"grandkids" poems
The other day while driving down
a winding country road,
I passed a house that took me back
to days so long ago.
The shaded porch, the hanging swing,
the oak trees standing guard,
The carefully tended flower beds,
the wide expanse of yard,
The big ol' wooden rocking chairs
where a soul could sit and drowse,
Made me recall so clearly,
time spent at Grandma's house.
Grandma's house was always open
to all who happened by.
Kith and kin or long-lost friend
were met with a welcome cry.
"Come, sit and eat, we'll set another place,
there's always room for one more".
And when you left you could look back and see her,
still waving from the open door.
Many years have passed, the family is scattered,
And that house is no longer home.
But whenever I should happen to pass,
the feeling still comes so strong.
That I should stop and visit a while
and a secret or two we'll share.
And then on its heels comes the knowledge,
that Grandma's no longer there.
All that's left are fond memories
that all of us grandkids have,
That we can recall so clearly,
time spent at Grandma's house.
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 12:25 PM UTC
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled
get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling, breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?
skirt politics cause nobody wants any
nothing-to-be-done-damn-aggravation,
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the
absent women
no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms, non-differentiating
just humanism-isms
and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
specialisms
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Sitting at the balcony, a sunset to her face
a scent of chamomile, an elated memory rephrases
frolicking aster's in autumn color graced
the imbue of old feelings, her craft of curtain lace
Spinning a rustic harmony, the rustle of leaves
dips a chocolate pudding, her smile swept by me
a dessert like sky, the billow swirls in place
our grandkids tag-along to the hounds that chase
An old love song, a diary of stories we made
halcyon, even her face freckles and her hair is gray
she gave me fields that kisses spring and fall
our magic remains forever, even our time is called
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 9:00 AM UTC
With a warm load of folded laundry under my chin
I head toward Daniel’s sock drawer
Pulling on the carefully crafted handle I see
My grandfather cutting and planning the cherry tree
Dropped by Hurricane Carol in 1954
Wood shavings fall about his work boots as he
Shapes each panel, never using a ruler, all by eye
Boxing the frame, sizing the drawers, sanding surfaces
By hand, hence 60 years of grandkids and great grandkids socks
The drawer closes effortlessly with a sound
Of living heirlooms and heritage
Of legacy and family
A sound that everything is safe inside
That memorials are made to last
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
**Fight to make your presence known
Fight to make something your own
Fight to stand up to the wrong
Fight to sing one more song
Fight to end up at the top
Fight to make bad **** stop
Fight because it’s what you’re told
Fight, be fierce, strong and bold
Fight for rights you think we need
Fight to stay awake and read
Fight to always give your all
Fight back every time you fall
Fight from looking in too deep
Fight depressions need for sleep
Fight for children in foster homes
Fight the fear you’ll die alone
Fight as if today’s your last
Fight to persevere your past
Fight to see your grandkids birth
Fight to the death for mother Earth
Fight back tears and wear a smile
Fight the urgency and stay awhile
Fight for fun or relieving stress
Fight for whatever you think is best
Fight because they struck you first
Fighting your best friends the worst
Fight to improve yourself bit by bit
Fight belifs that you'll fail at it
Fight for you and all you are
Fight the darkness; brilliant star
Fight thoughts that you’re not enough
Fight their hatred with undying love
Heidi Shavill 2013
**
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 3:12 AM 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
Noun.
The mother of ones father or mother. (mother)
Elderly. (Died December 28, 2011)
Kind. Sweet. Gentle. (If there is a paradise, she is there.)
Bright. Thoughtful. (She made me a Snoopy apron one year for Christmas.)
Loving. (She raised 6 kids, took care of her husband for 55 years, and always made waffles for breakfast when grand-kids came to visit.)
Loved. (by all who knew her)
Missed. (by just as many)
Survived. (1 husband, 6 kids, 4 grandkids, many friends.)
