Tag Archives: memories

Pinky Poo

I’m sorry about the length of this poem but thinking of the grandchildren is always a consuming task. We live a distance from the two grandchildren out west in Colorado and therefore, being that they are only three years old, the task at hand, for both of us….grandma and me and them….is a nurturing, confidence-gaining…..and on-going process of….love.  Hence……Pinky Poo.  Thanks for dropping by.

Pinky Poo

 

She hides when she hears me coming down
the noisy staircase with its squeaky sound,
and I hear her giggle from her hiding place
and I pretend to look…. with puzzled face.
Where is my granddaughter, Zoe ella?
I bet she’s dressed like Cinderella.
Or maybe Snow White in a dress that’s blue
Come on, Zoe….now where are you?

In her toy room, in a dress of pink
she hides beside her kitchen sink
and jumps up screaming…. in high voice pitch
when I enter the room and hit the switch
that makes the darkness turn to…. day
and she freezes up when I’m ready to play
and heads for the living room and jumps on the couch
and I go to the comfort chair and pretend to slouch

With head in hands I feign a cry
as she hurries over and asks me why
as she tugs at my hands to see my face
and I ask for a hug but I get no grace.
She’s happy-go-lucky and running on high
in a teasing mood not poised to cry
and I ask her the girl’s name on her dress
and she probably knows, but won’t confess

and acting goofy she hollers ‘poo’
and I say ‘you’re funny’ and she moves close to
hugging me but refrains….pulling back….
and nothing’s changed….in her attack
still unsure of grandpa’s ways
wanting to, but still she strays
from getting close up on the chair
and at a distance….she shakes her hair

and I holler at her…’Pinky Poo’
and she looks up sternly wondering who
I’m talking with….saying ‘that’s not me’
and I hide my face so she can’t see
and again I ‘cry’…”where’s my Pinky Poo?”
and she brings a stuffed friend, soft and blue
and climbs so quietly upon my lap
and whispers softly against my cap

‘grandpa….grandpa….it’s okay
I pretend to whimper in child’s play
‘this is Toby and he likes you, too’
and ‘neath my hands I steal a view
of her pretty eyes in a moment true
before tickling her saying “Pinky Poo”
and she jumps off running in screaming joy
and back to her room for another toy.

We live quite far and she’s only three
but her trust is growing….in who I be
and time will turn these moments….true
and make them memories….like ‘Pinky Poo.’

copyright 2012  t.j. gargano

Leave a comment

Filed under grandchildren

‘Big Weave’

Living in the country affords some luxuries, one of which is having lots of bonfires and gatherings of friends and family, around them.  Over the years, our gatherings have included games when all the ‘kids’ were young, always guitars and singing, and…always Uncle Steve (‘Big Weave’) entertaining everyone with his numerous jokes and stories fresh from the ‘road.’  He was honored as a ‘Million Mile’ hauler.

‘ Big Weave’

His name is ‘Big Weave’ and his size could deceive in the
shadows of the bonfire at night,
and no one quite knew why the wind always blew ‘round
in circles from left to right.
He always seemed cold whenever he told exciting
stories as the wind blew hard
as he circled the fire without any ire, holding tight
to a stick from the yard.

The shadows he cast in the darkness didn’t last like
the stories remembered by all
of his truck driving days and all of the ways he
managed to answer the call
of driving through rain, over hilly terrain; to the cities
in his big rig, he’d go
and deliver his load then back on the road
to a place that they’d soon let him know.

He stops at a chair…. and…. in a stern stare, lays down
the stick on its side
and continues a tale while he picks up a pail
and empties on the fire, what’s inside.
The flames burst high, sending embers to the sky
with people moving back from the heat
and there’s chuckles in his talk, though he never stops his walk
and together they lose not a beat.

The fires have burned as the years have turned and yet
the gatherings prevail,
and while…. there’s less song, the talk is still long
and the food doesn’t live to be stale.
And the younger ones boast, as their marshmallows roast,
‘bout their dreams and what they believe,
but me, I just wait, like a fish for the bait, for the
bonfire stories from ‘Big Weave.’

The fires will claim, though they won’t be to blame, the
chairs that will empty in time,
And it’s easy to dream about what it will seem like
when years have completed the rhyme.
But they’ve burned for years through smiles and tears
and kept us all warm in the light.
So the hope is they’ll burn…. at every year’s turn
and the memories will flame…. strong and bright.

© 2012  t. j. gargano

Leave a comment

Filed under Big, Blogging, countryside, Family, Friends, goodbyes, highways