In Days Of Old Poem by shimon weinroth

I listen to the stories
grandmother told,
from legends of old
fables worn out,

I hear them
over and over,
politely listen,
though they seldom vary

sometines i wonder
if even she is bored,
or is it the legacy of her time,
imposed to report,

she holds on with
a tenacity, that the past
will not fade or dim,
nor bow to medias of great din

she has a way of cocking her head
a smile screws across her face,
as lips curve and purse,
the soft breeze of words

slow at first, then flow
with a current of pictures
and thoughts, dressed in
metaphor and allegory,

filed with glamor and
glory, cloaked in raiment
of story, rolls on meandering,
from then to now and back again,

the most trivial detail becomes
a dragon or hero of import,
her sonorous tones caress
the memories that loom up

and the past comes echoing out,
of gleaming eyes,
lit up memories
that filled her skies

romantic and true
filled with satire
and sometimes
sarcasm too

as I listen
I turn the gun
of scrutiny
upon myself

and wonder
will I be be
this
way too