Posts Tagged ‘list poetry’

Behold... my mother's father and my grandpa sand

Behold… my mother’s father and my grandpa sand

Dearest Grandfather,

I’ve been asked to compose a “list poem” enumerating some of my reasons for writing. Like an old clock set to the wrong time, my moment to ask this of you, dear grandfather, has long since passed… You were pilgrim here from Norway, learned the language enough to write your epic poem titled ‘Adam’ and made such accomplished use of your new language that you wrote with feeling, grace and beauty in lines such as…

Beautiful is the isle, when in morning hours
The night’s misty veil flees before the sun.
The stream gives forth merry sounds and
The birch grove whispers of wondrous adventure.

Asking of you what I’m about to set forth would be pure pleasure to know… As your grandaughter and a small child, you seemed formidable and rather stern to me. I do remember the tender moment when you gave comfort to a raging toothache that had me engulfed in pain. You came and sat by my bedside and offered solace with a tender hand and words of comfort. It was, perhaps, the most defining memory and moment that we shared together and I hold it dear.

I wonder if some of my affinity for writing has its’ origin in yours. I do wonder…

  

Because writing for me:

  

Facilitates the sound of my own thinking.

Challenges me beyond those pink post-it-notes.

Holds the promise of ‘sweet nothings’ like the secrets in an unopened love letter.

Surpasses the moon as a consolation prize for life’s shortcomings.

Soothes and lulls like the lyrics of a strangely addictive song.

Weeps of new promises to come like the last leaf on the willow tree.

Provides contentment like my cat lying in the sunlight.

Matches the allure and pleasure of getting caught in the rain.

Chronicles niggling memories and stories… for those who follow.

Releases guilt from the taste of a lie.

Gives meaning and expression to my purse filled with brown autumn leaves.

Pulls those fingers out of my pocket.

Yearns for more like the last line in a great book.

Sometimes demands, sometimes allows that I color outside the lines.

Prowls through sunflower moments that blossom into hours of wondering where the time has gone.

Surprises when it gives life to that dead rose in my vase.

Writing is my angel sitting on the log of driftwood where I often end up contemplating and composing with my notebook and an old chewed up pen.

~ julie © october 2012

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Grandpa Sand is now great-grandfather to Amy.. not quite a year old. Treasured picture as he passed away shortly before Amy's sister was born.

1972
Grandpa Sand is now great-grandfather to Amy.. not quite a year old. Very treasured picture, as he passed away just before Amy’s sister, Allison, was born in ’74

I’ve known for years how really treasured this picture is. While the only image of my grandfather and my first born child…. that alone makes it special…. But, if you pay close attention to Amy’s demeanor on her great-grandfather’s lap, you’ll notice that she is smiling, happy, accepting and totally relaxed with someone she just met. I adore her loving gesture as she reached out and touched the lapel of his jacket.
 
Back to reality and just home from the beach and my favorite log upon which to sit … with this result in response to our weekly prompt at We Write Poems:

I Write (because)…

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