GENEALOGICAL POEMS
A Genealogy Anthology by Deborah Kadinger Stinson | Genealogy Poetry Album by Edith Bastin | Genealogy Poetry and Prose by Lori Hoffman | Genealogy Poetry by Dawn James
A CRY FROM THE PAST
by Clara Lewis Jennings
Must I, behind locked doors, Forever wait
While you, who are on earth, procrastinate?
Must I, cry out unheard, forevermore,
And wait, in vain behind this bleak, barred door?
Because you would not see, to work to set me free,
through genealogy?
Must I, who once held loved ones tenderly,
Stretch out my arms through all eternity?
Must I, not know the joy of being sealed
By this great power God has now revealed?
Because you failed your dead, others move ahead, hear
what I have said!
When I, dwelt on the earth as mortal man,
The Lord, had not revealed his Gospel plan.
I would have done my own work had I known,
And would not now be waiting here alone,
Depending on you to do, that which I accept as true, to
see me through.
Please hear, my voice before it is too late,
For you, and yours will one day share my fate.
For God has spoken is this latter day,
Commanding you to open up the way.
To set your kindred free, you must heed my plea, find
your family tree.
For in, your day the Lord has plainly said,
That no man can be saved without his dead.
As I must look to my posterity,
So must they also have the need of me.
To pass beyond the door, and so I call once more, open up
my door.
ANGELS
© V. Taylor 12 Apr 1998
And the angels among us, sent down from
above
To guide and protect us, back to God's own true love.
They whisper to our hearts, of things that we need
To keep us from harm and help us succeed.
There is a great service that we need to do.
Go to the temple and see the work through.
For the cages and ages, have trapped many soul's
And the pain and the waiting, have taken their toll.
To free up these spirits to be angels indeed,
Was the plan that was started when we crossed o'r the sea.
We can't see our angels, or feel them by touch,
Let us help out our angels, ‘cause they love us so
much.
VOICES IN MY HEART
The Census Taker by Darlene Stevens
It was the first day of census, and all
through the land
each pollster was ready ... a black book in hand.
He mounted his horse for a long dusty ride,
his book and some quills were tucked close by his side.
A long winding ride down a road barely there,
toward the smell of fresh bread wafting, up through the
air.
The woman was tired, with lines on her face
and wisps of brown hair she tucked back into place.
She gave him some water ... as they sat at the table
and she answered his questions ... the best she was able.
He asked her of children. Yes, she had quite a few ...
the oldest was twenty, the youngest not two.
She held up a toddler with cheeks round and red;
his sister, she whispered, was napping in bed.
She noted each person who lived there with pride,
and she felt the faint stirrings of the wee one inside.
He noted the sex, the color, the age ...
the marks from the qill soon filled up the page.
At the number of children, she nodded her head
and he saw her lips quiver for the three that were dead.
The places of birth she "never forgot"
was it Kansas? Or Utah? Or Oregon ... or not?
They came from Scotland, of that she was clear,
but she wasn't quite sure just how long they'd been here.
They spoke of employment, of schooling and such,
they could read some ... and write some ... though really
not much.
When the questions were answered, his job there was done
so he mounted his horse and he rode toward the sun.
We can almost imagine his voice loud and clear,
"May God bless you all for another ten years."
Now picture a time warp ... it's now you and me
as we search for the people, on our family tree.
We squint at the census and scroll down so slow
as we search for that entry from long, long ago.
Could they only imagine on that long ago day
that the entries they made would effect us this way?
If they knew would they wonder at the yearning we feel
and the searching that makes them so increasingly real.
We can hear if we listen, the words they impart
through their blood in our veins and their voices in our
heart.
ELUSIVE ANCESTOR
by Merrell Kenworthy
Published, Family Backtracking, Puget Sound Genealogical Society, Vol. XX, No. 3, Sept 1995
I went searching for an ancestor. I
cannot find him still.
He moved around from place to place and did not leave a
will.
He married where a courthouse burned. He mended all his
fences.
He avoided any man who came to take the U.S. Census.
He always kept his luggage packed, this man who had no
fame.
