"grandparent" poems
He pulled and parked the supply red wagon,
then climbed the mast to the captain's cabin.
Captain Red is ready for adventure.
A quest to collect the world's best treasure.
His pirate crew is renowned far and wide.
They're rough and tough and they don't ever cry.
But none of them boys has the captain's stuff.
So don't mess with him, man, cause he don't bluff.
This motley crew has achieved many feats,
has never suffered a single defeat,
and has seen the most incredible things:
whales, whirlpools, storms, mermaids, krakens and kings.
"Set sail," squaws the boss as he munches lunch
and the Ocean Destroyer leaves port Wunche.
These rolling green hills are now ocean waves.
That blue sky, however, remains the same.
...
"Hey Benjamin!" beams the first mate Susanne.
Impeding the journey that just began.
"We already played this game. It's my turn!"
The first mate trumps the captain, Ben will learn.
...
Her spacesuit crew is renowned far and wide.
They're smart and nice and they don't ever lie.
But none of these girls has commander's stuff.
So don't mess with her, girl, cause she don't bluff.
This brainy crew has achieved many feats,
has never suffered a single defeat,
and has seen the most incredible things:
aliens, black holes, stars, and martian springs.
"Lift off!" beams the boss as she munches lunch
and the Star Chasing Rocket leaves base Wunche.
These rural backyards are now rocky space.
That blue sky, however, remains the same.
...
"Hey Susanne!" beams the pilot Benjamin.
Impeding the flight before it begins.
"We already played this game. It's my turn!"
The pilot trumps commander, Sue will learn.
...
Boys and girls grow up and out the front door.
Those children’s games evolve to adult chores;
those kiddy lawns to grandparent’s domain.
That blue sky, however, remains the same.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
He has taken rake and shovel in hand,
Taking advantage of the light,
Rare in these climes this time of year,
Still welcomed, though rendered severe
By the sun's reluctant trudge above the horizon,
The type which, sauntering through a window pane
(Falling upon a crucifix anchored above a cradle
Or some ancient, gilded frame
Containing a photo of some grandparent's wedding day,
Exploding into full undifferentiated diffusion)
May possess a dram of warmth, albeit resigned, nostalgic
A bittersweet reminder of what has gone by
(And in the shade, the air is filled
With the portentous chill of what lies a few months hence)
But there nonetheless as he tends to those final farewells
From the trees bowing to December's inevitability,
The droppings not the Pollock-esque bursts of October
(Those having been collected and consigned
To the normal corner of the back lot)
But dreary brown-hued things, not welcomed by eye nor heart,
Simply corralled perfunctorily and dismissed.
One could contend that such activity is unnecessary,
The mere vanity of all endeavor,
As the snow will come soon, and steady as well,
Performing the seasonal, cyclical function in its own time,
But he soldiers on nonetheless, a unseen one-act nearly-farce,
Painstakingly raking and bending and scraping
To leave his patch of green uncovered for a little while
Until the locking time comes to seal the earth's secrets once more,
To be revealed to those
Who shall receive the teasing ministrations
Of the fickle, fitful March equinox.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:44 PM UTC
I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.
My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles.
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.
And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the slope
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
Hedge.
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.
Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.
Love Mary x
My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight.
It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’.
Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises.
The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect
Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land.
Beyond the real world.
In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 7:57 AM UTC
zelle ma belle
(zelle is an interbank system for sending cash in an instant to someone else’s bank account)
sent her an unexpected $250,
at 4:00am, of course,
a check-plus for her life,
because she revel reviews her day at school,
as special person day, teaches them well, and
anointed, appointed unsolicited confirmation by them
“as part of our family”
how they crave her body, her touch, at scary movie parts,
her kitchens diner size menu,
her refusal to ever disappoint,
her candy drawer supreme,
her crayon color visions which they execute,
her zen sense of their moods,
and for me,
for calling them without hesitation
my grandchildren
indeed more here hers than mine
she asks me why the $$ and poet doesn’t lie
but thinks quick at 7:30 am while bed prone,
“you won Nana of the Day award”
the only (grandparent) on the floor with two kids in her lap,
for the magic show,
all the rest,
benched, chattingly adultry things
she thinks on it and says
“ok, I accept!”
p.s. also, I have yet to inform her of the (my) elimination of a
crystal champagne flute while doing my manly cleanup from Friday night lights dinner pink champagne celebrating
le weekend’s arrival
olp
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 8:33 AM UTC
From a young age I knew
there was a man and a woman out there, complete strangers,
who were, biologically, my grandparents.
