"granddad" poems
It's been nine years now. Nine years since the angels took you away. Nine years since I stood at the home, looking at your peaceful face; eyes closed, a ghost of a smile gracing your lips. It doesn't seem that long. It seems like yesterday you were calling me your little princess; I'm still that little girl at heart. The one who believed she would grow up to be a beautiful elegant contessa. I don't have many memories of the times we shared as I was only young when you passed. In fact, sometimes I struggle to picture your gorgeous, smiling face telling me stories of your past of advice for when I grew into an elegant older woman just like you were then.
I was only 6... 6 years old and I had to go through the pain and heartache of having my nan cruelly taken away from me. I'll be 16 next year. I'll be having my prom next year. I will be leaving year 11, getting my GCSE results and starting A-levels next year. So much has happened in these 9 short, short years. There is so much more to come and you won't be here to share it with me. My graduation from university, my first career move, my marriage, my children... Your great-grandchildren. You won't be here for the good times, the bad...The happy and the sad...
There are certain qualities about you that I will always remember... Being made banana sandwiches every time we went round to your house! Having a Sunday roast with you and Granddad every single week! Your 60th birthday (I knocked Zack down and felt so chuffed!) The last birthday you ever spent with me... You made my birthday cake that year... If I remember correctly, it was a princess castle with all the Disney princesses stood around it! You told me I deserved a cake because I was a beautiful princess also.
I know you will be looking down on me and the family just to make sure we are alright! I just hope it's a smile on your face and not a frown! I hope I have made you proud nan... I really do. I hope you Rest In Peace nan and I will never forget you. Forever in our hearts and minds. 15/06/2004... We love you nan and always will. <3
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 6:56 PM UTC
It was only the other day you fell asleep in your old chair
The one that was in your front room decades ago
You didn't see Andy Murray lose but you didn't care
You’d eaten well and heavy eyed you dozed
I’m sorry but when I lost the house it had to go
I know throwing it out was a bit wrong
But if chairs go to heaven though
At least you’ll have something there to sit on
I wish I’d never told you off for smoking by the pump
You looked so sad that I’d made you feel a fool
But imagine how you would have made those people jump
As they were all engulfed by a massive fireball
Enjoy your new lungs and try keeping them clean for a few hours
Enjoy your time with Granddad it’s been thirty years too long
Enjoy strolling through those heavenly gardens with all your favourite flowers
But in heaven, please don’t bag cuttings; I’m sure up there it’s wrong!
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
To the man who made me who I am
Being with you was like learning without a textbook
I just watched and copied and made it my own
From gardening to maths
You made me my own genius
I didn't have to speak for you to know what was wrong
You didn't judge me for the silly things I said
Or how I never learnt at school
You taught me to teach my self
You were my Mr Miyagi
With less riddles more jokes
I learnt that laughter can flood rooms like tidal waves
And we were leaves to float in it
And now you're gone I wont mourn
You would tell me to stop crying and cut my hair
I will use laughter to put a smile on raggedy dolls
And the stories to keep the dark days down
Thank you for being the Godfather of giggles
Making Sunday dinners not the day to fear Mondays
Having gardening not be a chore but a way to think
Rest well Granddad.
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 8:05 PM UTC
I'm no good in a kitchen but, I can cook stuff all the same
Around here, say "the recipe" and most folks know my name
It hasn't changed in fifty years, and folks still drink it up
I've been making it with my granddad since I was just a pup
I"ve been racing cars through out these woods since before most learn to drive
I've been chased by cops and revenuers, I surprised I'm still alive
The funny thing, they know the route, and I always make the border
Because if they ever caught me, I would just cancel their order
Magic comes from our hard toil
Once it travels through the coil
We cook it slow on a low boil
It's cooked according to old Hoyle
It's magic in a glass
And it'll put you on your ***
In all the years that we've been cooking we've only moved on twice
Not because the cops found us, but because of all the mice
Grandpappy started cooking when the jobs round here dried up
And me, I've been his helper since I was just a pup
Everyone's on credit, we all live on iou's
There's still no jobs around here, there just isn't no good news
But, if folks round here need healing, we've got magic in a jug
Our granddads old elixir is a moonshine mountain hug
Magic comes from our hard toil
Once it travels through the coil
We cook it slow on a low boil
It's cooked according to old Hoyle
It's magic in a glass
And it'll put you on your ***
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 2:28 PM UTC
I'm not sure how old he is, my step-step-granddad, but that's the advice he gives that fixes itself on my psyche.
