1. connielpeters

    Daddy’s Chair

    Daddy had a big overstuffed chair. It was his throne.
    One of us sisters, at times, would sit in his chair,
    but when we’d see him coming we’d move fast.
    He never asked us to get out of his chair.
    He’d go to another one, as if he’d sit there.
    But we’d insist that he’d take his place.

    He had a big place in our hearts.
    He slaved at the steel mill,
    worked hard in the yard and garden,
    hunted and fished to feed five daughters.
    He had a sense of humor and teased us,
    We teased him about being bald and grumpy.

    We may not have verbalized it at the time,
    but we knew he deserved his own chair.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. William Preston


    In pleas and teas.
    She passed to me her Quaker ways
    in pleas and teas
    all interlaced with “thous” and “thees,”
    and ever since those rural days
    I think that grace must, somehow, graze
    in pleas and teas.

    Liked by 4 people


    You served with distinction and valor
    traveling from ship to shore and more.
    For honor and for love of God and country.
    I never thanked you for your service
    even though you were deserving.
    Now this unnerving feeling has me sad.
    You were a patriot and I love you Dad!

    Liked by 4 people

  4. One I penned a few years back that still holds a special place in my mind:

    I Lay Waiting

    Row after row they all look the same
    Fading white marble with name after name
    Grass growing slowly, groomed by the week
    Occasional strangers; other names that they seek
    Lying in wait, no one seeks my stone
    No tears shed for me as I lay alone

    Alone with thousands of souls just like me
    Thousands who fell for the land of the free
    A land that I love, and gave all to defend
    And now I lay waiting for a loved one or friend
    Loved ones or friends that so rarely stop by
    Forgotten I lay here not understanding why

    I sacrificed it all to keep freedom alive
    My spirit cries out with a plea to survive
    At least in the memories of those left behind
    While I lay here waiting, entombed, confined
    Unable to do much more than reminisce
    About family and friends and everything that I miss

    My memory is sharp; my whole life I recall
    From the day I was born ‘til the day I gave all
    Thoughts run willy-nilly always through my head
    My body is wasting, though my mind is not dead
    But now I am saddened as I lay here alone
    Waiting for anyone to stop at my stone

    Earl Parsons
    Copyright © Earl Parsons 2012

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Constanza

    Constanza, the wife of Mozart
    played second fiddle to music.
    She also was virtuosic.

    He wrote often for his sweetheart
    to play on her pianoforte,
    or, as it was named yesterday

    on fortepiano, that upstart
    that supplanted the harpsichord
    twangy sister of clavichord

    then on tour he’d blithely depart
    Leaving Constanza the matriarch
    to look after a growing brood

    until he thought to play the part
    of loving patriarch once more –
    for Constanza, his belle amour

    Definition of the poetic form: The Constanza, created by Connie Marcum Wong, consists of five or more 3-line stanzas. Each line has a set meter of eight syllables. The first lines of all the stanzas can be read successively as an independent poem, with the rest of the poem weaved in to express a deeper meaning. The first lines convey a theme written in monorhyme, while the second and third lines of each stanza rhyme together. Rhyme scheme: a/b/b, a/c/c, a/d/d, a/e/e, a/f/f………etc.


  6. Grandpa’s Knee

    My Grandpa used to set me so very gently on his knee
    And tell me ‘bout the life he had and how things used to be.
    He’d tell ‘bout his six brothers, his sister, mom and dad
    And all their many adventures, and all the fun they had.
    But most of all, he’d tell me ‘bout all the love they shared.
    So much love that I almost wished I could have lived back there.
    I knew that could never be,
    ‘Cept when I was on Grandpa’s knee.

    When Grandpa talked of his mamma, he showed so much respect.
    And when he told stories of his dad, he’d be careful to be correct.
    ‘Cause Grandpa loved them dearly, so much he’d sometimes cry.
    When he told of how they cared for him the tears would fill his eyes.
    He said that someday he’d get to see them, forever up above.
    But meanwhile he had memories of their unconditional love.
    And he told those memories to me
    From my place on Grandpa’s knee.