I knew my chances of meeting them were exactly zero to none.
The parents who took my dad home that day were his parents
And that was done.
Before me sat a grandmother, and the spirit of a grandfather passed,
who loved me more than any stranger-grandparent ever could
who was there for every dance recital, every holiday, every mistake, every success
who, though I bore no resemblance, watched me grow right before her eyes
who swore the Easter bunny left treats at her house for me--
even when I was beyond the years of belief.
Always wearing a sweatsuit and gold stud earrings,
with an added neck-scarf and red lip for special occasions.
Telling tales of the "poor dear" animal she saw
Dead on the side of the road--
Sad enough, you'd think it was her own.
Church every Sunday and the shirt off her back,
Had you asked.
This woman I explain
Shares no blood, but, a surname.
I love her just the same
If not more
Than any grandmother
Genetics had in store.
She's a part of who I am,
though not in my DNA.
Nature versus Nurture:
Nurture wins again.
She taught me:
Strength, grace, humility, selflessness, generosity, and patience
Without sharing one biological thread
By example she lead
And I continue to follow
In her footsteps.
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 2:51 AM UTC
my favorite part of silence is that
she speaks to me
when winter hushes the world
silence greets the rubber of tires to handfuls of snow
resolving the angry roaring of these metal beasts
to purring
when sitting on the rural porch of my grandparent's farm
the voices of the trees are reduced to murmurs
and for some reason it's so much easier to breathe,
to hear myself think
when sounds become null
they leave a hollow space
but silence fills that aperture
with giving smells colors
gifting wet grass the smell of baby blue
and honey the smell of heavy brown
my favorite part of silence is that
she allows me to speak
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 11:45 AM UTC
The love of a grandson
to a grandmother
is a special bond.
It cannot be broken.
A grandmother's presence
in the eyes of a grandson
makes him behave
more like he should behave.
He looks up to her.
I look up to you.
I often wonder
what experiences you've gone thorough.
What has made you into the you today?
You've gone through so much yet,
I've only known you
for 22 years of it.
Through that time,
you've shown me
what a great grandparent is.
You attended most of my
Concerts
Plays
and Musicals
with loving support
Every birthday,
Christmas,
Valentine's Day,
and Easter
without ever missing a beat
you would contact me.
I thank you
So
SO
SOOOOOO MUCH!
I often feel guilty
for not always contacting back.
I really need to get better at that.
As a kid
there was nothing better
than looking forward
to your Christmas presents.
The science toys,
the cookbooks,
and of course,
the Hot Wheels.
There was nothing better to me
than knowing
that I would get a new track to put together
or a new car.
As I've matured,
so have the presents.
the Alinea cookbook
is like a sacred document
I look at it often
and it always amazes me.
Thank you for inventing
"Grandma's Orange Stuffing"
Its always my favorite part
of the Thanksgiving feast.
(Way better than dad's)
Although this poem
isn't very poem-y
I hope you enjoy it
for the rest of your life.
You're the only real grandparent I ever had,
and I love you with all my heart.
Thank you for all you've done.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
July 4, 2015
Grandson Tony and Grandpa went to Mickey D's for breakfast. Grandpa was ready to vacate the premises when Tony barred the door. "Just a little while longer Grandpa." So Grandpa sat back down.
Soon a cake and five of the Mickey D people appeared and sang happy birthday. Tony was apparently being a little secretive and alerted the establishment when we clocked in. Grandpa cut four pieces of cake. Two to take home for Lucy and Grandma. Two for Tony and Grandpa.
Tony then ask if he could give his piece of cake to someone. "Sure you can." grandpa replied. There were two tables with grandparent types and parents sitting 10 feet away. Tony picked up his piece a cake and a fork and squeezed in between the two tables and placed the cake in front of the young fella who eagerly began eating it. Grandpa then noted the boy had Downs Syndrome. The people at the table were pleasantly surprised at what had just happened. A grandmother came over where Grandpa was sitting and express that it was a very thoughtful thing Tony did. The whole thing rather blew Grandpa away. But that's the way Tony is. Full of surprises.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 12:27 PM UTC
My grandparent's house
ten-kid-large and sinking
on the corners of remembrance
Remodeled now, to
...tenements
Honeycomb
...the remnants
Irish immigrant and Scottish orphan's child
She sang on the ferry
He fell in love
"The rest is the history of us...."
