sky-reaching apartment complexes,
accessible only through brief
openings
between the buildings
whose windows looked down
soullessly upon our child's play,
contained my entire world,
and I did not perceive any difference
in the hands, faces, and seasonal limbs
of my friends--
But when I returned
the openings had closed,
the courtyard inaccessible
to an unrecognizable Cincinnati child
whose white face and green eyes
brought only memories--
1884, 1929, 1944, 1967,
and angry April showers
that drowned disapproving windows
in curfews of 2001.
And I do understand.
But,
Would the windows open if they knew
there's black in my line,
way back in my line,
from a time when ships like the Delta Queen--
sailed the Middle Passage
monikered in false virtue
granted by titles like Henrietta Marie--
brought African queens instead of slot machines--
when the fields of mud ran with blood
hemorrhaged from Makhulu's
innocence forcibly stolen
by Grampa's lust.
Now I must window
watch my own daughter,
recalling the lesson
on the names of the week:
You know daddy,
someone just made those names up.
And I can see
beyond her blonde pig-tails--
the darkness of her eyes
recalls the act of shame--
coupled with the sharp wit
of a chained matriarch standing proudly
on the auction block declaring:
These waterways are all connected.
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 8:22 PM UTC
Stupid Kohl's commercial
Poking fun that she's not here
It'll be a lonely Christmas
Without Mrs. Claus this year.
They decorate the woman's house
With golden garland, lights
Hang the diamonds from the tree
For when she comes home that night.
It's like they knew she wasn't home
But I guess her home is now up there
She can celebrate with Grandpa now
I just wish they were still here.
No more Santa ornaments
Or stockings hanging low
No more fruit salad parties
Or reindeer food in the snow.
I can't seem to fathom it
That I must make another wreath
That this year you won't be helping us
No more Christmas specials to see.
So when I have the jingle bear
And I play the song for kicks
J-I-N-G-L-E Bells
I'll cry at the memories that stick.
I really love the holidays
I'd love them more if you hadn't gone
Enjoy your Christmas with Grampa, please
And play me the jingle song.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 11:05 PM UTC
GRAMPA THE SOFT BALL PLAYER
………by Jerry Howarth
5/26/16
Grampa is a legend in the softball world
He was voted into the Softball Hall of Fame
When ever Grampa was scheduled to pitch
It broke the attendance record every game.
Grampa was a fast ball pitcher
For the Perry Baptist church team.
He was having fun, just messing around,
But with every game Grampa picked up steam.
He began to experiment releasing the ball,
making it curve left & right, drop and rise,
He even learned to make a slow pitch,
Making it difficult for the batter’s eyes
Grampa had a favorite trick he loved to play The crowd thought it was super great!
The ball started out fast then changed slow
“How slow did it get Grampa?” “So slow
the batter swung three times before it crossed the plate.
Well Grampa’s pitching became so well known
The major leagues began competing with many others,
Offering Grampa Millions of dollars.
Grampa developed a fast ball so fast that…
“How fast was it, Grampa Parson?”
It was so fast it was beyond measur’n.
Now Grampa had what he called his
Roller coaster pitch that no one could ever hit
It was such a crazy pitch, he had it patented
So no one else could copy and use it
Grampa was now playing on a professional team, making over a million bucks a year,
His agent made a deal for $20,000 a game
Every time he pitched a no hitter
Every game he played was a no hitter,
Thanks to his patented pitch
At $20,000.00 a game
Grampa was getting really, really rich!
But back to Grama’s special pitch,
It was greatly irritating to every batter
They were determined to knock that ball
Right down Gramp’s kooka-defrater
Hear the crowd yelling, whistling, and clapping
Coming up to bat is the world home run king!
Here it comes, that, fast, slow pitch
The home run king gives three mighty swings.
Three strikes an yer out, the rules of the game
It’s the first time in the history of soft ball fast pitch, that a batter strikes out on
just one pitch
This poem cannot end without a mention
About Grampa batting power
That’s right, Grampa hit a ball so hard,
It sailed about a thousand miles or so
It broke out a window in the Trump Tower.
