"granda" poems
I'm not anti-gay;
I enjoin their parades.
I'm not anti-lesbian;
In truth,
I'm in love with them.
I'm not anti-trannie;
I'm Granda not Granny.
I'm not anti-bi;
But still I won't try.
I'm not a misogynist;
Though I use the word chick.
I'm not Questioning,
Anyone.
I'm Pro-Life,
And Pro-Choice.
A singular voice.
Take it easy.
I've foibles
Shared by
The race.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 3:29 PM UTC
My Grandmother's Hands
My Grandmother's hands told many tales
Of scrubbing steps and broken nails
Hand-washing clothes in enamel sink
Red football socks turned white towels pink
When not baking cakes at the old gas stove
Rag-rugs with old scraps of material she wove
Pantry shelves filled with powdered egg
Homemade rice pudding sprinkled with nutmeg
Sea-coal burning on an open coal fire
Bread on a toasting fork burning like a pyre
Grandma plumping up pillows from beneath granda’s head
Applying ointment to sores caused by being confined to bed
Hours spent at auctions bidding with her hand
Buying an incomplete bed wasn't what she planned
Back home in time for tea, crumpets and homemade strawberry jam,
I can still recall the smell of it, bubbling in the pan
Switching tv channels with a flick of her wrist
That’s how we did it back then, when remotes did not exist
Working hard all of her life, meeting everyone's demands
Every line and wrinkle told a story
On my Grandmother's hands
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 11:09 AM UTC
Zombies are waddling toward their door.
Witches are cackling, black cats are scratching,
And the ghouls want brains and more.
But Brig and Ophelia aren’t scared yet,
They’re waiting inside,
Gobbling strange snacks while they hide.
It’s bugs they like to chew and gnaw;
And they love to eat their spiders raw,
Not fried with onions, like Granda;
Or served with broccoli, like Nana.
Not boiled with worms and creepy crawlers.
Ciaran eats those,
Not these crazed daughters.
Ophelia and Brig
Eat them raw,
Alive, not dead,
With wiggly legs and sharp jaws;
And wrapped up with mosquito heads
In white sticky spider webs.
They eat Black Widows soaked in goblin blood
And wicked witch’s poo;
Made from bats and rats and unschooled fools,
That witches eat to soften stools.
They eat fat spiders
Floating in soup,
That slide and wiggle
Down their throat.
They eat them with their mouldy cheese,
Melted over wasps and bees.
The girls fork down spider stew,
They love the taste “Tres beaucoup.”
The gravy’s made from a mummy’s spit,
And sweat that drips from a ghoul’s armpit.
They like their spiders spread on bread,
A feast to feed the risen dead.
When their snack is finally done,
They’ll pick their teeth and scrape their tongues
For Daddy Long Legs they didn’t eat.
The long legs caught between their teeth.
They'll use those legs to weave a wreath,
To trick flies and bugs and lonely spiders
Into their hungry House of Horrors.
Oct 30, 2023
Oct 30, 2023 at 11:06 AM UTC
GRANDFATHER CLOCK
"When granda died
he turned into a clock!"
I was 7 or so, so this seemed
an acceptable fact.
"Oh we still kept him in the corner
wound him up every night."
I glanced at the nothing in the corner.
There was only a slab of sunlight dozing.
"Oh we had to pawn him
a long time ago!"
I gasped: "Noooo!"
"Oh he had to go
he had only one hand
and his pendulum
was broken."
Sam the dog barks
asks if I am coming out to play.
I of course am
coming out to play.
Auntie Nellie scolds
Uncle Michael.
"For God's sake Mikey
will ya ****** well stop!"
Mikey sticks his tongue in cheek
a characteristic tic.
"Can't ya see the poor child is
ejeet enough to believe ya!"
Whenever later I chance to meet
a clock that could be my granda
I touch its face tenderly
stroke the mottled glass
"Ahhh Granda!" I smile
giving him a great big hug.
"TickTock!" says granda
**** ****
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 5:04 PM UTC
"Squeeze Please" presents as a cute word rhyme,
But its grip and depth
Is unique and sublime.
Part hug, some cuddle, but
More like a tickle...
It's fickle!!
Yet,
I sense familial love songs
When
My limbs contract to stop his wiggles-
And then,
Before he starts his giggles...
My knees squeeze...
That’s when I heard,
Without one word...
