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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Related quotes
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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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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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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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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Lines For An Album
Over the river and through the woods
To grandmother’s house we go ...
She waits behind the bolted door,
Her withered face in thirty pieces,
While blood runs thin, and memory,
An idiot without a name,
Recalls the snows of eighty years,
The daughter whose death was unexplained,
Darkness, blue veins, and broken leases.
Grandmother waits behind the door
(Sight dims beyond the curtain folds)
With her toothless smile and enuresis.
Over the river and through the woods
To grandmother’s house we go ...
poem by Weldon Kees
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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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My grandmother and I saw an average of eight movies a week, double features, second run.
quote by Carol Burnett
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dead
Their reward is
they become innocent again,
and when they reappear in memory
death has completely erased
the blurs, given them boundaries. They rise
and move through their new world with clean,
clear edges. My grandmother, in particular
has become buoyant, unattached finally
from her histories, from the trappings
of family. By no means was she
a good woman. But the dead don't care anymore for that.
Weightless, they no longer assume
responsibility, they no longer
have bodies. Once,
at the end of August, after swimming
in the muddy pond
I'd gone into the living room, cool
as vodka, where my grandmother
sat. Greed thins a woman,
I remember her rings, bigger
than her fingers.
Water ran down my legs
onto the floor becoming slippery
and my grandmother, her breath
scratchy from cigarettes and blended whiskey,
leaned into my ear and whispered
you're an ugly girl. Do I have
to forgive her? My mother tells me
no one ever loved her,
so when I see her, I see her again in the park
in her pink tailored suit, suede pumps,
I see her moving among the strange
gentlemen that have gathered, the dark
powerful men. She is still young, blonde
and most of all, she is beyond reach, beautiful.
poem by Kate Northrop
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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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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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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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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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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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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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My Grandmother Would Drive
My grandmother could make a biscuit taste like steak.
And she did everything from 'scratch'.
Including making her own soap too.
The only thing I disliked,
That my Grandmother Clara ever did...
Was to get her driver's license.
My grandmother would drive,
And have an entire conversation...
Without looking at the road!
I had heard rumors of this...
But to witness it,
Was right out of Six Flags.
Or Disney World.
Don't ask me how she did this.
I was too busy trying to keep myself alive.
That 'imaginary' brake on the passenger side,
Of my grandmother's car...
Had worn a hole through the carpeted car floor.
And my grandmother never got a speeding ticket either.
She turned to me and asked why I had the door handle,
In my hand when speeding along the highway.
I did not realize I had pulled the handle from the door.
She frightened the 'hell' out of me.
'Grandma, I gotta use the bathroom.'
~And...? ~
'Pee.'
~You bet not be doin' that in my car, boy!
Why didn't you say somethin' when we were at the carwash? ~
'I didn't think I had to THEN, grandma.
But driving with you has proved me wrong.
I think I've got to throw up too! '
The only thing I disliked,
That my Grandmother Clara ever did...
Was to get her driver's license.
She said she didn't need to wait,
For my grandfather to take her anywhere...
She wanted to go.
And rarely did I see my grandmother,
Using the rearview mirror.
Or...
Keep her eyes on the road.
'Grandma, I gotta use the bathroom.
I'm serious.'
~And...? ~
'Pee.'
~You bet not be doin' that in my car, boy!
Why didn't you say somethin' when we were at the carwash?
You slowing me. You slowing me down. Geeesssshhh.
Precious Lord...hmmm hmmm...Lead me...hmmm.~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Spirit Has Death
She was my grandmother, now dead;
We held her death anniversary
Every year till my mother was dead,
Whose one is being held since then.
It's not far for me to replace her.
The spirit too has got a life span..
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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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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Lucky santa! ! (A funny story)
Santa goes into his son`s room to wish him goodnight. His son is having a nightmare - Santa wakes him and asks his son if he is OK? The son replies he is scared because he dreamt that his aunt had died. Santa assures the son that Auntie is fine and sends him to bed.
The next day, Auntie dies. One week later, Santa again goes into his son`s room to wish him goodnight. His son is having another nightmare - Santa again wakes his son. The son this time says that he had dreamt that his grandmother had died. The father assures the son that she is fine and sends him to bed.
The next day, grandmother dies. One week later, Santa again goes into his son`s room to wish him goodnight. His son is having another nightmare, he again wakes his son. The son this time says that he had dreamt that his daddy had died. The father assures the son that he is OK and sends the boy to bed.
Santa goes to bed but cannot sleep because he is so terrified. The next day, Santa is scared for his life- he is sure is going to die. After dressing he drives very cautiously to work fearful of a collision. He doesn`t eat lunch because he is scared of food poisoning. He avoids everyone for he is sure he will somehow be killed. He jumps at every noise, starts at every movement and hides under his desk.
After days work, upon walking in his front door, he finds his wife, Jeeto, 'Good God, Dear, ' he proclaims, 'I`ve just had the worst day of my entire life! '
Jeeto responds, 'You think your day was bad, this morning my ex-boyfriend dropped dead on the front steps! '
poem by Edwin Drood
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My grandfather was Catholic; my grandmother, Jewish. Crossing over from Bavaria, as immigrants to the United States, the ship started to sink. My grandmother jumped overboard. My grandfather followed, to save this girl he had never met.
quote by Emanuel Celler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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