"grandpapa" poems
When I was small
I had a favorite game
A game only girls loved to play
Paper dolls, pretty paper dolls....
My sister Sara dressed the paper dolls nicely
Elegantly dressed, pretty dolls...
and we loved to style them our ways...
We got bored easily and Sara begged me to buy more dolls...
I used my childish charm to get a rupee or two
My grand papa joked about our paper dolls
"no saree wearing dolls"? " no chapati making dolls"?
" No parantha making dolls?
and both of us replied.... " ohhhh.... shut up grandpapa"
When we grew up a little,
My sister and I were sent to a boarding school.
It was all girls school
and we were taught grooming, social etiquette
and how to be a lady...prim and proper
Dressed smartly, talked only when necessary
and sat up neatly, no head turns..
No giggling... only smile delicately
No tantrums or emotional plays...
just be poised... controlled.. poised and controlled...
Of course
We were not allowed to play paper dolls anymore
After awhile I hated the school...
Told my sister..... They were turning us
into paper dolls...
Paper dolls have no say...
They only follow.. They are puppets
Remember paper dolls we used to play?
All pretty in the outside but there is no life
to breathe....
Suffocated i felt here.....all I wanted to do is flee
Sis, cmon this is certainly not us... let's flee
WE SAID GOODBYE TO OUR BED AND WE DID RUN....
We managed to be who we wanted to be in the end
to live in real world, be with real people
given a freedom to choose what we wanted to do
with life...
We enjoy our life not the traditional way anymore
Have career and still we dressed nicely and elegantly
We are real people...
Unlike the paper dolls , who only look poise and beautiful..
but inside they are freezing.... lifeless....paper dolls..
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 8:40 AM UTC
One thing I love to do
Is write letters to Grandpapa
Because
You never know where it’s going to take you:
Octogenarians are a real wildcard
And that makes life interesting.
For example, I was writing a letter
To Grandpapa and he likes to imagine things
Because he can’t get around much
So I give the cat meat to feed on.
I embellish a little my romantic situation
And I tell him about M; little M
How she reminds me of my little mama
And that boys tend to look
For someone who is like a mother figure
And we grow into this role
We become more dependent on the girlfriend
Til she becomes like a second mother
But it never starts out that way.
So I was telling him about little M;
And when I receive a letter back
I notice a rather odd sentence
That I cannot help but laugh at:
“Dan, you say M; is smaller than you
All the easier to back her into a corner”
And then it follows on with some
Incongruent sentence about ‘me driving a car’
Now I’m not sure if we got lost in
Translation
I don’t know whether Grandpapa is thinking
I’m going to run M; over (she’s not that small)
Or whether he’s suggesting I invest in a booster seat?
Or whether in fact, he has made an unwholesome
But wholey funny link
Between me staying up all night
And my young ****** prowess
(Which is the same thing I suppose)
But I’m not quite sure why I’d be backing her
Into a corner
That sounds like outright pressure
But I have to laugh
Ah Grandpapa
Maybe one day I’ll show M;
Or maybe not
She may develop an irrational fear
For tight spaces
Which is something
I will never have a problem with...
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 9:08 PM UTC
"Asisstant!", I shouted.
"Yes, sire?", he bellowed.
"Read me the list on the Maturation Process!"
"Ah, I got it right here sire! Right here. Uh, let's see:
Lotion, rub...repeat..."
"Uhh..Assistant, that is the..umm, the wrong---the wrong list. I do believe."
"Oh, oh you said Matur--a--tion.
Under his breath, "You think a king would need a list for every fraggle thing he does hmphh."
"Asisstant! I do not have all day!"
"Oh, got it sire! I got it right here!"
"Go ahead, read what it says..."
"Ah, hem:
Phase one...
When you are born, you are pure....
"No, no no. Read it how Grandpapa used to read it."
"Ahhh, ahhh, hem:
WHEN YOU ARE BORN, YOU ARE PURE.
The world expects nothing from you,
but your loved ones expect you to be everything.
The cruel trick that nobody tells you:
Only you can decide what you are going to be.
There is no fate without action.
Reaction.
There is no action without desire.
The fire.
There is no desire without love.
Your heart.
Phase two:
You learn appreciation.
Eloquently our superiors call it, "manners".
Manners are what matters most to Man and Her's.
A thank you can change a day.
A helping hand can change a life.
A laugh can lead to a life of love.
It all resides within:
Your heart.
Phase three:
Accepting the cruel world.
Not everyone is the same.
Not everyone shares.
Not everyone has morale.
Not everyone shares morals.
Ethics, are never prosthetic.
So perfect, your own perfection.
Be you:
For it can be found in your heart.
Phase four:
Ignorance.
We forget what we were taught.
What is this?
We become narcissists,
obsessed with the world around us and how we fit in.
A mix of sarcasim and ********
Everything is a joke yet all we can think of is ***
*** without meaning: The best joke of all.
Phase five:
We lie to ourselves.
We forget what our inner-child wanted.
We tell ourselves that this is the correct thing to do,
we are judged on this stick with others surrounded by us.
We create our own manifestation of unruly day in and day out boredom.
We have to listen:
Listen to our hearts saying,
Don't. Don't do this.
Live your dreams.
Phase six:
Accepting of our own death.
We build a life.
Follow a format.
Do this, at this time with this person to be this at this point and so on.
However, if we forget to live: we die.
We must accept the fact that we all will die eventually.
That way we can choose to live.
You will never actually die,
if you open your heart.
For a heart can pass on from person to person.
"Ah, very good asisstant."
"Thank you sire..."
"Now, you're free to go. Go and live your dreams."
And, as the King sat in his throne.
The good Asisstant shoved him off the throne and sat in his place.
They both laughed until they were on the golden tile floor laughing harder and harder...
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 10:37 PM UTC
__12
• •
• •
|
9 «——— >§< ———» 3
• •
• •
6__
_“Struck is the hour from its ivory tower,
At sixes and sevens, the stars in their heavens,
As minute hands dance at twilight's advance,
To the cadence of time, the archangel’s chime;
Listen closely for me at a quarter to thee,
‘Twixt the tick and the tock of grandpapa’s clock,
Unquicken thine pace, for run is the race,
Hear the pendulum lock, ziccoty, diccoty, dock._”
Sep 23, 2020
Sep 23, 2020 at 4:55 PM UTC
'Grandmama, who is he?' the pretty, wide-eyed lass asked.
A grimace set on his lips; in his wrinkles stories were masked.
‘My child, look closely- it is your grand Grandpapa you behold.’
As Grandmama studied the painting, no longer did she look old.
'Tell me more, Grandmama!' A curious young lass was she.
‘Well darling child, here’s a tale- pray listen carefully.
When I was your age, young girls were made to clean and cook.
I was not sent to school, and never had I laid eyes on a book.
My father was a teacher, though he never did teach me,
One day during class, I was sent to serve him his evening tea.
He was father’s star pupil; the fateful month was May.
Our eyes met for the first time, and never could I look away…
The next day after class, together we snuck off gleefully,
Talking excitedly, hand in hand, we hopped from tree to tree.
Over two months, he presented me with a gift I really did need,
Armed with passion, he taught me how to write and read.
"…your daughter like a good Hindu girl must behave, Sir"
Villagers had too many eyes and ears; the rest was all a blur.
For his star pupil, Father’s classes no longer had room.
I was kept locked; the family hastily searched for a bridegroom.
The man they found was ugly, disrespectful, and arrogant,
Your Grandpapa found out; through my window a note he sent.
“Run away with me, my pearl. Life without you is lifeless”
That note was a bugle- it awoke me from my distress, oh yes…
We got married in a small temple and ran far, far away,
For three lovely years, there was not a melancholy day.
Alas my cruel father was not one to admit defeat, and so
Grandpapa was gone; baby in my arms, I was a helpless widow.'
'Grandmama, don't cry! Grandpapa is watching from above.'
‘Child, heed my advice: never must you be afraid to fall in love.’
The young girl studied the painting again- staring quite a while.
She could swear Grandpapa’s lips were now curled into a smile.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 10:53 PM UTC
Grandmama holds grandpapa's hands tightly
They are weak, they are cold, they are wrinkly...
What an ugly sight to see....
Unbelievable...
All the years that passed
It seems like just yesterday
when ...
The same hands holds hers
and ties her hand with a knot..
on that blissful wedding day
when she wears her diamond wedding ring..
so proud ...so gay...
two hands hold each other
never will let go of one or the other...
The same hands that carries
commitment and duties..
the solid sweet years spent...
The hand that used to be so strong
is numb... is dumb...
paralyses with time...
Salty tears drop on grandpapa's pillow
the silent tears of one faithful grandmama...
as she whispers.. "I LOVE YOU"...
to her snoring husband...
who no longer feels but seeks her existence...
Till death do us part.....
~Sharina~
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 4:42 PM UTC
When my grandfather passed I found a butterfly
Yellow and small hovering around my shoulders, lightly kissing my cheeks with every flutter
I walked five feet, then ten. Bidding farewell to my new friend.
And yet, the friend followed me no matter how far I strayed
And so I returned home to my mother, the yellow butterfly following behind
Then her eyes widened with shock, and, a touch of happiness
Her smile turned bittersweet as she pulled me into her arms
'Look dear,' she said, pointing at my new friend.
'There's your grandfather, he's come to visit.' She reached out with her fingers and the butterfly settled on them.
'How could that be grandpapa, Mama?' I asked, curious as ever.
'When a loved one passes, their spirit visit us in the form of butterflies.'
Twenty years since. butterflies have followed my every step.
I've begun to wonder if they announce the passing of a loved one or prepare me for my own
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 9:38 PM UTC
And there he sat
transfixed
with his head
cocked to the side
pressed against
his tense shoulder
His tight chin
cringed upward
shrieking for relief
while his gray mane
draped in the drool
draining from
his dead lips
curled into
the wrinkles of
his withered face
His obtruding veins
Splintered his fragile skin
Into fractured slivers
Like splitting sheets of ice
On a warming winter river
Each flake shriveled
As the blood receded
Fading each pastel color
Into shades of grey
His bushy eyebrows
protruded over
those murky, marbled eyes
with pupils like
creamy, black clouds
lingering faintly amidst
a midnight blue sky
But as he sat
Dead paralyzed
In an eternal lullaby
He still looked alive
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 12:01 PM UTC