Granddaughter Sitting Beside A Sick Grandmother
wearing a short hair
a smile
her hands clasped
she sits beside her
sick grandmother
the faint light
by the window
enters gently
filtered by the
thin silky drape
the grandmother
is dying and her
daughter has an
axe to grind
she comes as
an offering
a link between
two worlds
long separated
by indifference.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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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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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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Sick and Tired
Sick and Tired, Sick and Tired
That's what my grandmother used to say.
How did she ever know
What I would be going through today.
Growing up was nothing
Growing old is pain
Growing weary is a headache
Growing richer with nothing to gain.
Sick and tired means wordless
To the sense of how things are now
I guess grandmother seen the future
And was trying to help, somehow.
poem by Cecelia Weir
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I'm My Own Grandpa
It was many many years ago when I was twenty-three,
I was married to a widow, she's as pretty as can be.
This widow had a grown-up daughter who had hair of red,
my father fell in lover with her, and soon these two were wed.
I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa.
It sounds silly, I know, but it really is so, oh
I'm my own grandpa.
This made my dad my son-in-law and changed my very life:
My daughter was my mother 'cause she was my father's wife.
And then to complicate the matter, though it brought me joy,
I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy.
This bouncing baby then became a brother-in-law to dad,
and so became my uncle, though it made me very sad,
for if he was my uncle then he also was the brother
of the widow's grown-up daughter, who, of course, was my step-mother.
I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa.
It sounds silly, I know, but it really is so, oh
I'm my own grandpa.
Father's wife then had a son who kept them on the run.
And he became my grandchild, for he was my daughter's son.
My wife is now my mother's mother, and it makes me blue,
because although she is my wife, she's my grandmother, too.
Now if my wife is my grandmother, then I am her grandchild.
And every time I think of it, it nearly drives me wild.
For now I have become the strangest case you ever saw.
Husband of my grandmother, I am my own grandpa.
I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa.
It sounds silly, I know, but it really is so, oh
I'm my own grandpa.
poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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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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Making Love To A New Person
i do not wait quite that long to have you.
i like your hair, you had it cut finally.
short, but still silky, i touch each lock
like the way i feel
wool, sliding my hands behind you
and then
my finger lands between your lips,
not for anything else,
i do not want any word from you,
neither from me,
this is the moment i have been waiting for
all my life
to be with you, on this short moment,
like your short hair
i feel your lips close to mine,
i savor your breath
unto my own mouth,
your spirit unto mine, i breathe
through each lock,
silky, smooth,
too lovely still,
now, i die embraced by the
understanding of your
arms.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Can Can Dancer Gran.
I used to be a dancer
during World War 1
your paternal grandmother said
as she sat next to you
on the seat in her
back garden in London
and your grandfather
would come and watch
with his army friends
and afterwards
he'd come
to the stage door
with flowers or chocolates
or just stand there
with that awestruck look
on his face
and she looked
at the flowers
that your grandfather grew
along both sides
of the garden
and she smiled and said
Look at him now
sits in the same room
and says nothing
or moans about the bills
or how the country is run
or the noise of the traffic
by the front gate
and you sat there
on the seat
in the back garden
in your new suit
and with your hair
cropped short
and that fifteen year old
I'm bored as hell look
on your face and you said
Why did you give up dancing
you must have been good at it?
and as you looked
at your grandmother
with her white frizzy hair
and stocky build
you couldn't imagine her
as a dancer on a stage
with men gawping at her
especially not your soft spoken
quiet grandfather
who sat in his armchair
by the fireside
in a silent mood
occasionally reading a book
or giving that
I've seen too much
of mankind's foolery
kind of look
and your grandmother said
Well after we got married
I fell for your uncle Fred
and beside I wasn't that good
a dancer and your
grandfather didn't want
a wife of his
to be peered at
or have her legs
gawked at
by other men
and then she was silent
and watched
a white butterfly
go by
fluttering its wings
but
she said softly
getting up
from the seat
and doing a small
Can Can dance
the shows not over
until the fat lady sings.
poem by Terry Collett
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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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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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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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Thanks.
Thanks to my brothers who do nothing but look out for me,
Thanks to my dad whos done all he can for me,
Thanks to my grandmother who raised me,
And,
Thanks to my mom who made me hate me,
All 4 of my brothers I know they care, but they can't save me
My dad who loved me, I couldn't save him,
My grandmother whos dying, I can't save her,
And,
My mom who is selfish, I can't change her.
I can't do anything, I tried... so self-centeredly the only thing I see left is suicide.
poem by Kill or Be killed
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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 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 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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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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Refugio's Hair
In the old days of our family,
My grandmother was a young woman
Whose hair was as long as the river.
She lived with her sisters on the ranch
La Calera--The Land of the Lime--
And her days were happy.
But her uncle Carlos lived there too,
Carlos whose soul had the edge of a knife.
One day, to teach her to ride a horse,
He made her climb on the fastest one,
Bareback, and sit there
As he held its long face in his arms.
And then he did the unspeakable deed
For which he would always be remembered:
He called for the handsome baby Pirrín
And he placed the child in her arms.
With that picture of a Madonna on horseback
He slapped the shank of the horse's rear leg.
The horse did what a horse must,
Racing full toward the bright horizon.
But first he ran under the álamo trees
To rid his back of this unfair weight:
This woman full of tears
And this baby full of love.
When they reached the trees and went under,
Her hair, which had trailed her,
Equal in its magnificence to the tail of the horse,
That hair rose up and flew into the branches
As if it were a thousand arms,
All of them trying to save her.
The horse ran off and left her,
The baby still in her arms,
The two of them hanging from her hair.
The baby looked only at her
And did not cry, so steady was her cradle.
Her sisters came running to save them.
But the hair would not let go.
From its fear it held on and had to be cut,
All of it, from her head.
From that day on, my grandmother
Wore her hair short like a scream,
But it was long like a river in her sleep.
poem by Alberto Ríos
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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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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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