Dec 29, 2011
Dec 29, 2011 at 1:45 AM UTC
an ample empty Sunday
nothing on the agenda,
the calendars cease their chirping,
it's a kinda free rarely heard
maybe will go see a movie,
walk alongside the East River currents,
rushing somewhere we don't have to be,
maybe we will practice rolling on the floor,
visiting and winding up the grandkids,
then escaping/leaving them with parents,
crazy high and wet & dry
maybe I'll cancel some credit cards,
crack open the briefcase of deferred questions,
have pizza for breakfast,
write half a dozen baker's poems,
finish some more of Dr. Zhivago,
that I started several years ago,
maybe, I'll keep her tied up in our bed,
releasing her when she releases me
because I released her first
yup,
an empty day ahead
full of the oscillating,
a true east/west directionless
vibrating range of
ample possibilities
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 8:28 AM UTC
HOME MADE VALENTINES DAY...
Back in the 1940's when I was young
Valentines Day was so special
Everything was homemade
from the Valentine box,
the Valentines,
and Valentine cookies.
As the room mother one year
my mom was asked to make a large
Valentine Box
I remember the doilies that we
colored in, we had ruffles,
glitter on little hearts,
everything was pink, white and red.
The big Valentine box was put on
the teachers desk
Then as each child came in
they deposited their Valentines
in the beautiful Valentine Box.
I can't remember seeing the teacher
remove the Valentines from the box
but somehow she did, and a couple
of us kids got to pass out the cards.
We took them home in a paper bag.
But first we opened them up....
Always excited to see if we got
a special one from someone special...
Did you get one from Jimmy,
or best friend Sue
Here's one from the teacher
with a sucker too...
As the years passed by, and I became a mother
I helped my children make their own
small Valentine Box.
With Doilies, red hearts and
the most important part was glitter....
and they came home from school
filled with cards picked up at the
Valentine Store...
But
as years passed on
the Grandkids were more creative.
A Valentine Box
that looked like
a Lady Bug
each year they became more creative.
But
none as beautiful in my eyes
as the big large Valentine Box
my mom made.
HAPPY VALENTINES DAY...
by judy
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 7:05 AM UTC
when he died, his jackets all went
to the grandkids (world-war-two-chic was
en vogue), his medals to his sons, and his
meticulous preparations for any far-off
hurricane, blizzard, fabled connecticut sandstorm,
power outage, overheating engine,
skinned knee
to the big and elegant dumpster.
his wife in her heels-for-every-occasion, in her
quiet knowing
languages and recipes and birdseed
loved him even after she forgot his name
and hers.
they built this house bare-handed
and in the shade of the trees
and spiders and cell-phone towers
it will stand as ever
it always has.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
Someone asked how old I am,
and this was my reply;
“I’m about as old as the dirt
that’ll cover me when I die.”
I’m the oldest dead person living,
according to Guinness’s book.
A record once held by a bible guy,
but one from him I took.
Friends who have all gone before
wonder if they should fret.
They think I’ve likely gone to hell,
‘cause I’m not in heaven yet.
I have grandkids in rest homes.
They don’t mind it there.
But when I go to visit
you should see the people stare.
Went to a senior Citizen’s club
‘til the day that I was told,
“Sorry, but you can’t come back
because you’re too **** old.”
At my last birthday party,
all the candles lit the sky
Fourteen cakes to hold ‘em all…
Three fire trucks stopped by..
So, you want to know how old I am?
Well, that’s just too dang bad
At my age I can’t remember squat,
and really….I’m kinda’ glad.
Nov 27, 2011
Nov 27, 2011 at 9:41 AM UTC
Following Friday's sins,
I'd usually sleep in.
That Saturday Mammy called up;
There was Daddy dripping blood,
Clinging to his thumb.
He was stubborn.
He sat back,
I drove fast,
And left him in emerg.
Hours later,
Back at home,
The phone.
The power switch
Was already off,
But on the floor,
Next to the saw,
I saw the thumb
Lying strangely alone,
The skin, the nail, the bone.
He died incomplete.
His stump was a talisman.
Grandkids got a kick from it
Asking him to count to ten.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
Memories were made specifically for certain people
Their memories were planned out from the beginning
They would have friends and family beside them, and laughter that would
Float up from their hearts up through their mouths and into the universe
These memories would forever be captured into the person's brain
And there are some memories for others
That aren't for me
Memories that I am so close too
And some that cast a distant shadow over me
I love to build new memories
It gives my life joy and that deep heartfelt laughter
I get those memories sometimes
And they are the best times I've ever had
Memories like those are the ones I will treasure most
The ones I will tell my kids and grandkids
The ones the universe will know as Leie's memories
They will never be forgotten
They will not be pushed aside
They will forever stay my
Memories...
