Geneaolgy Poems

Genealogy
Poems - Prose - Lyrics

Who am I?
(Author Unknown)
I started out calmly, tracing my tree,
To see if I could find the makings of me.
And all that I had was Great Grandfather's name,
Not knowing his wife or from whence 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,
Poor old Great-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 John,
But then found the old man to be 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 made me quite sad,
Dear Old Great-Grandfather was never a Dad.
It seems that someone is pulling my leg,
I'm not at all 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.

YOUR NAME
by Edgar A. Guest

It came from your father
it was all he had to give.
So it's yours to use and cherish
as long as you may live.
If you lose the watch he gave you
it can always be replaced.
But a black mark on your name, son
can never be erased.
It was clean the day you took it
and a worthy name to bear.
When I got it from my father
there was no dishonor there.
So make sure you guard it wisely - -
after all is said and done.
You'll be glad the name is spotless
when you give it to your son.

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.

The Genealogist's Psalm

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.

Grandma Climbed The Family Tree
Virginia Day McDonald, Macon, GA

Therešs been a change in Grandma, wešve noticed as of late.
Shešs always reading history, or jotting down some date.
Shešs tracing back the family, wešll all have pedigrees,
Grandmašs got a hobby, shešs Climbing Family Trees...

Poor Grandpa does the cooking, and now, or so he states,
he even has to was the cups and dinner plates.
Well, Grandma can't be bothered, shešs busy as a bee,
Compiling genealogy for the Family Tree.

She has not time to baby-sit, the curtains are a fright.
No buttons left on Grandpašs shirts, the flower bedšs a sight.
Shešs given up her club work, the serials on TV,
The only thing she does nowdays is climb that Family Tree.

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 graveyard in search of date and name,
The rich, the poor, the inbetween, 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.

Now some folks came from Scotland, some from Galway Bay,
Some were French as pastry, some German all the way.
Some went on West to stake their claims, some stayed there by the sea,
Grandma hopes to find them all as she climbs the Family Tree.

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 for 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,
One lost in time, now all recorded on the Family Tree.

To some itšs just a hobby, to Grandma itšs 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 shešs nearly finished, and we are each exposed.
Life will be the same again, this we all suppose.
Grandma will cook and sew, serve crullers with our tea.
Wešll have her back, just as before that wretched Family Tree.

Sad to relate, the Preacher called and visited for a spell.
We talked about the Gospel and other things as well.
The heathen folk, the poor, and then It was fate, it had to be
Somehow the conversation turned to Grandma and the Family Tree.

We tried to change the subject, we talked of everything,
But then in Grandmašs voice we heard that old familiar ring.
She told him all about the past, and soon it was plain to see,
The Preacher, too, was neatly snared by Grandma and the Family Tree.

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 damn,
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!

Blessed are the great-grandmothers,
who hoarded newspaper clippings and old letters,
For they tell the story of their time.
Blessed are all grandfathers who filed every legal document,
For this provides proof.
Blessed are grandmothers who preserved family Bibles and diaries,
For this is our heritage.
Blessed are fathers who elect officials that answer letters of inquiry,
For--some--they are the only link to the past.
Blessed are mothers who relate family traditions and legends to the family,
For one of her children will surely remember.
Blessed are the relatives who fill in family sheets with extra data,
For them we owe the family history.
Blessed is any family whose members strive for the preservation of records,
For theirs is a labour of love.
Blessed are the children who will never say,
"Grandma, you have told that old story twice today."

Source: Prairieland Pioneer, Prairieland Genealogical Society,
Southwest Historical Center Room 141,
Southwest State Univ. Marshall, MN 56258
Summer 1995 Edition; (contributed by Linda Johnson)

What's in a name?
   The talented poet asked.
     Look deep listen:
      The pulse of our ancestors.
       The heartbeat of nations past
Land,   Language,   Faith.

Look into a name.
    What do you see?
      Letters only?
      Look deeper.
      See the people
        Who lived that name.
         Not letters but flesh and blood.
        Flesh of our flesh. Blood of our blood. Faith of our faith.
Ancestors.

You who bore my name,
   Were your thoughts passed to me?
      Do I dream your dreams?
      The sun you saw I see.
      The moon plays for us both.
      Days are days. Years are years.   But centuries separate us.

You who lived centuries ago
   With my name.
      Did you see me then?
      You have not left this earth!
      You live in my name. You live in me. I give you earthly immortality.

My eyes see a different land.
   My ears hear different sounds.
     But we worship in unison.
     The God of your youth.

My faith you have given me.
   The God who watched over you
      Watches over me.
      Centuries collapse as Faith unites.

Leave you, my ancestor?
   I could never leave you
      Without leaving myself.
      I take pride in you.
      The soil of your homeland
      Rests in my heart.
      Your native language
      Is the melody of your dreams.

I look into your name
      And see myself.

Lord, Help me dig into the past
And sift the sand of time
That I might find the roots that make
This family tree of mine.

Lord, Help me trace the ancient roads
On which my fathers trod,
And led them through so many lands
To find our present sod.

Lord, help me find an ancient book
or dusty manuscript,
That's safely hidden now away
in some forgotten crypt.

Lord, let it bridge the gaps that haunts
my soul when I can't find,
This missing link between some name
that ends the same as mine.

Most of the above poems were sent to me. I would love to have more. Send them in or send a URL link.

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The Genealogist's Psalm

Grandma Climbed The Family Tree Virginia Day McDonald, Macon, GA

Grandma Climbed The Family Tree
Virginia Day McDonald, Macon, GA