Wide
as the Connecticut River, grieving--
in their sunset....
________________
This-- chair
is his
I am afraid of it-- of his learning
of the shiny badge pinned to his coat
of his dying...
Golden leather of it
soothes
his memory--
of another continent
of the once warmth-- of a distant hearth
so darkened now--
where his head once rested
...his hands
and,
I fear--
his mind....
I will not sit in it
as if he will come back, to take his place
I am afraid of him--
with his chair--
all worshipful and empty
like a high place, abandoned
to the heart attack
not for grandchild play
Seat of Authority
still stamped
beside the standing cold--
brass ashtray
Pipe smoke imagines itself
against the ceiling in the words
of Yates and Milton
He read to them
and somehow--
Paradise is Lost....
_______________
This house is cold now-- even in the summer-- cold
Worn as only large families wear
The War
of waiting shadows
--four brothers who were spared
Anna Mae, in charge, too young,
worries in abrupt dark
of dinning room
Her face, haunted--
an archway-- ever empty
by the large and ghostly table
covered by its web of lace--
a bridal veil
of Catholic impossibility...
Anna Mae, held hostage by her thoughts
of darling, Sean...
Aunt Lil's “breakdown”
with cigarette and thorazine
quaking quiet in her corner
Aunt Nell,
as blind as ******** hell
ironing, darning
with threads that thatch
the wounded socks
Holds it all together, scolding--
Brought the welcomed jelly donuts
sneered as Yankees clobbered Boston
all-- while drinking yellow ale
Uncle Eddie-- laughing hoarsely
cracks nuts over a wooden bowl
Sep 19, 2017
Sep 19, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
I’m thinking of the faded checkered pattern that has been
smoothed away by time on the dark cloth seats of a Nissan Pathfinder
driving down Ryan Road on a hot day in June.
My mother, in the front seat, singing along to a Spice Girls cassette.
I’m thinking: red, plastic, crab-shaped sandbox and
McDonald’s Happy Meal toys.
I’m thinking: light princess pink, seafoam green, and robin’s egg blue.
I’m thinking of a framed cheetah cross stitch, hanging on the wall of what
used to be our bedroom at my grandparent’s house.
I’m thinking: Barbie doll houses and Hot Wheels and a cul-de-sac at
the end of the street.
The sweet smell of cigar smoke. The ice cold splash of the garden hose. The pop of a bubble. The sting of soap in the eye. Dreams by The Cranberries. As Long as You Love Me by The Backstreet Boys. A HelloKitty boombox slowly spitting out vapor when the deck builders hit a power line while digging. The deer in the backyard looking for corn. The faded wood of a playset that was never really played on.
My father: sitting alone on a splintered bench by the firepit at the edge of the woods, empty beer cans at his feet, chain smoking cigarettes, and humming along to a song that is stuck—forever stuck—on the tip of my tongue.
I do not know if this happened. I cannot ask him.
(I’m not sure if I would want to ask him.)
But I can make an educated inference that that line of
fiction is really nonfiction.
A memory that feels like a phantom limb.
Sounds like the sharp crinkle of static.
Covered in a gossamer, dreamlike haze.
There is a distinct otherness to this memory, to who
I think I was before the trauma.
We are two different people. A yin and a yang. A day and a night.
The hermit crab is soft beneath its hard shell.
The asbestos is not apparent within the insulation.
You cannot see the lead in the paint.
The mold inside the fruit.
May 5, 2021
May 5, 2021 at 2:46 AM UTC
If I have children
Who have children
I would be the Best
and the Worst
Grandparent
I would teacher my grandchild
How to ride a two-wheeler
A month after they graduate to training wheels
Their parents would be so mad
But I would just laugh
And give their children ice cream
I would give my grandchildren cookies
to eat before dinner
I wouldn't be spoiling their appetite
Because cookies are real food
I would teach my grandchildren piano
And give them a drum set
My own children would hate me
As the sound of un-choreographed noise
Sounds day and night
If my grandchildren stayed the night
I would let them stay up later
Then their parents allowed
and feed them all types
Of sugar and candies
Before returning them home
I would do everything
A parent would faint at
But
My grandchildren would love me
I would be the Best
and the Worst
Grandparent
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 8:29 PM UTC
In my grandparent’s house
There are stacks of
National Geographic magazines.
