Grama-grampa reminise-storys: a verse in scents

Remembering the grama-grampa

house now has faded with time

but the scents and smells stay strong 

in this jumble sale mind of mine 

den redolent of evergreen

from closet conifer lined

I played there sans toys 

and had a fine old time

also scents of mothballs

from that closet that was hers

placed to protect grandma's

coveted fox and monkey furs

a carved marble top table

photos with spider-writing names

smelt a tad of musty dust

in their oft-repaired old frames 

with notes of furniture polish

that iconic lemon Pledge smell

grampa took care to dust and wax

if he didn't she'd give him h-ll (🤣)

In the den resided curios 

inkwell, gramophone, ukulele 

something called a stereoscope and

organ grampa played for me

a dog's leash and decanter set 

contributing an odor hooch

a riding crop adding horse  

the leash a hint of pooch

writing brought back memory

minds-eye looking out window  

in fragrant warm contentment

watching as it began to snow

attic smelt of wet army blanket

sniffs of kerosene in the air

mildewed mattress ticking from

winter toboggan stored up there

basement nosed of cardboard 

and the big Lionel train 

board games by the fireplace 

smoke with heated metal refrain

in cellar a plethora of perfumes

engine oil, printer ink and Rinso 

laundry room, pantry and workshop 

were some favorite places to go

layers of beach-piney-sandune 

did a spicy fragrance make 

added to the overall aroma

of the house beside the lake

And best was grama's cooking

the savory, sweet and fine

her tiny kitchen table was

the very best place to dine

It's not just about smells 

but they have lessons to tell

about treasuring and preserving

and loving often, much and well

It's old things lovingly saved

curious curios, not really toys

lack of playthings far surpassed 

by those bygone gestalt joys

A pair of tiny great grandma boots 

A gun from American civil war,

A furry ancestor hat and photos

And super 8 home movies galore

Each with tidy foxed labels 

history conscientiously taught to me

better than any book I've read 

their bedtime reminisce-story 

from photo album minty paste 

to wood shaving and boot black 

home movie heated celluloid

they all take me back

such an olfactory cacophony

Throughout their home dwelt

so many happy memories live 

in how their house smelt

When just a whiff I get

Scent memories in my brain

I'm transported back to the 

home on Crestwood Lane

The lamp post in the yard

a post light was planted

in the many-treed front yard

at the grama grampa home 

to recall isn't very hard 

I see him at the lamp post

her window waving bent hand

rain or shine they welcomed till

they joined the angel band 

lamp and window folk bidding

hello and farewell at night dark

side by side joy parenthesizing 

like an enfolding punctuation mark

my without was shades of grim

their within sequestered sanctuary 

the old post light signaling

a place with room enough for Mary

the grama-grampa house an

enchanted hidey-hole for me

red brick lakeside castle 

on Michigan's dune strewn sea

journeys start with first steps

my personal Narnia fairytale

entering cedar wardrobe, emerging 

on snowy lamplit trail

Christmas lamp was bedazzled

In her Noel festive skirt

His simple holiday offering was

just a wrapping paper insert 

paper faded by the bulb

as it decorated the years 

memories of him standing there

always brings me to tears

That's how everything was at 

The grama-grampa home so bright

Like lamp post nothing fancy but

giving so much more than light

yet all the much muchness

those dear old people gave

makes nostalgia bite harder

now that they are in the grave

But I'll take care not to drown

in hole black as printer's ink

if I should tarry too long at 

the memory fountain to drink

I must only let recalling

fringe-flutter firefly by 

not capture nor cling lest the 

poor thing and I surely die

So I'll let their yard beacon

beckon to the yore day

but too long in back then 

I shan't allow myself to stray. 

Because I have now joy

the delights of my soul

people in the today time

who make my picture whole. 

Love to Gram and Gramp from Marilisa

Music of the swamp

critter sounds resound

in the riverside damp

knowing folk call wetland

we just knew it as a swamp

tree frog sawmill buzz

burp chirrup of bullfrog

companionable jamming

on an old bog log

don't let's forget the 

full orchestra insect band

and slurpyish munch of deer

dining in marsh land

this is cattail country

I've long been keen on those

the bushy exploding fronds

as fuzzy as horse's nose

And on swamp things furry

that pearly grey pussy willow

which Jake calls kitty toes

we could make of them a pillow

no idea what they grow into

softy beansies are fine for me

not sure it's essential to know

the full Systema Naturae litany 

Specter at the feast

This began as a nature poem

bout cattails and pussy willows

those pearl grey fuzzy orbs

our Jake calls kitty toes

but then I lost the plot

increasingly common for me

well divergence as Frost says

paths not yet taken are poetry 

Which brings me to winter

nodding to Robert's snowy night 

not my prime time to pen on

being much too cold to write! 

what's the point or am I 

just pointlessly rambling along?

P'raps I'm on the road less taken

and I'm still writing words to my song

And there's the point: we're all

just making it up as we go 

weaving tapestries out of fragments

not knowing what we know till we know

And yanno, as I write I think 

I like it so much better this way

letting the verse go where it will

allowing the poem to have its say

Characters in my story do that

start writing on their own accord

butting in where I don't see them

and then demanding to be heard

Suddenly I'm not the author 

he's taken over the show

I'm playing ghost writer to

a character I don't yet know

like lunatics seizing the asylum

who's not and who is in charge

If I'm the one who invented them

they've become remarkably large

Or maybe I'm the nut who

just thinks she controls the plot

maybe he's in my head composing

while this pen pusher is not

And then if it's real or made up 

Am I the one with the choice 

or am just a seance medium 

an instrument giving them voice?

So who's the specter at the feast?

persona non grata perhaps is me

Banquo, the murdered killjoy?

my character real while I'm the story?

I'll break the fifth wall a moment to say that yes, disturbing, right? I'm wondering if that's why so many writers went mad (can you go mad? Is it a place on the map? not sure if that's the worst place to go?) Anyway. Such is our lot. And yes, I absolutely have had specter characters emerge out of nowhere and demand a bigger part. One of which was just starting to rear his head in my book "Heir Supply." before my computer caught a virus. Alas the tech guru pronounced the machine "toast." Sad because both books saved on it were viable for publication. And these books only exist in my head

And I'm not even sure "he"  had a name yet. He was an itinerant odd job man. Who wrote himself a bigger role. And unfortunately American names from back then are all SOOO banal. Fred (yawn) George (yawn wider) Ben (cracks head open yawning too hard). I mean why can't we name like the Brits?? Roman names like Septimus! Or Saxon, Ethelred! So I will give our character a Bible name my husband recently referred to and which surprisingly, Bible scholar me had forgotten (never heard of, gasp, no forgotten) Elkanah. 

How about that, Elkanah? What do you think?. (The author and audience await his nibs' approval). We could go with Ahasuerus?? I can't believe I'm kowtowing to a MADE UP person!! Funny how I've NOT forgotten as much of the book as you'd have thought I would being written mostly in 2010. 16 years ago!! Damn!!! I wish I had that file. Maybe it wasn't that good. But it was over 100 pages long with the gist of it in my head. Yes, even you Ekanah/Ahasuerus whoever you are. I'd have love sparring with you over the passages. 

I probably won't go back to the poem because it's so difficult trying to rhyme. Seriously, you're very constrained. I would like to return to the marsh poem. I can see the place in my head-- Harbor Island in Grand Haven. Not so much a marsh now. Thank you Progress. Still, weeping willows ...

Red light district poppy cabaret

Field of Pompeian red poppies 

in our back garden blaze

parades of scarlet ladies 

queuing for sun dance days

Architectural floral marvels 

impossibly large petal heads 

pirouette and jete upon the

slenderest of stem threads 

In moulin rouge chorus can-can

Voluptuous vermillion lassies 

degage their heels up high and

show off blush pink under panties

What a frenzy of ruby hues

These sensual blooms bestow 

our own red light district puts on

it's annual cabaret show

Enthusiastically bombastic

Our flirty flower girls

Are ever so rosy cheeky

with their ruffles and whirls  

They tango with the wind

Drop curtsies to the Sun

With garnet glowing blossoms

we got the blues on the run! 

Such bejeweled radiance for

that so-fleeting spring time 

they turn themselves inside out

Their torch song in crimson and mime 

Each gives without ever taking

Opening wide her fiery heart

No admission ticket needed, quick 

The second act's about to start

but with entrances barely begun

their pageant too soon ends

And we must bid adieu to

our cheery cherry red friends 

We loudly applaud "brava" 

one last encore and bow to all 

Blowing dancers final kisses 

in their flaming curtain call

We'd shower them with roses

Throw bouquets at each foot

But as they'd outshine the votives 

The point would be wuite6 moot 

And now the stage is dark

no more a berry merry maid

their little beacons burnt out

as they wither in the shade

Starry eyed and enraptured 

We exclaim with giddy head

wasn't this their best year ever?

our private rhapsody in red?

Lucky us with front row seats 

for the world tour of "Poppy Dance!" 

Compared to, no Broadway stage

performance stands a chance

Your rest my girls you earned 

thank you for our lovely show

each season's farewell gets harder

when mother nature calls time to go

with gratitude for the dance

(photo attribution John Haslam from Dornoch, Scotland, CC BY 2.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0>, via Wikimedia Commons)  till I can find my own pictures

Imaginings for my baby grands

 As our score of grands hits 13

I've some Omi imaginings to share

of wishes and hopings and aims

various hats I hope you all wear

before you, your parents and auntie

were children belonging to me

my baby birdies of back then 

now perch in the big bird tree

I love them with all my heart

and prouder I could not be

sometimes I confess to getting 

lost in regret and memory

regrets of all my shouldas

it's an overplayed refrain

memories of how I let 

them down and caused some pain

But my loves, that's the part of

growing old that I'm not proud

the maudlin regret refrain

We think and shouldn't say aloud

So we've all been there, the

older folks and now me

how we appreciate what we had

only when it ceases to be

But I'll be damned if I let

this devolve into melancholy

I saw too many people drown

in what is basically self-pity

Because regrets should only serve

to teach us to celebrate the day long

all our loved ones here and now

carpe diem shall be our song! 

Alas the Prophet says I can't 

visit your tomorrow house, it seems

Ancestors can't can go where you are

not even in our dreams. 

(this is the part where we cue sexy guitar riff, sip some wine and grieve a bit)

We can't rewind nor fast forward

we've neither tomorrow nor yesterday 

so let us dive in and enjoy 

this lovely present called today 

And so as they fly up to

the place we call "grownup" 

I give thanks to have you

all to overflow my cup 

My very dearest little dears 

I ain't the wisest owl on said tree

but what wisings I've got are yours

So listen up to Mama Omi 

You've all so very much muchness 

M. Rogers says, just by being you delight

You shine so brightly it hurts and

I'm happily blinded by your light

like 13 waterfalls carousing

you rain down so much joy 

to wash away our pain 

my each little girl and boy

you pour your light like water

on all the lonely people below

for those blessed in your orb

We're lucky to be in your glow

For you aren't merely uniform

you're a lovely parquetry of bits

some parts with jigsaw symmetry 

and the rogue piece that never fits  

we're none picture puzzle perfect 

And that's exactly as we should be 

my hope for you babies grand is 

you be the you-iest you you can be

For the Lord looked on, he knew

he saw that all of you is good 

That your enough is enough

your being just as you should 

for in this race we call human 

we fear failure too much I fear

but what exactly we're afraid of

is to me not entirely clear

I fear we're afraid of stumbling

but it's not a failure to fall 

the only way you can fail is

by never even trying at all

When bumps come and they will

go ahead shed tears for the pain

then adjust your bum on your bike

and soon you'll be rolling again!

