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Poems 1



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Dear Ancestor


Your tombstone stands among the rest

Neglected and alone.

The name and date are chiseled out

On polished, marble stone.

It reaches out to all who care

It is too late to mourn.

You did not know that I exist

You died and I was born.

Yet each of us are cells of you

In flesh, in blood, in bone.

Our blood contracts and beats a pulse

Entirely not our own.

Dear Ancestor, the place you filled

One hundred years ago

Spread out among the ones you left

Who would have loved you so.

I wonder if you lived and loved, I wonder if you knew

That someday I would find this spot,

And come to visit you.

(Author Unknown)




I read of a man who stood to speak at the funeral of a friend.

He referred to the dates on her tombstone from the beginning...

to the end. 

He noted that first came the date of her birth and spoke of the

following date with tears, but he said what mattered most of all was

the dash between those years.

    For that dash represents all the time that she spent alive on earth...

and now only those who loved her know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own:the cars.... the house... the cash.

What matters is how we live and love and how we spend our dash.

 So think about this long and hard  are there things you'd like to change?

For you never know how much time is left. (You could be at

         "dash mid-range.")

If we could just low down enough to consider what's true and real

and always try to understand the way other people feel. 

    And be less quick to anger, and show appreciation more and love the

people in our lives like we've never loved before.

    If we treat each other with respect, and more often wear a smile...

remember that this special dash might only last a while.

So, when your eulogy's being read with your life's actions to rehash...

would you be proud of the things they say about how you spent your dash?

     (Author      Linda Ellis )             

Grandma Climbed The Family Tree


      There's been a change in Grandma,

we've noticed as of late

       She's always reading history or

jotting down some date.

       She's tracing back the family,

we'll all have pedigrees,

       Grandma's got a hobby, she's climbing Family Trees...


       Poor Grandpa does the cooking and now,

or so he states,

       he even has to wash the cups and the dinner plates.

       Well, Grandma can't be bothered,

she's busy as a bee,

       Compiling genealogy for the Family Tree.


       She has no time to baby-sit, the curtains are a fright;

       No buttons left on grandpa's shirt,

the flower bed's a sight.

       She's given up her club work, the serials on TV

       The only thing she does nowadays is climb the Family Tree.


       The mail is all for Grandma, it comes from near and far.

       Last week she got the proof she needs to join the DAR.

       A monumental project - to that we all agree,

       A worthwhile avocation - to climb the Family Tree.


       To some it's just a hobby, to Grandma it's much more.

       She learns the joys and heartaches of those who went before.

       They loved, they lost, they laughed, they wept-and now for you and me,

       They live again in spirit around the Family Tree.


       At last she's nearly finished, and we each are all exposed

       Life will be the same again, this we all suppose.

       Grandma will cook and sew, serve cruisers with our tea.

       We'll have her back, just as before that wretched Family Tree.