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Got Guanxi May 2015
One year on....

My Nana has unfortunately passed away after a valiant fight against cancer. In this passing we have lost a lovely woman who meant the world to our whole family. Me and my cousins affectionally called her 'straight Nana' as when we were younger we were lucky to also still have our great gran around who we called 'curly Nana' this was based on the fact that Nana Pauline has Straight hair and her mother had curly hair. In all my years I've have never heard even a choice word said against her spirit or character which is truly a rare commodity in this day and age.

She lived a full life and had three amazing daughters and a step son who she raised as her own. Thirteen grandchildren one being myself and five great grandkids. Thankfully we recently all got together and she was able to see her whole family together for the first time. I could see how happy it made her that day to see the legacy she had created and more importantly that we all were in a good place before she left us for the final time.

'May the wind always be on your back and the sun always upon your face and may the winds of destiny carry you aloft to dance with the stars '

My mother was very young when she had me so the support that my Nan gave her as I grew up was vital. Without her me and my mum would of struggled but we always had a safetynet of support that we could rely on that was invaluable to us both. I know this notion is appreciated by my aunties and cousins too. We all share our own individual special memories as well as collective moments too that we will never forget. I would appreciate it so much if anybody has any memories stories that they wish to share as I know they will help us all as a family as we cope with this difficult time.

Cara: ". I once mistakingly rang there (labour club) instead of nanas house looking for mum, nana answered anyway, and passed me on to mum! Good job I got the wrong number! 

Her husband John is a great man who was with my Nana for her last 20 years. He is a part of our family and I hope he knows that we will always be here for him and I look I will look forward to his Sunday Dinners in future and having a beer in the back garden in tribute to our usual routine. I know I'm not alone when I say we are always here for you and we love you
and respect you so much. If you ever need anything please do not forget that.

She had a a gift for poetry that was exposed when she made her way to Facebook. I would always giggle at the little dittys she would loving, yet embarrassingly post to our Facebook walls with affection, nailing little pockets of the personalities of the protagonists each time she wrote them. Reading back some of these small potent poems know I smile as a proud Grandson and I'm happy we will all each have our own little prose to refer to in the future. 

From Moat Road, to Winterslow Avenue, Clover  Croft and finally your home in Widnes - I'll always remember each place fondly for reasons as they represents different periods of my life as I've grown up. My blue bear and parties, your back garden at Moat Road. Snowballs and magic tricks, teddy football at Winterslow Avenue. Clovere Croft was a place of refuge in my teenage years, your naughty rabbits and old school cooked dinners and misbehaving Malig. The dog who you took in and never left your side. The Labour club, where you worked hard and played hard! The beautiful garden you have created that will grow and remind us of your colourful nature as the flowers grow and bloom each year. I know John will tender them with care and think of you with a smile as he listens to smooth FM and remembers all the great times that you both spent together there. 

'if winter comes can spring be far behind?'

As a woman she was truly beautiful, a short stunning blonde. Her three daughters each different in ways but each a  reflection of there mother in their own unique ways.  Looking at them now they are all testament to her gorgeous genes and gentle, kind nature.

Nana was the most amazing crossword completer I have ever met. I was consistently surprised by her ability to finish these crosswords as she watched daytime TV and it was one of the small funny things that made me really proud of her. She filled in the gaps that was synomomus to her life.

Each of her daughters have fought through hard times and she provided a back bone of support that helped them reach the stability and happiness in their lives today. I know she said to me personally how she had comes to terms with her fate and that she was especially happy my Aunty Julie has found happiness with a good man like her sisters. I feel this represented the final piece to the puzzle for her and as usual she was able to complete this before she left. She took great solace in this fact - and so she should. It made me feel a small element of contentness when she told me this during one of our last conversations together.

To all my cousins now is the time to step up and being there for your mums. I have no doubt you will be.  I am proud of you all and you all have a special place in my thoughts. You all have great qualities and potential and it's been a pleasure to watch you all grow up into fine young men and ladies, even mothers.  Please never hesitate to contact me if you need to talk or share your thoughts. I know we will remain strong as a unit and we will get through this tough time together as a family!

In closing I want to thank my Nana just for simply being her. I will hold you in a special place in my heart forever and you will never be forgotten. Each Christmas I will toast you with a Jack Daniels (Nan would always buy the guys a JD related present every year) I will never taste that whiskey again without a passing thought for you as it passes my lips. I know I will not be the only one with this sentiment.

Even as a close family - I still hope this brings us all together and that we use this experience to better ourselves in our own personal ways. Fight hard to reach your potential and stay true to your essence and the person you desire or have chosen to be. It's these times that expose what really matters to you - embrace those thoughts and do not lose them in grief or forget them in time.

I am so proud of you.
Goodby Nana. I love you.
Your Grandson,
Nathan x
this was difficult to revisit but it's important to remember those you love most and don't take a fleeting moment for granted.
Aric Wheeler Jun 2013
Nana thinks the magazine is the devil.


Whatever you say, Nana.

When we left my Nana made us tacos and tamales. She gathered all the food in the house to send us off and took all the cash she had and stuffed it in my pocket. She purged the cupboard of all the bananas, plums, nectarines, and apricots and placed them in a bag with two bottled waters a coke, a diet coke and sprite.

She told me that she loved me and that she hated to see me go. That, “I had just gotten there” and that she would “miss me so much.”

Before we left she sent me with a card that was “very important”. It was a picture and a coin embossed with my guardian angel that she bought at the church gift shop.

My nana loves me more than anything else in the world.

My nana still calls you my friend.
Perri Jun 2015
words cannot explain
the love you shared with me
no one
to this day
saw in me what you'd see

our souls were intertwined
from the day of my birth - 08/10/92
to the day you died - 08/11/2010
Eighteen years and one day
lovely nana, you had never left me astray

Nana, I loved how we'd feed off
each others curiosity
to me, you passed down  
your warm soul
genuine mind
and extreme generosity

your love for me was so pure and deep,
and you would tell me no other compared
and that is a secret I will surely keep

I hope you are now watching me, nana
as I hurt knowing your love is part of the past
But just so you do know, nana,
the love you shared with me
is imbedded in my soul and bones
and I know it will forever last.
she was my best friend and no one will ever have a love for me like she did.
Dark n Beautiful May 2015
It varies from woman to woman, however
this girl will always hate giving birth

Maybe she wouldn’t even get married nor have ****** *******
More than forty years ago those childish thoughts kept circling in my mind
It didn’t take long for her to realize that *** and babies had something in common
Nana so often said to us girls with her Island slang
“What sweeten a goat mouth, would burn his tail end”
So girls you're worth it, don’t do it

The after effects, the after effects so complex and powerful

Nana woke us up in the wee hours of the morning
either with her singing, or the rattling of the *** and pans
I knew at some point I would come to hate being a nurse
I probably wouldn’t be able to show Compassion
If you aren’t compassionate enough: being a Nurse isn’t for you
I hated those homebirth early morning deliveries
Not enough light, no running water in the homes,
And the list goes on in late sixties on the Island

When I finally woke up that morning
I noticed Nana’s black bag on the table:
  Her lily white apron on the back of the chair
How she got her uniform to stay so white was a miracle to me
Granddad was outside fixing something under the old Wolseley bumper
Using an old flittering kerosene paraffin lamp to get the job done

Our country farm house sat the bottom of the hill
So Grandad needed the old Wolseley car to be in good condition
To pulled Porte hill and there I was about to be Nana’s Nursing Assistant

Was I up for the yelling, screaming, crying? At my age, I wasn’t,
  However, being defiant wasn’t appealing, Nana played on our emotions
  another one of her favorite island slangs
“Some children are to be ****** to death if they are defiant to their parents said Nana”
I was also too sleepy to sulk so I sat and quietly listen to her rambling on and on:

So I turned all my thoughts and energy to Genesis 3:16
To the woman he said, "I will make your pains in childbearing very severe; with painful labor you will give birth to children. Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you."