And who cares if you don't make it

Omi'll always cheer you all

the only thing that'd make me sad  

is if falling kept you small 

My babies, fly your YOU flag

don't hide your light under a jar

inhabit your you fully, as gran said

tell 'em who you are! (dammit!)

I hope your reach exceeds grasp

don't settle for safe on shore 

and exceeding reach, visions 

seek and open up the door

don't let can't limit you

can't never did nothing till he tried

shatter your glass ceilings

bust the pane way open wide! 

But grandiose dreams don't mean

you must perfection sustain

some days we just survive and 

and somehow try to maintain 

I love you in dazzling red and blues

on far ups and way down days

all the sort of in betweens

when the best we got is grays. 

You don't have perpetually shine

some days you just feel dim

but Omi loves ya no less, honey

cause you're still sparkling within

May your possibilities be endless

may the choices always be yours 

and opportunities limited only by

an overabundance of doors

But don't worry if you miss one

we all do, and it's okay

if you ignore and walk on by

there will be more another day 

So let's end with rousing crescendo

a full chorus in full voice then

a song of praise for our children

we'll shout the great Amen

(I know you thought this was ending but I must make a nod to my Alaska and Lake Michigan)

May you range free where

the deer and antelope roam

May whatever place you live in

always feel like home. 

And if you need space or shelter  

you're welcome with us to take 

there will always be room for you

in the blue house by the lake. 

with love from your Omi

I have a new grand boy

I have a new baby grand

not piano, a little boy man

born as the church was about

to start the O antiphon. 

He brings the blessings to 13

an embarrassment of riches for me

a luckier Omi on big blue marble

there never, ever, never could be

It's hard or maybe impossible

to express the joy you are to me

for a kid who existed on sufferance

to be grandmother to so many 

I wish I had known in then time

when I seemed to bring no one joy

that the day would arrive when

I'd be given this shiny bright boy  

a foretelling of his star plus

12 stellar lights around him

a prophecy of our own constellation 

would have lit those days so grim

days of winter with no Christmas

So little summer sun back when

Even Lake Michigan refused me

Nothing much to celebrate then

I had such big ideas, Cassius

the world was my oyster you see

I was sharp smart and gung ho

but there was so much denied to me

horizons artificially narrowed 

my firmament shrink wrapped

it's hard to reach potential 

when your resources are tapped

Despite a major recession

I did push my boat out to sea

In the crappiest car on the planet

I made it to Grand Valley

I'd have liked to go further

but not enough on board family 

yet grandad said with pride that I

was the first to make university

I wish I could tell more about 

great Omis and Opis of your'n 

but I know so very little

not even where they were born

Think of that, my baby

Omi never asked our people

it would have been so easy to

inquire about their nativity

Perhaps you see, being closer 

to the womb than me 

why did I take for granted

they'd live eternally?

It's a sad mistake to think

that they'll all always stay 

They'll always be here for us

and never ever go away

I wish that was true, Cassius

If wishes were horses we'd ride

I'd ride with you forever 

If from passing time I could hide

So  ask your questions now

before we olders must fly away

I wish I'd asked my Omi 

She said I'd regret it some day

My boy, this is going to

a long away far ago time

and farther away than that

And you can't visit what was only ever mine. 

And as Kahlil says I can only

visit where you'll inhabit in dreams

you live in the place of tomorrow

and I sadly can't go there it seems

but I can dream a world for you 

where time won't let me know

with no press and sealed skies 

and oceans wide places to go

May you walk with chutzpah

and fully inhabit your shoes

don't hold back, dive in, honey

you've only adventures to lose

If this saddens anyone let it

be me and never you, I hope           

you're maxing out your youness when 

you read these words that I wrote

Love, to Future Man from back then Omi