poet's comment: Thank goddess this isn't published anywhere else...
"The End"
by Tim Kavi
Thinking
I was
born yesterday
she played
me like
a violin
while Rome
burned
and all
our dreams
of paradise
faded into
blackness
oblivion
and history
there
was nothing
left
except to
watch it burn
and roast
hot dogs
in the smoke
Nero said:
beware
the relationships
you relish.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
My Grandma the Poet (A Memoir)
a true story from my hometown life:
I grew up in a small town and loved grandma and visited her house
I stayed there lots of weekends
even until my late teens
she made homemade candy
and treats, good homecooked meals
and the holidays everyone in the family came there
aunts and uncles and lot sof cousins
there weren't any boy cousins
although I had two brothers
(they were much older than I)
I made mudpies with my girl cousins
who giggled incessantly
and told me how to cook
fine pies in the mud
grandma tended to her kids
but when she got older she worked a little...
grandma was the town "cookie" cooking burgers that all the teens loved at the soda five and ten
you know the malt shops with soda jerks? in the 1950s...
post war bums with some slicked back hair and cars with big fins
susie was over in the corner
eatin' grandma's burgers
grandma was behind the counter and she grins
watchin the drama unfold
susie ignored the man's advances
and all the other cooks
cackled
susie was a real good looker
I had a burger there in the Soda Fountain place in the late 70S before they tore down the place
the same owner was there but he was Cookie now, and grandma was living in the twilight of her life. the place was empty, but the food was still good and you could get a lot for your money all the noise was down the street at some fast food place. There wasnt even a battle of the bands no more. The owner worked there with his son who never had another job and stayed with his daddy till the end even though he was all grown
I went to grandma's house for a visit soon
after seeing her old working place
grandma was rockin
in her rocking chair
writing poems and crocheting and watching Portland wrestling
when she gave advice you listened
I never forgot her
her love was the most patient teacher
any grandson could have
and I often told her I loved her so
from as far back as I remember..
I have memories like this:
grandma would say Timmie
and was happy to see some of my first poems
scrawled in crayon
or pencil
so grandma and me would write at the same time when I was little and she was so big in my little eyes
her gentle ways taught me more about the
goddess than just about anbody
I know
I think grandma was a goddess
she would write poems by the hours
on sheets of typing and notebook paper college ruled
and writing tablets
all handwritten in very large letters
I was high enough to peek over the arm of the chair to watch what she was doing
if I was good and asked real nice
grandma would read me some
out loud
she had a way with words
these were lyrics and fine ballads
born in 1900 on a homestead she was a country girl
grandpa was a sharecropper
they seemed poor
but rich in so many ways
but we were so happy
grandma liked reading romance magazines
in that rocking chair
songs of home, heart, romance
and her and grandpa were married for more than 50 years
you know grandma taught me
a lot
and every once in awhile
when I write a poem now
I think grandma sees it
I hold it up to her just like I used to and you know what?
she grins
and that still makes me pretty damned happy.
here's an excerpt from one of
grandma's poems:
Tomorrow's End
My wonderful kids
How I love you so
I must know if there is a place
For me, or a home to go.
I won't need many extras
Just a bed at nite
A place to love my grandchildren
And my poetry to write.
Could I have a chair by a window
With the sun shining in
That would make me so happy
As my eyes grow dim.
I'd be all settled in comfort
Shielded from the cold
What a glorious feeling to know
Then I am growing old...
author's note: grandmothers can be terribly important. as you can tell, mine was extremely important to me. the poet "gene" certainly runs in my family...my grandma, my mother, and both my daughters write prose that inspires and moves me across all time.
I grew up in a small town and loved grandma and visited her house
I stayed there lots of weekends
even until my late teens
she made homemade candy
and treats, good homecooked meals
and the holidays everyone in the family came there
aunts and uncles and lot sof cousins
there weren't any boy cousins
although I had two brothers
(they were much older than I)
I made mudpies with my girl cousins
who giggled incessantly
and told me how to cook
fine pies in the mud
grandma tended to her kids
but when she got older she worked a little...
grandma was the town "cookie" cooking burgers that all the teens loved at the soda five and ten
you know the malt shops with soda jerks? in the 1950s...
post war bums with some slicked back hair and cars with big fins
susie was over in the corner
eatin' grandma's burgers
grandma was behind the counter and she grins
watchin the drama unfold
susie ignored the man's advances
and all the other cooks
cackled
susie was a real good looker
I had a burger there in the Soda Fountain place in the late 70S before they tore down the place
the same owner was there but he was Cookie now, and grandma was living in the twilight of her life. the place was empty, but the food was still good and you could get a lot for your money all the noise was down the street at some fast food place. There wasnt even a battle of the bands no more. The owner worked there with his son who never had another job and stayed with his daddy till the end even though he was all grown
I went to grandma's house for a visit soon
after seeing her old working place
grandma was rockin
in her rocking chair
writing poems and crocheting and watching Portland wrestling
when she gave advice you listened
I never forgot her
her love was the most patient teacher
any grandson could have
and I often told her I loved her so
from as far back as I remember..
I have memories like this:
grandma would say Timmie
and was happy to see some of my first poems
scrawled in crayon
or pencil
so grandma and me would write at the same time when I was little and she was so big in my little eyes
her gentle ways taught me more about the
goddess than just about anbody
I know
I think grandma was a goddess
she would write poems by the hours
on sheets of typing and notebook paper college ruled
and writing tablets
all handwritten in very large letters
I was high enough to peek over the arm of the chair to watch what she was doing
if I was good and asked real nice
grandma would read me some
out loud
she had a way with words
these were lyrics and fine ballads
born in 1900 on a homestead she was a country girl
grandpa was a sharecropper
they seemed poor
but rich in so many ways
but we were so happy
grandma liked reading romance magazines
in that rocking chair
songs of home, heart, romance
and her and grandpa were married for more than 50 years
you know grandma taught me
a lot
and every once in awhile
when I write a poem now
I think grandma sees it
I hold it up to her just like I used to and you know what?
she grins
and that still makes me pretty damned happy.
here's an excerpt from one of
grandma's poems:
Tomorrow's End
My wonderful kids
How I love you so
I must know if there is a place
For me, or a home to go.
I won't need many extras
Just a bed at nite
A place to love my grandchildren
And my poetry to write.
Could I have a chair by a window
With the sun shining in
That would make me so happy
As my eyes grow dim.
I'd be all settled in comfort
Shielded from the cold
What a glorious feeling to know
Then I am growing old...
author's note: grandmothers can be terribly important. as you can tell, mine was extremely important to me. the poet "gene" certainly runs in my family...my grandma, my mother, and both my daughters write prose that inspires and moves me across all time.
two of my recent poems
the bridge
by tim kavi
from
my otherness
across
the
narrow ridge
brave journeys
beheld
the bridge
taking
easy
steps
accompanied
by sure
breaths
walking
across
the abyss
was more
precarious
than the
surety
of your kiss
that
brought
me across
the oceans
to your bliss
to your
sweet lips
eternally sought
from a goddess
was bought
by our
redemptive love
and in
the morning
cold
when my steps
are not so
sure
in the
birthing
forlorning
old
the stones
of your
love
will build
every day
the bridge.
"Ground of Promise"
a Poem of Spring
by Tim Kavi
freshly
plowed earth
greets
the warming
sun
steam
rises as
life digs
through
seeking birth
in the sandy
soil
even there
it has roots
dawning
the tiny
seedlings
of a new
life
placed
there
by nature's
midwife
not evident
yet
is the full
realization
of that
which is
brought forth
that which is
your loving
hands
placed it there.
by tim kavi
from
my otherness
across
the
narrow ridge
brave journeys
beheld
the bridge
taking
easy
steps
accompanied
by sure
breaths
walking
across
the abyss
was more
precarious
than the
surety
of your kiss
that
brought
me across
the oceans
to your bliss
to your
sweet lips
eternally sought
from a goddess
was bought
by our
redemptive love
and in
the morning
cold
when my steps
are not so
sure
in the
birthing
forlorning
old
the stones
of your
love
will build
every day
the bridge.
"Ground of Promise"
a Poem of Spring
by Tim Kavi
freshly
plowed earth
greets
the warming
sun
steam
rises as
life digs
through
seeking birth
in the sandy
soil
even there
it has roots
dawning
the tiny
seedlings
of a new
life
placed
there
by nature's
midwife
not evident
yet
is the full
realization
of that
which is
brought forth
that which is
your loving
hands
placed it there.
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