The phone was engaged, so I tried my mother in law again, but got her machine. I had been awake all night, and could barely dial the number, but I just had to talk to someone; this was too big to leave on a machine. I tried my dad again, -still engaged. Something in my tired, blurry mind told me that my sister might be using the phone line for her computer, so I dialed her mobile. Finally, a human voice! “Where’s Dad!” I asked, to be told he was asleep upstairs. “Well wake him up and tell him he’s a grandfather!”
A true nobleman, he was an old man that was alone, yet not lonely, he had a wife but she died, wasn’t a big deal though… he never cared to much for others yet if he was needed he’d help in the blink of the eye. He was a bachelor that appreciated his own time more than with others.
He took one last gulp. The whiskey drained down his throat. He sighed and fell back knowing his time was up. Alone, in a room all his own. He looked across the empty bed. The woman he loved was no longer there. Just an imprint. He closed is eyes picturing her though the ages.
My grandfather has always been an interesting person with interesting ideals. One day I asked him why he was so “cool.” He replied back by saying, “I’m not “cool”…. I just do stuff that makes me happy in life.” I love my grandfather.
Wisdom derived from a relative who has excessive amounts to share and pass down, born from the understanding that their own life is in its final stage and nearing its end. Priceless and sincere information, more than deserving to be intertwined with you’re own unique life knowledge. Classified specifically as the man who has helpful input on all life circumstances and emotionally driven decision making.
“Grandfather! Please tell us of the days when you hunted the feathered wolf!”
“Gather round kids. It was a great stormy day. My musket leveled at a feathered wolf crossing the waterfall. Then you grandmother flipped my gun into the air. My life was never the same.”
We named my baby brother after my grandfather. He was the only grandfather I ever knew, and the best there could have been. He passed away seven years ago, and I still remember the sound of his voice when I answered the phone. I still dream about going to lunch with him, spending time with him, yet knowing that he’s dead-I lost him at 11, and I dream as an 11 year old crying in his arms, wanting him back.
John didn’t know his grandfather, though. He had died long before he, Joey, had been born. He pictures something like the painting of God on the Cistine Chapel ceiling, though he was sure that couldn’t be right.
His cheeks were mazes for
silent tears to navigate, the wrinkles
nests like homes gone through and lived.
I gave apathy to his maze…
to his December nightmares,
deep in trenches of snow-screams, God
present only an inch from spearing knives.
(I thought he could share them later).
He’s beneath the flag, and I hope he smiles,
beneath Mable-colored fields of whatever heaven
is supposed to look like. and I hope God loves him…
as much as I did that summer day when happiness
made camp in the wrinkles of his eyes.
I hope life loved him… because I was too naïve to ask.
(a ghost-lip later, only God knows if you heard me.)
His past is a mystery to me, but it’s not like I can’t ask him about it. It’s not a dark secret or anything. But how do you just suddenly say, hey, so what is it you did when you were younger? What were you like?
My grandfather had told me, long ago, that if I dug a hole right in the middle of town square, I’d unearth the secret suburban treasure. Of course, I figured he was just being kind of a jerk and trying to trick me, so I was very much surprised when I saw my girlfriend, hands stained with dirt and cheeks reddened with exertion, came charging into my apartment with a wooden chest.
“He was right!” she panted. “The old bastard was right! I found the treasure!”
My grandfather clock sits in my time hall, untouched, until the last of the Mayan birds of doom come take it back. Sneaky bitches. I told them not to go back in time to become their own landlords, but they wouldn’t listen and now the world is all jangled like a tube of tuna toothpaste.
The old grandfather clock in the corner struck nine. It was nine in the morning, but the clock could not tell you that, being analog. The clock had seen many face, the faces of history and the face of the present. Currently the clock could see the children’s face as they peeked around the living room door, eager to see the mountain of presents waiting under the tree.
A man of strong values, unique insights and a fondness for a good ole fashioned pint. He took things easily, looked at family as number one, and gave all he could to make sure they had the best chance in life. But really, I never knew the man. A false memory. I was too young, and all I know is stories. Can it all be true?
Again, he said. And I picked up the screwdriver and he slapped my hand. I picked up the other one and got down on the ground. It felt sticky, the grime harsh against my new jeans. I looked up at the hole and the slot, threading the screw in and then anchoring my arm to hold it up while I placed the screwdriver in. All wrong, he said. Again.
My grandfather has a wrinkled vest that he keeps in the corner of his room. In it’s pocket is an old pocket watch. When I asked him about it, he smiled and leaned back in his chair.
“That’s an old watch. It belonged to my grandfather. He gave it to me when I was ten.”
“Why did he give it to you?” I asked
“It’s a family heirloom of course.”
