"Bubbling up in our own good time-- online."
Groundwaters Publishing, LLC
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
Volume 4 Issue 3
Page 7
Page 7
I stand tall for
grandmothers
who feel age is a badge
proudly worn upon the body
those with or without children
who embrace the tumbling
and sometimes sliding years that pass
grandmothers with bodies shaped
and often twisted
by life fully lived
some with sagging breasts
or bellies enlarged and stretched
etchings notched into their faces
arms and hands weatherized
like sandstone mountains
my own grandmother
bending to give attention
to flowering plants
her bulging thighs poking out
beneath the skirt of her dress
and above stockings not worn with garters
but rolled down below her knee
her white hair
blending and merging into sheets
she always hung outdoors
both of them bleached by sun and age
whitened to nearly blue
by Mrs. Stewart's laundry bluing
I search everywhere for grandmothers
ones with minds shaped
as oddly as their body forms
ancient wisdom sits in their eyes
like a jeweled crown
sparkling and twinkling
I turn away
from grandmothers who attempt
to remain perpetually unseasoned
in the stupidities of youth
my anger rushes and tumbles
over the absurdities of aging stars
even doctors of one kind or another
who want faces stretched and
clipped and smoothed
To erase the autographs of time
what is this passion for youngness
that urges me to hurry instead of flow
I want to move as pitch from the cedar
easing and oozing down life’s highways
I embrace the ambling stroll of time
the honors created with advancing years
history and memories drawn in
crooked paths on face and body
old coyotes secrets
battles of life proudly won
grandmothers
who feel age is a badge
proudly worn upon the body
those with or without children
who embrace the tumbling
and sometimes sliding years that pass
grandmothers with bodies shaped
and often twisted
by life fully lived
some with sagging breasts
or bellies enlarged and stretched
etchings notched into their faces
arms and hands weatherized
like sandstone mountains
my own grandmother
bending to give attention
to flowering plants
her bulging thighs poking out
beneath the skirt of her dress
and above stockings not worn with garters
but rolled down below her knee
her white hair
blending and merging into sheets
she always hung outdoors
both of them bleached by sun and age
whitened to nearly blue
by Mrs. Stewart's laundry bluing
I search everywhere for grandmothers
ones with minds shaped
as oddly as their body forms
ancient wisdom sits in their eyes
like a jeweled crown
sparkling and twinkling
I turn away
from grandmothers who attempt
to remain perpetually unseasoned
in the stupidities of youth
my anger rushes and tumbles
over the absurdities of aging stars
even doctors of one kind or another
who want faces stretched and
clipped and smoothed
To erase the autographs of time
what is this passion for youngness
that urges me to hurry instead of flow
I want to move as pitch from the cedar
easing and oozing down life’s highways
I embrace the ambling stroll of time
the honors created with advancing years
history and memories drawn in
crooked paths on face and body
old coyotes secrets
battles of life proudly won
| grandmothers By Wanda Edwards |