Focus.
The act is the goal.
It's the thought of having been and becoming whole.
Focus.
Each event is like a pebble in a landslide.
I take it in stride.
Focus.
I am everywhere and there is no center, no home base, no dock on this river. I'm caught in current. Stay calm. This is perfect.
Each twist in the flow, every rock of the boat, every splash in the face, my being gives chase to possibilities in consistent inconsistencies, sacred, eternal, geometries. Do our bodies disperse like the leaves that traverse from limb to ground, spiraling down?
Focus.
Where are your shoes? We're running late, and there's no time for another drink. We're out of milk? Look at my sink. It's piled high and I can't think with you making all that ********* noise. What time is it? I forgot to call... that bill is due tacked on the wall. I wonder if we'll talk again. There's spam where your email should have been. All this time I thought that we were friends. I can't sleep. I'm up too late and I can't sate this need to see what I can make of missed phone calls and mystery texts. That write up? No, I haven't seen that yet. But don't forget, I told you, "I can handle it." Remember? Double. Oh. Seven.
Wait.
Focus.
Breathe in. I'm calm. That's resurrection.
Breathe out. I'm smiling. That's reconnection.
Nov 24, 2014
Nov 24, 2014 at 10:08 PM UTC
When Rome fell down,
Don Newton with his flashing blade
Took over.
He marched the corridors of Table Tennis power
For more than fifty years.
And graced a multitude of committees with his
Presence.
As Mister NALGO, Don constructed
A glorious empire
Of countless teams
At many a venue:
Down Pasture Street,
In Weelsby, Yarra, Knoll,
Electric Club,
Saint James...
To name a few.
Amassing titles and cups
From every division
Of the Grimsby League:
A roll of honour too long to recall,
Now stretching to the horizon.
No fancy sponge, reversed rubber,
Or long-pimples for our Don.
Give him a plain old Barna bat,
Devoid of sponge, short-pimples out,
To give that ball a mighty clout.
The simple things in life
Were all he wished:
A pint of mild,
Or game of chess,
Would always go down well.
This table tennis granddad knows the score,
And takes his leisure now,
Contented as
The sun goes down.
Paul Butters
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She had her own signature scent,
A lasting aroma, that lingers in every corner of her home
As the strong winds picked up the scent,
and move it quite a distance.
She carefully prepare the mixture from the earth
Cuss ,kuss grass, Jasmine, rose buds and roots,
Before she prepare the mixtures with that special touch
Like a fine wine from the winery,
“One more drop of Rosemary oil, she would say
This would make the scent last for eternity,
Old Granddad he would make silly jokes,
His word usages, madam chemist, a witch with a spoon,
But in the end, she would always made a special potion for him
We would carefully select the flaky mahogany woods shaving,
with combinations of fresh vanilla leaves with extracting oil with oils
Those homemade perfumes from flowers had lots of potential.
Granddad hand craft the wooded bottle stoppers with his chisel,
It was a joy to watch, the old Irish typhoon working and smoking his pipe
Old Alan baffler was Nana nickname for him
She would scold and speak harshly to us
for touching the those colorful luring bottles
“Don’t open those bottles, you malicious children
Else a witch would appear: She would often say,
For me, my nana was an old chemist,
with old decade’s wooden sticks.
Preparing the mixtures like a fine wine,
I am forever grateful for those memories
I should have follow in her footsteps,
Her secret potions, her gift,
Is worth millions of dollars today
Looking back on yesteryears , good parenting
and good memories
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 8:48 AM UTC
I have a right to stand
I'm claiming it now.