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 11:21 PM UTC
She was a carefree soul
in an uptight world
Just trying to fit in.
Looking for love
in all the right places
that's how her story begins
Her mama didn't want her,
Her daddy didn't know her,
so she ran away
Looking for love
in all the wrong places
as she does to this day
Men her daddy's age
Drug are all the rage
Disco ***** Stripper Poles,
Needles and Sin
Married at 18
seemed like the right thing
drugs, an abortion, then a baby girl.
Why she had me
I'll never know
I didn't fit into her world
She found love
in the form of a son
for a time it was enough
A walk with God
She claimed she was on
But satan called her bluff.
Many men, any age
Drugs are still all the rage.
Barstools, Stripper poles
Needles and sin
She left us
at an early age,
Teenage girl and boys times 2
Searching for happiness
in all the wrong places
is watch she HAD to do.
Being a mother
To my little brothers
We got through life ok.
Hoping and dreaming
wishing and praying
Our mother would find her way.
All these men, every age,
Ice is now all the rage
Sleepless nights, alcoholic life,
Needles and Sin
On the streets
is where she lives
druggies are her friends.
Countless ways
to try to save her
But there is no end.
Is this the life
she dreamt of having
All that time ago?
A beautiful daughter, two talented sons
and grandkids she'll never know.
Any man, whatever age
Homelessness all the rage.
Self deception, mind corruption
Needles and sin.
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
we were all born crying.
wailing, raw pink lungs
gasping,
choking, on new filtered air.
but maybe, we cry not because
of a cold chill
and fluorescent state of confusion,
but simply because we've been born once again.
maybe we cry because our past lives
will never repeat themselves-
no more grandkids, the splintered back porch with the hissing screen door,
no more ten day vacations at the spare house in Spain,
no more dates at a drive in, the 1981 firebird where the windows would always steam,
no handprints along glass,
footprints on the subway.
no more
"welcome home" kisses from your dog,
"goodnight" kisses from your wife.
when we are born,
maybe we cry because
in that simple movement toward new light
our hand lingers along the wall behind us,
and flips off the switch.
every painful lesson,
heartbreak,
first times,
failiure.
all of it recycled;
repetition that never comes to end.
maybe, we cry because
we have forgotten the words
of the song we know we've heard.
the one you once danced to
at your wedding;
the one they cried to, at your funeral.
maybe we cry because
we have forgotten the color of the ink
scratched on our past suicide notes.
maybe, because
we think the gunshot did not take us
to heaven.
but there are angels
and they don't wear halos and stroke harps-
they roam the earth.
instead of showing you the light,
they teach how to form the flame inside yourself.
we were all born crying.
and it is not from loss or fear itself;
not because our soul is homesick
for the house it can't recall-
we cry for the warmth of our mothers worn hands.
the new rhythm slow in her chest,
amber hair falling
from the foreign slope of her shoulder;
we are just one soul on this journey
body to body, heart to heart.
maybe we cry because
in that moment, we ourselves realize
that each life is, a miracle.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
Mammy vacuumed
So the grandkids
Could play.
The kids have grown,
Mammy left,
Just the other day.
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
There is no place for me here
Where they dream of comfortable lives
Talk about football and weekend plans
Holding hands as they walk down aisle four
Split the grocery bill then drive home to his place
That will someday become their home
And oh how we wanted to travel and see things
Skydive, mountain climb
Travel to Africa, build houses, learn languages
And just be
But then that job offer was too good to pass up
And it’s so much easier to raise a kid with family close by
So we put it off for now
Just for now, for a little while
Until the timing is right
Until we have more money, vacation days
Then there was the new car, the college tuitions, and that trip with her parents down to Grand Cayman for their 60th wedding anniversary
Now it’s graduations and grandkids
What happened to Africa?