It was a time long ago when I was very young. A time when my grandfather was alive. I vaguely remember when he died. I wish I could have gotten to know him. I think we would have been friends.
His house was grey and musty–not altogether poorly maintained, but a certain air of neglect to some aspects. One would only need to open the refrigerator for evidence of that. Six cans of Pepsi sat in the forefront, bearing logos that the public hasn’t seen in years, with expiration dates from five years ago. The soda had a faint taste of rust to it…
Grandfather, a clock, a man, and sometimes both. My father’s father is a clock. A clock who worked on planes. He made the seats and kept the fleets together. He made time fly, he really did.
If you have trouble sleeping, your morning coffee, what you consider your personal jaws of life, grinds you to exhaustion. And as you sweat it through your pores, you forget the next twenty minutes of everything you talk about. While you pace to remember, sweat slides down the two bridges connecting your nose to your upper lip, and each foot imagines much better the day would have been if they had never gotten up. Let’s say you have mild to periodic insomnia. Or you have multiple jobs. Or you have children. Or the unimaginable numbers of open-ended “If-only-I-didn’t-have’s” that build fatigue and crash you.
The clues are typically there: nodding head, frequent yawns, listless response. And just so you know, this isn’t an infomercial. It’s not advice on how to cure diagnosable sleep issues .
the clouds had a grandfatherly look about them, as if they truly cared for the young group and wanted to see them laughing and frolicking in the rain, but also stearn enough to thunderstorm if the party stayed out too late.
The dad of my dad. I love him! He is married to my grandmother who is the mother of my mother. I do love them both! grandfather…. grand reminds me of grand finale, which in italian means “the big end”.
He was a wizened old man that most people would pay no attention to. He sat by himself in his wheelchair, staring mindlessly at the screen. If anyone tried to talk to him he would studiously ignore them. Except for me. I loved to visit my Papa. He would come alive when I came to visit, and tell me the most fantastic stories. His eyes would blaze and he would grip the arms on his wheelchair as though he were about to fall off the end of the Earth.
My grandfather had ants living in his bedroom–they slept in bed with him, talked him out of his nightmares. I asked if he missed his wife, and he said that she always liked summer, because you saw all the small parts of life. He warned me to watch my step.
My grandfather was the best. We spent a lot of time at his house watching cartoons and eating fun snacks after school while our parents worked. He let us play outside and gave us time to be kids.
Reason for my middle name and part of my history to share for future generations
full of stories and counsel that seem so simple but more precious than pearls
I wish you could see me, Pap. I wish I knew what you had to say. I wish I could see your face while I smoke a cigarette behind the garage, and your face when I tell you I got a job at the Boston Globe, and your face when I ask you about the war, and your face when I tell you I haven’t been so sure about God for a long time, and mostly your face when I tell you I love you. I do, Pap. It’s been a long time, but I know I still love you.
every day is brand new
every day is more than the day before it
every day is closer to the future than the last
every day is further from the past
every day is brand new
My grandfather was an interesting guy. He grew up w/ Duke Ellington in his living room, sometimes on the record player, and other times on their piano. Washington D.C. was alive in a way that it had never been. He passed that fashion and culture to my father, and then to me.
He sat on the brown rocking chair gently swaying back and forth like the sound of his own heartbeat. It was a cool fall morning. The birds had been up for quite a while, but so had he. He gentle packed his pipe full of smoke and lit it reminiscing about all that he had encountered in life. it had been a beautiful one.
My grandfather was a wealthy man. Not in cash, no. But in spirits, yes. He smoked a lot, talked like a smoker too. He had a way with words and drew sail boats in his free time. My grandfather was a wealthy man. A man of faith. A man’s man.
I never knew my grandfather. From what I’ve heard he was a nice man, a lovely man in fact. Sometimes I get jealous when I see my friends spending time with “gramps” or “papa” but I’m lucky in the fact that I get to hear so many stories about him and know he’s looking out for me from up there.
She scoffed and resisted the urge to spit in his face. “You were barely a father to me, and now you want to try and be a grandfather? No, Dad, I’m sorry. If you dare try and go anywhere near our baby I’ll have you arrested, understood?”
Anger flashed in the man’s eyes as he stood. “Joan, please! Just let me try to make amends…you haven’t even given me a chance!”
“Milton, that’s enough!” Matt stepped forward and got in the older man’s face as Joan tried to gently soothe their crying two year old daughter. “Get out of my house right now. And don’t ever come back.”
The phone was engaged, so I tried my mother in law again, but got her machine. I had been awake all night, and could barely dial the number, but I just had to talk to someone; this was too big to leave on a machine. I tried my dad again, -still engaged. Something in my tired, blurry mind told me that my sister might be using the phone line for her computer, so I dialed her mobile. Finally, a human voice! “Where’s Dad!” I asked, to be told he was asleep upstairs. “Well wake him up and tell him he’s a grandfather!”