Next to the couch,
In the bathroom,
So that
From the porcelain throne,
You can travel the wide world,
Stepping into the shoes
Of some great explorer
In the time it takes you
To ****
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
The Straw Furniture (Summertime and the Living is Easy)
The ancient straw furniture, yellow-white, cracked,
My boon companions from the Sun Room where I write,
Give me a welcome back embrace and purposely snag my sweater,
Crackling a laugh and tween boisterous gasps, all wish me a hearty
Welcome back ancient mariner, to your cottage
On the bluff overlooking Peconic Bay.
The deck furniture exhumed from the garage,
Accompanied by a parade, nay a slew,
Of spiders and insects waving Adieu to their winter palace
Climb aboard to get a better view of their new deck digs,
And of me, the anti-hero of their grandparent's tales.
I go down to the basement.
Chagrined,
I come back up the twisty stairs
which designed, aimed to maim,
vowing never to return.
The refrigerator says do you like modern art?
Mold of multifarious colors, heavenly hues worthy of the
Museum of Modern Art,
I bequeath to you freely, no charge!
The clean laundry left out from last summer,
Looks so forlorn, asks politely,
Make me gone, wash away the winter's dusty grime,
Besides, traces of aged balsamic suntan lotion, still inhabit.
The golf clubs say nice meeting you,
Tho we think we met you once before,
Five or eight years or even never-years ago, was it not?
My obedient servants?
No, my friends, my helpers, my guides,
For in their sheltering embrace, in this holy place,
Inspiration floods, overcomes me and I am compelled alive,
Poet renewed, ****** why am I crying...
May 26th
10:15 AM
Shelter Island
In the Sun Room, weeping.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC
To the middle school English teachers
that simplified Shakespearean plays to the last syllable, feeling like the same dagger of odd epiphanies.
The distinct powdery paint stained floors, acrylic smudged tables and the coffee aroma by 09:03.
An art class educated by a poetic tongue, flicking through all art movements like he existed eloquently in each.
Our engineering & graphics teacher who simultaneously mothered us as her own from the isolated section of block D. In the background, a blackboard with meticulously drawn site plans of the highest precision. Her shouts were just as sharp.
To my spontaneous IT teachers that taught me how to maneuver through binary dilemmas and store any distress in random access memory.
Or to the person who found my wallet with my ID and bank cards but had no idea where my cash disappeared to.
The aloof B15 bus driver constantly arriving before the last bell, especially on rainy pastel gray days.
The far too kind Mrs Sharon. I've never met you personally. However, your positive impact on my grandparent's life rolled both from their tongues and into my life.
Thank you.
Dec 30, 2021
Dec 30, 2021 at 1:52 AM UTC
He was my papaw and he was my father's dad.
When he died in 1994, it was both tragic and sad.
If Papaw had survived, he would be celebrating his birthday.
If he hadn't died, he would've become 100 years old today.
He was born on July the 28th of 1923.
Today he would've lived for a century.
When Papaw took some medication, he became very sick.
He died six days after his birthday because he was allergic.
Dad was hurt by Papaw's death and so was I.
It's always painful to learn that a grandparent is going to die.
Jul 28, 2023
Jul 28, 2023 at 11:32 AM UTC
I believe in love. Love has the power to heal and create. There’s hopeless love, family love, friend love, and love for everyone, especially those with four furry feet. My family has taught me the beginning of how to love. Even deeper, my grandparent’s have shown me complete unconditional and raw love. From sickness and health, to rich and poor, they’ve been glued together for 38 years now. The pets I’ve owned taught me love isn’t just restricted to humans. Often, animals stick around longer to comfort and love than friends do. However, friends and lovers teach a whole new level of love. I’ve realized that love can be just temporary. Being the hopeless romantic I am, I search for love everywhere and find love in every dusty corner. I’ve seen that sometimes you’re only meant to love someone for a limited amount of time until you feel the need to move on to someone else and fill their life with the power of it. Friends, family, lovers, pets, they all come and go, but love is forever.
I believe in love because I’ve been hurt. I’m happy to lose by caring more for someone as long as it means i get the chance to show them what it’s like to be loved by fire. I’m not afraid to feel. Love isn’t just one feeling to me, it comes in many different feelings. It’s in all feelings. Without hate there’d be no love and vice versa. Love creates beauty, love creates hate, love creates people, love lets the world go around. When we learn to love, we learn how to make things better.
Three years ago my Uncle was killed unexpectedly in an accident and that loss of love in my family has completely changed the way we loved since. We learned how to love each other stronger, how to love ourselves more, and most importantly how to love life. Our family bond is unbreakable now. The devastating loss and going through the grief and learning more about love has made me more of myself than anything in the world ever could.