Squeeze because you love me;
Squeeze because I love you;
Squeeze because I feel protected;
Squeezing keeps we two connected.
Squeeze Please makes me feel secure.
Please squeeze... please... squeeze please me more.
Squeeze me to my happy place.
Squeezing tells me that I’m safe.
A squeeze will make me feel content
Your squeezes tend to give me strength.
Then Squeeze tight for respite and peace,
Like a weighted blanket as I sleep.
Squeeze me like a pet boa,
Squeeze because you're my own Granda.
I hear and listen when he says Squeeze Please;
That cute word rhyme really speaks to me.
(Now loosen and Squeeze Please some more.........................)
Jun 10, 2024
Jun 10, 2024 at 1:52 PM UTC
A hush. A fanfare. It begins
As loved ones huddle close
To the marble hearth.
My grandmother’s eye streams
Bitter cold, she says. So is my granda’s
Gravestone – glinting charcoal, that rises
Through a sea of green. An archipelago
Of poinsettias. Words resonate
Off each little island, every city state
With its own legislature. Have you doused
That water on it yet? Have those roses
Seen the end of their days? Quiet, now
First glorious mystery: the resurrection
Of our Lord Jesus Christ. We power on
Standing firm. Forgiveness. Compassion.
Trust; the chant becomes louder
Closer, closer, we cry. I can see Pilate now
Washing his hands. Closer, closer – even louder
They need to make it through. It all depends on us
To light the way. Where are we? Third? Fourth?
Or even further? The beads shimmer as the frenzy
Grows, a pitch higher. Grant it, Lord
Through your mercy, and yours alone:
Bells toll and toll again, seeking the way
It’s time. Anytime now. With just a little push –
Silence. It is finished. A collective sigh
Done for another year. Did all we could
To save those souls; they’ll make it this time around
I’m sure of it. The crowd swells, swiveling the map
Of the yard, inspecting the atlas to no end.
We don’t stay long. Granny’s cold. She’s satisfied
She’s stood for pretty long.
My mate says we sleep till the time; I hope he’s right
I’d rather they rest than run, stay out of sight.
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
Love the name.
Got upset
When the man called out, Seen.
Stupid man.
It's Sean, and not Shawn.
A year older than Gerald.
Two younger than Kevin.
Two older than me.
That's Sean.
Daddy wrote home about us.
Maura was working at the hospital.
Sheila was finishing highschool.
Kevin won the Science Fair.
Sean plays ice hockey with the All Stars,
All over Canada and the U.S.
I found the letter, penned in '62,
A jagged European cursive. They tend to write the same.
I've seen the words, run together to hide the spelling;
With JMJ's and TG's sprinkled like manna throughout.
The last page was missing,
Just when Daddy'd write about Gerald, me, and Marlene.
Gerald with his Beetles haircut.
Me, mimicking ( probably mocking),
Some unknown priest, to my father's delight;
Marlene, the wee pigeon, he missed most when he worked
Away from home.
Jimmy, The Bruiser, wasn't here yet.
The last of an Irish brood settled in Canada.
I discovered it in the spare room at Granny's and Frank's.
There was no mention of Michael, Eucheria or Particia.
He exaggerated about the harsh, six-month winters here,
And our proximity to the North Pole.
Suggested Frank try putting copper wires around Granda's wrists;
The Egyptian mummies didn't exhibit signs of bone deterioration.
Daddy was hard-pressed to be proven wrong when he concocted.
Sean had a drawer full of ribbons, medals, trophies and plagues,
And a large S, his Senior Letter.
He also had sideburns, a much smaller nose, and, smelled
as good as he looked,
The Elvis dip-curl, the Connery swag, the Selleck stash to Clooney cool.
Sean kept a disposition of hidden pains secreted for others.
A heart of tears.
A spirit of adventure.
I love Sean, I recall.
He is always welcome here.
Drops by sometimes.
It's always a great surprise.