A true nobleman, he was an old man that was alone, yet not lonely, he had a wife but she died, wasn’t a big deal though… he never cared to much for others yet if he was needed he’d help in the blink of the eye. He was a bachelor that appreciated his own time more than with others.
He took one last gulp. The whiskey drained down his throat. He sighed and fell back knowing his time was up. Alone, in a room all his own. He looked across the empty bed. The woman he loved was no longer there. Just an imprint. He closed is eyes picturing her though the ages.
My grandfather has always been an interesting person with interesting ideals. One day I asked him why he was so “cool.” He replied back by saying, “I’m not “cool”…. I just do stuff that makes me happy in life.” I love my grandfather.
Wisdom derived from a relative who has excessive amounts to share and pass down, born from the understanding that their own life is in its final stage and nearing its end. Priceless and sincere information, more than deserving to be intertwined with you’re own unique life knowledge. Classified specifically as the man who has helpful input on all life circumstances and emotionally driven decision making.
“Grandfather! Please tell us of the days when you hunted the feathered wolf!”
“Gather round kids. It was a great stormy day. My musket leveled at a feathered wolf crossing the waterfall. Then you grandmother flipped my gun into the air. My life was never the same.”
We named my baby brother after my grandfather. He was the only grandfather I ever knew, and the best there could have been. He passed away seven years ago, and I still remember the sound of his voice when I answered the phone. I still dream about going to lunch with him, spending time with him, yet knowing that he’s dead-I lost him at 11, and I dream as an 11 year old crying in his arms, wanting him back.
“Wow, those are so great!”
“Yeah, supposedly they belonged to my grandpa.”
John didn’t know his grandfather, though. He had died long before he, Joey, had been born. He pictures something like the painting of God on the Cistine Chapel ceiling, though he was sure that couldn’t be right.
His cheeks were mazes for
silent tears to navigate, the wrinkles
nests like homes gone through and lived.
I gave apathy to his maze…
to his December nightmares,
deep in trenches of snow-screams, God
present only an inch from spearing knives.
(I thought he could share them later).
He’s beneath the flag, and I hope he smiles,
beneath Mable-colored fields of whatever heaven
is supposed to look like. and I hope God loves him…
as much as I did that summer day when happiness
made camp in the wrinkles of his eyes.
I hope life loved him… because I was too naïve to ask.
(a ghost-lip later, only God knows if you heard me.)
His past is a mystery to me, but it’s not like I can’t ask him about it. It’s not a dark secret or anything. But how do you just suddenly say, hey, so what is it you did when you were younger? What were you like?
My grandfather was a captain in the merchant marines and traveled all around the world.
My grandfather had told me, long ago, that if I dug a hole right in the middle of town square, I’d unearth the secret suburban treasure. Of course, I figured he was just being kind of a jerk and trying to trick me, so I was very much surprised when I saw my girlfriend, hands stained with dirt and cheeks reddened with exertion, came charging into my apartment with a wooden chest.
“He was right!” she panted. “The old bastard was right! I found the treasure!”
My grandfather clock sits in my time hall, untouched, until the last of the Mayan birds of doom come take it back. Sneaky bitches. I told them not to go back in time to become their own landlords, but they wouldn’t listen and now the world is all jangled like a tube of tuna toothpaste.
The old grandfather clock in the corner struck nine. It was nine in the morning, but the clock could not tell you that, being analog. The clock had seen many face, the faces of history and the face of the present. Currently the clock could see the children’s face as they peeked around the living room door, eager to see the mountain of presents waiting under the tree.
A man of strong values, unique insights and a fondness for a good ole fashioned pint. He took things easily, looked at family as number one, and gave all he could to make sure they had the best chance in life. But really, I never knew the man. A false memory. I was too young, and all I know is stories. Can it all be true?
Again, he said. And I picked up the screwdriver and he slapped my hand. I picked up the other one and got down on the ground. It felt sticky, the grime harsh against my new jeans. I looked up at the hole and the slot, threading the screw in and then anchoring my arm to hold it up while I placed the screwdriver in. All wrong, he said. Again.
My grandfather has a wrinkled vest that he keeps in the corner of his room. In it’s pocket is an old pocket watch. When I asked him about it, he smiled and leaned back in his chair.
“That’s an old watch. It belonged to my grandfather. He gave it to me when I was ten.”
“Why did he give it to you?” I asked
“It’s a family heirloom of course.”
It was a time long ago when I was very young. A time when my grandfather was alive. I vaguely remember when he died. I wish I could have gotten to know him. I think we would have been friends.