Turangawaewae; 'a place to stand'
Is a deep empowerment from the land
Learnt through ancestral connection
Strengthened through ahi ka; 'keeping the fires burning'
Well, my ancestral stories ain't so impressive
There were few battles
Though my granddad worked for the air force in world war two
- As an accountant
We didn't encounter the gods or try to bring down the sun
Though when my Grandma arrived here she built up the soil
Soul of the Earth
For 70 years
As the city sprang up around her
And my mother aged 11 played follow the leader with a goat in the next door construction site
Where her house is now
My uncle found an old mans false teeth in a cup
Climbing through an abandoned house
My aunt visited James K Baxter's Jerusalem
She wasn't a fan of his poetry
But his wisdom spoke to her
My other aunts jumped through the neighbours trees
Who threatened to shoot them
My father followed my mother here
After her O.E with my sister in the oven
He ******* about John Key as much as anyone
And praises this land; it is home.
I stood on a windy cliff surrounded by pohutukawa and learnt the whisper of the sea
Roughing it on an island I tried determinedly to turn into a pukeko
I got my first cut, bruise, scrape from this land
My first breath, poem, touch of a violin, my first kiss was here
I know the rough patches, the fringe scene, where the best soil is
(It's at my grams house)
I know how to spot a drug house, which cafes will let us jam, where the open mics are 5 days of the week.
I know Kirikiriroa.
My fires have been burning
And I have a right to stand
I have learnt through my own evolution
Through Janet Frame's railroad country
Through a history
Cities growing and spreading
They weren't just here
As it has always seemed to me.
The countryside, what was here before?
Landscapes of forest and mountain
Familiar yet unknown to me.
When I go away I will know the difference
When I return I will know this land
The depth recognized through contrast
Defined by difference
As the sun and moon complement
Light and dark
Sorrow and joy
And,
As in yin and yang
I will know nothing is completely separate.
When I go away I will know
So fully
And I will return and say:
This is my place to stand
My turangawaewae
My Aotearoa
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
Your Uncle Fred
on Christmas Eve
at Gran’s house
when you were a kid
did the sand dance
wearing an old fashion
man’s striped nightgown
and a red fez
(he got that in Egypt
during WW2
Gran said)
and brown
open toed sandals
and Uncle Ed
turned the handle
of the windup gramophone
where an old
78rpm record
was playing
and there were
glasses of sherry
being consumed
and cigarettes being smoked
and you sat watching
clapping your hands
and Gran would get up
afterwards
and do her Can-Can
like she used to
as she young woman
on the stage
and Granddad sat there
quiet saying nothing
looking at
the people gathered
sipping his sherry
watching his wife
lifting her legs
her white fuzzy hair
going to and fro
as she moved
and you wanted
to have some sherry
but your mother said
no you have lemonade
little boys
don’t have sherry
so you sat
with your lemonade
watching Uncle Fred
and his dance
and the music coming
from the old gramophone
and the smell of sherry
and beer and cigarette smoke
and Uncle telling the adults
one of his old army jokes.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 5:26 AM UTC
To see things through child's eyes
A world seen different
Not like an adult
Everything has its place
Order,
Structure,
Harmony,
But every now and then,
Relax,
Let your hair down
(Even if your bald)
The child within needs to be free
Fun,
Enjoyable
Crazy
Be like the child within,
Play with your young ones
Not as a giant,
Become their size
Jiggle your ****
Be silly
Lie on the floor, be their bouncy castle,
Even though all the wind is out
When you arise from the floor,
See through the eyes of your child
Imagination,
Dancing,
With your tongue wigging about,
Be the
Parent,
Uncle,
Aunty,
Granddad,
Or
Nan,
But every so often relax
Let the child within run rampant
And have some childish fun be free...
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 4:00 PM UTC
Written for a school project
September 09, 2013
To: Evan Riddle
From: Granddad
Well, I understand that you would like to have a letter from me, recognizing certain traits, and accomplishments, and so forth. Begging your pardon, I will begin in this manner.
A couple of years ago, during a"pre-game warmup" prior to the start of one of your games, I was standing behind the glass watching the pucks bounce off your chest. A young boy, perhaps a year younger, came up, stood beside me, also watching you. He then turned, yelling to a friend, "here he is, #41!" He was quickly joined by his friend and another, all three watching you at close range.You have no idea how that made me feel. How proud of you I was, that apparently your reputation was developing among your peers within the "ice crowd."
