![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lanalucyThere's lots of poetry out there - good, great, bad and indifferent. Though it smacks of nepotism or something, my favorites have always been among my mother's work. The woman had a way with words and could whip out a poem for any occasion in a matter of minutes.
These two are my all-time favorites. All typos are mine. Copyright 1993 Pattalee Glass-Koentop
What Happens, Grandpa?
What happens, Grandpa, to a friendly old house
When its family all moves away?
Does it listen for teardrops of dreams in the night,
Or for footsteps and laughter all day?
What happens, Grandpa, to that pretty pink room,
That once had lace at the windowsill?
Does it miss girl-talk, perfume, and such,
And the daydreams of Sherry or Jill?
What happens, Grandpa, to a kitchen of blue
That once was filled with the fragrance of spice?
Does it dream of the bustle of years long ago,
When it listened to people, not mice?
What happens, Grandpa, to a living room bright,
When a piano no longer plays?
When young hearts don't bask in the soft glow of fire,
And dust motes, not dreams, catch sun rays?
What happens, Grandpa, to a room full of toys
When a baby no longer plays there?
Does it dream of another house somewhere nearby
Where a child talks to its teddy bear?
What happens, Grandpa, to a room that has known
How to hide a small frog, or a pup?
Does it dream of the smile on a little boy's face
And the schemes of a boy growing up?
What happens, Grandpa, to a bathroom all empty,
Without shaving cream, shampoo, or soap?
Does it dream of the long steaming showers it knew?
Of a heart-bursting song, or a hope?
What happens, Grandpa, to a house that now has
Peeling paint and steps that sag to one side?
Does it dream of the days when it shone in the sun,
And it held its head up with such pride?
What happens, Grandpa, to a house that is old
That only knows long, empty years?
Does it dream of the days when its family lived there?
Does a house ever shed any tears?
********I don't know if she had a specific place in mind when she wrote this, but it never fails to bring a teary gleam to my eyes, and just now it made me wonder if my mother was ever *really* happy in her entire life.
Gypsy King
The Gypsy caravan came to town
With all the wagons painted bright.
They made camp in the sheltering woods
filled with song at the edge of the night.
Into the firelight strode their King,
A manly figure to behold:
He was handsome, stalwart, brave and strong,
With a bent for behavior bold.
He went his way throughout the town
Ignoring each curious stare:
Touching a grieving shoulder, here...
Slipping a coin in a needy hand, there.
Each villager he greeted with pride,
And each an intangible gift had gained.
His coming affected the lives of all.
With each one, some of his strength remained.
I met him as he walked one day,
And we spoke of life for a little while.
There was love in the touch of his hand
And joyous laughter in his smile.
"Live your own life," he said to me,
"As you feel that it should be done.
Know that you have acted as you must
When you cherish each setting sun.
"Choose your star for your wagon's guide,
Not someone else's comet's tail.
Stride forward boldly, mastering fear,
As you blaze your own far-reaching trail.
"Not for you a pedestrian path...
You have a purpose to fulfil.
Listen to that inner voice
From a heart that is calm and still."
He clasped my hand and fortune wished,
Meeting my eyes with his piercing gaze.
He strode into the autumn forest
And was lost in the deepening haze.
His bold footsteps ring no more
Upon the cobblestones in town.
His rakish smile is missing now;
No more will his vibrant voice resound.
The Caravan camps 'neath the sheltering trees
At the edge of the woods and dell.
His Gypsy Queen rules his Kingdom,
But we bid the Gypsy King, "Fare Well!"
**********This one was written in honor of a mutual friend who ended a long and increasingly painful illness with suicide. This man was the first grown-up I knew at the tender age of 15, who from the beginning and always, treated me like a person rather than a child or a teenager. He bought me my first Heinekin that summer (still the only beer that tastes good), and took me to all kinds of trade shows here in Dallas in the early 80s. It's his spirit as much as anything else that reminds me I have a purpose, even if a lot of days I'm clueless as to what that purpose is.
These two are my all-time favorites. All typos are mine. Copyright 1993 Pattalee Glass-Koentop
What Happens, Grandpa?
What happens, Grandpa, to a friendly old house
When its family all moves away?
Does it listen for teardrops of dreams in the night,
Or for footsteps and laughter all day?
What happens, Grandpa, to that pretty pink room,
That once had lace at the windowsill?
Does it miss girl-talk, perfume, and such,
And the daydreams of Sherry or Jill?
What happens, Grandpa, to a kitchen of blue
That once was filled with the fragrance of spice?
Does it dream of the bustle of years long ago,
When it listened to people, not mice?
What happens, Grandpa, to a living room bright,
When a piano no longer plays?
When young hearts don't bask in the soft glow of fire,
And dust motes, not dreams, catch sun rays?
What happens, Grandpa, to a room full of toys
When a baby no longer plays there?
Does it dream of another house somewhere nearby
Where a child talks to its teddy bear?
What happens, Grandpa, to a room that has known
How to hide a small frog, or a pup?
Does it dream of the smile on a little boy's face
And the schemes of a boy growing up?
What happens, Grandpa, to a bathroom all empty,
Without shaving cream, shampoo, or soap?
Does it dream of the long steaming showers it knew?
Of a heart-bursting song, or a hope?
What happens, Grandpa, to a house that now has
Peeling paint and steps that sag to one side?
Does it dream of the days when it shone in the sun,
And it held its head up with such pride?
What happens, Grandpa, to a house that is old
That only knows long, empty years?
Does it dream of the days when its family lived there?
Does a house ever shed any tears?
********I don't know if she had a specific place in mind when she wrote this, but it never fails to bring a teary gleam to my eyes, and just now it made me wonder if my mother was ever *really* happy in her entire life.
Gypsy King
The Gypsy caravan came to town
With all the wagons painted bright.
They made camp in the sheltering woods
filled with song at the edge of the night.
Into the firelight strode their King,
A manly figure to behold:
He was handsome, stalwart, brave and strong,
With a bent for behavior bold.
He went his way throughout the town
Ignoring each curious stare:
Touching a grieving shoulder, here...
Slipping a coin in a needy hand, there.
Each villager he greeted with pride,
And each an intangible gift had gained.
His coming affected the lives of all.
With each one, some of his strength remained.
I met him as he walked one day,
And we spoke of life for a little while.
There was love in the touch of his hand
And joyous laughter in his smile.
"Live your own life," he said to me,
"As you feel that it should be done.
Know that you have acted as you must
When you cherish each setting sun.
"Choose your star for your wagon's guide,
Not someone else's comet's tail.
Stride forward boldly, mastering fear,
As you blaze your own far-reaching trail.
"Not for you a pedestrian path...
You have a purpose to fulfil.
Listen to that inner voice
From a heart that is calm and still."
He clasped my hand and fortune wished,
Meeting my eyes with his piercing gaze.
He strode into the autumn forest
And was lost in the deepening haze.
His bold footsteps ring no more
Upon the cobblestones in town.
His rakish smile is missing now;
No more will his vibrant voice resound.
The Caravan camps 'neath the sheltering trees
At the edge of the woods and dell.
His Gypsy Queen rules his Kingdom,
But we bid the Gypsy King, "Fare Well!"
**********This one was written in honor of a mutual friend who ended a long and increasingly painful illness with suicide. This man was the first grown-up I knew at the tender age of 15, who from the beginning and always, treated me like a person rather than a child or a teenager. He bought me my first Heinekin that summer (still the only beer that tastes good), and took me to all kinds of trade shows here in Dallas in the early 80s. It's his spirit as much as anything else that reminds me I have a purpose, even if a lot of days I'm clueless as to what that purpose is.