And every 20 years or so, this rascal changed his name.
His parents came from Europe. They should be upon some
list
of passengers to U.S.A., but somehow they got missed.
And no one else in this world is searching for this man.
So, I play geneasolitaire to find him if I can.
I'm told he's buried in a plot, with tombstone he was
blessed;
but the weather took engraving, and some vandals took the
rest.
He died before the county clerks decided to keep records.
No Family Bible has emerged, in spite of all my efforts.
To top it off this ancestor, who caused me many groans,
Just to give me one more pain, betrothed a girl named
JONES.
GENEALOGY
©1999 by Sherry Orrack, Mesa, AZ All rights researved
Smith names, Fry names,
Dead and gone and dry names.
Old names, bold names,
Hard to spell and cold names!
This is what I used to think;
Those silly people eat and drink
Who study family histories,
Places, dates, and mysteries.
Love and headaches;
Wheel on grandma's cart breaks.
Baby Teething,
People living, breathing.
Now I know what joys are found
In searching volumes leather bound
And finding that a wholesome life
Was lived by Great-great-grandpa's wife.
These are sigh names,
Make me laugh or cry names,
Names that aren't dry names
When I find they're my names.
GRANDMA CLIMBED THE FAMILY TREE
by Virginia Day McDonald (Words slightly modified)
There's been a change in Grandma, we've
noticed as of late.
She's always reading history, or jotting down some date.
She's tracing back the family, we'll all have pedigrees,
Grandma's got a hobby, she's climbing Family Trees...
Poor Grandpa does the cooking, and now or so he states,
He even has to wash the cups, and all the dinner plates.
Well, Grandma can't be bothered, she's busy as a bee,
Compiling genealogy, for the Family Tree.
She has no time to baby-sit, the curtains are a fright.
No buttons left on Grandpa's shirts, the flower bed's a
sight.
She's given up her club work, the serials on TV,
The only thing that she does, is climb the Family Tree.
Now some folks came from Scotland, and some from Galway
Bay,
Some were French as pastry, some German all the way.
Some went West to stake their claims, some stayed there
by the sea,
And Grandma hopes to find them all, for the Family Tree.
She goes down to the courthouse and studies ancient lore,
We know more about our forebears than we ever knew before.
The books are old and dusty, they make poor Grandma
sneeze,
A minor irritation when you're climbing Family Trees.
The mail is all for Grandma, it comes from near and far.
Last week she got the proof she needs to join the DAR.
A monumental project -- to that we all agree,
A worthwhile avocation -- to climb the Family Tree.
She wanders through the graveyards, in search of date and
name,
The rich, the poor, the in-between, all sleeping there
the same.
She pauses now and then to rest, fanned by a gentle
breeze,
That blows above the Fathers, of all our family Trees.
There were pioneers and patriots mixed with our kith and
kin,
Who blazed the paths of wilderness and fought through
thick and thin.
But none more staunch than Grandma, whose eyes light up
with glee,
Each time she finds a missing branch, on the Family Tree.
Their skills were wide and varied from carpenter to cook,
And one, alas, the records show was hopelessly a crook.
Blacksmith, farmer, weaver, judge, some tutored for a fee,
Once lost in time, now all are found, for the Family Tree.
To some it's just a hobby, to Grandma it's much more.
She learns the joys and heartaches of those who went
before.
They loved, they lost, they laughed, they wept - and now
for you and me,
They live again in spirit, around the Family Tree.
At last she's nearly finished, and we are each exposed.
Life will be the same again, this we all supposed.
Grandma will cook and sew, serve donuts with our tea.
We'll have her back, just as before that wretched Family
Tree.
Yesterday the preacher called, and sat down for a spell.
We talked about the Gospel and other things as well.
He asked about our grandma -- 'twas fate, it had to be...
Some how the conversation turned, to Grandma's Family
Tree.
We tried to change the subject , we talked of everything,
But then in Grandma's voice we heard that old familiar
ring.
She told him all about the past, and soon 'twas plain to
see,
The preacher, too, was neatly snared, by Grandma's Family
Tree.