YEAH It did! And broke Donald’s favorite champagne drinking glass.
Well this is enough humble bragging about
When Grampa G. E. Parson was a Grandson
And I hope the reading of this poem
Was a lot of fun !
-Grampa G.E. Parson
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 7:50 PM UTC
He reminds me of magic -
child's eyes; quick, wise, fearful eyes
swallowed by folds on folds of time
How old he looks
the man with the child in his eyes
"Take my strength, Grampa"
a squeeze
he knows I'm here
and a river of
love strength frustration
travels up
down
my
our
arms
like an electric current.
Some ghosts photographs leave smiles on my mind
hugs like big, warm, heavy blankets
safe in Grampa's arms
still a little girl
*if I could take off this **** mask I could make him smile*
Sliding down a razor blade in slow motion
A monster that eats you up from the inside
is scarier
than any
hiding under my bed
shakes
shivers
timbers fall
even the strongest of old oak trees
Apr 25, 2012
Apr 25, 2012 at 5:33 AM UTC
Mom was watching from the window as I
Left the safety of my house, and my yard and
Started walking to my friend’s house. It was
Only two doors away, and she figured even a
Four year old could go that far without getting into
Trouble. Trouble is, I had to sit down halfway there. Maybe
To tie my shoe, maybe to pull on my boot, maybe
I was just tired.
Trouble is, Grampa Ulrich (Ninety years old, preacher, retired)
Chose just that instant to back his car out of his driveway.
But I was sitting in his driveway. Mom watched.
I can’t imagine her horror as he backed his car over me.
Grampa Ulrich, feeling the proverbial “Bump in the Road” – pulled
Forward again. My leg broke in two places. Mom watched.
How tall is a four year old? What separates his leg from his life?
Mom watched. Who else was watching?
Mom died last year. Who is watching me now?
Phil Lindsey 7/18/15
Jul 22, 2015
Jul 22, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
The devil told my grampa The day that he would die
And my grampa told my grandma And she thought it was a lie
Then the day came and my Grampa he lay dead Just like the devil said
A train cut off his arms and legs
And it's a story that my mother told to me
Some people say that it's too hard to believe, but
You gotta believe that my mother never lies
She's never in her life and my grampa he did die, yeah
My father he's hard-workin' man
The devil's never had a hand In anything he did
He's the hardest workin' man I've ever seen
But I guess his hardest work, It never worked on me, 'cause
He thinks I'm lazy and he
Thinks that I'm a shame because I haven't got a job any Money or a name and:
He's worried about me and what I'm gonna do
How I'm gonna live I hope the devil's worried too, yeah
My lover she's what keeps me alive
She's the only thing I like in this World that I despise
She sings and her voice is soft and sweet
She whistles in the shower and Somehow she loves me
My grandson asked me once, he said "Grampa are you crazy?" and I said "Just a touch" and
I Got out my guitar, I showed him how to play and
I Taught him how to sing the song a little out of key, yeah
And the devil sang with me, and the devil sang with me
On my shoulder like a friend that never leaves
And the devil sang with me, and the devil sang with me
On my shoulder like a friend that never leaves
Dec 9, 2011
Dec 9, 2011 at 6:37 PM UTC
Talking to cousin.
Told him I'm cutting.
He just says.
"What do you think grampa would say
if he saw you cutting.?
I broke into tears
And now Im ballin'
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
In the corner, a sign: “Welcome back students!”
(Oh, who could doubt Bud Light’s sincerity?)
“The townies are nice,
(As far as they go)
But the size of their tabs doth butter no bread.”
Merchants of spirits will always prefer
The deluge over the modest trickle.
Full for a weeknight, this place seems to me.
The close, thick air,
Breathed in by too many lungs,
Shows off proudly its perfume
Of grease, old sweat,
And stale, sour hops.
How many paramours have been drawn by that scent?
Lines of glass soldiers stand at attention,
Waiting to be drained of their courage,
Shot by shot.
Bitterness is sweet here,
A flavor to be savored,
Rolled ‘round the tongue then swallowed down;
An arid rain to dry wet fields.