    Grandpa would tell me stories about him and his brothers six.
    He told me all their secrets and their many pranks and tricks.
    He told me how they kept in touch throughout the many years
    And how they relied on each other, spreading joy and sharing tears.
    Every year they’d have a reunion, they’d all travel from town to town.
    Last year they didn’t have one ‘cause Grandpa’s the only one around.
    And he spent the time with me,
    With my daughter on his knee.

    Now we all talk about Grandpa and the stories he once told.
    We look at all of his pictures and relive those days of old.
    And when we pray to the Lord above, we always ask of Him
    To keep an eye on Grandpa ‘till we get to see him again.
    ‘Cause Grandpa was such a special man, so full of joy and love,
    And God just has to have a special place for him above,
    A place where someday I will be
    Setting again on Grandpa’s knee.



    In the center of our yard a flower bed grew,
    a garden of beauty brought fully into view,
    and in the center of the plot a pole was planted,
    straight and true and never slanted
    until the iron rusted after dad had died.

    As a boy, I tried to shinny skyward to the top
    of the flagpole that marked our place. A space
    where Old Glory’s banner proudly flew, a wave
    of red and white and blue unfurled and true
    to mark a sailor’s port and an immigrant’s station;

    a symbol of a valiant nation honored in its way.
    Today the pole is gone. Fallen by rust’s voracious
    appetite. The naturalized citizen who saluted in reverence
    to the land of his preference has been laid to rest.
    The proud chest of the sailor rises and falls no more

    his ship moored in its silent shore, his dutiful chore
    is done. The memory of these people and places
    is etched, their faces tattooed on hearts and minds that
    held them dear. All that remains here is this banner aloft
    crisp and clean, flown to keep their memories alive!

    (C) Walter J. Wojtanik, 2015


  8. My Cousin Stephen

    In younger years
    with darker hair,
    he resembled Steve Allen.

    Warm, generous smile
    accompanied by hugs.
    He was happy when we came to visit.

    Stephen married my cousin;
    an enviable marriage it was.
    He gazed at her with utmost respect.

    Stephen loved playing sports
    with family or myriad of friends,
    even as his health weakened.

    Riddled with tragedies
    through years of their lives,
    my cousins held
    each other upright, stepped forward.

    I miss him, think of him
    often–his kindness and generosity
    shining through, spreading light.


    • You paint a picture of a sweet man. He reminds me a lot of my step-father. He is greatly missed, too.

      Liked by 1 person

    • I like this fellow and your poem, and the allusion to Steve Allen reminded me of something. When I was young I was told that I looked like Steve Allen too. Years later I had the chance to meet Allen, and I told him that story. He said, “Everybody looks like me. On my show we once gave glasses to all the men and I sat out there with them, and the camera couldn’t find me.”

      Liked by 1 person

  9. Heroic Victims

    She sent him off to war
    Her husband, lover, friend
    To topple empires and

    Destroy kaisers and czars
    It was the Great War, the
    War to end all wars

    They sent him back
    A child, gassed in the trenches
    With only simple thoughts

    Left in his head
    For the rest of their lives
    She cared for him

    Like a mother

    (remembering my aunt
    and uncle)


  10. […] – RETURN OF THE PHOENIX – MEMORIALIZED IN WORDS -This week’s prompt is simple: Write a memorial about someone famous, personal or in […]


  11. This one is sad…just a forewarning so that people can choose to skip it if need be…I’d understand. I felt led to share it though, it’s a face of loss that is real.



    (a shadorma)

    It has been
    five years since building
    those special
    with you. Little did I know
    they would be our last.

    P. Wanken

    Dedicated to my dad. I’m so grateful for the time we had that last Memorial Day Weekend together…he died a week later and his memory lives inside of me.


  13. […] Shared at Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild […]


  14. […] https://phoenixrisingpg.wordpress.com/2015/05/24/return-of-the-phoenix-memorialized-in-words/ This week’s prompt is simple: Write a memorial about someone famous, personal or in general. As we in the states observe Memorial Day this weekend. Let us remember those who have gone before. […]


  15. Perhaps not quite what you were looking for, but I did use the prompt (and a few others) –
    For an addition to Cataloging Sheila #12.
    A Different ‘Rosebud’


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