Grandpa's Shed

There's an old shed
In Grandpa's garden
I hear it grumble
Groaning on tired joints
At home among dandelions
The wood sags with soft creases.

There's an old shed
In Grandpa's garden
In Summer, I lie in warm grass
Wondering what's in there…
Maybe spiders big as footballs
Magic lamps or monsters.

There's an old shed
In Grandpa's garden.
Grandpa listens, smiling
Hand on my shoulder
As I guess what's inside.
'Ah,' he says. 'This is a time-machine.'

A time-machine? A TIME MACHINE?
I wonder if he's teasing.
Can we visit the dinosaurs?
He chuckles. 'Not quite!
But when I look at this shed
I see the garden long ago
Full of footballs and fishing rods
From when your dad was young.
I remember the tools inside
I used to mend the crib
You slept in as a baby.
And I remember grandma
Smiling as she planted those flowers
Which still bloom here, like memories
Even though she is gone.

There's an old shed
In Grandpa's garden
It is leaky and creaky.
It slumps peacefully
Dozing in clouds of bugs,
Shelves heavy with junk
And the weight of years.
But it is a castle of imagination
A secret box of remembering
And a stash of smiles
For stormy days.

#poemzilla #family #poetry #opusia

My sister wrote this. She always dismisses her writing skills, but I think she's awesome. What say you, shipmates?

The China Doll

The China doll is broken.
The China doll is cracked.
It doesn't matter what you do
Because her filling won't come back.
She wasn't handled gently,
She wasn't given care.
Her fragile body used and damaged
Shows her life just wasn't fair.

Her little rosy cheeks are faded,
Her lips are dull and worn.
Her eyes that once shone emerald
Are empty and forlorn.
Her hair is lank and lifeless,
No longer golden curls.
She isn't now appealing
To all the little boys and girls.

She's not alone upon her shelf,
Theres many other toys.
But they're oblivious to her suffering;
They cannot hear her voice.
Her arms outstretched, her eyes are pleading,
Hoping someone sees her pain.
But soon her body will be nothing
All her praying is in vain.

With spider web like fingers
That inch around her skin,
The cracks will soon consume her
As she's eaten from within.
The hole she's feels inside her
Weighs heavy on her chest.
She cannot rid this feeling
Even though she's tried her best.

If she had the need to breathe
It would catch within her throat.
Her China heart would beat so fast
So much it might explode.
Her little brow would moisten
Her tiny palms would sweat,
She knew that when she collapses;
Others would soon forget.

So slowly now she crumbles
There'll be nothing left to show
Of the little China legacy
But this dusty pile of clothes.
Will anybody miss her?
And the absence of her soul?
Will anybody mourn the little doll
Who wanted to be whole?

Lucy

Winter Interlude I

Now the copper leaves are underfoot
Their softened matter does not matter;
Once the aspiration, the respiration of trees
Now the sad, shed garments of disease

And like the seasons, humankind rolls on.
And we, discarded, take our turn to fall.
Hell then - in the Summer of our years
Show your fire, for soon it disappears.

In the Winter, let our passing feed
A better Spring, full-filled with futureseed
I hope to be the richness young ones need
To change, improve. To them I wish 'Godspeed.'

We are the art of years
Our strokes are bright
At first, and vigorous
Then, like paintings
In the rain we run
Defining lines awash
With heavy droplets
Until, all but erased
Our stain remains.
A smudge, a blur
Of what we were.