And that was my last words to Nana: No man shall have control over my body

  and that was my last trip with Nana on her delivering baby route.
A Lopez Oct 2015
Handprints I left on the window of the homemade bread factory
When I was thirteen years of age.
That was my time of adolescent memory,mixed with moral decay.
My father had left me, mother was sold out to ***, pills, and her grave.
I was a fiber bug to the world of technology,
Just trying to escape.
The homemade bread factory was Nana's. My daddy's mother.
Me and Nana cooked real Mexicali dishes, made butterfly catches, and dream catchers to go with my teen wishes.
Nana's house was the bread factory.
The factory no longer up and runs.
How I miss Nana, her cooking, her being momma and daddy both.
I miss Nana's love the most,
How our Nana's can be daddy and mother at the same time.
Gods gift to any grandbaby.
Peacefully sweet Nana
Maria boudega conshito.
Its been 3 years since you left this world,
Since then I'm always feeling alone and cold .
I miss you nana , you meant the world to me..
I wish you would just come back to me
What I wouldn't give to have things go back
to the way they used to be .

You were my best friend , my angel
the one i thought would never leave me
but god needed an angel , he called you up to heaven
the fondest memory of you i have is when i was seven.

You were more than my nana
you were my best friend
the one i wanted to follow right to the end.

You were the one who taught me to play piano and sing
You taught me to love
you are my beautiful angel whose high up above.

I miss you nana , i try to fight back the tears
you taught me to always face my fears
How i wish I could feel you near.

One day I will see you again
forever my angel we will be
together forever till the end.
So... I wait for the day ,
and I wait for the hour
a life without you is never what i desired.

I pray you are at peace
and that you are happy
cause nana life without you sure has been ******.
Dark n Beautiful Feb 2014
I look through Nana's broken window so many times
However, today it seems so different
watching the blackbirds in the
avocados trees pecking at the fruits

Nana harvests the best ripe avocados pears
The color of dark burgundy, and green
All came from that old worn out tree;

Every year we would carefully inspect each pear
before packing them in the  brown barrel
they were moist and delicious on the inside
so easy to peel , those lovely ripen pears.

Here I am today about to,
open the last mark box of Nana's things
I unfold the last item slowly;
All wrapped up in old newspaper
was her bread pan;
the one with the two handles
an old  burnt crumb lodged in the corners of the pan
I smile, I weep,

Hello! To you too Nana
Michaela Ferris Oct 2015
I know you’re slipping away, fading away
And I can’t be there.
They say your giving up now
But I know you’re a fighter, so please hold on.
I can’t bear to see you go yet,
Please hold on, I’ll come back home
Nana, please make it through the night…

Please, if there’s a god above I’m begging you
Don’t let this be the last time, I won’t get to say goodbye
I’m asking for a chance to let her stay.
Please if you hear me, let her make it through this lifetime
don’t take her away from us, too many will be heartbroken
I won’t be there to wipe away my little sisters tears at night.
Please I’m begging, Nana make it through the night.

I’m praying that this is just a nightmare
And that when I wake tomorrow it will be fine.
I never thought it would hurt this much
But oh how I’m wrong, how know they will hurt much more.
Please Nana, I know you’re tired and I know you must want the pain to stop
And I wish for anything in this world that could
But I just want to see your face again…
Please Nana, just make it through the night.
Shannon Perry Dec 2015
You are the water to my seed,
you push me to grow, blossom and succeed.
You are the hope whispering in my ear
when my despair is growing near.

You are a superhero in disguise and inspire me
to become a strong independent woman and be the best I can be,
I hope that when I'm older I'm even half as remarkable as you are -
you are the most supportive, caring, beautiful person I know by far.

You are so special to me and every day we spend together is so sublime,
and no amount of seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months or years with you will be enough time.
And out of all the grandparents in this universe so divine,
I'm so glad that you got to be mine.
Amy Lockwood May 2013
I have one grandmother
And one grandfather.
Cousin Kate has two of each.
When I was young she tried to teach
My to call them Nana B
And Dadda B respectively,
But I guess that was too hard for me
So I just call them
Nana and B.

Nana looks a lot like mom
Except she's got more wrinkles on.
And lipstick that's a perfect pink
And dog treats underneath her sink
And a silver hairbrush,
Creams for foots,
And on occasion she calls me "*****".

My B, he's from Pier-Dip-Pah-Too.
His real name's John
(My brother's too!)
And B works on the radio
And tells me things I didn't know
About boats. And on the holidays
He always serves glasses
Of Seven-Sideways.

In my family we have this tradition
Called "the annual lake freeze competition".
My aunts and uncles, they all guess
Then me, of course, then all the rest
Which day Lake Ontario
Will freeze right over
So we know
Who. Gets. The Trophy.

Nana, she records the dates
And then with B she sits and waits
Day in, day out
They watch the lake
For one fine day
When no wave breaks the ice
...and someone wins The Trophy.

(One year the lake never froze and there was NO WINNER. My dad is obsessed with Global Warming and no he always votes anti-freeze.)

Now today's my day: January 21st
And I'm so excited I could almost burst
Cause I just know that phone
That's ringing
Is the call to inform me
Of my winning.

Gasp It's for me!

Hand me the phone, Mother ,
Give it here.
Why hello, Nana!
(She says "hello, dear")
Oh. I didn't win.
Well that's okay.
B says its a gamble this game we play.
Turns out it froze yesterday
And the trophy goes to
Cousin Kate??!!

Next year I think I'll vote anti-freeze
And I'll throw big rocks right through the ice.
Or maybe my brother, he'd suffice.
It's just not fair! Kate's won it twice!
But I did get to talk to Nana and B
...and that was nice.
EJ Aghassi May 2017
nana gave me cash
for gas--bless her heart--and still
i spent half on Pabst
a haiku for my grandmother
Dark n Beautiful Jun 2013

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
George Andres Mar 2018
Isang-libo, siyam na raan, siyamnapu't-siyam
Nang una nilang marinig ang pagtangis

Dalawang libo't labing-walo
Napakarami kong gustong bigkasin
Pero nauutal ako't lumalabas pagiging utak alipin
Para sa'yo sana, gusto ko pa ring sabihin,
Na, patawad Felipe, kung kay hirap **** mahalin

Wala ako nang tumangis ka kay Macoy
Huli kong nalaman ang tungkol kay Luisita
Masyado pa ba 'kong musmos upang ibigin ka?

Lubha lamang daw akong bata
Nagpupuyos ang damdamin
Walang pang kaalaman magdesisyon ng tama
Mapusok at madaling matangay
Manatili na lamang daw ako sa klase,
at kinabukasan ko'y sa mataas na marka ibase

Kaya't pinilit kong hindi pakinggan ang pagdaing mo
Ano bang alam ko upang magalit, maghimagsik?

Batid ko man ang kasaysayan mo sa mga prayle, kano't hapon, labis ko pa ngang inidolo si Luna't Bonifacio noon

Hindi ba't namatay rin sila sa kasibulan nang dahil sa'yo?
Natatakot ako, na balang araw iyon rin ang sapitin ko sa piling mo
Mainit ang puso ko, pero malamig ang paa't kamay
Hindi ko kayang palayain ka
Tipid ang boses ko upang ipagsigawan ka
Nagtagpo tayo sa panahong akala ko malaya ka na

Hindi ka pa pwedeng umiyak
Hangga't hindi pa tapos ang lahat
Ano bang alam mo upang magalit, maghimagsik?

Ngunit hindi ko kayang lumingon pabalik
Hindi ko kayang matulog muli nang wala ang 'yong halik
Hindi ko kayang mahimbing nang wala ang mga gunita

Dekada Sitenta.
Bungkos ng namumuong nana
Nilalapnos ng kumukulong tubig
Dumaranak ang dugo sa sarili **** balat
Tumatalilis at tinatanggalan ng bayag

Paiikutin ang roleta't ipuputok sa sintido
Ihihiga ang katawan sa bloke ng yelo
Papasuin ng upos ng sigarilyo
Ibabalanse ang katawan hangga't may lakas pa ang kabayo
Hindi ito mga metaporang naririnig ko lang sa mga kwento

Hindi na ako magtataka kung may diyos pa ba
A kung kahit isang beses nilingon ka man lang niya

Kung ang nakikita ng mata ay dumudurog ng puso
At ang mga salita ay pumapainlalang

Silang 'di nakaririnig ay dapat kalampagin
Hampasin ang higanteng pintuan at sipain
Ang pader na marmol na walang bintana
Galit na sumusunog ng patay na tala
Hindi kumakalma, pilit nagbabaga, nagtatangka

Ano bang alam ko upang magalit, maghimagsik?
Maaari ko bang palitan ng paglilingkod ang iyong biyaya?
Mas madali naman siguro magsalita
Kung 'di mo batid ang paghangos ng maralita

Mainit ang puso ko, pero malamig ang paa't kamay
Hindi ko kayang palayain ka
Tipid ang boses ko upang ipagsigawan ka
Nagtagpo tayo sa panahong akala ko malaya ka na

Nang masulyapan ka nang unang mabuksan ang aking paningin
Gusto ka lang naman palaging kita ng mata
Wala pa man natatakot na akong makitang umiiyak ka
Mas mapalad ba ang mga bulag o tulad kong piring ang mata?
Hinayaan mo akong maging alipin
Itinatatwa ko ang araw na namulat ako
Ang hirap naman kasing maka-usad mula sa'yo
Matapos mabura ang mga kasinungalingang sa'yo'y ibinabato
Kumbaga, ikaw 'yung maraming sakit na pinagdaanan, dadagdag pa ba 'ko?
Oh, Felipe, kay hirap **** mahalin

Habang binabasa ko ang kasaysayan ****
Nagaganap pa rin hangang sa ngayon
Parang itinutulak ang aking sikmura
At ang balat ko'y nagsisiklabo
Hindi tumitigil ang mga luha

Ilang taon matapos maghalal ng bagong pangulo
Pinaulanan ng bala ang mga humihingi ng reporma

Dalawang-libo't apat
Matapos ang tatlong dekada
Mga batas na pabor lang sa mayama't may kaya

Gusto lang naman namin mabuhay
Nang hindi inaagaw ang aming kabuhayan
Nagtatanim ng bala't hindi binhi
Umaani ng bangkay hindi punla

Lupa mo'y hinulma ng dugo
Parang imbes na pataba ay pulbura ang inaabono
Para bang ang buhay ko sa'yo'y Walang katapusang pakikibaka
Para bang ang inaani ko'y dusa sa Buong buhay na pagsasaka

Matapos ang apat na taon

Kinikitil nila isa-isa ang mamamahayag
Nilibing ng traktora't patong-patong ang buto't balat
Pinagkanulo mo at hayagang pumayag
Mga berdugong hinayaan mo lang lumayag

Dalawang libo't labing-lima
Nangingisay sa walang habas na pangraratrat
Hanggang huling hininga'y maubos, mawala sa ulirat
Apatnapu't-apat **** mandirigma
Lumusong sa mapanganib na kagubatan na walang dalang sandata o pananggalang man lang
Malupit ka, hanggang saan ipagtatanggol ang laya mo?
Hindi pa ba sapat ang lahat ng luha?
Nagsasakripisyo para sa hindi siguradong pagkakakilanlan bilang Pilipino

Ikalawang Milenya.
Ngayon naririnig ko na ang pagpapatahimik laban sa karapatan **** magpahayag
Nagsasakripisyo ng dugo ng mga tupa
Para sa huwad na pag-unlad
Pinapatay ng bala ang uhay
Habang matapos tapakan ang upos ng sigarilyo,
Pagtatalunan ang dilaw at pula
Kung sino ba ang mas dakila
Aastang **** na tagapagligtas
Na siyang hawak ang lahat ng lunas
Napakarami nang diyos sa kasaysayan
Pawang dinikta, ibinigkis ang kalayaan

Ninais kong mahiga na lamang at hintayin ang bukang liwayway
Na pinangarap din noon ng mga ilustrado't rebolusyunaryong mararangal
Wala nang lunas ang sumpa ng edukasyon
Magpalaya ng isipang noo'y nakakahon

Wala sa akin noon ang lakas ng bagyo
Hanggang sa nabatid kong malulunod na rin ako
Wala akong nagawa kundi tumangis

Felipe, lumuluha ka rin ba? nasasaktan ka pa ba o manhid ka na?

Gayunpaman, tahan na, Felipe, tahan na.

lachica Jan 2014
a lot of us have lost so many, age 6 i lost my nana now i know that's not too bad, we get back from the funeral within minutes of walking in there's a knock on the door, the police? were sent to our rooms my brother sister and me,  i sneak down the stairs to the hatch in the wall where the living room sits on the other side, the policemen are sat there explaining how my fathers son had died, my big brother was dead? surely not true, as my nana has just gone not my brother too? hit by a train? he jumped you say? well why would he do that? just take his life without much reason one day? then age 7 i lost my great nana which wasn't too bad then a gap to age 9 where it was rather sad, the day went like this.. firstly my dad said we didn't have to go to school today, he took us to my brothers where we asked to go swimming, 'we will see how you feel later' my dad said then it hit me, my dads stress the day of school talking about feelings "who was dead?" i thought quietly somewhere deep in my head, i dismissed the idea without much more of a though, we drove home, me and my sister jumped out the van and my dad shouted for us to wait and come back as we ran towards the front door, we came back i looked at my sister the huge smile on her face, my dad? his face looked solomn, full of concentration, his eyes full of a deep sadness, the summer air breezed past us leaving silence in its path then my dads deep voice cut through it 'i need to tell you something.' and my sisters smile changed to a face full of confusion, 'you're mum is gone' he continued, a small tear run down his face,  i looked at the young fair haired 8 year old next to me, the disbelief on her face as she asked what he meant and he then went on to explain how she had passed away the night before my sisters face had gone from happy to confused then twisted with pain in a matter of seconds she was on her knees at his side where he held her squirming body and wiped her tearful eyes, i went inside found my half brother and started to play fight, i knew i needed to be strong, are you not upset my brother asked me and i answers simply with, well of course i am, my mum is dead but i'm strong and i have you lot and a very clear head, and with that sentence i managed to land a punch in his ribs, i didn't cry once not shed one tear, i saw in my sisters face over the next few weeks that pure look of fear and i knew what was wrong as we now had to grow up with no mum, so that day i made a silent vow to myself that i would be there for her as long as i could. now lets fast forward.. im 13 in 2 days! im getting exited now my dads come down stairs 'no school today', wow how could this get any better eh? well maybe not better but maybe just worse as my nana died just this morning, the tumor took over her head and that was the end and with that i simply said, i wanna go to school today dad and so i left went to school and stayed distracted all day acted as happy as any teenager at school may. lets fast forward again 17 in 2 weeks! just got ready for a road trip with 2 of my brothers by now i'm a tear away like them, earning money to blow and smoking far too much **** were leaving at 6 and i've come down the stairs woke my dad up on the sofa to tell him to go to bed, were packing the car almost ready to leave my dad comes downstairs a distraught look on his face, 'my dad died this morning' he mournfully said and with that we all looked at his tired bowed head we all went inside made some cups of tea my brothers friends ringing where are you they say, he politely tells them whats happened said he would ring them when we sort our heads out, i look at my brother not knowing if hes feeling up for driving about... my dad tells us to go it will all be okay my younger sister still in bed i send her a text before i left, 'keep an eye on dad, go talk to him when you wake up make sure he is okay.' i don't tell her whats happened it isn't my place to say, a few hours later and i tell all the rest so that while i'm away there are people there for our dad. now i look at myself only just 17 years of age, i'm much more wiser than most that's just my own age i grew up quiet fast looking after the young and have learnt from others mistakes as i have as well with my own, there is other stuff too with drugs violence and more but ill leave that for another day as my brain is becoming quiet sore.
False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~

while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a

oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.

^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
RW Dennen Sep 2014
Taken, screaming, kicking, his
nana's image slowly
Being held tightly in tears,
nana is no longer there
No longer in nana's arms

He looks down at
dismal bottom steps
now empty
He smells the old wood
these steps of hell leading nowhere

Alien sounds from alien shoes,
he listens in fear and dread
Being lifted to an alien room;
taken against his six year old will

He remembers not what will come
remembering his nana's tears
at the bottom steps,
at the bottom steps of a foster home

And aghast, he was me...
Nana wants very slow
perfect for little legs
to keep up
wherever they go

The whole world rushs by  
yet stops for them
in the wink of her eye
there is nothing more important
then the tears of her grandson's cries

Play time a must at Nana's house
building a castle out of Play dough
for Mickey Mouse
playing games, reading books
watching them grow
time is priceless she knows

Nana can see no wrong
in the innocence of childhood
Her unconditional love is a lullaby
a sleepy night song
morning, noon, and night
a smile graces her face
there's no place
like home
Nana's place
I wrote this when my grandsons were  age 5 and age 2
the oldest is now 17
2 am coffee rings on my bedside table
procrastination at the expense of a letter grade
Nana's hand-stitched quilt has never felt so soft
But her funeral hit me hard
That quilt draped over her coffin
matched the color scheme
of the one she made for a little girl
who love butterflies and spring time
I remember pool side juice boxes
stuffed animals from a pretty lady
she was nice to me
her mom was mean to her
she cried at the funeral
Nana was a better mother to her than
her own ever dared to be
her sister found cigarettes
shes so thin now
I remember her lipstick
its always been red
it looks so red on her skin
the color of the ash
that falls from her stick
matching the skin of Papa
Nana's son
He sang at her funeral
He cried the whole time
Everyone cried
Not me
but I cant cry
Jade Green words
she read them
spotty reading with bad rehearsal
but I remember
her and I and him and my brother
juice boxes
that pool
its all her
I wish I had known her well enough
to miss her
My Nana's funeral was today. Her quilt is still in my room. She made us a few. It means a lot more now that im out of chances to thank her for it.
Aditi Jan 2016
I remember very vividly
The place where
a sweet smell lingered in the air
And though it must have
rained at times
The sky was never too grey
And the cold never too bitter

The sun liked to play hide and seek
From behind the banyan tree
From which dad had tied a swing
Not too big,
Not too Small,
It would take me
high enough to believe I had wings
But not too high
To make the crashing look painful.

I remember about a place
Where I lived
It was so long ago
It carries with itself
The sweet nostalgia
of a dream
that ended too soon.

Dreamy, but real enough
To not be mistaken
As a fabrication
Of one's imagination
Real but dreamy enough
To waste the entire galaxy wishing upon it.

I remember about
The labyrinth
I would walk with my Nana
What for
I can't seem to remember now
But all the things he said
Are the foundations on which I have built my life.

These concreted paths,
These dimly lit rooms,
The days blurring into the next ones
Till I can't distinguish one from another.

The faded memories,
The jagged longings,
The flame in my eyes
Has completely extinguished
The music in my heart
Is slowly ebbing.

The heart's longing
The mind Is seeking
These leisurely moments
Which are lost now,
To a place probably
Where my childhood went
Along with my Nana.

If someone finds a way to get those days to me,
Let me know,
Till then I'll be writing
Of those days
I had with my Nana.
nanaji I miss you
Lindee May 2015


Ever since I was small, smaller than I am now, I sought out the feeling of companionship and the mutual respect that comes with healthy friendships and relationships. Upon seeing the travesty that was my parents shattered marriage: the endless fights, the bruises on my mother's body I saw in elementary school, the anger, taunting jealousy, and tension that never ebbed. I vowed to find something that made all of that seem impossible to comprehend.

Seeing the tired strings that attach my mom and dad: their children, grandchild and 27 years of dysfunction I shudder at the thought of slipping on my mother shoes again, as I did as a child— prancing around wobbling from balance to stained carpet. It is the scariest thing I have ever done.

"Don't do this in front of the kids, Phil."
"You make me do this, Shannon."

I had an inner turmoil of wanting to be alone and be in the presence of others. My 12th birthday party, (probably the biggest I'll ever have) I had a total of ten girls from my grade stay over. A couple of them, I believe just came for the cake. We had huddled into my parent's expansive living room, painted our nails, braided each others hair, giggled at things 12-year-old girls giggle about, and watched movies. I do not talk to any of the girls from that party now, 6 years later. Not really. They all, one by one, faded in the picture we took the next morning before the storm rolled in. I remember standing in my driveway the following morning with the few laggers from the party, I spotted a few figures appeared in the distance and I had realized it was a few guy friends of mine. They were coming to say happy birthday. I had laughed to myself and felt warmer than the lingering girls. Watching them merge together, the boys and girls. The girls, twirling their hair, nervous. A familiar feeling.

The first boy's hand I ever held with the intent of affection was the year after. I was with a friend at a play put on at her father's church. Heaven and Hell: Melodramatic rendition of sins. The boy was lanky, with long, shaggy hair, tall. A few years older than I. I looked him in the eye, he smiled. My stomach dropped. His hand slipped in mine and we stayed like that for what seemed like the eternity they were talking about onstage. We eventually got in trouble. Scolded by the pastor because of my age. I cried the whole way home, scared of what my parents would say. His smell lingered on my clothes. Terrified my mother would hug me and smell him on my skin and then the secret was out.

"Mommy, I love you."
"I love you too sweetheart."

I eventually got out of hand holding, basic affection. My first kiss was a dare and that dare ignited a different feeling. The shaking of my hands, the flutter of my winged heart. A bird caged. The songs overheard on the radio about love held a different tone to me.

I ran back into the girl from the Heaven and Hell drama at the local skating rink by chance. Met a friend of hers. I watched him long before speaking to him. Quiet. long haired, skateboarding scars fractured his skin. Sitting together, I found myself drawn to him, leaning into a stranger. while others talked of gossip, we kept quiet. I didn't even know his name. I confessed at the end of the night that he was "cute" to my friends. word traveled. We exchanged information and so the experience of my first love began. The weeks after we talked for hours, giggling. Looking back, it was so elementary. Puppy love. The shyness. Timid, mousy girl tried too hard. Same story. Same ending.

My first real tragedy occurred that fall. When it happened, I felt unreal.

"I found your tapes, I'm leaving." Those brave words spoken quietly in a small kitchen.
Bags packed from weekend/week at Nana's, walking down the street, not even crying.

The phone call after, my mother in the background, keeping quiet, watching me clutch the phone, knuckles white:
"You're a beautiful girl, Lindee, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you." Ineffective apologies and quiet confessions of intentions.
"What, you didn't think I'd find them? You thought that this, what you did, was okay?"
"I wasn't thinking."
"...How could you do this?"

"You are not to see your grandfather anymore." She said after, holding my hand. her voice held the tone of a loved one passing, finality.
"Why would I want to?"
"You two were so close."

Repeated questions, mostly internalized, even now. Doubts.
"Maybe it was an accident? I don't know. Nana thinks so."
"These things do not happen by accident, Elizabeth."

Words were thrown across a long table with an attorney of video tapes, avoiding a house three doors down from my own, a registry he had to apply to, anxious knocks on doors, and other girls like me. My adulthood holding him captive. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt(y). Him, losing his job, me losing a father figure. Privacy invaded.

"Men do that. It's not uncommon."
My grandmother stayed with him.

"I'll leave."
"No, don't. Nana needs you."

"I love you. "
"I don't believe you. Goodbye."
A goodbye lasted 4 years. I wish they had burned my pictures. They didn't.

I ventured further into affection, losing my virginity at 16. High school exploration. I was fairly unimpressed with the hype of the teenage obsession of *** and "getting some". I liked it sure, but everyone said *** was meaningful; I didn't feel that meaningfulness. It just felt like everything else I did: strictly pleasure. Something to make me feel.

I remember my mother and father talking to each other late one night.
"You don't love me anymore."
I stayed up that whole night trying to figure out what that meant. Not only as a sentence by itself, but for my family, my mother, my father, my sister, and my brother. My world crashed down thanks to two "final" signatures on a paper. Stamped and dated.

I stayed out too late, they complained. I was absorbed with myself, skipping class most of my tenth grade year, smoking bad **** and cigarettes with my friends in abandoned gas stations on rainy Tuesday mornings. Running the streets of the dreary downtown, skies overcast. Stopping by the diner next to the high school my friends and I escaped from through alleyways. Drinking coffee at Benson's, eyes down low, paranoid that a teacher would walk in at lunch and question us. Glory Days. Our *** appeal never was quite what we had imagined, attracting flies.

I met a friend of a friend and we shortly began dating, sitting atop the ferris wheel, fireworks lighting up the summer sky. Everything was just as I had imagined a perfect relationship to be.He was older (a common trend so it seemed) but not by much, intelligent, witty, nice. He appeared as a direct mirror from myself. We were inseparable. The mirror broke though, and revealed cardboard behind it.

"You are worth ****., No wonder your grandfather did what he did. You probably enticed him."
"I didn't mean that. No, you're my world. Look how you make me act. You. You. You."

"I love you."
"I know I love you too, it's okay.I shouldn't have done that."
Guilt nonexistent. made-up. Fairytaled,

"I'll leave." He said one night.
"You can't. I can be better, I'll fix this. I'll be better, I am so sorry."

Cycling. We crashed from in love to betrayed (Him) and angry (Him)  and scared (me).  I had discovered the root my sexuality earlier than  and became ashamed of who I was before I had met Him. All the previous relationships were unimportant and to be ashamed of. I had no skin. The relationship, paternal and biting, lasted two years. My mother finally stepped in, after seeing the harm that was being done.  Seeing me slip into her own habits: excuses, dependence, and pursed lips saying, "You don't know Him." and said it was not healthy. The whole family had noticed my change in behavior. After several attempts, his threats on his life, I finally ended the relationship with help of family and friends. Told His parents He needed help, recommended the place I was then going to. It's end resembled a natural disaster. Debris scattering, mainly harsh words. Something I was used to by then.

"I love you." Him on the last night.
"No, no!  You don't. How could you? Have you ever ******* loved me, Michael?  If so, how could you do this. After all the **** I've been through. Look at me, ******. Look at me! Look how I am ******* acting. This isn't me. I don't do this. You're hurting me. What am I to you? The ground you walk on? *******. All of this is ******* *******. I am never okay. Stop, let go of me. Let. Go. I'm leaving."
The angriest I have ever gotten with Him.
I felt like screaming, shaking Him, pointing to all the roadsigns passing too fast screaming about the danger. I think I was more angry at myself though, at my shaking whispering voice and it's cracks. Deceit of ownership.  
"Don't. Please."
"I'll never do it if I don't now."
I never felt bad for slamming His parent's front door that day. Tired of the quiet of his house.

I still have repercussions. A constant doubt, lingering. Eyes always searching, straining, sometimes even creating sighs of disappointment, a slight shake of the head in disapproval. I picked out everything wrong about me and my past. I gave the specimens to the professionals to diagnose me with a disease. Showing them the wounds He made. Almost begging to be infected. The results came up negative and I was angry, told them they were wrong. Wanted Him to be right. They patted my head, lab rat, and sent me off to a behavioral hospital. Outpatient. there, I was supplied with a magic wand: intensive behavioral therapy to realign my thinking. To reconstruct myself.  Breathing exercises I could never grasp. Too many questions, long silences, ahem.

"Did He hit you?"
"No. I almost wish He did. I feel like that would have been a lot easier. We wouldn't have lasted as long if He had. "
"You'd turn out like your mother."
Silence. Fear.
" Well, at least you're coming to therapy. That's a big step. Admitting is always the hardest part."
Long pause, watching the grass sway in the window, wishing the clock would say I could leave. Scared of her questions.
"I don't think so. I feel like the hardest part of this is not knowing it was happening."
The healing process requires a sort of truth, not even torture can bring out. The truth you don't even know about until it slides out of your mouth into the air.

Constant reassurances were require. I bit back the urge to call my therapist my whole senior year, fighting through waves of panic attacks, wanted to tell her triggers were strung out in the hallways, reflected in the tile floor. Everyone looked at me and knew. Even the people I didn't know, somehow knew. I found myself rocking back and forth in the back-row seats of classes scared a bomb would drop into my lap, as it did before.

"What happened to you?" Teachers asked when my grades waltzed to no mans land.  
"I don't really know." I had said this flatly. Lying. Tired.  All my emotion had been siphoned out of me.

I remember sitting on the living room floor, phone in hand, hearing Him scream into the receiver; unable to open my mouth to tell Him to leave. That all the things He had said to me, I had carved into my skin and I hated it. Wanted it to stop. It was always my fault. Always. I then went back on the highest dose of anxiety medications and sleeping medications. Things to help me function. Things I would not and could not do otherwise, spoon-feeding me stability. Things I thought I would never have to do again. I had managed to escape them for a year or so when it was happening. He had always said prescription medications were bad, that I could handle my problems on my own. I followed suit.
Good girl.

"You're showing symptoms of PTSD. It's like you were a prisoner of war. You're staying so strong though. " My therapist had said to me. I smiled in response and said thank you quietly as I sat on my trembling hands, an effort trying not to bite at my bleeding nails.
Gulping back the words "When does it  end?"

But there I was, jumping at the backfires of trucks, looking for His car everywhere, avoiding a certain side of the town.. If only she actually knew.  I had to be soothed to sleep numerous times, mother by my bedside, reassuring me the doors and windows were locked
. Safe. Ha. Despite the safety, I always woke up screaming, not remembering my dreams. Regression to childhood night terrors. Never answered my phone if it rang, for fear of a gunshot being fired on the other line. The last threat He posed. Scrubbed myself raw, trying to get the guilt out of mouth and pores. Chain-smoked, He hated that. Constantly checked the driveway through closed curtains expecting His car, Him. Lurking. I contemplated moving, changing my name, not going college although already paid for, staying home huddled in my room, becoming one with my twin-sized mattress. Perpetually cold.

I was my mother.

Eggshells scattered at my feet; wobbling in her brown, close-toed kitten heels. My friends, dwindling badly then and still now, asking me if i am/was okay, the response was always a no in my head. How could you be when your head was constantly swimming? Drowning.

Running into Him the first day of my freshman year in college was the hardest day of my life. Nevermind the courses of court dates, family distress, traumatic loss of trust in the 8th grade: finding the video tapes my grandpa had recorded, watching them, seeing myself undress, the cats running through the house, the sickness afterwards, 3 divorces, two remarriages of a broken home, the late nights lit up with red and blue lights, being ripped from my home.
It all paled in comparison to seeing His face after so long, the causal way He walked. wondering if anyone knew what He had done. What I had done.

I had passed Him in the cafeteria. His eyes lingered on mine, predatory, daring me to say a word. I looked away, kept walking as if it never happened. as if my insides weren't strung up higher than telephone wires. As if I wasn't standing in a room with the person who was my own personal earthquake. I ended up collapsing in a bathroom stall, slouched up against the wall, hands trembling like Haitian sidewalks, not even 5 minutes from the passing. I called crying to my mother to come and get me unable to complete my next class.
"I can't do this, Mom." I  wailed, "I can't see Him."
She came and got me, understood, thankfully kept quiet. I was a bit inconsolable, and shook the whole **** way home.
All the hard work I had done in therapy, the hours of crying, tearing up Kleenex, rebuilding myself from the infrastructure collapsed as I did. The fire I ignited inside myself was burned out; gasoline and matches were unobtainable.

My mother told me to keep a stiff upper lip. She faces her version of my  demon everyday: my father, sleeps the same bed as him, Still holds his hand, wears the ring and the finger with it’s history. She didn't collapse, not yet. She was stronger. Ankles more fit to wear the shoes of abuse, inner destruction.

"I'm going away for the weekend."
"Are you coming back?"
"I don't know."

My mother exited in November, in her kitten-heels and bruises and secrets. Came back a month later and was blinded with a cold front storming out her youngest daughter.

Her choice to leave. My choice to leave. They mirrored each other. She never slammed the door though, left more quietly than I could.

I still have no skin, I keep peeling it away, in hopes to show someone something a little deeper than my shallow body, my bruised knees and the coldness that lingers

I stay substantial though, iridescent, like the tide rolling in. Falling over myself. Finding myself shrinking and rising.
Adeline Dean Jul 2013
Haven't made a heart to heart blog post in a while..

So recently a friend of mine messaged me on kik. We kinda drifted apart, but all the same we drifted back again .. You know that feeling?

She's asked me about how I was and what new things we going on in my life and then out of know where she asked me how I got into what I do, that , for those of you that don't know, is makeup.

It a happy, funny, weird story all at the one time.

As some of you already know, when I was 5 my parents died and I moved to Paris with my nan (<3) and she always wears red lipstick, even to this day. Lipstick , red lipstick to be more exact, was only worn by the higher class women and was generally quite expensive. Us Dean family have a ... Tradition I suppose. When a mother gives her child her very first red lipstick it means that she, in the eyes of the family, has matured and such not blah blah blah. Anyway. I didn't have my mom to do that ,so my nan took that role instead.