In my home, on a wall, is a photo of you, taken during the All-Star game in Ottawa, Canada. You, wearing the red and white All-Star jersey, standing in front of the net watching and observing the action that soon would be coming at you.
This is my favorite photo. The expression on your face silently reflects your abilities to "focus" on what you are supposed to do, the "determination" to do it, and the "perseverance" to get it done. Three traits that have followed, and stayed with you, and guided you to be successful, in all you have accomplished in both sport and academic activities in which you have participated. You are respected by your team, your coaches, your teachers, and your classmates. You can't have better than that.
Love you,
Granddad
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 8:09 AM UTC
Eavesdropping
A good man is hard to find
Said my Nana,
That was the day I saw tears in my nana’s eyes
As she nervously stuff her monthly tithe in the envelope
And headed out to church that Sunday morning
Before, shouting at my granddad
I guess she was mad as hell at the old fool
That was the day I found out that my hero my grandpa
Was having an affair with the widower Estelline Beckley
“Ellie you’re the only woman for me said my Granddad”
However, my Nana wasn’t haven’t any of that
So she slammed the door on Grand dad
I remember being scare, and confused,
About this family feud
So, I hid under the table, and prayed to God
for the scream and shouting to be over
For several weeks all my Nana did was prayed
And all Granddad done was to burnt her pots and pans
Boiling water and making coffee.
Nana told the neighbors, that those harlot with a trail
For a rear end,
can cause a man to climbed, a mountain without his proper gears
That statement still baffles me until this day.
Until many years later when I met my mother’s sister
here in New York the spit and image of my mother.
But had the very spirit and expression of my Granddad
so much for eave dropping and family affair
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
Ashley,
Your blues inspire me, insipid triangles, walking cold, sweating more and wetting the bed your lips the sizes of gods that I married through hidden video cameras, I caught bias in bliss, racism in slow disasters, tornado sirens and just sirens, and justice on the horizon. My eyelids the sizes of your little ******* the party of tomorrow, the starting sounds of scarred and stripped *** sounds. Caught in a drift, my bottom lip stuffed with lift-lust and jolting up and down your porcelain rift. Messed up and round the back to the buttons, the clasp too heavy to drop your ego down, the cold too swift to catch me as I fell. The heavens too burdened to beat me with your god. I just wanted to me smacked in the face with your flaws. Hips the sizes of doorknobs, hurdles that I caught one weekend sipping slow gin with granddad and papa and Tootsie, your evils carnivorous, your mess much more than your message. Your koo-koo voodoo and big bad red frock. Tuesday's made me the man I am today. The Slayer made me the hate I stuffed into my **** jock-strap to puff out my chest and make prisms in kitten litters and furrow the night clauses to match stick the pumped-up bypass of hazmat and heroism, I was won and didn't know it, you were one and now you're all one.
She,
came to me in French class holding straws. I picked swiftly and came, all staled and stiff, lock-jaw and threesomes one moonlit night the fourth of July.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
GRANDAD TENDS HIS DAHLIAS
the fog
walks among the tombs
"I encounter my first ***
he was a man
he looked just like me
as if I were...killing myself!"
stretching back
through space & time
the instant of that moment
the German falls
beside a tomb
like a badly written play
Grandad bayonettes
the German...looks surprised
to be dying
Grandad plunges the bayonette in
twists it about
the German almost grins
then the dance
of the living & the dying
in strict time
the German goes down
on one knee
as if proposing to Death
Granddad stabs the German
through the lifeline
of his left hand
the dying German's
left outstretched hand
like a man about to sing a song
"As he fell
his hand touched my hand
'This...' I thought '...is hell!'"
all his life
the touch...that touch
impossible to shake off
Grandad tends his dahlias
the dying German
still clouding his eyes
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 7:45 AM UTC
PROCESSIONS that lack high stilts have nothing that
catches the eye.
What if my great-granddad had a pair that were
twenty foot high,
And mine were but fifteen foot, no modern Stalks
upon higher,
Some rogue of the world stole them to patch up a fence
or a fire.
