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.
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.
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.
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!
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
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.
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!
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.”
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.
It has been
five years since building
those special
memories
with you. Little did I know
they would be our last.
2015-05-29
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.
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’
Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild 
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.
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This is perfect.
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What a sweet remembrance. Five girls, huh, he really deserved his own chair. : )
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Unthinkable to occupy a father’s special chair
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Wonderful poem, Connie
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GRAMMA
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.
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William, I can see her in my mind’s eye. Lovely
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The repetition is very effective in establishing the sweet personality of your subject.
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Oh William, what a lovely person she must have been.
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I can hear her as well!! Great capture, William.
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AHOY, SAILOR BOY
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!
LikeLiked by 4 people
I think this is going to be a dewy eyed post. So many sweet remembrances.
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prompt, not post.
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For me, the echoey rhyming gives this the ring of ships’ bells.
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This brought a tear. A lovely way to honour your father.
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You just thanked him, quite well.
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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
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That is heart-breaking. So many lonely graves.
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This is right up there with In Flanders Fields.
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Heartbreaking piece of writing, epitomising the reason why I cannot understand or forgive war.
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Sad, beautiful, and true, Earl.
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I reworked an older one about my grandmother.
https://swimspoems.wordpress.com/2015/05/25/core-maybelle-sansom/
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She sounds like one impressive lady, and so too, you.
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Thank you, William
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I left a comment at your place.
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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.
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This brought many smiles….
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Love the description of fortepiano and the ‘belle amour’
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Love this form, Viv!
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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.
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A place where someday I will be
Setting again on Grandpa’s knee…..I am looking forward to that day myself…. wonderful feeling here.
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I think this is a magnificent poem.
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MEMORIALS TO A BOYHOOD HOME
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
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Lovely poem, and i particularly liked, ‘rust’s voracious appetite.’
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Amen, to both comments.
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Thanks Sara! Rust eating metal is apt in my mind!
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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.
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You paint a picture of a sweet man. He reminds me a lot of my step-father. He is greatly missed, too.
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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.”
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Thanks for sharing that, William! cool story
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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)
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This is both wrenching and tender. Wonderful writing.
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Thanks
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[…] – RETURN OF THE PHOENIX – MEMORIALIZED IN WORDS -This week’s prompt is simple: Write a memorial about someone famous, personal or in […]
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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.
https://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2015/05/27/eight-year-old-brother-remembers-twelve-year-old-sister/
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Thanks for the warning, but I wouldn’t not read that poem. Heartbreak oozes from it.
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Thank you, William for reading…it’s so unfortunate and heartbreaking indeed.
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WEEKEND OF MEMORIES
(a shadorma)
It has been
five years since building
those special
memories
with you. Little did I know
they would be our last.
2015-05-29
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.
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This poem telegraphed its last line, so to speak, yet it was startling as well. Wonderful.
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[…] Shared at Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild […]
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[…] 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. […]
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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’
LikeLike