En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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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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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Uncle Fred and The Sand Dance

Your Uncle Fred
on Christmas Eve
at Gran's house

when you were a kid
did the sand dance
wearing an old fashion

man's striped nightgown
and a red fez
(he got that in Egypt

during WW2
Gran said)
and brown

open toed sandals
and Uncle Ed
turned the handle

of the windup gramophone
where an old
78rpm record

was playing
and there were
glasses of sherry

being consumed
and cigarettes being smoked
and you sat watching

clapping your hands
and Gran would get up
afterwards

and do her Can-Can
like she used to
as she young woman

on the stage
and Granddad sat there
quiet saying nothing

looking at
the people gathered
sipping his sherry

watching his wife
lifting her legs
her white fuzzy hair

going to and fro
as she moved
and you wanted

to have some sherry
but your mother said
no you have lemonade

little boys
don't have sherry
so you sat

with your lemonade
watching Uncle Fred
and his dance

and the music coming
from the old gramophone
and the smell of sherry

and beer and cigarette smoke
and Uncle telling the adults
one of his old army jokes.

poem by Terry Collett
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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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Dear Granfather

My gran father

Is...

My father...

yes...

My lovingely father...

My gran father loves for me...

At over of my father...

I am also love

My gran father a lot....

My gran father telling

Stores at my child age...

It is very happyfull...

Today my gran father

Is passaway...

I did not woory

I did not cry...

But...

Heart only think

My gran father

Golden days...

Theay all are

Olden days...

Did not come

My life that days....

My gran father also...!

poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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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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But I miss you Gran

I miss you so much Gran.
You left me.
And I don't no why.
But i miss you Gran.
I thought you'd be here for ever.
But now you've gone away.
And I miss you Gran.

I wish you could come back.
I can no longer see you.
I can't touch your face or hold your hand.
I can no longer give you a hug and a kiss.
I miss you Gran.
I don't understand why you had to go.

You've gone from this world.
And I miss you Gran.
I wish you were here.
A friendly face you alwys had.
Words of wisdom you would give.

But I miss you Gran.
My heart is breaking.
I just hope you no that I loved you.
I miss you Gran I really miss you.

poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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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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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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Talk Over Tea.

Janice's gran
had left the room

to fetch another
pot of tea

and Janice said
Are you coming on

the day trip to the seaside?
I'm not sure

you replied
Oh please do

Janice said
Then we can be together

and I won't have to spend time
with those giggly girls

from the gospel group
you looked at her fair hair

and the way her eyes
were on you

and how precise
her lips were

when she spoke
I'm not sure my parents

can afford it
you said

Oh it's free for kids
whose parents are poor

she said
And after all

it's part of the point
of the whole thing

to show Christian values
and so on

and she smiled
and put her hand

on yours
under the table

as her gran came in
with the teapot

What are you two
talking about?

Gran asked
putting the teapot

down on the table
Janice's hand

squeezed yours
under the table

Oh just about the day trip
to the seaside

Janice said
Are you going too?

her gran asked you
you hesitated

and then said
Yes I think so

and Janice looked at you
her blue eyes bright

and she said
Isn't that good Gran?

Yes indeed
her gran said

and poured tea
into your cup

and added milk
and sugar

and Janice's hand
left yours

and the absence
of the warmth

of her hand
felt like

a dying world
in a vast galaxy

or drowning
in a deep blue sea.

poem by Terry Collett
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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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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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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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Growl

While Allen Ginsberg told us “Howl! ”
I do prefer Clint Eastwood’s growl,
while cherishing his Gran Torino,
spaghetti westernized the fino
he dramatizes in Detroit.
This expiatory exploit
performed by the old man who killed
Koreans in the killing field,
and sought atonement for this wrong,
grumpily befriending Hmong
whom up to then he had despised,
is hardly overdramatized
by Clint, who’s far more in accord
with life than Ginzberg, as his Ford––
the Gran Torino ’72––
proves him to be with derring-do.
That’s why I far prefer Clint’s growl
to Ginsberg’s grating hapless howl.

Inspired by Clint Eastwood’s movie “Gran Torino, ” which concludes with a song, “Gran Torino, ” composed and sung by Eastwood at the end of the movie, where we see the Gran Torino that he bequeathes Thao, his young Hmong friend, driving along the shores of the Lake Huron.

12/30/08

poem by Gershon Hepner
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The Lighting Fairy

The lighting fairy,
she’s full of
lighting...

You might want to
stand back..
When she throws
lighting bolts.

That’s only when
she’s angry....
The other times...
She will give you
a hug or....