At the ages of in and around 14 I started wearing makeup, but never in public, my nan wouldn't allow such things. I always tried to copy her make up , because she was the only female figure I had as a child , and the only person I ever respected. Even to this day my makeup is still like hers , she notices that ever time I visit haha ~

I started posting picture of my makeup ideas on my old facebook about 3 years ago and one day a represtentive from Lancôme called me and asked me to work for them , I said yes. I told my nan that day and she gave me my first red lipstick and I still have it to this day

je t'aime Nana <3
r Jun 2014
to be
with Nana
on that morning
before the stroke
of brush did touch
her cheeks with blush
of immoral immortality.

r ~ 6/11/14
   |.    Edouard Manet 1832-1883
  / \
Dark n Beautiful Jun 2013
To keep thee from the evil woman,
from the flattery of the tongue of a strange woman
Lust not after her beauty in thine heart;
neither let her take thee with her eyelids.(Proverb)

His eyes were filled with a deep sadness
My Granddad became the bastardy king
in Nana’s eyes
Meals that was once set for a king
Was no longer being served with his favorite homemade bread?
his late night ginger tea was swap for coca cola
from the old ice box.
Nana just know how to discipline the old fool

Together we sat on the stoop and make small talk
He told me that he messed up big time
And felt like disciple Peter
he was afraid that my Nana would never forgive me
I looked attentive at granddad and said,
“Yes old goat you bite off more than you could chew
With those missing tooth

I guess what I said made him laugh out loud
I remember putting my hands quick over my mouth
Like loose lips sank ships
Now! listen here  little lady
Are those your Nana’s words? said Granddad”.
I nod my head and smile

Remembering my Granddad
On father’s day
Andrew DEXTER Jul 2012
You went away so long ago,
In the dim and distent past,
I still remember you nana,
I was a boy when I saw you last.

I remember all the good times,
all the laughs we used to share,
But now those days are gone,
You are no longer there.

The times have changed so quickly,
The family have all moved on,
It's never really been the same,
Since the day that you were gone.

One day we'll all meet again,
In heaven up above,
Forever in Gods paradise,
and never ending love
Dedicated to my maternal grandmother Rita Higgs, who died on Saturday the 10th of July 1982, she was just 53 years old, I was 12 at the time. It's been 30 years this month, I still remember it.
Wangui Jun 2017
I wear beads and  African bracelets for beauty. I forget why the people before me wore them. I wear them with pride not because I earned them but because I simply look beautiful. Beautiful!? What does that even mean? My Nana has scars on her body. She shows them to me with pride. Narrates stories of the war in the past like an action movie only she didn't have a gun only bows and poisonous arrows. The missing teeth in her mouth causes her to spit almost every second she talks. But this embarrassment is only felt by me. She is proud of the hole in her mouth. Suddenly I feel the urge to remove my African beads. They have no meaning only that they are African and I am and so am entitled. But I have done nothing for my heritage. Not even fight for it. Slowly it's being forgotten and people are crossing over without a care in the world. 'To civilisation' we say.  'For the good of the people' we say. But is it? We were a community wrong as we were to circumcise women, marry them off at an early age, burn the wrong... We were a community. We loved each other. We cared. We taught our children how to feel and be the earth. We taught our children to respect the earth and in return the earth blesses us with herbs to cure. What did they call it? Aaah yes 'witchcraft'. We were not animals who forget their children in  pit latrines or by the river side just because we cannot afford them or don't want them. We cared not of individualism because together we grew in spirit, body and soul. It was not backward it was culture. And culture is flexible. It can change but can never be terminated. It is not a shoe that when you grow out of  you throw and buy another.
And so I am not telling you to go back to your roots because if am quite honest you were never in it. Rather embrace it. See how 'civilised' you will feel then.

The Red_Head
Easter Morrigan Sep 2013
The graceful flowing of her night gown as she walked slowly throughout the house
Her hair I would play with when I was a young boy
Somehow, she is gone

I was there when she stood up in church praising a god who may or may not exist like a religiously fanatic zealot
But she was not a fanatic
She was full of love and passion

The one woman that got me through my childhood with her kind advice and her wise words
A sage that I seek now in desperate times.
All I can do is wait..and hope to see you again in the beyond

RIP Betty Faye Presley (Nana)  1931-2012
Perri Mar 2018
Your skin was so thin
your structure, so frail
but your mind so available
like a puppy
down a trail
You would hold me close
my red hair and skin pale
I miss the smell of liquorice
that was always so stale
But I wouldn't care
because your presence was fresh,
Every night
an enlightening tale
And your grasp so warm
at night when I'd wail
for my mothers absent touch;
your love purer than hers,
without fail
So I hope you're watching
and know
my love for you
will always prevail
She was my best friend
Coconut Skins Apr 2015
Within these walls I feel so comforted
The familiar routine fills me with contentment.
Homemade brown bread and a cup of tea,
Guaranteed banter from the moment I arrive
Not to mention your hearty laugh which fills me with delight.

So many memories are kept safely in this house
From when I was young until now.
It is the anchor.

You gave us sweets for the journey home when we were little,
You and Papa planted trees for us in the garden,
You slagged Dad's turned up shoes,
You told me about your love of dance.
Your never failing cheerful disposition is admirable,
A lesson for which I am eternally grateful.

When I come home the smell of your house lingers on my clothes,
The familiar scent.
I have a quarter of your treasure, your delicious bread.
Your unending generosity means my pocket is lined with a crisp note.

Despite all this, the thing I value the most is you,
And that you are in my life.
You are more valuable than treasure.
Everyone loves and respects you,
Higher praise I cannot imagine.
Everyone loves my Nana.
Lanox Nov 2015
Do make it clear if breakfast is included. If not, make a disclaimer: "I am in the belief that you coming over is good. But that somehow this twisted world resulted in someone twisted as me. Who although enjoys the company of someone like you at this hour, cannot accommodate you past sleep. That you can choose to either leave before I doze off, or that in the morning you will readily accept if I can only open the door out for you. You can make yourself coffee. But know that I am wary of being with awake people while I am asleep, as I think you can easily understand."

There are two types of people in the world: the foodies and the cranky ones. I do not intend to be the latter.

Do make sure you expect only as your place can allow. You cannot hope for me to clean up the eye makeup that heavy drinking had caused to drip down my face when what you have is but a cracked mirror and a broken sink. I cannot fix myself up amid your chaos. I would have to look the part. Act the part. Smell the part. You either want me to receive you messy or put you back up. And I know there aren't too many choices, but still. You gotta make one.

Do say only words that you will not choose to forget the next day. Do not make promises of more future promises. Do not paint images of love, kindness, and honesty when we both know our story will only last as long as this night. This is not a contest on who'll be more unforgettable. We both know why we're here in the first place. We both remember too much.

Do consider the possibility that a sleepover may include only sleeping beside each other, but that it does not mean "nothing happened." A conversation can **** me up just as much, perhaps even more, than the real thing. You cannot share to me a universe that you expect me to pretend not knowing the next morning. You cannot accuse me of meddling when you've told me a story of how umbrellas scare the crap out of you and so every time it rains, I remember you. And so every time it rains, I text you, "Where are you?" not in the possessive way others do, but simply to make sure you are somewhere dry and not dying.

Do smile at me the next time I see you, even if we both know we've tried to avoid each other. I, only because I felt you were trying to avoid me first. Even if bitterness starts welling up, please do not look away. You perhaps may have been a mistake, and I may have been yours as well, but we've never been followers of others' ideas of what constitute a tragedy. My love, our love may to them look ugly, but we've agreed their beautiful ***** anyway. Every time they tell me you like a pretty thing, I always think you are being sarcastic. And that only I could see your sardonic point.