Jul 15, 2017
Jul 15, 2017 at 1:09 PM UTC
Hanging by the post box red front door
Since 71
A long trench coat, shade of green
With flat cap on top, peak smudged
From fingers that had gripped
Pulled it from a head,
Both, an umbra of post war world gloom
To the boy, now the man who looks at it
Memories contained within its pockets and creases
Of boiled sweets handed to his bairns
Of neatly folded plastic bags,
For the necessary emergencies
He was so convinced he’d meet
Of hands that belonged to the coat,
Strong, firm that tousled this man’s hair,
Yet gentle and playful, full of fun
Of the head that wore the cap, the grin,
The mischievous glint, when his Peg wasn’t looking
As he slipped some coins into this boy’s tiny hand
Stories told, of times before the war,
Of stopping trams, driving pigs through N’castle
As a butcher’s Boy, on slaughter day
Of the day he met his Meg, down by the coast
Of showing off, and coming a cropper
And oh, how his Meg laughed
A coat holding so much of the past,
Of shipbuilding by the dark, ***** Tyne,
Boats that loomed over the houses
Taking this boy to see them launch
Dreaming of exotic, oriental places
He would never visit
Of betting slips, crumpled in pockets
From long gone nags, who caught his eye
Torn envelopes with Megs writing,
Bread - brown, tin of carnation milk (small)
Rich tea, sultanas, flour – plain
A use for his plastic bags,
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 10:40 AM UTC
Hey, Xavy:
If we're still here
When you get older,
Check out the potholes on my street;
Are we still planting telephone poles,
Accusing animals for sky blue holes?
Are there tourists in S.E. Asia;
Did Manhattan disappear?
Are people dying with different bodies,
Still thinking with their transplanted heads?
Do we build schools, did the shootings stop?
Is work still measured by the clock?
Do well-heeled shepherds still manage flocks?
Have you seen our fingers evolve,
Does anyone listen to voices at all?
When you get there, Xavy,
Take a look.
Did they heed the Richter scales,
The geo-thermal warnings,
The snow caps' warmings?
Does wildlife drink from Winter's brooks,
Is the soil capable of growth,
Does Spring herald re-birth?
Your spirit is indomitable.
No problem insurmountable.
Denial is unintelligible,
The sacrifice regrettable,
But no other choice acceptable.
And the legacy left remarkable.
Ah, Xavy, What I would give to be a small part of your unfolding world.
But I've got to go.
All the Best.
Granda
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 7:39 AM UTC
When she speaks of me
They will think Granda
Is an old man, who wears
Corduroy pants
And a cloth Paddy cap.
They will also think
I wear wire-rimmed specs
And slippers.
That I have a loving heart.
I do.
I'm so pleased Aine
Speaks of me.
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
There are great periods
In our lives; passages.
Agreed. Truism.
I'm at that age, where,
In an average life-span
Of one, such as I,
Either one or both parents
Are gone. Are going soon.
I know, there are many
Exceptional, wonderful,
Depressing and ******
Stories,
But the aggregate is
Right on with this.
So, if you're young,
Twixt, middle or aging,
Go give Mom, Dad,
Granda and Granny
A hug, a kiss, a handshake,
A touch, and
Just tell 'em you love 'em.
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 6:00 PM UTC
I wear your likeness
Like a scapular
Around my neck.
Your mannerisms
Complete my mosaic.
From behind, we look
Like Jews' harps
Standing with
Hands hanging by
Thumbs in pants pockets.
These familiar traits
Trickle down and sprout
Anew,
Like Granda, I hear.
Seeing you, one would think
Great thoughts fill your head,
As you stare
At the ***** garden.
My sibs **** their heads
And tsk too, running
Their hands from front
To back
Through thick black hair.
I recoil at the drops of sweat
Falling from the tips of their
Noses.
Sarcasm drips like venom
From your words.
The cost of a glass of water,
Or a phone call,
Always
Had my friends laugh,
Nervously.
They never knew how
To take you.
I was surprised
By your grudging
Facade when help
Was asked.
I enjoyed your silence.
Even now,
As entropy
Has its way
With my garden.