They still go shopping
Together, sometimes
He pays with their credit card, she pushes the cart
They had a comfortable life
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 1:04 AM UTC
born 1900
when Austria was still a monarchy
that did not know
it was approaching its end
growing up as the daughter
of the mayor of a little district town
big fish in a small pond
educated accordingly
as a ‘higher daughter’
be a home decorator
do needlework
be a gourmet cook
play the piano
be a respectable member
of the community and the parish
when she turned 18
after the end of world war I
the social order for which she had been prepared
simply disappeared
her father became a disillusioned monarchist
the town’s republicans elected a new mayor
she married a railway engineer
who left her after her daughter
my mother
was born
she managed to survive world war II
as a single mother
watched her daughter
fall in love with, at Christmas 1946,
and marry in April 1947
a guy who had just escaped
from a Soviet POW camp
looked like a walking skeleton
my father
AND
was the son of a communist
who had survived world war I
as a POW in Siberia
strange bedfellows
they used to play cards together
once a week
with great gusto
class warfare
morphed into social entertainment
both my parents were working
grandmother led the household
on the side did bookkeeping for local businesses
to bring in some money
practically raised me and my brother
cared for us when we were sick
taught me to play the piano
was always afraid we would not get
enough to eat
for a while, as a little child,
I slept in the same room with her
and learned that she had
a wondrously melodious snore
going over an octave & some such
when, after grade school,
I had to leave at 5.45 am
to catch the train
pulled by a sturdy steam engine
that took me to the high school
50km down the road
she was concerned when I
rushing out the door
just grabbed parts of the breakfast
she had so lovingly prepared
when I left home for university
she was not happy
when I went to the USA for a whole year
she was disconsolate
she did enjoy her great-grandkids
when they visited, though
too much distance for too long
from the place of her birth
made her uncomfortable
in her later years
she needed a familiar place
that came with its familiar things
to do and know
she lived to be 87
I saw her last
after a second stroke
had mostly incapacitated her
a tiny woman
curled up
waiting to leave us
for a world that finally might heal
the pain and disappointment
she had so bravely mastered
throughout her life
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
The green handbag,
Clutched close,
Constant companion,
Matching clothes?
Not always.
Where did you go today?
The green handbag,
Loose change,
And pension book.
Made up?
Take a look!
Where did you go today?
The green handbag,
Memory sac of
Nooks and crannies,
Papa, Grandkids,
Aunts and Grannies.
Where did you go today?
The green handbag,
Held to heart,
Perched on knees,
A medicine chest,
With pain to ease.
Where did you go today?
The green handbag,
Where did you go today?
Pointless question, Usual answer.
As ever ‘Up the Toon!’
Too soon,
Not today.
The green handbag,
Not clutched,
Nor held,
But at the foot of your bed,
A reminder of hope,
Where did you go?
Today,
The Green Handbag,
Sits at my Dad’s feet.
A monument to love,
In fading verdigris.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 6:45 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
Do you remember
The fairy tales we spun
On those blazing summer noons
When the road tar was melting
And we bunked classes
To be under the forest flame
Shadowed from the world outside
When we thought time would be immortal
As you wiped the sweats from my forehead
And with every thread of yarn
I would grip you harder
In an effort to prevent gravity
From letting those moments fall
Into the abyss of memories.
Do your eyes still see the Prince
That never took you away
When you tell your grandkids
The fairy tales?
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 12:07 PM UTC
alone
praying for someone
anyone
to knock on the door
even if i can't hear it at first
alone
my only friends are the books
that i can barely read
because i'm practically
blind
and the tv i can barely hear
because i'm almost totally
deaf
new illnesses developing everyday
i'm getting
old
if only someone would come by
somebody
i've got three kids
three
one of them told me happy birthday
this year
one
grandkids
how many now?
six
but what were their names
pictures
don't get to see them often
but i see them in
pictures
new ones
i haven't gotten anything
new
but one
who was that again?
my granddaughter
what was her name
the pretty one
with the pink hair
alysia
i show that picture
to the folks around here
i love looking at it
pictures
are better than
nothing.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
we are soulmates
she and i,
and no, not of
the romantic kind.
we both believe that
soulmates arent just
who we are to marry,
but, soulmates are the ones
that we are supposed to
meet and love in life,
and never ever forget,
even if you grow apart,
your soulmate is that
one person who you'll
tell your kids and
grandkids about,
the one who you loved
and had to learn to live
without...
and now, thats what im doing
because
mine
has
just
walked
out
the
door.
Apr 29, 2015
Apr 29, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC