Thunderbox
In Granddad’s garden there still stands
a thunder box. A monument
built lovingly by Granddads hands,
intended to be permanent,
But fashions change and indoor loos
took the place of earth closets
So now it has a different use
but he can cope with life’s upsets.
It houses now his garden tools
Green painted and in good repair
Granddad has little time for fools.
Who cannot change and will not dare.
But Granddad can and Granddad will
accept the world cannot stand still.
21/07/2007
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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This Is Special Birthday For My Grandfather Father
I AM SO THANKFUL TO STILL HAVE MY GRANDDAD AND FATHER WITH US. THIS IS SPECIAL BIRTHDAY FOR GRANDDAD AND FATHER. WE ARE SO HAPPY TO STILL HAVE OUR GRANDDAD AND FATHER HEAR WITH ALL HIS GRANDCHILDEN AND CHILDEN. WE WISH YOU A HAPPY BIRTHDAY MANY ON THIS EARTH. WE ARE SO BLESS TO SEE OUR GRANDDAD AND FATHER TURN SEVENTY SIX YEAR OLD.THANK YOU GOD FOR GIVE US SEVENTY SIX WITH OUR GRANDDAD AND FATHER. OUR GRANDDAD AND FATHER WILL TURN SEVENTY SIX ON APRIL 17.WE THANK YOU FOR ALL DO FOR YOUR FAMLIY AND FRIEND. HE LIVE SEVENTY SIX YEAR ON EARTH. OUR GRANDDAD HAVE FOUR KIDS AND FIVE GRANDCHILDREN.WE THANK GOD STILL HAVE OUR GRANDDAD AND FATHER HEAR WITH US
poem by Courtney Robinson
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Granddad's Candy
Granddad offered candy
from a white paper bag
and you slowly took one
and put in your mouth
and the strong peppermint flavour
exploded on your tongue
as Granddad closed his eyes
and sank back
into his chair by the fire
and he said
if you go outside
to the john
be careful of the mutt
who sleeps there
and the spiders
which hang around
waiting for little boys
and look out
for the fairies
at the bottom of the garden
hidden amongst weeds
and you nodded
as you always did
and tried to swallow the candy
as fast as you could
and Granddad said
look over by the side
and pass me
the cigarettes and lighter
and don’t let
your grandmother see
or she’ll moan about me
and my breathing
and my heart
and you looked over the side
and picked up
his cigarettes and lighter
and brought them to him
and Gran said
from the kitchen
he’s not smoking
those cigarettes again is he?
And you said
looking at Granddad
hiding them behind his back
no Gran he’s just sucking
on a candy and he’s given me
one to suck and one to keep
and Granddad had his eyes
closed still
pretending to be asleep.
poem by Terry Collett
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Len Is A Granddad
The day had finally come
and around 7 am the news came through
and it was official
Len was now a granddad new.
His emotions got the better of him
and his eyes began to leak tears of joy
for this new 8lb baby boy.
He felt like a bag of nerves
now the waiting was through,
and dawning his red and black leathers
mounted his yellow Red Bull mean machine
doing wheelies around the car park
and yelling to everyone he met
that he had joined that auspicious crowd
because he Len was now a granddad
and a proud moment in his life.
With red eyes, he went to work
his feet feeling like jelly,
a big smile on his face
and his brain going into a delirious state
that his students had to look after him.
Even the weather smiled with him
with the sun and sky of blue
as Len was now a granddad new.
19 January 2011
Author’s Note:
This poem was written for a card that I made up and gave a friend at work when he became a granddad for the first time.
poem by David Harris
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The Place of Forgotten Memories
For years I’ve put odds and sods up into the roof space,
like old books, photographs, and the odd vase.
When my parents died I also put their memorabilia up there,
and now my loft holds many memories from over the years.
My grandson ventured up there and came down with a photograph,
he asked me why his picture was not in colour, and I began to laugh.
Of course it wasn’t him in the photograph it was his great granddad,
the resemblance was uncanny, which made me kind of sad.
The picture of my granddad was taken at the age of nine,
the same age as my grandson at this particular time.
I remember my granddad well especially in his later years,
and seeing him in my grandson fills me with tears.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Emily May
For My Great Granddaughter
Today old Dodgy Dave,
was made a Great Granddad again,
with a great granddaughter Emily May,
weighing in at seven pound and four ounces.
Is he happy? I would say he is.
Looking in the mirror
another dozen grey hairs did appear.
One thing I can tell you,
she could grow up to be a pop singer
with the deafening lungs she has.
The new Granddad and Granny are coming around tonight
to toast baby Emily May,
with a couple of cups of tea
on the rocks,
or we might even splash out
on a coke.
Welcome to the crazy world
of your Great Granddad Dodgy Dave
my little Emily May
poem by David Harris
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Joint At Deathbed
I smoked a joint
at my granddad’s deathbed.
In the living room of
childhood memories
Inhaling and Exhaling
blue plumes of smoke
Hours before he
drew HIS
last breath.
And
sitting at his deathbed.
as the grandfather clock struck
and the streetlamp outside the window
was turned on
and later off
I made my peace with God
and all consuming time
I smoked a joint
at my granddad’s deathbed
Putting my hand on
his
he spoke, his voice a pale whisper.
“Nothing can be done about it”
These last words to me
from a dying old man.
I smoked a joint
At my granddad’s deathbed.
Sweet soothing numbness
Held sadness and sorrow at bay.
Unspoken words of gratitude
milling around inside
but alas
a day too late.
and “nothing could be done about it”
I smoked a joint
at my granddad’s deathbed.
in cold cool contemplation
alone in the darkness, I understood:
All you hold dear will perish.
summer holidays,
friendships,
love,
life.
And no,
“nothing can be done about it”
The Old Man was right
poem by Carsten Thomsen
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White Clydesdale horse
That big white horse he stands so high
And coat so white it hurts my eyes
A Clydesdale horse is the breed
Stand so proud does this stead
For weeks I just wondered why
He shows himself in my minds eye
I tell my friends what I see
It’s my granddad looking after me
A carter by trade was his game
And Clydesdale horses pulled the frame
For miles and miles through Scottish Land
My granddad went cap in hand
It nice to know he stands by me
As proud as the horse I can see
To give me strength both night and day
And guide me along the way
Chellaston
01 11 2010
poem by Jim O'Donnell
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We Cannot-America Votes
In America
we are about to vote
on what is to be our political Soul;
Will America finally become reconciled to
and surpass our past
move through and beyond
20th century capitalism?
whether generations can meet
in between;
whether granddad's view of the past;
his dislikes and loyalties
predominate;
or whether the grandchildren will
say:
'I know granddad what you think
but I just don't think about it that way.'
In every town and hamlet
every suburb and city
the lines form
and the hearts vote
to express
what each soul believes
about what is the best for all of us.
What is Best America?
Or is it what is the best America
for me?
This is not the fork in the road;
this is the new road.
This is no disagreement;
it is a different brain thinking.
All the world is becoming joined.
All the world now
common crisis bound;
wondering
whether to cling to wallet issues
or the ideologue;
whether to accept change or
stay with the comfortable and the known;
whether to continence me and mine
or change to
or join
with those different than me,
those who march away
following that sign
ear-marked 'the future times.'
Demographics plus luck
determines all our fates;
How much progress is it to destroy the planet
for false security and baubles?
What is good a computer which
poisons the soil?
What price the comforts we crave
as we resist
the obvious;
which is we must re-learn simpler ways.
And we can.
Yes, we can.
We cannot afford to
can not
or not can.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Bragging Rights
Bragging Rights
I’m feeling rather curious
If not down right ridiculous.
I’m married to a great grandma
She thinks I am peculiar
because I say I’m very glad
to be at last a great Granddad.
Although she will admit to me
in private that’s she’s glad to be
Allowed to call her son Granddad
a privilege she’s never had
but one she willing to pursue
if only for a week or two
The truth is we are pleased to be
part of a growing family.
We hope quite soon to get to know
our first great grandson Little Joe
My lady and I have no doubt
we have something to brag about.
As we grow old disgracefully
We will brag that’s a certainty.
15-Feb-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Don't Listen
Don’t listen to him,
Gran said,
indicating
with a nod
of her head,
to Granddad
in the other room,
sitting by the fire
with his loose clothes
holding in bones.
You stood by the door,
peeping through
the thin crack
between door
and frame,
your young eyes
like a hawk’s,
catching the view:
Granddad lighting up
a cigarette,
to set him off
on the cough
and spit and phlegm,
and Gran’s hazel eyes
lighting up with anger
and her tongue
like a viper’s
ready to condemn.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Net
The net's a big headache
I need a bloke you see
I search and search for hours
But can't get one for free.
I bought myself a web cam
I thought I could chat and play
But there weren't any blokey blokes
Only the ones that were gay.
Hang on! Who's this?
It's a blokey figure
Reminds me of my granddad
But my granddad's thinner.
Says his name's Bertie
Asks if I'm into leather
Then he says I'm a bore
‘could've knocked me down with a feather.
Oh Wait! I must be dreaming
I see a tanned blokee
I smile at his picture
He smiles back at me.
He speaks, I can't hear him,
He hears, but can't see,
I think my PC's broken
Why does it happen to me?
I think I'm in love
I hope he feels the same,
Oh damn! My PC's crashed
And I never got his name..
poem by Hazel Connelly
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Granddad and Jean Harlow.
Granddad said he saw
Jean Harlow once
While making deliveries
to the studio lot
and there she was
he said
real hot
just there
and looking my way
and I was struck dumb
my lips stiffened
my eyes were glued
and as she walked by
there was that glint
of unhappiness
that caught my eye
and I wanted
to reach out
a hand and touch
the goddess
of my dreams
but then she was gone
and the delivery made
I made my way
out of the lot
the truck heading
for the gates
the whole panoramic view
behind me
and she
Jean Harlow
back there somewhere
waiting for the next shot
and there was me
leaving that slice
of hell or heaven
the fantasy lot
and Granddad
sitting by the fire
his gaze elsewhere
maybe thinking
of Harlow
just beyond
his sad stare
some where.
poem by Terry Collett
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Ode' To Granddad
Granddad, on his screened porch sat one day;
Up in his lap I crawled, to rest from my play;
Very sparse stubble here and there for a beard;
He had acquired sandspurs in cheeks I feared;
Grandmother's tweezers would work I thought;
Quickly I leaped down and after them I sought;
I was back there in a flash to alleviate his pain;
I tugged here and there on his face with no gain;
I lost interest in the task; he just hugged me tight;
He laughed and let me know that he was all right;
He put in plain words for me what whiskers were;
He asked me if I understood; then I replied yes sir;
Older males have to shave often for a smooth face;
Yet men with a manicured beard aren't out of place;
I could find not one on my cheeks with my hand;
He chuckled wait until you become a young man;
A young man; just about everyone calls me one;
Maybe I'll just stay young; growing up is no fun;
I want to always feel secure in my Granddad's lap;
Possessing no worry in the world; I then took a nap.
poem by Joseph Blitch
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The Chair
Grandma’s chair is rockin’, but she ain’t sittin’ there,
so who’s that sittin’ in grandma’s favourite chair?
And whose is that shadow standing by the wall?
Could it be our grandma..? ‘No, not at all.’
I’ve no idea whose shadow that could be,
it’s certainly not mine and you’re behind me.
Who is that sittin’ where grandma sat each night?
and could it be the shadow is a trick of the light?
Could it be our granddad standing by the wall?
‘No, it’s not granddad, he wasn’t that tall.
The chair’s still rockin’, but the shadow has gone.
The chair has stopped; they’ve both moved on.’
poem by Orlando Belo
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Continuation
The Continuation
It is night they have all gone to bed, since I’m old and sleep little
my job is to keep the ember alive in the stove, add a piece of wood
now and then. My granddad used to do that keeping the flames
alive, so when the young got up the rooms wouldn’t be too cold.
I sit in darkness but see through curtains snow falling adding to
millions of other snowflakes, I know the children will be exited,
the adults less so. For me it doesn’t matter, but I haven’t forgotten
the pleasure of a snowy landscape. It is odd, me godless man, feel
an inner peace, everything that has happened fits together I have
meet my ghosts; nothing scares me anymore except rumours of
a new war. As a child I knew war and all its brutality, I was hoping
my grandchildren would be spared. I’m nearly falling asleep but my
granddad awakes me, whispers about my obligations, I add a piece
of wood to the fire and dream of yesteryear.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Don't worry it's all been planned
Change is brought about by erosion!
Look around, and you will all come to see.
Change is brought about by erosion!
Want something privatized that's easy.
Cut all funding till the wheels fall off…
And say here's what'll fix it; for not a lot.
You can even buy shares, but, here's the tipoff…
'We'll never invest; bonuses are our mascot'.
Even going greener makes them all richer
I've now a blue bin a brown and a black
And one for indoors and if I'm a lucky chap!
I can have a green one for only £20 a year.
Change is brought about by erosion!
My dear! Don't worry it's all been planned
Everything has a cycle that requires action!
'Just don't tell them, about the quicksand'.
See it's all happening again boom and bust
Whatever happened to prams with a little rust?
Were-all-in-it-together granddad be a good fellow
Take out your life savings spend that's the motto.
Freeze pay, cut pay, and cut family tax credits
We'll make them third class citizens obedient
They'll come begging with their empty wallets
Once more to the factory floor less flippant.
poem by Mark Heathcote
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All us Youngs could throw. I used to kill squirrels with a stone when I was a kid, and my granddad once killed a turkey buzzard on the fly with a rock.
Handbags & Gladrags
(michael dabo)
Ever seen a blind man cross the road
Trying to make the other side
Ever seen a young girl growing old
Trying to make herself a bride
So what becomes of you my love
When they have finally stripped you of
The handbags and the gladrags
That your grandad had to sweat so you could buy
Baby
Once I was a young man
And all I thought I had to do was smile
You are still a young girl
And you bought everything in style
Listen
But once you think youre in youre out
cause you dont mean a single thing without
The handbags and the gladrags
That your grandad had to sweat so you could buy
Sing a song of six-pence for your sake
And take a bottle full of rye
Four and twenty blackbirds in a cake
And bake them all in a pie
They told me you missed school today
So what I suggest you just throw them all away
The handbags and the gladrags
That your poor old granddad had to sweat to buy
They told me you missed school today
So I suggest you just throw them all away
The handbags and the gladrags
That your poor old granddad had to sweat to buy ya
song performed by by Rod Stewart
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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His Silence
Granddad carried his silence
Like a cloak. His chair by the fireplace
Held his shadows, dark images
Of trenches, friends blown apart,
Decapitated, armless, legless,
Crowded around him as he sat
And stared. Some days in his garden
With you by his side, his comrades
Hid beyond the sun’s rays,
The cloud’s motion, the birdsong,
He’d speak in slow monosyllables
Of flower’s growth or colour or scent
Not caring at that moment why the guns
Were silent or where his friends all went.
poem by Terry Collett
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A Week That Was
This week has been not a very fun one,
With all its ups and downs.
First, it started with good news,
an email to say I had been awarded
another award for my poetry,
and then a friend tells me
they are leaving PH for a while.
Bad new for me there.
On Monday, I became a great granddad,
help! I am getting old!
My hair is getting grey and is beginning to fall out.
However, that was good news,
a little gift from heaven
called Emily Mae if I may be so bold.
My job is on a knife edge
with not knowing if I’ve got one or not,
and today I find another friend
has been driven’ away from PH because of harassment.
I hate to think what tomorrow will bring
being Friday the 13th.
12 July 2007
poem by David Harris
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