He never knew his Grandpa, his mother's name was ...
Clark?
He and Grandma talked and talked, outside it grew quite
dark.
We'd hoped our fears were groundless, but just like some
disease,
Grandma's become an addict - she's hooked on Family Trees!
Our souls were filled with sorrow, our hearts sank with
dismay,
Our ears could scarce believe the words we heard our
Grandma say,
"It sure is a lucky thing that you have come to me,
I know exactly how it's done, I'll climb your Family Tree!"
HANDS WITHIN A FRAME
by Miriam Clark Potter, an ancestor of Peggy Dickinson ©1999 All rights reserved. Original title: Linage Stockton, CA
And sometime when I have become, A quiet
portrait on the wall,
Will you, my fair descendant, stop To think of me at all?
Suppose your hands are shaped like mine, You have my
nutmeg sense of fun --
Will there be one to tell you so, There, when my days are
done?
If you love books, and fires, and songs, And slipper
moons on lilac skies,
Toss me a look of shared delight, From those, my own dark
eyes:
For there is kinship in a curl, And keepsake in a spoken
name,
And wine of life may yet be poured, By hands within a
frame.
Have you ever thought you came from an unusual family? This song was featured by "The Satisifiers" on the Perry Como - Chesterfield Supper Club, 1947. It was also sung by Tom Arnold in the movie "The Stupids" about 1998.
I AM MY OWN GRANDPA
by Dwight Latham and Moe Jaffe 1947
Many, many years ago when I was 23,
I was married to a Widow who was pretty as could be.
This Widow had a grown up Daughter who had hair of red.
My father fell in love with her and soon they too were
wed.
This made my Dad my Son-in-Law and changed my very life.
For my Daughter was my Mother, cause she was my Father's
Wife.
To complicate the matter, even though it brought me joy,
I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy.
My little baby then became a Brother-in-Law to Dad
And so became my Uncle though it made me very sad.
For if he was my Uncle then it also made him Brother
To the Widow's grown up Daughter, who of course was my
Stepmother.
I'm my own Grandpa! I'm my own Grandpa!
It's a funny I know, but it really is so,
Hey! I'm my own Grandpa!
My Father's Wife then had a son who kept them on the run.
And he became my Grandchild, cause he was my Daughter's
son.
My Wife is now my Mother's Mother, and it makes me blue,
Because although she is my Wife, she's my Grandmother too.
If my Wife is my Grandmother, then I am her Grandchild.
And every time I think of it, it nearly drives me wild.
This has got to be the strangest thing I ever saw,
As husband of my Grandmother, I am my own Grandpa!
I'm my own Grandpa! I'm my own Grandpa!
It's a funny I know, but it really is so,
Hey! I'm my own Grandpa!
MY FRIEND
please let me know the author
My friend, I stand in judgement now,
And feel that you're to blame somehow.
On earth, I walked with you each day
And never did you point the way.
You knew the Lord in truth and glory,
But never told me of His story.
My knowledge, then was very dim,
You could have led me straight to Him.
Though we lived together on the earth
You never mentioned the second birth;
And now I stand with joys unheard,
Because you failed to share his word.
You taught me many things, it's true,
I called you friend and trusted you!
But now, I learn how much I lost,
You could have saved me such a cost.
We walked by day and talked by night,
And yet you showed me not the light.
You let me live and love and die,
You knew how much I'd lose on high.
Yes-- I called you "friend" in life
And trusted you through joy and strife,
And yet, on coming to the end
I cannot call you now "my friend".
NOT UNIQUELY MINE
Written by English author Richard Rolle over 600 years ago
The limbs that move, the eyes that see,
These are not entirely me;
Dead men and women helped to shape
The mold which I do not escape;
The words I speak, my written line,
These are not uniquely mine.
For in my heart and in my will
Old ancestors are warring still,
Celt,Roman, Saxon, and all the dead
From whose rich blood my veins are fed,
In aspect, gesture, voices, tone,
Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone;
In fields they tilled I plow the sod,
I walk the mountain paths they trod;
And round my daily steps arise
The good and bad of those I comprise.
