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Prose Poetry Grandmother Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Grandmother

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I Sing Africa

All's not about Darfur I've seen it, eerie winds Moonlight through our thatch We kissed round, one *palmie gourd Kigali was but a miss Waist-beads - beats to love Have you heard the talk-drum, *Fela's horns of brass, Or the *Aladuras' joy of Alleluia? My grandmother still walks miles Just because her forbears did, And shame on malaria For the dearth of men Oh, on Mandela's earth Of Soyinka's nobel ideas Africa - a big breast, the good, the bad, the ugly. . . all, as sucklings! *palmie - palm wine *Fela - Celebrated afrobeat musician *Aladura - a popular african instituted christian sect noted for heavy prayers


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Your My Dear Friend

We have been together
treasured joy now for many years
we trust each other with our
emotions, with affection, tears,

Any day when you are sick or hurting
I feel your pain - significant other,
when eighter-one needs attention
we help one another...

These mutual friendly feelings
for assistance, approval, support
form our tight bonds,
usually never broken

Sharing visions, time together
we respect each other,
regardless of shortcomings
I know you, "I love you anyway"


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A PART OF SOMETHING

God created hands for building things. Sometimes before you build something, you must first destroy something else.

Wildfires are never supposed to be put out. Their sole purpose is to burn the entire forest to the ground, transform living things to fertilizer, making room and preparing the soil for new growth.
It is almost paradoxical, 
that there must be death before birth

My hands have stared the grim reaper’s reflection inside the pool of my best friends blood. An old student I used to tutor told me that I am the best brother she could have asked for
She said she will always love me
This was after I burned every bridge that traversed the gaps between us
Stared at her from across her desk
Told her that she will never be my sister. That our bloodlines will never match.
Our gene pools are just strangers that made the same wrong turn.
I spent so much time trying to find my way back that I never realized I was home in being lost I found something comfortable, without expectations. I only corrected myself after she spoke,
because I heard something familiar in her voice.
She sounded like family.

I have the scarred and wrinkled hands of a senior citizen
I’m only 22 years old
I once got my palm read
This gypsy woman told me that my lifeline should have been cut short when I hit 17.
That was a year ago.
What do gypsies know anyway
I have defied the odds my entire life.
Been broke down and built back up too many times to count
My fingernails chewed raw to the cuticle out of anxiety
I enjoy the taste of my own pain
Sometimes I use my own hands to destroy myself just to see who my real friends are who will build me back up when I can’t do it alone

My hands have a desire to learn how to cook, but I’m not that great.
So when I am alone,
I tend to be hungry, not just for food though.
I starve for someone to talk to
It never satiates, because it’s not you.
I know what it tastes like to completely give myself to someone.
My biggest fear is being abandoned.
When I look into your eyes, I am not afraid.
I need to cook you up a feast of myself, then feed it to you every day for the rest of our lives
Please tell me what I really taste like,
Be honest.

Years after my grandfather passed away, my grandmother moved into my aunt’s house.
Since I was 5, every time I speak to her she asks me:
“Spenser, did you thank God for waking you up today?”
I think to myself, I never did tell my eyes to open themselves. It just happened.
So I don’t know how to respond to her correctly.
I tell her that I love her, that I am writing a lot.
She tells me that she puts her hands together for me every night
Prays that I will get the job I want
I guess some prayers do get answered.
Sometimes two hands in the right position, matched with a conversation with God,
Can change things.
I even accidentally call that place home sometimes.

My dream is that my hands evolve into wolves, become part of a pack and work together with other hands to make a difference
Some days they will be the alpha male.
Full of confidence, at the head of the pack
Other days I need someone to show me the right way to go
Because if I’ve learned anything
It’s that I am not always right
I can not always be in control of everything
The only thing I have ever really wanted is to know
That my hands were truly
A part of something.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Waiting At Doctor's Office

Cody was questioning the lettering on the doctor's plaque on the wall..
He asked me to write letters in cursive which I did ...
He said that the plaque's lettering was not anything like cursive..
Then he wrote in cursive "Once upon a time"
I wrote: "there was"
He wrote: "a Granny"
I wrote: "Who had a Chihuahua named Princess"
He wrote: " They were so alike that they both even had the same spoiled look on their face.."
I wrote: " Princess wanted a new coat and a new harness so we went to PetSense to shop..Princess wanted a rhinestone studded harness and a sequined coat..Of course, she got what she wanted its no joke"..Ha!!!Ha!!!Ha!!

Cody came away empty handed..Ha!!!  

Just for fun...


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Circle

My father painted
western landscapes and bluebonnets
in a manner that can be described as “primitive.” 
He painted with his heart to stay sane 
in the never-sane world 
of the mens’ tubercular sanitarium.
From what little I actually know of him
he was a man of conscience 
and strength 
and love for his family.
He may have been other things too, 
but I can’t possibly know for certain 
except from the stories I’ve been told.
In these stories he was almost a saint.

When I was twelve he was sent home to die,
although no one told me. 
I remember him lying in bed in our front room. 
I touched his puffy leg, leaving a white dimple.
We laughed. 
He said we would make plans for time together,
just the family,
when he was better. 

One anonymous night 
I stayed with my grandmother 
for no reason I could figure out, 
although I really didn’t give it much thought. 
In the darkest part of that night 
my mother woke me 
to tell me he was dead. 
I don’t remember my reaction,
but I don’t think I cried. 
Men didn’t do that, you see. 
I do remember eating cake after his funeral 
at what I recently heard called 
a “funeral party.” 

I have a way of forgetting painful times.
For a long time after his death
my memory is a blank. 

Now, I am a painter. 
I don’t paint his landscapes or bluebonnets, 
but, like my father, 
it brings a breath of sanity to my world, 
completing the long-delayed circle of his life.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

My,Grandmothers,doll,collection

Ever since I can remember we visit my grandmother´s house every Sunday.  In the dinning room were we usually spend the while there, she has always had this big glass carved showcase lying against the wall. This big showcase of hers has all types of dolls you can imagine. Is a collection a hobby of her that since I can remember it grows bigger every time. From Matryoshka dolls until Mariachi dolls we can see up there in her collection. Dolls from many places around de world: France, Russia, China and Germany are some examples. My father tells me she collects this dolls since he was a kid, from house to house they have lived on she has taken this big showcase of hers. My grandmother is a collector, and yes she has probably more than 20 different nationality dolls, but this doesn’t mean she has been all around the world. People that know her and care for her always bring her a doll as present when they come back from a vacation. Sometimes I ask her things about the dolls, and every single time no matter her age she always remember the dolls that are the most special to her. Some are presents from other people, and others were bought by herself, but from this special dolls she can give all the exact information. Off course the majority of the dolls she doesn’t even remember from which place they come from or who gave them to her, but I see the smile on her face every time we talk about this showcase, and I feel happy myself only by thinking how an object that she has save for so many years have a great value to her. But most of all I feel happy that one of this special dolls is a present from me and every once in a while when she remembers she thanks me for this doll and tells me that is one of her favorites. 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

RED ROSE

it be here soon
now  the flower bloom
get in the after noon
its mother love shower
it has the power
as the story goes
give her mother
a
RED ROSE


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PORTAGE

PORTAGE
I know it is not ‘nothing’ but white men in Ireland and the few niggers (on the up and up) that come from Scotland to party in those Pubs. My ancestors on my great great great grandmother side were from the immigrant Irish clan; therefore, Haley, Creek Indian, married a white man. She had Cherokee and Blackhawk blood to. Her family flourished in lineage and the skin comes in all colors. Note this! We are called the colored Sexton’s because Haley’s great granddaughter married a Guinea. The story became we are the colors of the United States of America. O’ jealousy manifested and now, I am the structure of the colored Sextons! Our story will be told. Therefore, our belief and faith is transcendent via the Holy Scripture, In God We Trust! _________________________| PENNED ON AUGUST 31, 2014!


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Too Much There

My mother was a life-long keeper of photo albums. 
She had several of them saved from her youth 
filled with black and white faded to yellowy-grey 
family photos of long-dead relatives 
posed around a new grave or 
an infant in a tiny coffin,   
in horse-drawn buggies on the way to church, 
my grandmother in the chicken yard.
The albums had faded brown covers, 
crumbling black paper pages, 
photos held in place with paste-on corners. 
As a child I spent many hours looking at them, 
asking who the faces were. Some she could recall; 
many were lost to her.

