Poems for and about grandparents and grandchildren
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| Photo of Altocumulus Lenticularis cloud taken 12, 01.2015 by Althea Romeo-Mark while on a bridge that crosses the Birs. |
Our children, grandchildren are those to whom we pass on the baton in this endless marathon in time.
When Grandkids Come Round
I.
They no longer speak about the news,
not that there is nothing to say.
There is a lot to talk about—
moderators reel off events hourly breaking.
Grandpa and grandma
have a ring side view
of the world in their living room,
get blow by blow descriptions
of mayhem in the political arena.
There is the daily dose of scandals,
investigations, careers on the ropes,
the hanging cloud of intransigence.
Threats wait to knock out
the powers at the rein.
Nature. like bull seeing red,
has left its latest trail of death
and destruction somewhere.
Mad leaders, like their ancient counterparts,
who sent victims to the lion’s den for sport,
take turn to threaten the world
with their latest lethal weapons.
There’s nothing to say.
The old folks are mere spectators.
There is always a war
and thousands of refugees
in the wake of it and
Man appalled by its own inhumanity.
They are now wise and
try not let their “pressure” rise.
They have seen it before—MANY TIMES.
II.
But when the grandkids come round
Grandma and grandpa
are mannequins come to life.
Grandma’s cooking and
showing how it’s done
without electrical devices.
Grandkids look on,
listen to her raspy voice, learn.
The kitchen is cloaked in smells
of Adobo seasoning, coriander, curry,
for the goat meat she will cook later.
Fat, light, Johnny cakes are frying.
Kitchen windows are wide open
as salt-fish is stewing in onions, garlics,
tomatoes and green peppers,
and its aroma is holding the air hostage.
Brewed ginger beer is ready for pouring.
And grandpa is telling stories
his children have already heard,
stories tattooed in their spirits.
But the young audience is new,
and there are squeals of laughter,
grandpa’s booming voice is a treasure,
and grandpa’s smile is a bright, full moon.
© Althea Romeo-Mark
Thursdays At Lehenmattstrasse 216
On Wednesdays, there is the rubbing of hips,
knees and ankles with ointments,
the stretching of muscles followed by warm baths.
It is our way of warming up like an athlete for a sprint.
Somewhere between 9:30-10:00 the doorbell rings.
It is not the postman bringing mail nor
the janitor making announcements or complaints.
It is my daughter. Her hands are full.
One hand guides our granddaughter,
squirming in the other is our toddler-grandson.
The children are here to spend the day.
Edith, the four-year-old, girl,
points at plasters on both knees,
evidence of recent adventures.
She hands over drawings of her family of six.
Our height varies, depending on the role
we are playing in her mind. Today papa is the tallest.
She plays big sister to her brother, Yves,
wags her finger at him
when he heads for forbidden places,
shouts at him to be quiet when
he tests the volume of his voice.
I prepare milk bottles,
give out baby biscuits
scoop banana-cherry cereal out a jar
to spoon-feed the boy who
thinks he is ready to feed himself.
He grabs the spoon, then misses his mouth.
As he crawls, climbs, explores new territory,
he puts our baby-proofing to the test.
Edith has a bigger choice of fun.
Smiles bloom on her face and laughter
escapes as she watches cartoons.
In the backyard, a sandbox, slide, swing,
flowers and insects interest her.
Odd shaped stones, fallen leaves and
plucked flowers are pocketed as keepsakes.
At the zoo, with map in hand, she points directions
to her favorite animals and plants.
Our grandson pulls up and lowers himself,
pushes a stool from room to room as he prepares
to take his first staggering walk.
Once a week we witness long forgotten childhood.
© Althea Romeo-Mark
Ode to a Boy Called Miles
A newbie to this world,
at first, he shuts it out, hides in sleep—
a place safe like his mother’s womb.
But the world encroaches.
Voices sing quiet lullabies,
laughter burst into the air,
rebukes, cries of pain shatter the quiet,
then the inhuman whine
of a vacuum cleaner,
the clang of pots and pans—
Today, the new sounds of
thunder and falling rain.
The milky smell of his mother’s breast
brings comfort and security.
But other scents assail his nose.
The familiar stinky poo causes him to protest.
He hears a shrieking noise
he later learns is his own.
He opens one eye, then the other
and shuts both eyes tight just as quickly,
the brightness too irritating.
He tries once again in the darkness
It is more pleasant then.
Miles is slowly adjusting, getting there.
Now curious, he does not want to retreat.
He’s ready to explore this strange new world.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 2015
Runners in the Marathon of Time
To my granddaughters
You were the gifts we awaited,
seeds nurtured in love,
brought to us through
the strength of our daughters.
Your lives, sung to us by our foremothers,
prayed for in their boundless world,
are the answer to our prayers, their prayers.
You come from women who are neither
willing victims nor victimizers.
Our words, passed on through time,
were never weapons of destruction,
but wise pronouncements
steeling minds and backbones.
You will witness the majesty, misery,
and mysteries of this world.
We will watch you stumble over obstacles,
observe you slip and slide while scaling walls
put up to hinder your dreams.
We, your guardians,
will let you find your way,
oversee the road you take,
allow you to become you.
Your lives are our continuum.
You are the torch-bearers of the new generation.
We pass the baton on,
blood of our blood.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 2015
Boy without Words
Yves has a voice, but not yet the words.
He rattles keys at the front door,
brings me his shoes and coat to put on.
In the corridor Yves climbs onto
his gray, old pram and sits down.
Strapped in, he is ready to
explore the world outside.
Yves passes his hand
along low branches,
feel the thickness and
thinness of them.
He wiggles about,
wants to be free.
Unbound, he toddles,
picks up yellowing leaves,
tries to catch one swirling,
watches a squirrel dashing,
points at unhurried snails.
He looks up and smiles.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 2016
https://www.srf.ch/meteo/meteo-news/ufo-wolke-ueber-basel
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Ufo-Wolke über Basel. Montag, 12. Januar 2015, 18:26 Uhr, aktualisiert um 18:34 Uhr; Felix Blumer ... Am Abend war über Basel eine Wolke zu bewundern, die einem Ufo glich. Es handelte sich um einenAltocumulus lenticularis, der sich zu einem Rotor weiterentwickelte. Die Ufowolke, darunter der Roche-Tower ...
wonderful poems...I especially loved Thursdays at Lehmenstrasse..
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