ODE OF A VOLUNTEER
Author Unknown
Many will be shocked to find
When the day of judgement nears
That there is a special place in heaven
Set aside for volunteers.
Furnished with big recliners
Satin couches, and footstools,
Where there is no committee chairman,
No group leaders or car pools.
No eager team that needs a coach,
No bazaar and no bake sale.
There will be nothing to staple,
Not one thing to fold or mail.
Telephone lists will be outlawed,
But a finger snap will bring
Cool drinks and gourmet dinners
And treats fit for a king.
You ask "Who will serve these privileged few
And work for all their worth?"
Why, all those who reaped the benefits
And not once volunteered on earth!
THE GENEALOGIST'S PSALM
By Wildamae Brestal
Genealogy is my pastime, I shall not
stray.
It maketh me to lie down and examine half-buried
tombstones.
It leadeth me into still courthouses;
It restoreth my ancestral knowledge.
It leadeth me in paths of census records &
ship's passenger lists for my surname's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the shadows of
research libraries & microfilm readers,
I shall fear no discouragement.
For a strong urge is within me;
the curiosity & motivation they comforteth me.
It demandeth preparation of storage space
for the acquisition of countless documents.
It annointeth my head with burning mid-night oil;
my family group sheets runneth over.
Surely birth, marriage, & death dates
shall follow me all the days of my life;
And I shall dwell in the house
of a family-History seeker forever.
SEARCHING FOR THOSE BEFORE
by Nola Donley ©1999 All rights researved
In places of silence we
look for those before
Stirring up feelings of opening a (family) door
Where are the final places of those we did not know?
To those restful spots, with camera we now go.
Farmers have set aside a small spot upon a hill
For those whose work was done, they would no longer till.
Old white church anchoring the corner of the ground,
Some active, some silent, some no longer found.
Sites set aside by the communities that grew,
To honor those who served others that they knew.
We read the dates on the stones that are so often worn,
Wondering "What was your life, after you were born?"
We envision lives of only happiness and joy.
Alas, there, beside you, a little girl or boy?
We search to say a thank you for all that care and strife,
For we carry your DNA genes joined to give us life.
The Twelve Days of Christmas for Genealogists Skit
by Vern Taylor, Dec 1999
Tune: 12 Days of Christmas.
Performers: one person for each of the twelve days.
Props: whatever can be found, money, CD's, photos, books, deeds, reams, 5 sheds. Sing with Attitude.
(Consecutively change to the following next line on each repeat where you would sing "and a partridge in a pear tree".)
On the first day of Christmas my true love sent to me (use 1st ending):
(1st ending) a new date for my, gen-e-al-o-gy.
(2nd ending) and a new name for, my p-e-di-gree.
(3rd ending) and a clue to the, fam-ly mys-ter-y.
(4th ending) and-a Gedcom of my, en-tire fam-i-ly.
(5th ending) and-an email address, for e-mer-gen-cies.
(6th ending) and more books of our, fam-ly his-tor-y.
(7th ending) and a game that lets, my PC teach me.
(8th ending) and a helper for, my se-cre-tar-y.
(9th ending) and a site for the, lat-est an-ces-try.
(10th ending) and a source for the, last man on the tree.
(11th ending) and a scanner for my, mul-ti-med-i-a.
(12th ending) and the post man left, a brand new P-C.
On the SECOND day of Christmas my true love sent to me TWO HUNDRED BUCKS,
(Go to 2nd ending)
On the THIRD day of Christmas my true love sent to me THREE TIN TYPES,
(Go to second day, then 3rd ending)
On the FOURTH day of Christmas my true love sent to me FOUR CD-ROMS,
(Go to third day, second day, then 4th ending)
On the FIFTH day of Christmas my true love sent to me FIVE STORAGE SHEDS !!!!
(Go to fourth day, third day, second day, then 5th ending, and so on.)
On the SIXTH day of Christmas my true love sent to me SIX INDEXED CENSUS,
(All together sing previous fifth through second lines)
On the SEVENTH day of Christmas my true love sent to me SEVEN LANGUAGE LESSONS,
On the EIGHTH day of Christmas my true love sent to me EIGHT REAMS OF PAPER,
On the NINTH day of Christmas my true love sent to me NINE DEEDS OF RECORD,
On the TENTH day of Christmas my true love sent to me TEN FAM-LY GROUP SHEETS
On the ELEVENTH day of Christmas my true love sent to me ELEVEN PHOTO ALBUMS,
On the TWELFTH day of Christmas my true love sent to me TWELVE THIRTEENTH COUSINS,
UNKNOWN "GENEALOGIST"
by Inez G. Von Harten
I have thought about it
often, And I know that it is true --
A genealogical researcher, Has a mighty work to do!
This includes library workers, Shelving, filing film and
book.
Explaining research aids to patrons -- Often changing
life's outlook.
They are sonewhat "unsung heros", Working still
behind the scene.
But have learned God's greatest secret -- Love for those
as yet unseen.
Countless hours they spend in study, Countless prayers
offered for aid.
Countless families re-united, For the efforts they have
made.
They don't wish their names be shouted, Just a kindly
"thanks" will do.
Those who do such good in secret, Are rewarded that way
too!
WHAT DID YOU SAY?
Words & Music by Vern Taylor ©1999 All rights reserved
Our ancestors helped to
pave the way
For our success here and now today
They are the ones who sailed the seas
Climbed the mountains, tamed the country.
They gave us courage to carry on
To plow the fields and tend the farm
Most of them loved us and helped create
A new generation that did not relate.
So in this life were you real funny?
Or in this life were you so kind?
In this life did you do some good?
Or did you just waste your time?
They may have left us a photograph
A faded reminder from the past
At their wedding they were so beautiful
With hope their kids would be wonderful.
So in this life did you make a record?
Or in this life did you hide away?
Or did you write, film, or video tape,
Just what it was you had to say?
They may have left us a diary or a letter
You'd think that we, could do better?
To let them know a hundred years from now
What our hopes and dreams were like somehow.
WHO AM I
Anonymous
I started out calmly tracing my tree
To find, if I could, the making of me
And all that I had was great grandfather's name
Not knowing his wife or from which way he came.
I chased him across a long line of states
And came up with pages and pages of dates
When all put together, it made me forlorn
I'd proven poor Grandpa had never been born.
One day I was sure the truth I had found
Determined to turn this whole thing upside down
I looked up the record of one Uncle Dunn
But then found the old man younger than his son.
Then when my hopes were fast growing dim
I came across records that must have been him
The facts I collected then made me quite sad
Dear ol' grandfather was never a dad.
I think maybe someone is pulling my leg
I'm not at all that sure I wasn't hatched from an egg
After hundreds of dollars I've spent on my tree
I can't help but wonder if I'm really me?
I started out calmly tracing my tree
To find if I could, the making of me
What I found out has caused many a sigh! (added by V.Taylor)
But all this has helped to decide: Who am I?
WHY I AM A GENEALOGIST
by Randall Black Feb. 26, 1996 Irvine, CA
I get the worst machine and turn the crank,
And watch the names go by,
My eyes bug out and I'll be frank,
I sometimes wonder why
And does it really make a darn,
If Becky married Tom or Sam?
Or sailed upon the sea?
The dusty books, the puzzled looks,
That's genealogy.
The census scrawl, the long lost mall,
The time I once had free,
When hours were spent,
In blessed sleep,
Not genealogy!
Once it was the football teams,
Or looking at the stars,
A fish to catch down by the stream,
And playing my guitar.
Now it's names galore and tales of yore,
And thou and thy and thee
The courthouse burned!
What have I learned?
That's genealogy.
But then I look at all the names,
In ordered files, forever claimed,
From time's dark clutch,
It isn't much,
My genealogy.
I know they're out there, calling me,
The names, the dates, the stories,
The lure of genealogy,
Is long lost love and glory.
You ask me why I cruise the Net,
And write for Rooters free,
I guess it's that I love the stuff,
This genealogy!
Photos Coming Soon
FHC History Coming Soon
Songs about Genealogy Coming Soon