Because piebald ponies, led bears, caged lions, ake
but poor shows,
Because children demand Daddy-long-legs upon This
timber toes,
Because women in the upper storeys demand a face at
the pane,
That patching old heels they may shriek, I take to
chisel and plane.
Malachi Stilt-Jack am I, whatever I learned has run wild,
From collar to collar, from stilt to stilt, from father to child.
All metaphor, Malachi, stilts and all. A barnacle goose
Far up in the stretches of night; night splits and the
dawn breaks loose;
I, through the terrible novelty of light, stalk on, stalk on;
Those great sea-horses bare their teeth and laugh at the dawn.
2.1k
how i forget to cherish
these little moments
of our togetherness;
making an early meal
of sauteed vegetables
and eggs, "froached"
like i used to call them
when i was your little
chef and would bring
you breakfast on
special occasions,
and sometimes on
sundays, just because
it was sunday and dad
didn't have to leave
for work long before
the crack of dawn
even set its alarm.
we'd all sit in bed
together, squished
into sharing a cozy
comfort, sandwiched
between you two
and my old buddy
gladly the bear who
still sits on your bed
upstairs in his pink-
and-green striped
shirt.
but then i guess
somewhere along
the way i grew up;
the move happened--
i didn't visit gladly
anymore, or you
for that matter.
today you asked
me to get the big
jar -- the carnation
(top)
jar, from the
shelf of the kitchen
cabinet while i
explained my
oddly convoluted
thought process,
and we talked
about how my
granddad danced
you down the aisle
to django on a whim
of a kooky family friend,
and how i finally
realized how little
i actually know of you--
but that's normal.
i might be growing
up now, and i
might not visit
that little bear
anymore, but
what i never
really told you,
or anyone,
is that i have
my own now,
a blue one who
used to be called
blueberry, renamed
as joseph stalin,
because i'm a
big boy now,
and my sense
of humor dried
out long ago.
i may not be
your little chef
anymore, but
i can still make
you breakfast,
and bring it
to your bed on
sundays, and
sit with gladly,
and quietly chat
until late morning
like we used to
(never) do.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
I woke from the deepest of daydreams,
my eyes focusing after being long glazed over.
It’s late in the afternoon-- the light pours through the window—
it draws across above my left shoulder.
The tea kettle whistles
like a freight train in the background.
She’s in the kitchen, but I can easily see
her veiny hands dropping the Earl Grey tea ball
into the scolding water.
—her hands, like old softly crumpled white paper.
The same routine, every day since
great granddad passed in 1961.
Rock forward, rock backward.
What time could it be? Was I out for long?
Fresh cut grass, the familiar smell of lawn and moth ball
I so readily identify with this old Victorian house built by my family.
Evermore, the scent of kerosene dances
with the freshness of bologna and tomato sandwiches
on lightly toasted pumpernickel bread.
Where’s that 1000 piece puzzle with kittens in a basket?
Long gone?
I guess it’s been over a decade since me and my sister
last conquered that puzzle and strategically placed
connected and sectioned chunks
back in the box for easy assemblage on future rainy days.
Rock forward, rock backward.
Her first step from kitchen tile to wood planks
sets off a chain reaction of creeks and moans
that only wood of this age and wear can produce.
She enters the sitting room, puts the tea tray atop
the white baby grand piano: “tea time, honey,”
she whispers with a crooked smile and sad eyes.
Rock forward, rock backward.
Mar 7, 2013
Mar 7, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
My grandfather's not dead
but you act like he is
the way you tiptoe around the closed oak door
way you whisper in a scratchy voice
when you talk about the future
way you pop in your
set of pearly whites
and bare your teeth too easily
when he asks you for a glass of water
and your brassy trumpet tells him
of course, dear, are you feeling okay?
You think that I've caught on
and know better than to trade him secrets
beneath the cracked door to your bedroom
like copper pennies for freedom
and that I don't remember him
throwing diving sticks at the bottom of the pool
then snatching them up and waving them above his head
far from my six-year-old reach
or when sitting upon his knee as a child
I would pick at the edges of the sepia photos
as he traced the veins of our family
back to seventy-second great-aunts
and royalty
I help you count the red pills
as I recall my favorite hiding place
(your fireplace)
and you shake your head and scold me
that was an awful place to hide
what if there had been cinders?
I tell you
we live in Texas
and tuck my wishes back into my pocket
and mention that Granddad thought it was
a fantastic place to visit
and that I would sit there for hours
and pretend I was a phoenix
from the old mythology books
in the musty back of your closet
You laugh as you slip him his pills
you can't possibly remember that
But I remember and
I insist on discussing college while he's in the room
his wrinkly eyes smile when I plot out my dreams
and he knows that I know
but I keep our secret anyway
you simper at my mother
oh, isn't she precious
hopeful and hoping a cure will be found
but you don't realize I've already discovered it:
Pretend like nothing has happened
Don't let them see the ticking hours on the mantelpiece
As long as we know that we're not older
beneath these transcripts and chemotherapies
the real world doesn't matter
not really, not at all
My grandfather's alive
even if you think he isn't
but he is
and he's sitting in your drawing room
so why don't you pop by for a visit?
we're only pretending, anyway.
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 8:33 PM UTC
I held up that grand quilt in my tiny hands, thoughts rushing past my mind.
That denim piece splattered with red paint,
ah, remember when you wore that for the first time as you picked carrots with Dad?
That cotton piece filled with a vibrant orange,
how could you forget? That was the dress you wore to your first ever play recital.
That baby pink rayon piece,
you wore that on the first day of high school, you could not forget.
That grey wool piece,
that was your Christmas present, and you wore it near the fire. You spilled hot coco on it.
That rare purple leather,
that is too important to forget. Remember, it was the jacket you wore on you first date.
That blue flannel piece,
you loved that one. You wore it all the time, ever since the first time you wore it when you won “best speaker” at a school competition.
That brown cupro piece,
you wore that to your mother's birthday, the one where she got promoted to L.A.
That green polyester piece,
never can forget, could you? That was the shirt you wore when Dad and Mom divorced.
That white lyocell piece,
you wore it at your graduation party, and your whole family was there.
That barkcloth piece,
it was a day to remember, you united with you brother once again in that dress.
That calico piece,
you wore that to the hospital when Granddad got a heart attack.
That black and white damask piece,
that was so beautiful, so you kept it for your dinner. Which you hadn't realized was your engagement dinner with your boyfriend.
That red gingham piece,
wow, that was the time you met your dad's girlfriend. And Mom had not moved on.
That black lace piece,
a day never to forget. It was the funeral of your Granddad’s, and that was the dress you wore.
That grey gauze piece,
it was the shawl you wore when you visited your grandma, and found out she was ill of depression.
That amazing white gazar piece,
a memorable day. It was the dress you wore to you wedding.
That turquoise silk piece,
*too soon after your wedding. It was the part of the purse you took to your Grandma's funeral. *
That white and blue jacquard fabric,
that was the fabric you had for your curtains, when you moved into your own house.
That leopard print intarsia piece,
it was an amazing day. Your mother visited you the first time in your new home. The both of you cried with the rain pouring outside. Nothing could have ruined that beautiful moment together, united.
That satin cobalt blue piece,
that dress you wore to the dinner with your parents and husband. Only to later realize that you brother had met with an accident.
That exotic lantana piece,
you remember, don't you? You wore that dress when you met your brother days later, severely hurt.
That red lace piece,
you went to London with your husband wearing that. You were so excited.
That madras piece,
it came from that cushion out of the four your husband bought you.
That cream organdy piece,
your mother had found it in her closet, a dress from her mother's, and wanted to give it to you.
That deep purple paisley piece,
you wore that on the day your mother died.
