Atlantic City
On a bus I did ride,
to the NJ Seaside.
Ten years earlier I was also there,
with my aunts with golden curly white hair.
That’s when Trump made a splash,
offering old lady a lot of cash.
Madonna was on her Blonde Ambition tour,
dominating all of the world.
Now Great Aunt Mary and Aunt Joanie,
did go with me,
to Trump’s casino in Atlantic City.
Gambling nickels was their bet,
I did not gamble-had to pay the rent.
Tiny little red notebook I did buy,
writing stories by oceanside.
Writing on trains and subways too,
all stories still there, there’s quite a few.
Now in 2000 I when I went there again
visited Long Island to see my friends.
Went to Javits Convention Ctr in NYC
saw licensed characters who were cute and silly.
Yes this was the year I missed my plane,
Year before Twin Towers fell in sadness and pain.
Would visit NYC again and again,
everything has really changed.
The National September 11 Memorial & Museum
will open up this year,
residents will remember friends so dear.
Now my Great Aunt passed away,
will have to visit the boardwalk once again.
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Related quotes
Atlantic City
On a bus I did ride,
to the NJ Seaside.
Ten years earlier I was also there,
with my aunts with golden curly white hair.
That's when Trump made a splash,
offering old lady a lot of cash.
Madonna was on her Blonde Ambition tour,
dominating all of the world.
Now Great Aunt Mary and Aunt Joanie,
did go with me,
to Trump's casino in Atlantic City.
Gambling nickels was their bet,
I did not gamble-had to pay the rent.
Tiny little red notebook I did buy,
writing stories by oceanside.
Writing on trains and subways too,
all stories still there, there's quite a few.
Now in 2000 I when I went there again
visited Long Island to see my friends.
Went to Javits Convention Ctr in NYC
saw licensed characters who were cute and silly.
Yes this was the year I missed my plane,
Year before Twin Towers fell in sadness and pain.
Would visit NYC again and again,
everything has really changed.
The National September 11 Memorial & Museum
will open up this year,
residents will remember friends so dear.
Now my Great Aunt passed away,
will have to visit the boardwalk once again.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on May 23,2011
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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R.I.P. Aunt Tammy
Dear Aunt Tammy I know your in a better place now but it is still hard.
The last time I have seen you was at your grave and i can't get over it.
I need you, i need you by my side. I dream about you every night and I
dream about the past when you would hold me i would stop crying when
I was a baby but still i stopped. And with you gone its like the end of the
world. You were the third one of the pattern and what i mean by that is
the first person that died was three years ago and that was uncle pat.
Then it was great grandma hover a year later. Then you a year after her.
My live without you is a living nightmare now and i know you won't be
able to read this but im still writing it.
poem by Angelina Sabia
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Old Aunt Mary's
Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine,
In those old days of the lost sunshine
Of youth-- when the Saturday's chores were through,
And the 'Sunday's wood' in the kitchen too,
And we went visiting, 'me and you,'
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?
It all comes back so clear to-day!
Though I am as bald as you are gray--
Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane,
We patter along in the dust again,
As light as the tips of the drops of the rain,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
We cross the pasture, and through the wood
Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood,
Where the hammering 'red-heads' hopped awry,
And the buzzard 'raised' in the 'clearing' sky
And lolled and circled, as we went by
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
And then in the dust of the road again;
And the teams we met, and the countrymen;
And the long highway, with sunshine spread
As thick as butter on country bread,
Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
Why, I see her now in the open door,
Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er
The clapboard roof--! And her face-- ah, me!
Wasn't it good for a boy to see--
And wasn't it good for a boy to be
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?
The jelly-- the Jam and the marmalade,
And the cherry and quince 'preserves'' she made!
And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear,
With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare--!
And the more we ate was the more to spare,
Out to Old Aunt Mary's!
And the old spring-house in the cool green gloom
Of the willow-trees--, and the cooler room
Where the swinging-shelves and the crocks were kept--
Where the cream in a golden languor slept
While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept--
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
And O my brother, so far away,
This is to tell you she waits to-day
To welcome us--: Aunt Mary fell
Asleep this morning, whispering-- 'Tell
The boys to come!' And all is well
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Visit your aunt, but not every day of the year.
The obligatory annual festive write
The obligatory annual festive write
~
Another year has passed
That time has come again
To raise a glass in cheer and to pen
The obligatory Christmas poem
~
New friends have come and been welcomed
Old friends kept and loved
Now to find the time to gather
Share in stories of the year passed
The laughter and the songs
The memories in photographs
They still mean so much
~
And so the stories to come
Those nights which await
When we will laugh and sing
Cry be there for each other
To every month which lays ahead
Together we will face them
And capture in pictures and stories
A new year to remember
~
To every friend a hearty cheer
To all a happy new year
In this season of good will
Let us smile and find peace
Let us rejoice and love
And once more a poem to say
Happy Christmas everyone
Have a happy new year
xxx
poem by Matthew Holloway
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At My Aunt's Unveiling
AT MY AUNT’S UNVEILING
At my aunt’s unveiling
There were five of us
Only five
One was a woman
A friend of hers
Not the closest one
But someone who knew her
And wanted to be a friend.
Thousands of people had known my aunt
Hundreds had worked with or for her
She was born into a large family
But all of them were gone
Or out of it.
My sister and I were the relatives
My aunt had been very generous to us
And difficult for my sister
Who cared for her.
I had only been a taker all the years.
My aunt worked so hard for so many years
And she was ‘somebody’ in her world
There were five of us there
And the ceremony short
No minyan.
There was no sign of my aunt’s smile
Or her nervous energy or her superabundant love
‘Moll ‘as my mother called her
was not there.
I see her so clearly in my mind now
‘What does it all mean? ’ my father would ask my mother
after reading of the death of another person they knew
‘What does it all mean’
When my sister and I go
The memory of my aunt
Will be gone forever.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Great Aunt Meeka We Adore You
We adore you Great Aunt Meeka
Who always has a kind word to share,
You are always there for us,
Showing how much you care.
All the children and toys of Earth
Want to wish you the best for the coming year,
For you are the most treasured Aunt who is very dear.
Written Dec.4,2010
By Suzae Chevalier
Copyright 2010 Chevalier Originals, Inc.
www.greatauntmeeka.info
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Rameela Aunty of Lily Avenue Wellawatte.
The angels came and a lovely dignified lady is...sadly gone
Her gentle voice and loving words hear not another morn
Golden memories are silver souvenirs that... will linger on
With a love she shared with grace a strength to move on
The fragrance of faith and love embedded in the hearts
As she spun velvet words deep into her young ones heart
will be missed by many....
Mel Nad Marie...granaunt and great gran aunt
Fazli Sameer paternal aunt.
passed away 9th October 2010
poem by Shirani Ibrahim
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Aunt Tabitha
THE YOUNG GIRL'S POEM
WHATEVER I do, and whatever I say,
Aunt Tabitha tells me that is n't the way;
When she was a girl (forty summers ago)
Aunt Tabitha tells me they never did so.
Dear aunt! If I only would take her advice!
But I like my own way, and I find it so nice
And besides, I forget half the things I am told;
But they all will come back to me--when I am old.
If a youth passes by, it may happen, no doubt,
He may chance to look in as I chance to look out;
She would never endure an impertinent stare,--
It is horrid, she says, and I must n't sit there.
A walk in the moonlight has pleasures, I own,
But it is n't quite safe to be walking alone;
So I take a lad's arm,--just for safety, you know,--
But Aunt Tabitha tells me they did n't do so.
How wicked we are, and how good they were then!
They kept at arm's length those detestable men;
What an era of virtue she lived in!--But stay--
Were the men all such rogues in Aunt Tabitha's day?
If the men were so wicked, I 'll ask my papa
How he dared to propose to my darling mamma;
Was he like the rest of them? Goodness! Who knows?
And what shall I say, if a wretch should propose?
I am thinking if Aunt knew so little of sin,
What a wonder Aunt Tabitha's aunt must have been!
And her grand-aunt--it scares me--how shockingly sad
That we girls of to-day are so frightfully bad!
A martyr will save us, and nothing else can;
Let me perish--to rescue some wretched young man!
Though when to the altar a victim I go,
Aunt Tabitha 'll tell me she never did so.
poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes
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Uncle Norm And Aunt Audrey
As a child I remember those days
when Aunt Audrey would come from faraway.
Aunt Audrey was tall and wore jewelry like rings
she brought gifts and interesting things.
Aunt Audrey lived in Japan, the far east
she had an interesting life to say the least.
Her daughters Marlena and Renee
had played with us for a couple of days.
Then they would leave on a plane
I would see them again at an older age.
Uncle Norm I also saw when I was young
we traveled to Rhode Island when I was age 1.
Then I would see Aunt Audrey & Norm
in the Sunshine State—
they lived in a development with wooden gates.
I celebrate Christmas and the holidays
with them, Marlena and Renee.
Celebrate with them on Christmas day
they have children now who live on
the west coast in the Golden State.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on April 9,2012
poem by Christina Sunrise
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The Lie
For William Verdun Harris
My late brother.
It started years before I was born,
but the lie came into being after.
I knew nothing of it, why should I?
You never question your parents,
what they tell you, you believe.
Therefore, the lie grew and grew
as years folded into one another.
The lie became accepted as the truth.
Its hurt would not be felt
before four score and more had passed.
A Christmas card with a note from an Aunt.
Your half brother Bill would love to hear from you.
Half brother? I have no half brother.
He is your adopted brother
and my adopted uncle, so I was told.
No, he is your half brother.
I investigated what was said.
Soon the truth of the lie was revealed.
The lie had split two brothers,
to the other sides of the world.
Through urgent phone calls, I found him.
I had to see him, too many years had passed.
Who knows how long we had?
Travel plans were made,
the journey was now set.
After forty-two years, we came face to face.
Hug, tears and a family get together.
Those lost faces from the other side of the world.
We talked and talked into the night,
so much to learn and so little time.
Two weeks went quick and we parted again.
The telephone a communication line,
but how do you make up so many years,
with such little time?
The answer is you don’t.
The next year we extended our visit,
but still it wasn’t long enough.
We would never get another year,
within months my brother was gone,
and for months, I missed his calls.
But the lie was never retracted,
and my sister never got to know,
the other brother that she had.
She still believes the lie,
and won’t accept the truth.
She does not talk to me,
not out of anything either of us has done.
The long distant lie is at fault,
the guilt no one could admit to,
because they felt it would bring great shame.
Now a family lies in tatters,
a sad story all that remains,
about a lie, which almost the truth became.
What will the future bring, that’s something we can never tell.
I for one, hold no one with any ill will.
poem by David Harris
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Uncle Norm And Aunt Audrey
As a child I remember those days
when Aunt Audrey would come from faraway.
Aunt Audrey was tall and wore jewelry like rings
she brought gifts and interesting things.
Aunt Audrey lived in Japan, the far east
she had an interesting life to say the least.
Her daughters Marlena and Renee
had played with us for a couple of days.
Then they would leave on a plane
I would see them again at an older age.
Uncle Norm I also saw when I was young
we traveled to Rhode Island when I was age 1.
Then I would see Aunt Audrey & Norm
in the sunshine state—
they lived in a development with wooden gates.
I celebrate Christmas and the holidays
with them, Marlena and Renee.
Cousin Marlena and Renee
have children now who live on
the west coast in the Golden State.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on April 9,2012
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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The Bequest
When my wife’s great Aunt ‘Dora died
We received a strange bequest.
Not land or Gold or Mallomars
But a box, covered in dust.
Her will strictly enjoined us
from opening the box.
The sides had cryptic puzzles
That served it as strong locks
The box was rather ornate
Carved from finest sandalwood
Inlaid with golden letters
a Greek would have understood.
We both took very seriously
The task to guard this prize
To keep this family heirloom
preserved from prying eyes..
Ten years it stood there in our room
An enigmatic guest
And often I would ponder it
while I was getting dressed.
Until one dark December day
In the Millennial year
Curiosity overcame my wife
And she succumbed, I fear.
My Darling, being curious,
Solved the riddles on the side
She was just prying up the lid
As I ran inside..
A disembodied Banshee screamed
The air was thick and red.
I rushed to close the box back up
in existential dread.
Still, the world seemed little changed
As I sequestered hope.
The radio said by 5-4
George Bush had won the vote
I think on all that’s happened since
As things have gone to Hell
Bloody wars in foreign lands
Discord at home as well.
Since then twin towers crashed and burned
And Wall Street did the same
Do you think it could be possible
Aunt Pandora’s Box shares blame?
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Stories
Every year has its own stories in this life,
Every month has its own stories in this life,
Every week has its own stories in this life,
Every day has its own stories in this life,
Every hour has its own stories in this life,
Every minute has its own stories in this life,
And like the muse of the mind as we grow up;
So, we are all with stories to tell in this world.
As white as snow,
As red as blood,
As balck as charcoal,
As green as the grass,
As blue as the sky;
But everybody has stories to tell in this world!
And like the muse o love in the land of beauty,
For each year has its own story.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Still Invoking the Protector of Angels
With your newspaper folded
And set aside,
It was your last night of reading
And trying to live your life as normal.
Later that night,
You would fall twice to the floor
Trying to make it to a bedside commode,
And I knew you wouldn't leave your bed again.
After that, you lived a few more days
Uncomfortably in your bed,
Eating and drinking very little,
Gazing upward and to the wall,
Most certainly seeing angels.
On your last full day on earth,
A nurse-aide came to the house
To give you a bedside bath and it was like the lady
Who anointed Jesus with perfume for his burial;
She was very gentle and kind but there was a tear in your eye.
Aunt Maxine arrived, a planned visit,
To see her sister, your wife, after a long absence
Caused by distance and age;
This alone was sad with so much of mom already gone
With the trial of fire she's endured with her Parkinson's disease.
At 11: 00 P.M. that night,
Everyone went to bed;
I gave you medicine mixed in pudding
After telling you I had pudding for you to try.
You swallowed your pudding and told me it wasn't bad.
Even in these last few hours you had sweetness for others
But nothing left for yourself.
I woke up at 1: 30A.M.
And you were breathing heavily and strained
With your oxygen off; you were rocking and saying no
Aunt Maxine woke as well.
I reconnected your oxygen and called a nurse
To reevaluate you for pain.
The nurse arrived about an hour later
And prepared ativan and morphine
Which she gave you;
The nurse didn't seem to think you were in great pain
But the way you were holding onto your bed rail and rocking and saying no
Made me sick to my heart that you were.
After the nurse left and aunt Maxine went back to bed,
I kissed your forehead and told you, you were a good boy;
So characteristic of your humble sweetness,
You merely replied, "I hope so."
I then lied down on the floor near your bed
And prayed to Jesus that your journey would not be long
And with terrible pain.
I somehow fell asleep in my sadness and fear
And with your oxygen machine at my one side
And mom's monitor on the other.
At 7: 20 A.M. I heard Aunt Maxine with Mom,
I think Aunt Maxine called for me to come get mom.
I rose from the floor
And I didn't hear you struggling;
I immediately went to your bed;
Your oxygen was off again,
Your chest was calm and still
But your hand remained clutching the bed rail.
I'm certain, there were times
In the last nearly fifty years
When I was a burden to you, sweet man,
But you were definitely
Not a burden to me
In the last two and a half.
All I want to do is talk with you again
About music or cars or politics or the weather;
I merely desire to see you sitting at the kitchen table
Or setting your newspaper down to make your way to the porch.
I'll try to hold onto this love for as long as I can, dear friend.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Goodbye Winter Goodbye Everybody
Winter has passed friends will go
this year is gone along with the snow
this was the year that everyone knows
this is the year that everyone goes
I'll try not to cry but I'll miss you all
but again I know the snow will fall
My memories will come back that I do know
As long as my life is lived in the snow
I try to hold it all in but it's hard not to cry
thinking about leaving watching the sky
Snowflakes will fall onto my head
I will remember everything you've said
The Joy, the Sadness, the Fun, the Pain
I can see my future from this strength
the future of me the future of the snow
it will all work out this I know
I said I wouldn't cry but this I did lie
This is really sad after all
We will make new friends
til' now and til' then
But for now I say goodbye
to you, to snow sky
poem by Travis Ciempa
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Beautiful Madagascar
Of great ideas,
Of great words,
Please don't come to me empty handed;
Oh beautiful Madagascar!
You are one among the lot.
Like the year of the donkey,
Like the year of the bull,
Like the year of the cow,
Like the year of the dragon,
Like the year of the rat,
Like the year of the fish,
The best kept secrets of beautiful Madagascar! !
You are our hope and dream,
But you are supposed to be the pregnant girl;
With the muse of Africa to all who do visit you.
Pregnant with possibilities when,
Dogs are sold for fun;
Upon what are the foundations of the earth fastened?
Out of the whirlwind came beautiful Madagascar!
Like the seeds with hope,
Like the stars with a song,
Out of hunger and nakedness came something sweet.
Beautiful Madagascar,
Wake up to the tunes of Africa! And,
Let others see your beauty when they do visit you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Writ On The Eve Of My 32nd Birthday
a slow thoughtful spontaneous poem
I am 32 years old
and finally I look my age, if not more.
Is it a good face what’s no more a boy’s face?
It seems fatter. And my hair,
it’s stopped being curly. Is my nose big?
The lips are the same.
And the eyes, ah the eyes get better all the time.
32 and no wife, no baby; no baby hurts,
but there’s lots of time.
I don’t act silly any more.
And because of it I have to hear from so-called friends:
“You’ve changed. You used to be so crazy so great.”
They are not comfortable with me when I’m serious.
Let them go to the Radio City Music Hall.
32; saw all of Europe, met millions of people;
was great for some, terrible for others.
I remember my 31st year when I cried:
“To think I may have to go another 31 years!”
I don’t feel that way this birthday.
I feel I want to be wise with white hair in a tall library
in a deep chair by a fireplace.
Another year in which I stole nothing.
8 years now and haven’t stole a thing!
I stopped stealing!
But I still lie at times,
and still am shameless yet ashamed when it comes
to asking for money.
32 years old and four hard real funny sad bad wonderful
books of poetry
—the world owes me a million dollars.
I think I had a pretty weird 32 years.
And it weren’t up to me, none of it.
No choice of two roads; if there were,
I don’t doubt I’d have chosen both.
I like to think chance had it I play the bell.
The clue, perhaps, is in my unabashed declaration:
“I’m good example there’s such a thing as called soul.”
I love poetry because it makes me love
and presents me life.
And of all the fires that die in me,
there’s one burns like the sun;
it might not make day my personal life,
my association with people,
or my behavior toward society,
but it does tell me my soul has a shadow.
poem by Gregory Corso
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My total year's income from working as hard as I possibly could from writing went from like $30 one year to about $70 the next year. And it made me realize that maybe you couldn't really pay the rent that way.
quote by Kevin J. Anderson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Aunt Evangeline Approves
My Aunt Evangeline has come
To visit Melbourne town,
Garbed for its Glad Centenary
In frill and festal gown.
And Aunties says in mincing tones
As she surveys the scene,
Quaite pretty work. But just one touch
Of Ort, Ai think would help so much.'
Says Aunt Evangeline.
'Now, take those sweet Venetian masts,
Which clowns call 'lolly sticks,'
Some naice ort-muslin maight be used
In colahs that will mix.
Then what they need is pampas grass
Dyed pink and puce and green
To stick in those - ah - funnel things
Such deah, sweet memories it brings,'
Says Aunt Evangeline.
'Crepe papah, swung from pole to pole
Festooned with Christmas
Maight add a touch of tasteful
Mai deah, it's taste that
So on these fraightful buildings,
Paint a pretty watah scene,
With storks and - ah - conv
To please ortistic folk laike us.
Says Aunt Evangeline.
My Aunt Evangeline says, 'H'm!
Theah's something lacking yet
Something appropriate . . . Of course!
Whai how could Ai forget?
Ten thousand aspidistra plants
So graceful when they're green
Along those guttahs in the street
And on those pylons. They'd look sweet!'
Says Aunt Evangeline.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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