An old, kind, self-conscious biker-type,
My grandfather’s ghost tends bar.
A red bandana over a ponytail stirs black and white memories;
Long legs astride a battered black Harley,
Easy grin tearing the corners of his lips,
Faded, cliché bald eagle tattoos
Adorning weather-leathered arms.
Grampa Chuck serves drinks with a smile
To the hot press of bodies that encircle him.
Sounds of glee and mirth pierce through the murmur
Of robot buzzing bees,
And generic rock music,
That no one listens to but everyone must talk over—
They did not come for the music any more than they came for the alcohol.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 4:01 AM UTC
Ghosts
©1984 Joel M. Frye
There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.
A woman on a suitcase,
The porter in mid-stride;
Two kids, an old man watching
For that train they'll never ride.
“Hey, Grampa, where's old 99?”
“She won't come through again.
The interstate's a-rolling
Where we used to catch the train.”
There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.
The steel canal, it nailed the lid
On Mr. Clinton's dream.
The iron horse died of drowning
Underneath an asphalt stream.
There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.
“Hey, Grampa, where's old 99?”
“She won't come through again.
Six-ninety goes a-rolling
Where we used to catch the train.”
There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC
the backroad to
Florence, the one along Elm
that cuts past the McDermott
trailer park--
from matt's house past
Cedar and the old liquor store
at 50mph the cicadas sound more
like a cry or a lingering scream
the crickets don't stop for passing trucks
creaking to the metronome of a swishing
cow tail
farmers switch off their brights, come around
corners slow, in striped beat up Chevys, rusty
toolboxes weakly sliding from side to side
like their owners in threadbare leather seats
the young kids trail close, bumper
to bumper on a two-lane road, just me and
some kid named after his grampa, poppy,
Clint, who needs to get home before
mama chews him out--
sunday service still warm from this morning
where a single beetle clung to the wall and translated
my father's sermon, morse code for the elders, for the
elk and deer, he's been known to speak to hummin'birds
anyway, I think.
Sep 18, 2016
Sep 18, 2016 at 5:19 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
I just cry and cry sometimes not to be near them.
Those pictures, those old, old pictures just get to me so bad.
And I'm a sobbing mess on my bed.
My grumpy grandma Debbie.
My goofy grampa Tony.
My precious big cousin Jestin.
My baby, oh god my baby... 3 year old Conor.
My family, who helped my mother and I so much
in our rough times.
Took me in and
really really loved me.
In their little old beat up house that I love so much.
"Mermaid" tuna sandwiches made from grampa,
and sloppy joe's with plastic cheese from grandma
were delicacies.
Blowing bubbles with Jestin, digging that huge hole with Jestin, and laying on the back step with my eyes closed in the sun, were my most favorite things.
Still would be.
Thousands of miles cannot weaken
the magnetic pull that I will always feel toward them.
May 16, 2016
May 16, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
Dad...can you tell me where is Mom?
is it that hard to answer?
Yes, I know:
she went with Grandpa, and she's with uncle Sam but,
why did she leave us so soon?
wll you ever stop crying every night?
am I not grown up enough to know the truth?
Did she love me?
do you love me, dad?
Grandma told me, she loved me with all her heart,
that you and grampa too
and that you all have all your fate in me,
but your face seems to be so sad
I know you hide it behind your smile.
Dad...why your nightmares never stop?
are you still dreaming about the War?
last night you were calling Mom out loud,
I'm sad for you,
what can I do for you?
aren't you happy for me?
next year I'll become a man.
I'm 13 now!!!
Am I not good enough to stop
your war against the world.
Dad...did you and Mom did that for me?
did she choose, or was it you?
I'm the only one to blame
my birth just became disgrace.
Her life for mine,
Your happiness for mine,
would you be happier if you were with her
instead of me?
do you feel that I take her away from you?
Dad, please tell me,
are you proud of me?
please don't make me cry
can you sing me a song?
will you forgive me?
you think she's sad for us?
I don't beleive in your words,
you don't love me...
my life is away from light
I'm a ghost now,
behold what's left of your son...
am I not beautiful?
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 7:20 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