My Mom's Parents - Poem

by Brian Wallace

Title

My Mom's Parents - Poem

Artist

Brian Wallace

Medium

Mixed Media - 2d Digital Image

Description

A poem based on memories of visiting my grandparents (my mother's parents) when I was a young boy. I added a collage of images representing parts of the poem.

The display on Fine Art America may not be large enough to read the text so here is the poem...

"My Mom's Parents"

When it comes to early memories,
This one always springs to mind,

When I was a boy, it was such a joy,
'cause Mom-mom was so kind,

Visiting my grandparents,
Still living on the farm,

Summertime, dandelion wine,
Stories filled with charm,

Sitting in a rocking chair, on the front porch,
Overlooking the barn,

Swatting flies, shelling beans,
The smell of something baking,

Mom-mom knew you were hungry,
So a snack was in the making,

Home made biscuits from the oven and served up hot,
A slab of beef in the middle would really hit the spot,

Cooking on that old wood stove, she made it seem so fine,
A pot was always going, usually something off the vine,

In the pantry, stored preserves,
More work than one deserves,

In the living room, one wood stove,
In the kitchen, a new bread loaf,

In the corner, you opened a door,
A wooden spiral stairs lead up another floor,

The upstairs was out of kilter, and not much heat could reach it,
So Winter time was very cold, blankets and quilts were needed,

You knew when someone came inside,
It was never hard to figure,

By the slamming screen door in Summer,
The muddy boots in Winter,

Inside the house, open doors were held in place,
With cast iron irons on the floor, simply used as weights,

Behind a door you may often find, a momma feline and litter,
What a chore, to nurse once more, each tiny little critter,

Their white paws so cute, cause they look so much like mittens,
An inherited trait right out of the gate and passed on to the kittens,

Intricate white cotton crocheted doilies,
Adorned the table tops around,

Even one covering the dinner table,
No finer details will ever be found,

Chickens pecking in the yard, feeding so they won't get thinner,
Some are destined to just lay eggs, but some may soon be dinner,

Mom-mom was Jehovah Witness, certain things you can't allow,
When in her dress she carried eggs, bare legs then broke the vow,

No indoor plumbing, but a water pump was near,
Working the leaver up and down, some water might appear,

The outhouse was a decent walk away, be careful going at night,
My Mom said she carried a bat, in case the turkeys wanted a fight,

Toilet paper wasn't known when she was growing up,
They used the pages of a catalogue they got from Sears and Roebuck,

The cows were in the pasture, Pop-pop plowing the back forty,
Watch your step, some cow patties are wet, oh Lordy Lordy Lordy.

Down the long rugged dirt lane, carved with rut after rut,
Stood a half dozen milk cans on a platform waiting to be picked up,

When finally Pop-pop came in from the field, this I would see every year,
He'd go to the living room, turn the radio on, and hillbilly music I'd hear,

He'd sit down for a spell, and listened for well...
I guess the music soothed his soul,

Sometimes a cat would sit in his lap,
While his eyes would gradually fold.


~ Brian Wallace (Feb. 5, 2018)

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February 5th, 2018

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