Grand Pockets’s Blog

Genealogy, Family, Poetry and Peeves

The Angelus


sailboat-sunset

The Angelus

after the rain,
I returned home
to this valley,
where the rivers race
with the wildfowl flying south
and  words in the sateen night
cry of home and haven…

after the rain,
I remained in peace
as silence from the heart
overwhelmed me.
Fallow are the fields
where tall corn flourished.

Death stroked like a clock
rousing light from the long night:

My Brother, my brother,
where have you gone?

Hesse is rewritten.
Narcissus falls to AIDS
and Goldmund lives on.

after the rain
this blue shimmer raises
chills,
within the patchwork
of this quilt,
I cuddle your warm memory
named in the block
sewn on my heart.

after the rain,
an infant sun breaks rays
with the noon angelus,
a huckstered rooster crows
and corn greens
summer’s fields again.
grandpockets1

February 8, 2009 Posted by | love poems, Poetry & Art | , , , , , , | Leave a comment

After the Storm


I mercurochrome my heart with words,

Taking perverse pleasure in the sting

That truth inflicts.

I turn my back to the door

Her back saw last and ignore the urge

To walk to the telephone,

Some words are swords edgewise

To walk upon.

I watch winter whiteout my window

And stroke my cat, Capsaicin.

He purrs, stretching under my fingers,

Alone knowing the right words.

©Charles Elledge1997

grandpockets1

January 28, 2009 Posted by | Poetry & Art | , , , , | Leave a comment

I AM THE RIVER


I am the River

I am the river
Run into the sea
Mingling in waters
Far deeper than me,

I am the ruin
Far under the waves
Recalling the river
Of previous days,

Recalling the sun
Of my love’s memory
My tears form a river
Run into the sea,

The river, the ruin,
The sun gone to night,
The sea overwhelmed me
When my love left the light.

©Charles Elledge

grandpockets1

January 8, 2009 Posted by | love poems, Poetry & Art | , , , | Leave a comment

Russell Oran Elledge, Senior


Russell Oran Elledge, Sr. was my grandfather, of the Elledge family from French Lick, Indiana.  Collaborating with my dad, Russell Oran Elledge, Jr., I’ve produced a biographical essay with photos and links of historic interest. Grandad died before I could meet him, so discovering more about him was important to me. Hopefully the page I created for the entire Russell Oran Elledge, Sr. biography will at least give my kids and family a chance to know him better as well. I wrote a remembrance poem about his death and last day, when he had grown emaciated and wasted to almost nothing from the lung cancer that was taking him, and my father, strong in his youth,  holding him in his last moments. It is a sad poem on death, reflecting on the circle of life.

We Compost Our Shells, Too

I pick him up in my arms, gently, bones

Such fragile twigs to knit flesh upon,

Sackcloth and bunting his tissue.

Where muscle was is memory

Of days he used to lift me high

And spin me, till dizzy. Now I

Cradle him. Reek of liniments and

Burma Shave, something dank –

Odor of rotted earth from places

We compost our shells. Wasted biceps

wrap around my neck. I return his smile.

Morning’s bath and shave await, sepsis

Clings. His beard has gotten tougher,

Inverse to strength, the razor drags

Across furrowed cheeks, steel suffers

From scritchy strokes. He mumbles.

I lean closer, ear to parched lips:

Thunder on far blue mountains, or

Gravel skeeting on tin rattles same

As a last breath. It is finished.

With hands that he delivered

I complete the circle, return him

To rumpled sheets and iron bed.

Bend, kiss that grizzed brow,

Touch closed the lids on vacant

Vision and call mother. Sins of

The father, finally forgiven.

©Charles Elledge 2008

December 24, 2008 Posted by | family, genealogy | , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Christmas Poem:From Loss to Joy


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Dixie Huffman Elledge, my wife, died suddenly of a heart attack on September 26, 2004. The holidays were very hard that first year after her death. It was empty knowing Dixie wasn’t there, our kids grown and gone onto their own lives, and that Russ and Amanda, my son and daughter-in-law, that I’d moved in with when Dixie died, were moving to Omaha after the first of the year. It made the Christmas season empty for the first time in my life…

Merry Christmas My Love

This season of joy

That fills the hearts of everyone else

Leaves me empty,

It threatens to destroy

What sanity I have left –

There are sons and daughters

And grandchildren, too

But none of them removes the pain

I feel when I think of you

Lying beneath the shriveled grass.

I am the one who cries

While the rest of the world laughs,

Merry Christmas,

Merry Christmas, my love.

Dec 24/2004

Christmas was hard that year, but family was close, and as harsh as it sounds sometimes, life goes on. In my heart I knew Dixie didn’t want me languishing in grief, but looking to new challenges and as she used to say – “get on with it”. God has plans for each of us, and I started a new job in January which I threw myself into. It was there I met my present wife and partner and friend of friends, Renee, and my wonderful step-daughter Sadie Marie.

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This was actually my first choice for a header for the template Word Press provides, but I decided it was a bit too busy maybe? Anyway, its lil’ Sadie, my baby girl. She likes to chew on grass as much as Grandpockets does. Grandpockets?

Well, I gave all the grandkids nicknames, Kolby became Koal Bucket, and Jaycee is Jay Cheese, Lucy is Loosey-Goosey, Nathan is Naytron, etc. And they started calling me Grandpockets. I do not know why. Because children are as silly as me? It’s not like I wear britches with overly large pockets and grand designs on being a walking closet or anything, but the name has stuck with me and now its as second nature as Chuck or Charles. Go ahead. Call me Grandpockets and I’ll answer. I like it better than Wrinkly, or Bald Top, or Stuffy-Old-Guy to name just a few they could have come up with.

So, if I have a message in this dash from sadness and grief to rebirth and joy, friends, it’s just this –

Hold your family close,

Tell em you love em

Today.

Tomorrow you might not have the chance.

~Grandpockets~

December 21, 2008 Posted by | family, Poetry & Art | , , , | Leave a comment