[Beer break]

At heto naman ang mga bagay na sana'y 'di mo gawin.

Kung ipagpipilitan mo ang kwarto mo, sana'y siguraduhin mo na mas malinis ito kaysa sa akin. Na 'di ka nakatira sa bahay ng mga magulang mo (dahil maingay ako at matatanda na tayo) o wala kang ibang kasama (sa parehong kadahilanan). Kung tatluhan ang hanap mo't 'di mo naman nakayang sabihin na may ibang babae na pala sa'yong kama ay mas mainam pang makipaglimahan ka na lamang gamit ang iyong mga daliri, mahal.

Wag mo ipagsabayan ang pagkain at ako. Alak at ako, pwede. Ngunit kung ikaw yung tipo na pinagsasabayan ang sarap ng dila't kalamnan, bibigyan kita ng ibang numerong tatawagan. Tayo'y Pilipino't kapag pagkain ang mapag-usapan, kasali ang tuyo, bagoong, balut, at itlog na maalat, mahal ko, seryoso ka bang maihahalo mo ang mga isip-isip na'to sa klase ng almusal na binabalak mo? Je ne suis pas Francais. My kisses will not make you think of food.

Wag mo akong ikalia. 'Di ko ikakahiya anong oras man akong lumabas mula sa'yong tahanan, basta lamang 'wag kang sumalungat kung ang tanging bukambibig ay galing ako sa kanya. Kung ako'y matingnan at mapansin ang biyak-biyak kong puso ngunit bakit nga ba 'di magawang mapalitan, kapag ba'y sinabi kong ito'y dahil sa'yo sana'y 'wag itatwa't angkinin **** minsan kasi'y nabanggit mo na ako . . .

Kaya't kaibigan, 'wag naman masyadong pikon 'pag ika'y na-friendzone, kinakausap ka pa rin naman, diba? 'Wag mo sabihing tunay ngang mas nana-isin mo ang trahedyang dulot ng malisyang 'di nabantayan. 'Wag mo sanang isipin na ang bawat pagpakita ko ng kahinaan ay pagtatawag na bigyang ligaya ang katawan kung masid mo namang lungkot ang siyang nakapaglapit sa'ting dalawa. Walang paghihiwalay sa pagkakaibigan, at kung sasabihin **** wala na tayo'y ipagkakalat ko na minsan nga'y naging tayo, pumili ka.

At ang huli'y sana 'wag **** ipamimigay agad-agad ang sarili mo sa sinuman matapos sa'kin. Madali kang mahalin. Mabilis kang matutunang unawain. 'Di naman sa kita'y ina-angkin. Ang sa'kin lang ay sana'y 'wag **** pagsabayin ang lahat-lahat . . . ng dinarama. Hindi lahat handa na ika'y mahalin ng buong-buo, lalo pa't 'di isa-isa. Tuloy nagmimistulang halimaw sa ilalim ng katre, kahit sa katotohanan nama'y kapareho lang na minsan di'y naging musmos, kapwa walang alam, kapwa nangangapa, kapwa takot, ngunit patuloy pa ring sumusubok.
I wrote this the night before hearing about the Paris attack. I thought of editing the French part out but decided to keep it, as a reminder to myself.
Terry Collett Jan 2013
Tommy passing Nana’s room
hears her say
can you help me
with my corset?

he says
walking into her room
a cigarette hanging

from the corner
of his mouth
what do you want doing?
he asks

can you pull it tight for me?
and she offers him
the two corset strings
and he take them

between his fingers
and gives a pull
she breathes in
and holds it there

her arms by her side
her face vacant
as if she’s awaiting
something to happen

her mouth slightly open
he holds the strings tight
studies her eyes
the curl of hair

the way her mouth is open
her arms by her side
thinking how beautiful she is
how he’d not noticed before

smelling her perfume
trying to place
the make and kind
that’s it

she says
can you tie it there?
he says and ties the strings

behind her back
his nose a few inches
from her naked shoulder
breathing in her scent

wanting to kiss the flesh
the neck
the ear
to put his hands

upon her hips
that’s done
he says
tight as a miser’s purse

thank you
she says
that’s much better
and kisses his cheek

and says
aren’t you the man
from upstairs?
yes that’s right

he says
do you play the saxophone
that I hear?
yes the alto sax

he mimics a saxophone
with his hands
and runs his fingers
along imaginary keys

usually I’m taking a bath
when I hear you
she says
or lying in bed

your sounds sinking
through the ceiling
oh sorry if it disturbs
he says

gazing at her small ****
under the cloth
I love the haunting sounds
she says

they sound so sad
as if your soul
were speaking
or calling from across

an abyss
he gazes at her neck and chin
her moving mouth
the pink of tongue

the sparkling eyes
he says
that wide abyss

wanting to hold her tight
and place
upon her moving lips
a hot lips kiss.
George Anthony May 2017
time to say goodbye, they say
ten years and counting—
eleven after May

you never get over the loved ones you lose
the pain just fades a little,
like the bump leaving the bruise

you're a scar on my broken heart,
permanent and painful
but i love you like art

time to say goodbye, they said
nearly eleven years
nana, why'd you have to be dead?

they told me to move on so gouge out my eyes,
I'm tired of being subjected
to seeing a world where you're not alive
Yours was the first and last funeral I cried at.
Lilliana Lucinda Mar 2015
Slowly I walk to her
Bending over to embrace
Her scent of *****
My heart swells
A lump in my throat
Tears release
Falling onto her shoulder
I don't dare let go
I am apart of her
And she of me

onlylovepoetry Apr 2018
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

Raygan Emma Jane May 2019
The Matriarch of my family stands 73 years tall
One hip replacement
One lung and a long history of putting others before herself
She holds me as she cries
She whispers that she is so sorry for creating a history of women who put more love into men
Than they do themselves
I tell her
Not me Nana
I tell her that she is the most resilient woman on the planet
That selling her wedding rings and escaping material custody
Forced across the country with two small children is the bravest thing she has ever done
I reassure her that poverty is better than abuse
That one day I’ll take care of us all
I’ll stretch myself so big and hold all the women who live within lingering shadows
Scared to flee when it feels the entire universe is screaming stay into your face
Banging against the wall with angry fists
I tell her
Not you Nana
You don’t need saving
David Barr Nov 2013
So, what do you think about the dynasty of Babylon? Freshly cut potatoes which are deep fried can be displayed upon colorful plastic plates, which may trigger a spiritual sustenance of simplistic expectations which are immersed in Glaswegian nostalgia.
Therefore, I contemplate the goddess of the moon, as she is enthroned in Celtic tenements of astral plains.
Entrance-ways are characterised by the musky scent of the tomcat, whilst the purring sounds of diesel locomotives echo along the tracks of mischievous linearity.
So, although I acknowledge Osiris to be the Egyptian god of the dead, I am tentatively perplexed about Northern and Southern boundaries of grandparental occupation. Shake those sensual vessels of salt and vinegar. Do you know why? Because there’s nothing like it in the cosmos.

— The End —