Love comes to us in many different ways. Love is action, love is emotion, love is expressed. Love is free and binds us all. Without love, we wouldn’t be people. It’s what defines us. You can’t have anything without it. Not a career, not passion, nothing, because nothing would matter without love. There is absolutely nothing you can’t love. Flowers, food, kids, sleeping, puzzles, it’s okay to love it all and all is deservant of love.
“Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.” Corinthians 13:4-8
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 12:43 AM UTC
When i was younger
I loved to color.
At my grandparent's house
there was a shoebox
full of crayons.
I am older now.
So are my grandparents.
I got the crayons from the closet
because I still love to color.
With a satisfied smile
my grandfather turned to me
and said "you remembered where the crayons were"
Apr 20, 2014
Apr 20, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
tradition is more than yesterday’s stories
old photographs and dusty keepsakes
it is the remembering of tomorrow
it is the nervous acting out
of ceremony with candles and words
of an ancient story of wonder and light
it is the gladsome preparation
of the festive foods for the jolbord
and the pride of happy hosts
it is the gentle noise of children playing
the rumbling conversation of friends remembering
the tear in a grandparent’s eye
it is the leap in our hearts at midwinter’s turn
it is the song that ever celebrates life’s wonder
Dec 14, 2014
Dec 14, 2014 at 10:06 PM UTC
High on a hill our grandparent’s home stood,
Its majesty in stone cast a haunted look,
Light glimmered from a paraffin lamp,
Whilst outside it snowed on the geese,
As they ran to their shelter,
And the cows mooed on the fields above,
And the goats cried in the barn.
Mother pumped water from the well,
We ran around collecting eggs,
Granddad showed me how to milk a goat.
In the evenings we gathered in the kitchen,
The fire roared in the range,
Granddad sat in his big chair,
He burned anything just to keep warm,
We thought it very strange.
Mother worked at the big white sink,
Knitted squares hung from a line,
We made tiny plasticine dolls,
They slept in plasticine beds,
We drank Dandelion and Burdock,
Ginger pop and Sarsaparilla,
It came in enormous stone bottles,
Dad got it every week from a man at the door.
Most of the rooms were huge, bleak and bare,
A room we called the playroom,
Was carpeted with goat skins,
There were jars of melted metal,
Who knows why?
We were told it was grandma’s jewelry,
Melted to stop the Germans getting it in the war,
In the long hall there was a dressing up chest,
We loved to look inside.
The bathroom was a scary place,
There was a lion head toilet and a bath with lions feet,
At night we went upstairs with a candle for light,
We cuddled together to keep warm,
One night we saw fairies at the window.
Our aunty had a gramophone,
Records all scattered around,
We had to be careful where we trod,
She loved Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby,
We didn’t understand.
Our uncle slept on the top floor,
In a huge brass bed,
One day I took him a cup of tea,
We were not normally allowed up there,
He fixed broken cars they were all everywhere.
He played late in the barn with his girlfriend.
My grandmother slept downstairs,
She always was very ill,
Wrapped in bed in a pink bed shawl,
We got her water from the spring,
To cure her, but she died.
Jun 17, 2010
Jun 17, 2010 at 3:20 PM UTC
the osprey flys overhead, but the baby rabbit trembles not
~for any grandparent-poet lurking about~
the osprey overflies, a regularity scheduled patrol over
our backyard emporium and all its hors d’oeuvre creatures,
***** has parental responsibilities, beaks to feed, PTA conferences,
the pilot, a wary watchful animal-his-rights guy, catalogues their still living existentialism, for though they are not fish, his diet of preference, but in a pinch a rodent or rabbit stew will do, if the fish are running too deep for no warming sun beckoning them to the surface.
Motel^ the baby rabbit, who lives with his parents,
(who doesn’t these days?) beneath the deck,
chews the clover overnight sprung, blissfully i g n o r a n t,
unawares or ignoring the poet be-laureating (him-her) but a mere
few feet above and away, pays no attention to the Poppy’s (grandfather) lecture about the rules of the animal kingdom,
who, eats whom, and to be more attentive to flying raptors.
thunderstorms forecast for the afternoon, severe say
the textured textual phone-netical all green messages, which
of course is a signal signal to the sun his job is done and can
leave the untanned poet in his state of original sin, soooo deliciously
white that he earns an appraising glance from eyes of the osprey,
a privilege he would happily tan away to promote equality ‘n stuff like peace on earth.