Aug 30, 2014
Aug 30, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
GRANNY SHOCKS THE GRANDCHILDREN
me I always
wore a yellow pinafore dress
displaying my what-should-not-be-seen
or a Sgt. Pepper's jacket
serving as a dress...showing off
buttocks & knickers to great effect
moved from squat to squat
lived on hash and Mateus Rosé
sex?was just...eh...there
I had loads of lads
loads of lads had me
music and *** - the twin gods
forget "I wanna hold your hand"
we were Stones fans mannnnn
sang "Lets spend the night together"
I wanted to be Juliette Gréco
read/re-read THE STORY OF O
De Sade's 120 DAYS OF *****
?morals/
yeah!yeah!yeah!
whatever
we were all of us always
trying to find ourselves
or escape from ourselves
Granda was mad
bad and gorgeous to know
like straying off the path into
the forest of a fairy story
a **** scary beast
my very own big bad wolf
an Mmmmmmmm
kind of man
"Eat me...eat me!" I'd yell at him
*** was that...what
cheered up those forever
endless rainy British afternoon
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 4:22 PM UTC
an ostentatious wipe
this referendum is treed
while rather bolting a humanity
so Barcelona is superfluous and has encased
but once in Granda they'll enjoin a last bit circle
and to embroil grout in their tires
as a run within this emanation
on the plain to graze again
save Girona still crankiest in bluff
Nov 7, 2017
Nov 7, 2017 at 4:06 PM UTC
Mammy died years ago,
So I'm older than her now,
Though I never feel this way.
But I'm younger than my father was
Years after his delay.
I'm an aging Granda now,
But I seldom feel this way;
When in my memories,
Where they truly lie,
I'm still their son today.
Sep 17, 2024
Sep 17, 2024 at 9:28 AM UTC
the old pine table,
was scrubbed daily
with a mixture of bleach and salt,
and then sluiced
with clean ice cold well water.
it had a felted softness to it,
a wonderful tactile memory
i am still unable to explain.
sat out upon the balcony,
overlooking the beaches
and whale island.
caught both the days sun
and a short substantial breeze.
it was an oval behemoth of a thing, would easily sit twelve adults,
at a christmas feast.
but now just one or two,
excepting when we arrived,
on vacation, then a half dozen neat.
and on most mornings,
big broadsheet papers.
spread out, anchored down,
by oranges and bannanas,
sea shells and driftwood,
teapots and coffee cups,
whatever was to hand,
scattered haphazardly about.
the rule was if you took a bit of fruit, or whatever,
you had to supply a new anchor.
so as the morning wore on,
fruit became books and toy trucks, teddy bears and cricket *****
all presided over by granda,
as he worked his way
around the news,
spread before him,
like the hands of a clock.
changing seats, irregularly,
with a sigh and a plop.
muttering to himself,
or calling out to gran,
news of suggested import,
or the "specials"of the day.
that old pine table held,
the world spread out,
for intelligent disection.
i still can feel, it's surface,
like rolling, polished pearls.
.....no still not explaining it,
at all well.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
In this box are Aine's rings,
Silver chains and secret things;
When she lifts the lid,
Set in the mirror,
Shines the most precious jewel,
And Granda's treasure.
Dec 6, 2019
Dec 6, 2019 at 11:00 AM UTC
I was born
With white privilege;
Irish ethnicity at that.
Remember their holocausts!
Occupied, evicted, brutalized, lynched, starved, hedge-scbooled, and,
Refugeed on their own land,
And on and on, and so on
For seven hundred years.
These things were before my time,
But not my Granda's.
It's so very true, I was born with white privilege,
But not with white entitlement.
Jun 5, 2020
Jun 5, 2020 at 3:15 PM UTC
You said I'm a stranger.
That's selective.
We swapped virginities.
I painted your home,
And sat, and sipped
With your RFC Nandad;
Carried he and his Lady to the mausoleum;
Listened to her stories about Eleanor and Henry.
Bubba (a name you gave your Grandmother)
Sold me her car for a dollar.
I couselled your mother back into your heart;
At peril, tried to sneak your nephew back to your sister.
Your great-uncle gave us his Florida condo for a week,
I drank tea from a saucer at your Thanksgiving dinner.
I took the gun out of your father's mouth.
A stranger!
Tell the girls that.
Tell the grandkids Granda is a stranger.
Truth is strange.
Fiction estranges.
Nov 27, 2016
Nov 27, 2016 at 9:49 PM UTC
I slept wonderfully,
expunged of all sins
actual and imagined,
under a checkered quilt,
I dreamed of an Adonis and forgetting,
His clothing perfectly accentuated
his classically perfect physique,
I don't know what to make of that,
that has been happening so much lately,
Who do you confide in, when there is just jittery energy?
My body is calling for something but I have not yet formulated an answer,
I have made a deity out of caffeine lately,
and my nails are so far in the distant past,
they bumped into my great granda on Bedford terrace.
People ask me if I'll move back to my land of birth,
But I have never really left.
May 16, 2019
May 16, 2019 at 6:38 AM UTC
I hear a disembodied voice,
It doesn't sound like mine.
I hear it in home movies,
We hear it all the time.
A voice over voice,
Narrating your lifetime
From Summer to Spring
Dancing, playing,
Standing, speaking,
Praying.
I filmed you blowing candles,
Unwrapping Christmas joys,
On celluloid in Mother's arms,
With girlfriends and with boys.
You're sitting on your Granda's knee,
Granny's there too pouring tea.
There's cousins, sisters, aunts and uncles,
Everyone's filmed with your cuddles.
That's you on stage,
On the field,
In a rage,
Or a cartwheel.
Then you're singing,
Packing, leaving.
For thirty years
You've been my focus,
Never out of frame;
Never blurred,
Never obscured,
My eye was on the game.
Years ahead,
When I'm dead,
You will watch these too;
But you may wonder
As you view,
I hear his voice,
But where
Are you?
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 10:18 AM UTC
the old pine table,
was scrubbed daily with
a mixture of bleach and
salt,
and then sluiced with clean
ice cold well water.
it had a felted softness
to it,
a wonderful tactile
memory i am still unable
to explain.
sat out on the balcony,
overlooking the beaches
and whale island.
it was an oval behemoth of
a thing,
would easily sit
twelve adults
at a christmas feast.
but now just one or two.
excepting
when we arrive to vacation,
then a half dozen neat.
and on most mornings,
big broadsheet papers.
spread out, anchored down
by oranges and bannanas,
sea shells and driftwood,
teapots and coffee cups,
whatever was to hand,
scattered haphazardly about.
the rule was
if you took a bit
of fruit, or whatever,
you had to supply a new anchor.
so as the morning wore on,
fruit became books and toy trucks, teddy bears and cricket *****
all presided over by granda,
as he worked his way
around the news,
spread before him,
like the hands of a clock.
changing seats,
iregularly,
with a sigh and a plop.
muttering to himself,
or calling out to gran,
news of suggested import
or the specials of the day.
that old pine table held,
the world spread out,
for intelligent dissection.
i still can feel,
it's surface,
like rolling,
polished pearls.
.....no
...still not explaining it
at all well.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
She bounces on
My Granda knee,
As I bounced you,
As you bounced me.
Play infant games
Until she's two.
Same as you.
We'll dove-tail hands
On pre-book walks,
She'll feign to listen
While I talk.
Her harlequin senses
Embrace the beauty;
Same as you
When you were three.
We'll attend
Her fav movies;
Engage while
We're snacking fries:
I'll see the light
Light up her eyes.
Same as you
When you were five.
I'll be lucky,
And live long;
I'll be sure
To carry on
Helping her
All along.
The same as you,
And you grew strong.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 1:55 PM UTC
Lets talk...Liquor
A Taste so bitter but good to the soul....
Look how much money I can make you fold...
Liquor I am the *** of gold and the story goes...
You can get me in a six pack twelve pack...
Hell they even got me in a thirty rack...
I might even get jacked and also smacked...
Spirits talking over its just the alter ego...
It heals the pain so but it really just grows...
Huh I remember Paul williams said...
For once in my life I have someone...
But that someone was a beautiful brown...
Tall and profound turned a wise man into a clown...
Bring true feelings out all around who's down...
For me mr spirit i am is that you talking to me...
Once I got a taste I became a toxic waste...
Better with a cigarette to up the chase...
Help Face your Problems everyday in this world...
I influence men women boys and girls...
I was banned in the ninteen twenties...
But I made my way back into the communities...
I can be cheap or I can be expensive...
But it's up to you so be selective...
I fill joy into depression so keep on pressing...
Til you in a jail cell and I won't post no bail...
I can make a man beat his wife to hell...
I can make can make light into darkness...
See what I did just there huh none can compare...
A good chug of me I might be in your family tree...
See me sitting next to granda Jimmy...
I come in forms of many whisky scotch Brandy...
Just a few so enjoy my luxurious company...
You can't **** me but I will be here forever more a century...
So take heed to me and my imagery...
This is America so I'm tryna to scare ya...
Drink me til you drown your liver but I'll still be
with ya....
Way down under huh
Signed Mr Liquor...
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 11:54 PM UTC