Grandfather Poem

Lovely Memories Of Childhood Holidays At Grandparents Home

Growing up, my grandparents' house was my favorite place in the whole world. I remember spending holidays there and how infatuated I was with the feeling it gave me. Growing up and getting older meant spending less time at my grandparents'. My sister and I were busy with school and my parents were busy with work, so we stopped taking vacations every holiday. This poem is about me remembering my childhood and how in love I was and still am with this place I call home.

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Published: June 2016

Every morning is a different experience.
Whether it be the sweet and warm morning coffee
on the porch listening to the blue birds chirp and hummingbirds wake,
or it be hot tea while watching the rain slip and fall
down the windows and into bird baths and gardens.

This place is no dream, everything is real.
Everything from the crisp smell and harsh crunch
of fall leaves on the grass and in between your fingers,
to the hot rays of sunlight beaming down on a fresh August day.

Every holiday in this paradise is different.
Christmas and New Year's are spent
with neighbors and friends from around the block
while fourth of July's are nothing short of stunningly lit night skies.
Full moons are much more meaningful in this paradise.
Something about this special location makes the moons feel longer, brighter,
and even more breathtaking than anywhere else.

The moon has its own time clock.
Nothing compared to the rest of the world, not even close.
The moon is not selfish,
it splits the midnight sky right down the middle with silver and gold stars.

Every night after dinner a wise man tells his tales
of smelly big toes and experiments he once created.
Slowly, ever so slowly, his voice eventually turns to silk,
making all other night noises seem petty.
His voice puts all stresses at ease and when his voice stops,
there is nothing except worry-free minds around.

Sunday mornings are spent first with milk and hotcakes
made with love from the little woman of the house.
These cakes, however, are not just any ordinary cakes.
The way they flake and break apart between each tooth,
and the way they smell when walking up the stairs from a solid night's rest
makes them much more than what they really are.

Hearts are true in this paradise.
There is no evil and there is no hatred.
Only pure souls live in these parts.
Only pure souls are allowed.
One could carry on descriptions of the place for days,
perhaps even weeks.

Yet, there is no sentence, paragraph, book or poem
that could possibly do this special place justice.

Nothing can compare to my paradise.


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