Motel, with his thermometer-humidity nasal instrumentation twitcher, decides, after chewing it over most carefully, time to go underneath where the white half naked people domicile, in order to avoid bathing, not his fav pastime, but making the osprey quitter le ciel, which is French for get out of Dodge, they got babies of their own to shelter and protect, even feed.
The Poppy, contented, thinks to himself, god couldn’t be everywhere,
so he invented grandpas to be “En Loco Parentis” which
Does Not Mean Instead of Crazy Parents,
but easily could,
for who else writes
poems like this?
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 1:08 PM UTC
Did some indulgent, rodent grandparent,
with patience, show the way
to race across the snow and climb the pole
and make the jump and hang there upside down,
and grasp one black shell (while the feeder spins around)
and split and spit the shell to drop below
as he consumes or stores the seed and stares at me?
Or is it not a patient thing at all
but only some strong, urgent force takes hold
and makes the young one bold enough to face
in foolish confidence
whatever risk might lie ahead
in the space between
his greed and quaking fear?
And why do I, on my side the glass,
wonder whether I should be afraid?
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 2:38 PM UTC
I don't want to talk about what school I go to, or what program I'm in. I don't want to talk about how I work in retail part-time or how busy I am. I don't want to discuss where I'd go on vacation, or what I hope for in the future. These conversations are just spoken in order to have a response, I say my piece and ask "what about you?". You'll take a deep breath and start on where you started in school and how you're stuck right now in this dead-end job but you swear- you swear that you'll know when the time in right to make a move in the right direction. You'll say you want to go to Thailand, and Dubai because of the cultural experience, but you'll never actually make it there. I don't want to talk about my family, what my mother or father does for a living. I don't need your compliments on how highly I was brought up, how perfect my life must've been. I don’t want to sit there and agree with you, and smile and giggle and say “I know, that’s why I’m different.” The funny part is you’ll think I am. When I get to know you, you’ll show me vulnerability- you’ll launch into some story of how even though you had friends and everything was completely fine you never fit in. On how your grandparent’s death affected you, or your parents divorce or moving cities. And you’ll look into my eyes, wanting sympathy, compassion and understanding. Because, you know its there, I give it freely to anyone who needs it. But after its over and through, once you’ve told me… that’s it. That’s who you are, that’s all there is to you and when I ask you what you’re thinking all you’ll say is nothing. Nothing. Even when you’re thinking something. I don’t want that anymore. I want someone to converse with me about what’s beyond our limited human level of understanding, I want someone to be honest about who they are and what they feel and I want someone to look at themselves as a work in progress instead of a completed artwork with chips in the paint, for once. I want someone who will look out onto the ocean and sky and see what I see. Someone who will explore what could happen if we simply, suddenly just lost gravity. If we all fell into the sky, if we all just suddenly choked in space and died. I want to explore if we’d see one another on the other side. I want to lay in a field and listen to the wind in the grass. I want to feel the earth beneath my back and smell the warm fragrance from nearby lilacs. I want to be purely myself and not harbour any judgement, I want to love freely and openly without any punishment. I just want some sapience and a soul connection. Maybe I’m just asking for too much, or the universe just wants to teach me a lesson.
Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 1:53 AM UTC
I don't know...
I know the things I want in life
I want a family
I want to open a bakery
I want to be a grandparent
die old, retired, and happy
But I don't know
I don't know if I'll get married
and if I do get married
I don't know if I'll get divorced
or have children
or be able to open my bakery
For all I know
I could die young
I may not fall in love again
Or maybe I will fall in love
but be barren and not be able to have kids
There is beauty in the unknown
there is also a ton of anxiety
but beautiful in that your life could be anything
no matter what plans you have
no matter how determined you are
no matter what means you come from
life is spontaneous and unpredictable
like New England weather
or a cat -
no one knows what cats are up to...
they are
Unpredictable and subject to change
No matter what we want we need to be pliable
and ready for change when it hits
because it will happen to us
we will be given something unexpected
and we will have to mold and adapt
I'm learning this the older I get
I don't know how my life will end up
I could die today
or in 50 years, there's no way of knowing
so I don't know
I guess I just have to keep hoping my plans
come to fruition but I don't know if they will
and it worries me
just because the unknown is beautiful
don't make it any less scary
and I'm scared
simply because
I don't know.
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC