Of Heaven and Holes

I tend to make stories my life
story after story, my grandmama tells
I sit on her enormous lap,
while she rocks the old yellow chair
I don't question
the new story she tells.

It is of grandpop
and the car
and the blood
and the death
and everything
messed up

I don't cry,
or moan,
or ache-
'cause I've heard worse stories
from my grandmama
and her old yellow chair.

But this time she tells me something
I don't know;
not about the men that steals,
or rape,
or murder,
but of heaven and holes.

"You see," she says
"look up at the sky
and you'll see yellow holes.
Look through those holes
and I swear,
grandpop will be looking right back at 'cha."

Hi really liked your poem. It was different and interesting, not what you'd expect. Only thing I say is that the poem's called 'Heaven and holes ' but you only talk about that briefly at the end. Don't got changing the whole poem because its very, very good but maybe add the odd hint all the way through the poem so we get a constant reminder of what your talking about. Other than this I'd say this is an INCREDIBLE poem! keep writing. Moonstar x

hey hey hey, dogs here

i liked this poem and i think that this is rather good.

however what is the message that you are trying to get across???? i don't get what you are trying to say i mean so what if you grandma is talking about messed up stuff.

also you need a strong image to show the reader. you could relate this to how messed up the world is.

so apart form that just keep on working

I thought this poem was wonderful. If your age shown is actually real, I'm truly impressed, especially if this is your first sincere try.
You have captured a lot of the elements that make poetry great and addictive in this piece, and you did it quite casually.

The colors, the imagery - this piece is full of flavor.
The emotion, the memory, the reverence and irreverence - the brute honesty.
I really loved this. And I thought the title was perfect.

~*~

"I tend to make stories my life
story after story, my grandmama tells.
I sit on her enormous lap,
while she rocks ((in?)) the old yellow chair.
I don't question
the new story she tells.

It is of grandpop
and the car
and the blood
and the death
and everything
messed up((remove this period?))

I don't cry,
or moan,
or ache -
'cause I've heard worse stories
from my grandmama
and her old yellow chair.

But this time she tells me something
I don't know;
not about the men that steals,
or rape,
or murder,
but of heaven and holes.

"You see," she says
"look up at the sky
and you'll see the holes.
((remove and - and)) look through those holes
and I swear,
grandpop will be looking right back at 'cha.""


~*~

-M.