Elegy Grandfather Poems | Elegy Poems About Grandfather
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The leaves have turned brown and crisp
And I've remembered
How much you've been missed
On a day like today
It's the days when I feel down
And I'm sad
That you're not around
Desperately in need of a grandpa's embrace
You were like my best friend
And I'm yearning
For the hours we'd laugh on end.
Now I'm doing quite the opposite
The memories harvest in my mind
As I bow to your grave
With flowers of all kinds
Commemorating the part you played
In shaping the person I am today.
A granddaughter that misses you dearly.
Copyright © Emmy Weatherill
For my grandfather.
I can see you sometimes
though you are not here
I see your smile
that day when I was nine
and you told a dirty
joke to a passing stranger
while we went for a walk.
I did not understand
but you smiled
and the stranger laughed
so I laughed too
and I have never forgotten
Some days I wish
I could see it
I mean really see it
not that my minds eye
doesn't do a good job
I just know that if I could
really see it
that means I could
reach my arms around you
and feel your stubble against my cheek
It would be a long hug
and there would be tears
and then I am sure you would quickly
turn them to laughter
but I cannot wrap my arms around you
I cannot feel your stubble against my cheek
all I can do is remember
remember your smile
remember your jokes
remember you in your old jeans and older t-shirt
swinging on the back swing
or dozing in the living room with your head back
and mouth open
Sometimes I look at your chair
at the dinner table
and imagine you in it
and you look back at me
with that look you always had
that said I love you
I care about you
I am proud of you
and then you fade
and someone else
here with us in this life
takes your place
can anyone take your place?
can anyone fill your old black loafers?
I suppose not
but they can at least sit in your chair
we can all remember
Copyright © Brady Perkins
High-backed chair facing the corner,
Window over books so cherished
Like the greatest of scholars, but still humble
He was a trove of stories
Air of silence on a place once full
Of stories from a time past,
A time of honor and courage and duty
Of country and spirit; fighting an enemy
Made from indescribable evil.
Tales of valor, sand, and bullets
Lions and machine guns, young men in battle
Fighting for their lives.
Knowing the enemy was like a jackal
Cruel and twisted, an army of evil
He witnessed it all
First hand, in the heat of the day
And cold of night. Tales passed on, spoken
In a way that conveyed such knowledge
That one was to sit in amazement, and hear it
Firsthand from the chair facing the corner.
Like a throne of deep thought.
The day he left this world, I wept.
Seeing him not but a day before,
It was harder than I could have imagined.
The pain is real, but so were the memories
And so the legacy of the veteran lives on.
The chair sat vacant, but I felt him there.
The books on the shelf, the other treasures
Left behind held him here on earth
While the memories anchored him in our hearts.
The man in the chair shall never be forgotten
And the stories shall pass far into the generations.
Copyright © john locke
Daughter disconnected from her father.
It took years for you two to reconnect.
I had only one chance to talk to you.
The cancer took you, before we could meet.
Copyright © dakarai cobb
I remember how I cried
The day my father died.
The doctor laid the blame
When he said that cancer came:
Lymph nodes, lungs,
Philosophy of Carl Jung,
Words of explanation
For everything, no blame,
Too late for shame.
The final service was long.
I tried to be strong.
But the stench of red carnations
Can still fill my imagination,
Words of the Lord’s graces.
Planted in a peaceful lawn,
For the shell of this world is gone,
Yoked into heavenly bliss.
But, when I think of him
There's so much we missed.
I remember how I’ve sighed,
Thinking of my dad with pride.
I’d sit on his knee
My ear to his chest,listening to him hum,
And he’d give me his pennies for free.
He would mow, I’d sweep,
Then we’d have a snow cone treat.
Poles, bait bucket, tackle box,
Days we spent fishing from piers and docks.
Hair black like Elvis’,
Ears and features like Clark Gable’s,
Loud animated stories
Of his oil company job,
At the dinner table.
Fedora, big pleated trousers,
A pocket watch on a chain,
When I close my eyes
I can see him again.
I look in the mirror and can see his eyes,
Staring back at me in an eternal guise.
He didn’t live on to see me grown,
Missed out conversation on the problems I’ve known.
But his gifts of life,
And his gifts of earthly love
Still ground me on earth,
Angelically guarding and guiding
Like the finest made glove
Existing throughout our human family's
Journey of love.
Copyright © Patrice Lauren