"grandaughters" poems
A monster came out from under my bed,
all hairy and ugly and oh so red.
He ran to my closet and ate all my clothes
then back to my bed he was tickling my toes.
I was so afraid he might suddenly eat me,
There was nowhere to go where he couldn’t see.
He threw all my toys in a great big sack
And told me meanly they’d never be back.
Then he looked at my desk and suddenly smiled
And seemed to be happy or maybe beguiled.
He looked in my eyes and pointed at me,
“give me your laptop and I will let you be”
I loved my laptop a gift from my mom
I stared in his eyes feeling so dumb.
I was no longer scared now I was mad,
Monsters aren’t fun when they behave so bad.
So I took out my bat and put on my new shoes
and said to the monster, “guess what you lose”.
One swat on the noggin and he was out cold
I keep my toys because I was bold.
It pays to be brave and never have fear
But be careful at night when a monster is near.
HAPPY LATE HALLOWEEN
to my Grandaughters
Copyright Jan/2014
WHC
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
If I could draw it -
but I was never an artist.
What a picture that would be -
my family.
And maybe if I could trace the lines
I could better understand
how I came to be--me.
But I can't separate the smells
and sounds
and touch of it,
pencils can only go so far.
And there are the scenes
that I can only imagine.
The ones that happened
decades before me.
I see my grandpa's smiling face.
I don't remember him
as a brawling drunk
terrorizing his family
after world war II.
Granny smelled like powder
and liked men
though she would never admit it.
She talked a lot
but I don't remember ever
hearing any thing worthwhile.
The one I can't name.
He hurt me in the dark.
Mom Glass, the bootlegger,
who took her grandaughters
on Sunday trips up the mountain
to buy moonshine.
She wore red underdrawers
and she didn't care who knew.
Mammaw, who gave me words.
Who didn't know I was a refugee
but always welcomed me warmly.
She taught me the beauty
of being earthy.
No prim or proper uppity
girls fishin in the creek.
That one brought tears.
I miss her smile.
There are so many faces.
Voices.
Memories.
All contributed something
to the poem
I haven't written yet.
Apr 2, 2016
Apr 2, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
I trek in the journey of my life, travelling in the highway of someone else’s life
I see their history crashing into mine.
I see people. Mother, daughter and grandaughters.
The grandaughter’s gestures is like
poetry reflecting in the mother’s eyes.
Soon her random and improbable words make history in the woman’s life.
Does she know enough to say this?
“Say it! Say it darling!”
I hear the woman speaking.
The improbable is more improbable than fate.
Their languages are wildly different
But their passion to each other turns everything different into similar ways.
I turn back. Back to my own highway..
Knowing that I profit from someone else’s travel.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC
Sitting in the waiting room
I see the people kneel.
From their knees they pray
for sins they have concealed.
Their brothers and sisters,
and mothers and fathers,
and daughters and sons,
grandsons and grandaughters,
grandparents too
and they look with their
puppy dog eyes
right at you.
Sitting in the waiting room
I see the people squeam
when bad news bursts from
doctors mouths. “This is only
a dream,” they say,
Vocalizing how their hearts
have burst and will
keep
sinking
and
sinking
and
sinking
until
the
day
they
die.
Sitting in the waiting room
I realize that I do not care.
For the dozens of people
in here, or the patients in there.
For the brothers and sisters,
and mothers and fathers,
and daughters and sons,
grandsons and grandaughters,
grandparents either.
I can’t help but be here,
only for you.
Only
for
you
and
me.
Jun 30, 2011
Jun 30, 2011 at 7:14 PM UTC
They're seventeen and fourteen, those girls who have our hearts
from curley top and sassypants, they've grown up tall and smart
what ever happened to those ribbons and bows that was braided in their hair
they've traded in the baby stuff, and now its liner and lipstick they wear..
We really miss those days gone by, their games and movies and noise
mudpies and tea parties are over and done, they've now discovered "boys"
So now we wait a few more years, to see what they'll become
We hope that we are still around when they find their special "one'
I guess the most important thing, that we would hope they share
the memories and the love we have, for both will always be there
So as we grow older and so do they, as life has so proclaimed
We leave to them our legacy, and someday they'll do the same.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 8:52 PM UTC
the slow encroach
stinging so, it broke the choke
and rough, coarse femininity once kept in check with wine and herbs
now slips away, and hurts.
Recalling is like
dreams of forests heaving milk and music,
an ancient memory whose dew pools in your mouth with distaste
and tulip'd sap leaks at sordid urge.
what we want is still at sea, so let the spray bite your face
taste the past in those ever-watching waters
and burn hair on the pyres for your grandaughters, and grandaughters' daughters.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 9:05 AM UTC