Unfamiliar+Genre

Unfamiliar Genre: Quatrains

At Grandma’s House (ABBA)

I could never tire of days like these, Watching your tiny hands Push and pull the needle and thread Forming tiny stitches with ease.

You are telling your story, Like how Grandpa proposed At this time many years ago, And you gave that ring to me.

You are telling me stories Of how you survived The Depression, cancer, and though you were deprived Of basic needs, you still have your memories.

You are telling your story, Not only in words, But in every square of fabric that records A piece of your life’s tapestry.

To a City on the River (AABB)

Once called “the Paris of the West”, Who could have known there’d be unrest And children begging for some food In your once cozy neighborhoods?

A burned out jazz club, once swanky and new, I picture crowds that once danced through This empty place that was alive, Now painted over, abandoned, deprived.

An overgrown vine slowly crawls Through a home’s decaying walls, But something grabs my dismal eye, A bud the color of the sky.

Change is near and spring is coming. Like a garden you are sprouting. Growing hope and harvesting dreams Planting seeds for future glean.

Garden Musings (AAAB)

In the fresh, damp dirt I remember seeing A green shoot exposed and appealing It’s mystery to my eye, and so revealing It’s hidden value underground.

When I was young I often pondered, As I gazed in childhood wonder, How this plant so unencumbered Had origins small and humble.

Summer Days When I Was Eight (FREE VERSE)

In my front yard stood a tall tree, A majestic, sturdy pine With branches, like steps, Unthreatening and easy to climb.

We climbed until we lost sight of the ground Then you climbed faster, but I slowed down. You were unafraid, But my fear was paralyzing.

You shouted, “I can see everything from here!” And I wondered if it was true. I tried to imagine what it would be like, But I could not move.

We hiked through the woods along the Rouge, Carrying our lunches, With our sweatshirts tired around our waists, In true 90s style.

We loved to cross the river, Judging which rocks could hold us, And which would sink, Hoping that someone else would take the first step.

Mom fell in that rank river And we laughed until we cried. Mom laughed so hard that she couldn’t get out, And she fell in again as we laughed and laughed..

A Story to Tell (ABBC)

A table, you are unassumingly strong Scratched and stained, but standing tall Holding up what would otherwise fall We all have a story to tell

A chair, giving rest without holding back Worn bare from years of selfless care Showing no signs of hurt or despair We all have a story to tell

A lamp, spreading light and sending away Every feeling of doubt, every shadow and grey Pressing pause on the night and extending the day We all have a story to tell

A person, both strong and worn to the bone Giving freely to others and showing them grace Spreading joy and peace to those displaced We all have a story to tell