Thank you to K.L. Caley from new2writing for hosting #Maydays prompts. Today’s prompt is beauty, something or someone beautiful. I’m reposting a poem I wrote for my Great-Godmother. She is a special person to me and doing well past her mid-nineties in age.
There is beauty in your wrinkles,
A deep timely beauty, that took experience to make.
You are more than classic; you are infinitely lovely and gorgeouse.
No twenty-two year old in all her youthful vigor is so pretty,
That she can have more knowledge than your reflective eyes.
Or more inspiration then your smiles give,
More thoughts racing through her mind, of a life both hard and incredible.
Your beauty is eternal, a flame that won’t die out.
You shall carry it to heaven with you because you loved a child in a manger and your faith made your life well.
You are more exotic and enchanting then any woman in the land;
You are the light of home to many.
When your presence fades there shall be a void felt by all those who loved your luminescence;
A beauty which was internal and spread to your warm skin.
A beauty that inhabits everyone of your loved ones and friends.
You are simply marvellous, a dame that no one can compare with.
You had husbands, boyfriends, and partners with which you shared your life and your beauty with delight.
You out-lived them all with your smile and a bounce in your step.
Your wrinkles are truly beautiful because they tell your story.
A story growing up on a farm, a story of loss, a house in the city, a story of love, and fond memories.
And through it all shone your pretty face.
Those bright eyes and your laughing mouth; your wonderful hugs, good wishes —
And your many roles throughout your life.
Beauty lies in everything those roles made you; you were unstoppable.
In your stylish shoes and upbeat attitude.
You are lovely, and will always be to me a Grandma, a Great-Godmother, and a friend.
Such wisdom you hold, your wisdom you cooked into pies, soups, trifles, lasagna;
Your hospitality made you beautiful.
You are the rarest rose in the garden;
Loved by so many and so many you have met.
This is why I say your wrinkles make you beautiful,
For you are incredible, a gem in a pile of fakes.
A fantastic woman and every year as you age your beauty is much deeper.
Grandfather, your pearl is tarnished, crystallized and shattered.
Do you hear her heart beating, the wings of doves fluttering gone soft.
Her heart is the beat of a techno dance song – hard staccato rhythm to drum with the throngs.
Grandfather, the things they’ve come out with in this world.
Maybe your heart would still be thrumming, but you were ready to go home.
There’s technology so thin and advanced, books we read without feeling the weight of rough paper.
The special effects in movies are more real, and the stories so enthralling.
But I don’t know if the stories compare to Clarence Day’s or Harper Lee’s novels.
I don’t know if there’s a Paul Newman or Audrey Hepburn hiding in the cinema today.
But Grandfather, I know you would say, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
There’s nothing new under Heaven and people make the same mistakes.
In Iraq, in Syria, in Afghanistan — so many places enraptured in war again.
And you’d be in shock just to hear that they want to take God out of ‘ Oh Canada.’
Grandfather, this world is still in ruin like the morning you left it.
And Grandpa I’m in ruin, it’s best for you to know.
Your eldest Grandchild an adult several years became ill, and she’s still fighting a sickness she’ll never win.
Medicine is slow, and the ache of a long tired wretched day felt all the more keenly under illness and you would know.
Grandfather, I guess, you don’t feel a thing.
Because down here we feel pain and up there, there is no such word or feeling.
It’s quite a concept just not to know suffering as innocent as Frost’s lamb.
Knowledge came at such a price Grandpa, Eve and Adam, had little clue what they unleashed upon a world.
All this for an apple or a pomegranate.
Juice pouring down our faces as we each share in the deed.
Spitting seeds out as we munch, the greatest flavour, for a wily wretched bunch.
Grandfather, do you hear my prayers, or do they only ascend to God?
Because I talk to you quite often and wonder if you know us down here?
Is there such a thing as memory in Heaven, or will you not know me until you see me on your plane of existence?
Do you remember tractor rides, gardens, apples, raspberries, hot summer sun, and VBS.
Do you think of left over wedding mints, a pulpit, a large pipe organ, all your sisters and brothers, do you remember where the good goes?
We’re looking for it down here, and I wonder if you could spare us just a little to melt away the density of snow the crowds around our hearts when it’s blowing, snowing, cold?
What do you see when you look down here or do you only experience the present?
Do you know how pearls catch the light in glory, and crack under pressure?
Have you seen those who have come and gone, and forgotten those who have fallen?
What have you seen in your gaze, do you see beyond the eternal realm, touch the sun and stars and everything that ever was, do you know the answer?
We flounder in existence, do you remember you did too, and still another winter comes and I cannot see any wisdom past the ground I walk on.
Grandfather, what you see someday I may know, but now I’m barely energized and wishing hard for sleep.
I cannot find a moment to rest, I wonder if I truly slumber, and I wonder about eternity, a time when time becomes timeless.