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My Grandmother Used to Say

My grandmother used to say
you can't threaten
a poor man with poverty
a loveless soul with loneliness
a hard heart with pitilessness
because all these
lacks
are never noticed by those
already far gone.

You don't bring coals to Newcastle
bride an honest man
teach character-
that is something which must be lived-
Never try she would say
to be young past your age
kiss evil on the mouth
break the golden rule

Never kick a person when they are down
take victory laps
brag over small successes
Never tell your truth and ignore
the truth of others
think that you are the smartest person in the room
at all times;

My grandmother used to say.

Understand
she would say
that when you die
your only chance to live forever
is to spend you life
loving others.
My Grandmother used to say.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Grandmother Told Me So

The declaration has been spoken,
For Grandmother told me so.
The darkeys have got their fetlocks broken,
For Grandmother told me so.
Oh, won't they have a lot of iron on hand!
And when the news travels,
Oh, won't it be grand!
'Twill sweep like a sugarcane over the land,
For Grandmother told me so.

American Eagle! hysterical bird!
Oh, flap your wing and crow!
The slaves are embellished--yes, that's the word,
For Grandmother told me so!

There's curious times in that ur section,
For Grandmother told me so.
They think they will have a resurrection,
For Grandmother told me so.
The penholders raving like persons insane --
The darkeys in exodus, raising cane,
And singing like martingales after a rain,
For Grandmother told me so.

But President Abe forgot Kentucky,
For Grandmother told me so.
And Geneses, too -- and that's unlucky,
For Grandmother told me so.
Malicious champagne will be open'd in vain,
Until we shall break the last ox-yoke and chain --
Till through the Benighted States freedom shall reign,
For Grandmother told me so.

poem by Henry Clay Work
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Poem for my Grandmother

By the time
I knew grandmother
She was no more
It took sisteen-years
To know
Of her pains
On that sick bed,
My sisteen-year-old
Knowingness was shocked
To hear mum narrate her past
Grandmother as indeed a great
Woman n her life time.
Each time I go to her grave
I break down and cried for her,
I wish grandmother saw
The best of me
Before she was taken to the beyond
I know she would be proud of me
Let this poem of mine
Be for her,
My great grandmother.

poem by Efe Benjamin
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Saints

In our family, there were two saints,
my aunt and my grandmother.
But their lives were different.

My grandmother's was tranquil, even at the end.
She was like a person walking in calm water;
for some reason
the sea couldn't bring itself to hurt her.
When my aunt took the same path,
the waves broke over her, they attacked her,
which is how the Fates respond
to a true spiritual nature.

My grandmother was cautious, conservative:
that's why she escaped suffering.
My aunt's escaped nothing;
each time the sea retreats, someone she loves is taken away.

Still she won't experience
the sea as evil. To her, it is what it is:
where it touches land, it must turn to violence.

poem by Louise Gluck
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My Grandmother

When she would talk about her mother,
it was as though there were another person in the room

She could see her mother in her mind;
It was as if my grandmother was dancing across the kitchen floor

It was as if she were talking about an imaginary person
who was not in the room

Her mother was in her mind

My mother was standing on the kitchen floor, cleaning a glass, and thinking of my grandmother

I could see it through the silence

poem by Samuel Stuart Pennell
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My Green Mile

I found god in my Great Grandmother's eyes
where only the truth lies
dreams come to reality
in a heavenly playing field
no tricks no lies
no tall tales of a kiss goodbye
protected, safe and warm in grandmother's arms
puts my soul to ease, eyes lit smile
knowing on my time I'll see her again
when I walk the green mile.

poem by Kelvin Owusu
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Thoughts About The Person From Porlock

Coleridge received the Person from Porlock
And ever after called him a curse,
Then why did he hurry to let him in?
He could have hid in the house.

It was not right of Coleridge in fact it was wrong
(But often we all do wrong)
As the truth is I think he was already stuck
With Kubla Khan.

He was weeping and wailing: I am finished, finished,
I shall never write another word of it,
When along comes the Person from Porlock
And takes the blame for it.

It was not right, it was wrong,
But often we all do wrong.

*

May we inquire the name of the Person from Porlock?
Why, Porson, didn’t you know?
He lived at the bottom of Porlock Hill
So had a long way to go,

He wasn’t much in the social sense
Though his grandmother was a Warlock,
One of the Rutlandshire ones I fancy
And nothing to do with Porlock,

And he lived at the bottom of the hill as I said
And had a cat named Flo,
And had a cat named Flo.

I long for the Person from Porlock
To bring my thoughts to an end,
I am becoming impatient to see him
I think of him as a friend,

Often I look out of the window
Often I run to the gate
I think, He will come this evening,
I think it is rather late.

I am hungry to be interrupted
For ever and ever amen
O Person from Porlock come quickly
And bring my thoughts to an end.

*

I felicitate the people who have a Person from Porlock
To break up everything and throw it away
Because then there will be nothing to keep them
And they need not stay.

*

Why do they grumble so much?
He comes like a benison
They should be glad he has not forgotten them
They might have had to go on.

*

These thoughts are depressing I know. They are depressing,
I wish I was more cheerful, it is more pleasant,
Also it is a duty, we should smile as well as submitting
To the purpose of One Above who is experimenting
With various mixtures of human character which goes best,
All is interesting for him it is exciting, but not for us.
There I go again. Smile, smile, and get some work to do
Then you will be practically unconscious without positively having to go.

poem by Stevie Smith
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Yustman

Letters to your grandmother,
Nice and slow without the hockey sticks!
But, you cannot brow up doing the same thing in life.

Jackets and pockets,
And of the beasutiful sunshine with the golden weather;
But, the sharp knives have no mellow.

The accumulation of wisdom,
And of a fisherman like my type;
For my name is Yustman from Oman and,
I have something for you.

This love is deeper than many kisses!
But, i do have thie letter for your grandmother;
Because you are all that i need,
And like the echoes of love to blossom the beautiful flowers.

You are now riding on a Golden Carriage and,
I am sleeping on a Golden Bed!
And our neighbour who sits on thge Golden Stool is dressed in Gold! !
But, your love is all that i need.

Life is like the talking-drums,
Love is like the muse of heaven;
And of the melody of joy to play along with,
But this letter is for your grandmother.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Great Grandmother

great grandmother
grandmother's mother
she walked through my life
like red roses, that dropp over one's path
roses that hold us back to savour
the meaning cast between
two melancholic lines of a poem

great grandmother
grandmother's mother
she walked through my life
so sparingly, always with the
fervent wish to build a bridge to my life
you know it because she always walked
away with tears glistening in her eyes
tears glistening in her eyes

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Grandmother

Grandmother, oh Grandmother

Looking from above.

I need your wisdom and your balance.

Most of all I need your love.

I hear you and I see you,

When I open my mind's eye.

I feel you wrapped around me,

In the space where I am "I".

Your kindness and your knowledge,

I need within me now,

For I'm in a constant turmoil.

Where to turn; which way and how?

Please help me to rebalance.

On my life's path forward go,

For when my mind is muddled

The answers you always know.

I know you never leave me,

In my aura sitting calm.

I thank you wisest Grandmother,

For keeping me safe from harm.

poem by Rosi Caswell
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The last visit and conversion…

Here lays my grandmother
A week from: Death.
The gentle archetypal, type of grandmother
Who nursed my cries; made all things better.
Here lays, my grandmother…
In that; week before their heinous lies….
“Spoken in hellos but not goodbyes”
In that week before her untimely: Death.
Before; her cloak of life fell silently away bereft.
In isolating surrendered breaths…
In hopes and prayers…
In hopes; never-ending…
In words that were formed:
Like crusts of bread.
Floated in the mouths of the living…
Where once it was lovingly said.
That our own increments will rise conversely…
And speak from; our own deathbeds.
Shall we not all of us…
Then one day, converse, with the dead.
Here lays, my grandmother…
And to date—she is dead.

poem by Mark Heathcote
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The Motto Of This Baring Of One's Soul

I 'used' to invite those,
Who disliked me...
Into my home.
With the showing to them,
Unquestionable and utmost hospitality.

I learned this from my grandmother.

With a giving to them an atmosphere,
To tell me face to face...
Whatever it was they had to say,
They could share it then...
And I would give them my full attention.

My grandmother would hum gospel songs,
Whenever she wanted to calm herself.

But instead of doing that,
The atmosphere I set for them...
In my home,
My detractors believed they could attack.

These times are not for the humming,
Of hymnals in any key.

And needless to say,
When they left to go away...
It was more not less,
Backstabbing they enacted.

The Motto Of This Baring Of One's Soul?

Always be respectful to others.
In all ways!
No matter who believes this is a weakness
And when a peace kept within is attacked,
Without warranted provocation...
A display of momentary insanity is acceptable.

And I remember my grandmother once disciplined,
All of her younger children...
As she lined us up,
With a whipping and humming done of a spiritual.
THEN...
Bake a treat for us to eat!

~One day you 'kids' are going to understand.~

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Sestina

September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.

She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,

It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac

on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.

poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Though I was a mother at 21, being a grandmother makes the whole thing absolutely normal and gorgeous. The relief, the joy of being a grandmother is wonderful.

quote by Joanna Lumley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ballade Of The Hardy Annual

Many a jest that refuses to die
Bobs up again as the seasons appear;
Deathless it hits us again in the eye-
Changeless and dull as the calendar year.
Musty and mouldy and yellow and sere,
Stronger, withal, than the sturdiest oak;
Ancient and solemn and deadly and drear-
Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!

Soon as the snow has forgotten to fly,
All through the day of the 'leathery sphere,'
Jokelets and pictures and verses we spy
All on the theme of the grandmother dear.
Bonnets, umbrellas, and buckets of beer
Please us and tickle us quite to the choke.
But-on this matter our attitude's clear-
Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!

Giggle we can at a blueberry pie;
Scream at a comedy king or ameer;
Simply guffaw when the jestermen guy
Marriage, a thing at which no one should jeer.
Things that in others elicit a tear
All of our risibles simply unyoke;
But from this stand we're unwilling to veer:
Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!

L'ENVOI

Brothers in motley, the season is here;
Small is the boon that we sadly invoke:
Butcher it, murder it, jump on its ear! -
Down with the grandmother-funeral joke!

poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Gas

my grandmother had a serious gas
problem.
we only saw her on Sunday.
she'd sit down to dinner
and she'd have gas.
she was very heavy,
80 years old.
wore this large glass brooch,
that's what you noticed most
in addition to the gas.
she'd let it go just as food was being served.
she'd let it go in bursts
spaced about a minute apart.
she'd let it go
4 or 5 times
as we reached for the potatoes
poured the gravy
cut into the meat.

nobody ever said anything,
especially me.
I was 6 years old.
only my grandmother spoke.
after 4 or 5 blasts
she would say in an offhand way,
'I'll bury you all!'

I didn't much like that:
first farting
then saying that.

it happened every Sunday.
she was my father's mother.

every Sunday it was death and gas
and mashed potatoes and gravy
and that big glass brooch.

those Sunday dinners would
always end with apple pie and
ice cream
and a big argument
about something or other,
my grandmother finally running out the door
and taking the red train back to
Pasadena
the place stinking for an hour
and my father walking about
fanning a newspaper in the air and
saying, 'it's all that damned sauerkraut
she eats!'

poem by Charles Bukowski
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On The Poverty Line

A mother and grandmother near the end of her life
To an unworthy fellow she was a good wife
Without provocation her he often did beat
But at least she feels happy she is not on the street

As a homeless person struggling for to make ends meet
Without a roof over her head and with little to eat
And though she cannot afford to go out for to wine and to dine
She feels happy to live on the poverty line.

The hard life has left her with lines on her face
But poverty she is happy to embrace
One of the people by society forgot
But she is not one to complain of her lot.

For millions and millions life is so unfair
And so many more like her in the big World out there
For millions a huge struggle just to get by
For success they no longer bother to try.

Her ex husband left her for a younger woman a decade ago
She is better without him that much she does know
She took his abuse and his every blow
But any bitterness towards him she never does show.

She lives as a good person and spiritually pure
But she does not know how it feels to live as financially secure
She never eats out never tasted good wine
The one who exists on the poverty line.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Rita Matlock Gruenberg

Grandmother! You who sang to green valleys,
And passed to a sweet repose at ninety-six,
Here is your little Rita at last
Grown old, grown forty-nine;
Here stretched on your grave under the winter stars,
With the rustle of oak leaves over my head;
Piecing together strength for the act,
Last thoughts, memories, asking how I am here!
After wandering afar, over the world,
Life in cities, marriages, motehrhood--
(They all married, and I am homeless, alone.)
Grandmother! I have not lacked in strength,
Nor will, nor courage. No! I have honored you
With a life that used these gifts of your blood.
But I was caught in trap after trap in the years.
At last the cruelist trap of all.
Then I fought the bars, pried open the door,
Crawled through -- but it suddenly sprang shut,
And tore me to death as I used your courage
To free myself!
Grandmother! Fold me to your breast again.
Make me earth with you for the blossoms of spring--
Grandmother!

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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The Queen Mother, with a lifetime's popularity, seemed incapable of a bad performance as national grandmother-warm, smiling, human, understanding, she embodied everything the public could want of its grandmother.

quote by John Pearson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rolandson

The wind blows and it knows it course,
But my love will hit you like the bullet!
Because, i deeply love you for what you are.

The wind blows and we are lost in the cold,
But the muse of love is what i bring to you;
And we will live on forever!

You are talking of a person who is loved by many;
And i am talking of a person who is loved by one;
For, i have my grandmother's grave to share with you.

The rain does not fall on one man's house,
But i am living in a small room to share this love with you;
And i need your love to move on like the bullet train.

The store is ready for the coffee and i need your love,
But Auntie Jane is around to see me through;
For the love of Narobi is all about you.

A message to my wife,
Of the muse of things that clouds the air;
Buit my faith will lead me on to fulfil my dreams.

You are after this adventure and i am after this love,
And like Rolnadson who lives in the woods!
But my muse will touch you for you to learn about me as well.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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One Golden Rule

Theres a heart in the middle of somewhere tonight
Screaming for reasons or just a way out
I put the shirt off my back on a wager that says
Theres one every night from my old school yard days
I hear you say one golden rule
One golden rule
Theres been times Ive been stood in the wind and the rain
Freezing and busted and tricked out of luck
And I cursed my teachers for all of their reading
What we needed most cant be found in them books
One golden rule
Now they teach you to swim but they dont speak of the danger
Tell you the truth but they never say why
Put you on ice that is thin and tell you its winter
Without one golden rule the truth is a lie
One golden rule

song performed by by Chris Rea
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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