A chocolate kiss...
She is the lighting
fairy...
Of them ALL!

poem by Lisa Parks
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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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The Colubriad

Close by the threshold of a door nailed fast
Three kittens sat; each kitten looked aghast;
I passing swift and inattentive by,
At the three kittens cast a careless eye,
Not much concerned to know what they did there,
Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care.
But presently a loud and furious hiss
Caused me to stop and to exclaim, 'What's this?'
When lo! upon the threshold met my view,
With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue,
A viper, long as Count de Grasse's quoue.
Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws,
Darting it full against a kitten's nose,
Who having never seen, in field or house,
The like, sat still and silent as a mouse;
Only projecting with attention due,
Her whiskered face, she asked him, 'Who are you?'
On to the hall went I, with pace not slow,
But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe,
With which well armed I hastened to the spot,
To find the viper, -- but I found him not;
And turning up the leaves, and shrubs around,
Formed only, that he was not to be found.
But still the kittens, sitting as before,
Sat watching close the bottom of the door.
'I hope,' said I, 'the villain I would kill
Has slipped between the door and the door sill;
And if I make despatch and follow hard,
No doubt but I shall find him in the yard;
For long ere now it should have been rehearsed,
'Twas in the garden that I found him first.
Even there I found him, there the full-grown cat
His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat,
As curious as the kittens erst had been
To learn what this phenomenon might mean,
Filled with heroic ardour at the sight,
And fearing every moment he would bite,
And rob our household of our only cat
That was of age to combat with a rat,
With outstretched hoe I slew him at the door,
And taught him Never To Come There No More.

poem by William Cowper
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The happy household

It's when the birds go piping and the daylight slowly breaks,
That, clamoring for his dinner, our precious baby wakes;
Then it's sleep no more for baby, and it's sleep no more for me,
For, when he wants his dinner, why it's dinner it must be!
And of that lacteal fluid he partakes with great ado,
While gran'ma laughs,
And gran'pa laughs,
And wife, she laughs,
And I - well, I laugh, too!

You'd think, to see us carrying on about that little tad,
That, like as not, that baby was the first we'd ever had;
But, sakes alive! he isn't, yet we people make a fuss
As if the only baby in the world had come to us!
And, morning, noon, and night-time, whatever he may do,
Gran'ma, she laughs,
Gran'pa, he laughs,
Wife, she laughs,
And I, of course, laugh, too!

But once - a likely spell ago - when that poor little chick
From teething or from some such ill of infancy fell sick,
You wouldn't know us people as the same that went about
A-feelin' good all over, just to hear him crow and shout;
And, though the doctor poohed our fears and said he'd pull him through,
Old gran'ma cried,
And gran'pa cried,
And wife, she cried,
And I - yes, I cried, too!

It makes us all feel good to have a baby on the place,
With his everlastin' crowing and his dimpling, dumpling face;
The patter of his pinky feet makes music everywhere,
And when he shakes those fists of his, good-by to every care!
No matter what our trouble is, when he begins to coo,
Old gran'ma laughs,
And gran'pa laughs,
Wife, she laughs,
And I - you bet, I laugh, too!

poem by Eugene Field
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Young Traitor

Gran said
you can come with us
to the fair

Janice said
Provided your mum agrees
of course but Gran's

already asked your mum
so it's all right
you stood outside

the school gates
waiting for your mother
to come and pick you up

and so you said
Oh right that'll be good
but you didn't want Helen

to know you were going
to the fair with Janice
and even though

you hadn't planned it
or asked for it
you still felt guilty

about going
with Janice to the fair
and when Helen

came out of school
and stood waiting
next to you

for her mother
you hoped Janice
wouldn't say

anything about it
but Janice just stood there
smiling looking at Helen

as if to say he's going with me
to the fair and you're not
and Helen gazed at Janice

at the same time
putting her hand
near yours

and you could feel
her hand brush
against yours

and then she turned
and looked at you
through her

thick lens glasses
her eyes searching you
like a navigator

looking for a fresh route
to a new world
and Janice moved closer

on your other side
her hand seeking out
a finger to hold

and she said
Look here comes Gran
and she released

your finger and ran
and you stood with Helen
waiting

knowing her hand
was warm and feeling yours
and hoping she couldn't

read minds
or thoughts
or know about the fair

and she said suddenly
giving your hand a squeeze
Here's your mum and mine

let's go meet them
and off you ran
following behind

feeling a sense of betrayal
being a traitor to Helen
in your 7 year old mind.

poem by Terry Collett
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Will One Day Go.

Sorry about
your granddad's death
Judith said
as you stood

beside her
by the pond
at the back
of the house

in the woods
the autumn sun
lighting up patches
of the water's skin

it was sudden
you said
my uncle told me
she took

your hand
in hers
and squeezed
her soft skin

on yours
her thumb
rubbing
the back

of your hand
best remember him
as he was
she said

living and smiling
not some place
lying dead
you nodded

trying
to conjure up
when you'd
seen him last

sitting in
the back garden
of his house
months earlier

talking
of his flowers
he'd grown
from seed

his white hair
moved slightly
by the breeze
he liked my new suit

you said
thought it looked smart
she kissed your cheek
and said

hold on
to things
like that
your memories

place them
in a drawer
inside your head
a jackdaw flew

across the skin
of the pond
the black and white
of wings and tail

reflected
in the water
below
what comes

from God
she whispered
whether
nature's beauty

or ones
we love
will one day
sadly go.

poem by Terry Collett
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