Quotes about uncle, page 9
Allanah Rae
My dear Allanah,
Great niece I love.
Forgive Uncle Larry,
For not knowing how to spell your name,
Right!
Well...
Most of your life.
Your parents are too creative!
And this poem tonight I write for you,
I'm hoping you and I remain close and tight!
Aiight?
Give me five!
Upside.
Down low.
Too slow!
Hahahaha...
Remember you had said to me,
'Wassup with this?
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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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SONG On: Animal Love
There lived a girl called Lovina,
Whose animal-love was great;
Tall, she was and so much lean, ah!
She sang songs for a treat.
She had a sister, with whom she fought,
Right from her child-hood days!
Both were aged, a year’s diff’rence;
And so they fight-her mother says.
She did her home-work, in a short time,
Dreamt while her mother cooks!
In argument, she was so good,
And loved to read animal-books.
Once there fell down, a small Squirrel,
As she stood ‘neath a Mango-tree;
She laid it gently in a box,
The Squirrel-babe was no more free!
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poem by John Celes
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A Letter To Lindelwa
My dearest Lindelwa,
Your name rings with familiarity over and over in my head,
Every day you take form, and become a reality I cannot shake off, or really comprehend,
First it was your beautiful big brown eyes, with lashes long and curly; no one can question your roots,
And then your lips followed, full and distinct, outlined with God`s very own rich lip liner, like a garden of Eden fruit,
As I stand in awe of how beautiful your face is turning out, your body magically seeps into the canvass and completes the picture,
Your tiny hands raised to your mouth, each with five perfect fingers
Your skin feels soft to the touch, as rare as the African silk
Just like mummy`s, it is a radiant brown that compliments your eyes, a true daughter of the soil.
Your tiny feet will one day walk on this very soil, leading you to a destiny of love and beautiful dreams fulfilled because of your forefather`s toil.
Do not worry your pretty little head, mummy may not have nail polish expertise, but if you ever want them painted I will learn, because for you I will be a student of life until I no longer break bread with the living.
The world waits for you to take your place,
Grandma waits on your arrival,
She wants to hold you in her arms and speak blessings into your life,
And tell you stories about mummy and your uncle`s childhood,
How he spoke baby gibberish and brought a smile to all of our faces, just like you will someday.
Oh your uncle, how he waits for you,
[...] Read more
poem by Tawanda Omphile Plaatjie
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Fit the Third ( Hunting of the Snark )
The Baker's Tale
They roused him with muffins--they roused him with ice--
They roused him with mustard and cress--
They roused him with jam and judicious advice--
They set him conundrums to guess.
When at length he sat up and was able to speak,
His sad story he offered to tell;
And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!"
And excitedly tingled his bell.
There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream,
Scarcely even a howl or a groan,
As the man they called "Ho!" told his story of woe
In an antediluvian tone.
"My father and mother were honest, though poor--"
"Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste.
"If it once becomes dark, there's no chance of a Snark--
We have hardly a minute to waste!"
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poem by Lewis Carroll
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Poem
About the size of an old-style dollar bill,
American or Canadian,
mostly the same whites, gray greens, and steel grays
-this little painting (a sketch for a larger one?)
has never earned any money in its life.
Useless and free., it has spent seventy years
as a minor family relic handed along collaterally to owners
who looked at it sometimes, or didn't bother to.
It must be Nova Scotia; only there
does one see abled wooden houses
painted that awful shade of brown.
The other houses, the bits that show, are white.
Elm trees., low hills, a thin church steeple
-that gray-blue wisp-or is it? In the foreground
a water meadow with some tiny cows,
two brushstrokes each, but confidently cows;
two minuscule white geese in the blue water,
back-to-back,, feeding, and a slanting stick.
Up closer, a wild iris, white and yellow,
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poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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The words of a child
When we were small
my younger brother and I
had to stay with the Von Hörsten’s
during the day,
when my mother went to work
and we had to play outside
and was threatened
that we would get dresses
when we wanted
to come into the house,
but this staying
ended dramatically
in my sixth year.
One night my mother wanted to know
how it is going
with out daily visitation,
whereupon I told her
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poem by Gert Strydom
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The Bundaleer Throne
We live out at Bundaleer in
A cabin, in the bush,
Where the air is so much cleaner,
And there's little need to rush,
We have pigs and sheep and chickens,
And we pick our vegies fresh,
So it caused a stir of interest
When we heard of Uncle's death!
Now the 'Uncle' was my mother's
So he wasn't close to us,
And in fact we'd never met him,
Just heard tales of 'Uncle Gus',
He'd been in the 4th Light Horse
At Beersheba, so they said,
In that last great charge of cavalry
That stained the desert red.
'He became a touch eccentric
After that, ' my mother sighed,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Mismatch
I'd known them as young love's delight
Back thirty years ago,
When Sam and Esmerelda wed
They'd put on a travelling show,
With clowns and jugglers, acrobats
And a fortune teller's tent,
Perhaps they should have considered the date,
Not staged the show in Lent.
She came from money, but he was poor,
They didn't seem to care,
‘What's mine is yours, ' she'd always say
As she braided up her hair.
They settled down in a country house
Held parties, meets and wakes,
And lived most ostentatiously,
Just one of their many mistakes!
But how they loved! They'd always sigh
To many who came to stay,
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Family History
My father left when I was one,
Or maybe two - I don't recall,
I have no memory of him now,
No memory then, now none at all.
It didn't seem important then
I had my mother, she had me,
And Uncle George would call each day,
Call by most nights, and stay for tea.
I wasn't even curious,
My world was perfect as it was,
We lived beside a village green
And travelled by the village bus.
Our house was large, a mansion set
In Parklands, much too large for us,
Whole wings were closed and boarded in,
My mother said, 'it makes less fuss! '
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Lark’s Nest
'TRUST only to thyself;' the maxim's sound;
For, tho' life's choicest blessing be a friend,
Friends do not very much abound;
Or, where they happen to be found,
And greatly thou on friendship shouldst depend,
Thou'lt find it will not bear
Much wear and tear;
Nay ! that even kindred, cousin, uncle, brother,
Has each perhaps to mind his own affair;
Attend to thine then; lean not on another.
Esop assures us that the maxim's wise;
And by a tale illustrates his advice:
When April's bright and fickle beams
Saw every feather'd pair
In the green woodlands, or by willowy streams,
Busied in matrimonial schemes;
A Lark, amid the dewy air,
Woo'd, and soon won a favourite fair;
And, in a spot by springing rye protected,
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poem by Charlotte Smith
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