His house was grey and musty–not altogether poorly maintained, but a certain air of neglect to some aspects. One would only need to open the refrigerator for evidence of that. Six cans of Pepsi sat in the forefront, bearing logos that the public hasn’t seen in years, with expiration dates from five years ago. The soda had a faint taste of rust to it…
My grandfather lives in Whitchita, kansas with my grandma. they live in a small but, really cool house. I like to go there in the summer.
Grandfather, a clock, a man, and sometimes both. My father’s father is a clock. A clock who worked on planes. He made the seats and kept the fleets together. He made time fly, he really did.
oneword (incomplete) article
If you have trouble sleeping, your morning coffee, what you consider your personal jaws of life, grinds you to exhaustion. And as you sweat it through your pores, you forget the next twenty minutes of everything you talk about. While you pace to remember, sweat slides down the two bridges connecting your nose to your upper lip, and each foot imagines much better the day would have been if they had never gotten up. Let’s say you have mild to periodic insomnia. Or you have multiple jobs. Or you have children. Or the unimaginable numbers of open-ended “If-only-I-didn’t-have’s” that build fatigue and crash you.
The clues are typically there: nodding head, frequent yawns, listless response. And just so you know, this isn’t an infomercial. It’s not advice on how to cure diagnosable sleep issues .
the clouds had a grandfatherly look about them, as if they truly cared for the young group and wanted to see them laughing and frolicking in the rain, but also stearn enough to thunderstorm if the party stayed out too late.
The dad of my dad. I love him! He is married to my grandmother who is the mother of my mother. I do love them both! grandfather…. grand reminds me of grand finale, which in italian means “the big end”.
He was a wizened old man that most people would pay no attention to. He sat by himself in his wheelchair, staring mindlessly at the screen. If anyone tried to talk to him he would studiously ignore them. Except for me. I loved to visit my Papa. He would come alive when I came to visit, and tell me the most fantastic stories. His eyes would blaze and he would grip the arms on his wheelchair as though he were about to fall off the end of the Earth.
fhgthujtytttjktwku6ro87uj
clock? I had two of those, once. Grandfathers, not clocks.
My grandfather had ants living in his bedroom–they slept in bed with him, talked him out of his nightmares. I asked if he missed his wife, and he said that she always liked summer, because you saw all the small parts of life. He warned me to watch my step.
My grandfather was the best. We spent a lot of time at his house watching cartoons and eating fun snacks after school while our parents worked. He let us play outside and gave us time to be kids.
Reason for my middle name and part of my history to share for future generations
full of stories and counsel that seem so simple but more precious than pearls
I wish you could see me, Pap. I wish I knew what you had to say. I wish I could see your face while I smoke a cigarette behind the garage, and your face when I tell you I got a job at the Boston Globe, and your face when I ask you about the war, and your face when I tell you I haven’t been so sure about God for a long time, and mostly your face when I tell you I love you. I do, Pap. It’s been a long time, but I know I still love you.
every day is brand new
every day is more than the day before it
every day is closer to the future than the last
every day is further from the past
every day is brand new
My grandfather was an interesting guy. He grew up w/ Duke Ellington in his living room, sometimes on the record player, and other times on their piano. Washington D.C. was alive in a way that it had never been. He passed that fashion and culture to my father, and then to me.
He sat on the brown rocking chair gently swaying back and forth like the sound of his own heartbeat. It was a cool fall morning. The birds had been up for quite a while, but so had he. He gentle packed his pipe full of smoke and lit it reminiscing about all that he had encountered in life. it had been a beautiful one.
My grandfather was a wealthy man. Not in cash, no. But in spirits, yes. He smoked a lot, talked like a smoker too. He had a way with words and drew sail boats in his free time. My grandfather was a wealthy man. A man of faith. A man’s man.
MARCO
I never knew my grandfather. From what I’ve heard he was a nice man, a lovely man in fact. Sometimes I get jealous when I see my friends spending time with “gramps” or “papa” but I’m lucky in the fact that I get to hear so many stories about him and know he’s looking out for me from up there.
slow arms reach around me
pulling me in
soft & tight.
scratchy face,
scratching mine.
the smell of grandma’s cookin
on your clothes.
Your hands were soft
against my face
that night
my voice was never too gentle
for your hurting ears
Jiji
I love you
I miss you
Mata kono natsu ne
She scoffed and resisted the urge to spit in his face. “You were barely a father to me, and now you want to try and be a grandfather? No, Dad, I’m sorry. If you dare try and go anywhere near our baby I’ll have you arrested, understood?”
Anger flashed in the man’s eyes as he stood. “Joan, please! Just let me try to make amends…you haven’t even given me a chance!”
“Milton, that’s enough!” Matt stepped forward and got in the older man’s face as Joan tried to gently soothe their crying two year old daughter. “Get out of my house right now. And don’t ever come back.”