And like that, all the thoughts came back to me. All the pieces of my past, fit in together. But it never made sense – that was how my life worked. And there were more pieces, more parts, to fit together, until my life was spread out in front of me. Like a patched quilt.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
I feel apart of this hick town place
Breathing in life, through open, clean air
Trapped by my mind in a wide open space
My granddad showed me on his Gum tree
The marks left by moths and beetles alike
I went to touch them whilst he let them be
The Scribbly Gum tells the same story
Our lives intertwined in memories
The aftermath of destruction, can be beauty
My chubby hands admire what my eyes miss
like a blind man hungry for the verse
I feel the indented trails, lead me into the abyss
I envy those tiny critters, hiding away
creating art without even knowing
One day I shall join them and there I shall stay
Dancing glimpses of times past
The smell of eucalyptus sticking to hot air
Pulling, aching strings of my childish heart
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 11:56 PM UTC
D Day
Amongst us walk the ghosts of our past
Silent screams that shout and hollow
"we died for you"
I look around and bow my head in shame
For I have let their giving be worthless
I have failed
They lost
So that we may have a future
A better place so that us siblings
Can live
Love
Grasp for life
Fade less hate
See the saying D Day is still used today
Yet how many think back to the lives lost
Our loss
Our granddad's
Our family
Their lives
My failure is mirrored in the failure of the world
Religion after religion
Gun against gun
Life fighting life
One day I hope words will be the healer
Language our fighters
And soldiers our builders
One day
Will
We
Have a better world
One day!!
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
I've been asked by our son and the grandchildren, Evan and Emily, "Granddad, what would you like to have Santa bring you for Christmas?" A stock answer with grandparents nearly everywhere is, "Don't get me anything, for I have everything I need or want, so save your money."
Although this is a true answer, I usually give some kind of a rediculous answer like, "A pair of horseshoes would be nice." They smile, laugh, but it wouldn't surprise me if they bought a pair.
When I say, "I have what I want", I mean just that. For you see, my family, our son Russ, daughter-in-law, Mea, Evan and Emily, and my "Guardian Angel", "Brie", are my Christmas gifts, 365 days a year.
I can't ask for more than that!
copyright: richard riddle- 12-21-2015
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 9:52 AM UTC
Bevelled slick edges,
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
Chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
Wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
Daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
A silver pipe strikes me on the left-hand window,
breaking the dullness of these grey hospital walls.
Granddad, you’re due for your umpteenth colonoscopy,
and here I am thinking about how your IV’d wrists
strip away light like a prism.
They bandage the hurt leaking from your eyes
and let rainbows clog up your insides.
(Is that why you can't go, you old geezer?)
(Smile a bit more, will you?)
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
There's a Mexican saying,
(I'm Chinese American and yet i know this;
don't ask me how or why,
because if you knew how much
i talk about you, i think i'd die.)
There's a Mexican saying,
"It's a small step from hate to love."
I hated that you pulled me up
in front of a full room
and pointed out my ****
granted you weren't saying
anything about my ****
but more the fact that we were wearing
the same style of checkered shorts.
i hated that you didn't make sense
when you told our friends
about your grand scheme
to start a library with two books.
who starts a library with two books?!?
YOU CAN'T!
i hate that at dinner that night,
i actually enjoyed talking to you,
bantering and bickering
laughing and smiling.
and then "you two are like an old married couple".
i hate that you started calling me
when your granddad passed away
because you couldn't talk to anyone else.
and we'd talk for hours and hours
because we actually had that much to say.
i hate that you wanted to spend time with me.
i hate that you wanted to see me.
i hate that you wanted to help me.
i hate that you wanted to get to know me.
i hate it because i wasn't expecting it.
and the hardest thing is that we're just friends.
i don't know when it happened and i don't know how.
but i can't just be friends with you.
i don't want to be just friends with you.
because i took that small step…
from hate to love.
ok, so i don't love that you pointed out
to a room full of friends and other people
that my **** was in a pair of shorts
much like yours.
but i love that you noticed me.
i don't love that you think a library is two books.
but i love that you like what i like.
i don't love that people think
we're an old married couple.
but i love that i want to be
an old married couple with you.
i don't love that you used up
a lot of my cell phone minutes,
but i love that you didn't want to talk to anyone else.
i love that you want to spend time with me.
i love that you want to see me.
i love that you want to help me.
i love that you want to get to know me.
and i love that i'm in love with you.
i wish i could tell you.
i wish i could say it out loud.
I'm wishing my whispers at night
on the first star in the night sky
come true because i'm wishing for you.
Jul 30, 2010
Jul 30, 2010 at 4:40 PM UTC