There was one photo, taken in 1957, 
according to the date printed on the edge of the photo, 
which seemed odd to me, a puzzle.
In it I was a child of twelve, 
dressed in what must have been 
a borrowed boy’s suit and tie. 
I stood next to my mother 
on the front porch of our little house in Dallas. 
The image was taken looking slightly upwards towards us
(the photographer was on the bottom step), 
perspective exaggerating our facial features. 

It occurred to me when I was older 
that there was a paradox in the photo: 
I was smiling and squinting into the sun;
my mother’s shoulders were stooped, 
her face twisted in something internal
that I couldn’t see.

Perhaps it was the growing awareness 
of my own mortality 
that led me not long ago to look again,
to decode the message: 
the photo was taken the day of my father’s funeral. 
My mother was compressed by the agony of my father’s death, 
a weight and loss almost impossible for her to bear. 
But what was happening with the child me? 
I suppose it could be called denial, 
but I had moved into the now-familiar space of not-knowing. 
Perhaps this blankness contributed 
to my taking so many years to understand. 
Whatever the cause, I wasn’t there; 
my mother was too much there.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

kindle for the fire

 
This chair has chipped paint.     
Its shadow is long by its side.    
Due to the light pouring through the window    
Slanted only like the sun in the middle of August    
      
Fragments of dust float around the chair    
Like suspended stars, or the pixel points on an LCD screen    
Through the shaft of light streaming in    
Through the heat oozing, and seeping into the pores    
     
This chair envelopes like a warm embrace    
Soft ruby pink cushions impressed:     
Feathers where the cushion is ripped stick to your bottom     
To be annoyingly brushed off    
     
(Like brushing the curiosity of a stranger aside,   
Yet this chair is no stranger!)    
      
The chair’s white coating wilts within the dankest humid air, and you feel it:    
Like the skin you wanted to shed when you first entangled from sheets this morning
     
 This chair rocked my great grandmother and her children, and my mother    
Creaking like an anchored boat on a calm day at sea.     
       
Exposed grey brown wood now soft to the touch unless it is where it splinters   These jagged pieces are small and piercing at certain points    Like the penetrating eyes of a gaze that commanded long ago-   
To take her son.          

For this, the entire chair will be kindle for fire in autumn.    For this is where she sat and remembered.    
     
She remembers watching fire settle on the waters-     
Red and orange arms spreading- 
         
War in the distance is better.           

Her heart was slammed shut and darkly cloaked.    
The blaze after two black holes collide disappearing    
And she was not comforted by the arms of the chair, when war came too near    
This I remember, on this too hot day in the middle of August. 
 


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Reawakening of Identity

I have seen the pretentious woman residing within my minds hologram….
She believes herself to be a wise messiah…
She teaches her apocryphal beliefs to other seekers…
She has deep roots of stubborn illusions planted within her intentions…
She teaches to be revered actually living with great fear…
She wants to be loved, her demise being forcing her will of fear…
She consumes shots of green gel calling it her breath of life…
The divine grandmother challenged the false inner profits message…
Enraging her with threats of revealing to me real truth…
She chanted, pounded her mislead fists together, manifesting a sword of crystal and light…
Piercing through her own throat refusing to evolve her beliefs…
Creating again all of her low vibration grief…
Why is she here covering her veil of confusion over my eyes?
Preventing me from believing the light of oneness god exists…
Why does she desire to create suffering within the temple?
What is her mission’s purpose?

Working for the Cabal; a mental program construct of peace destruction…
Consumed with greed and power wishing to feel divine…
Poisoning everyone from birth with this tainted sour wine…
I banish you…  
You scared old stubborn crow…
I swim within my god’s love light of truth…
So take your pathetic self and go…
Go to the white light, transforming your tyranny within my being into delight… 


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Ghost of Bayou Cannot

Some folks believe it. Others do not. The legend told in the Bayou Cannot. The only witness who can swear that it's true, are the creatures who live in the bayou. The owl told the gator, the gator told the frog, about the horror filled night that changed their home in the bog. Far off on the mainland, miles from the marsh, in a large city, where living is harsh. A man's world invention sprang into life. A breath of fresh air to man's world of strife. A new deisel engine, queen of the line, would make it run for the very first time. The sunset limited it was aptly named. Gleamed in the station waiting its moment of fame. Boarded by folks going south, some headed out west, none mindful of anything, but each's own quest. New York to L.A. via the southern run. So it was, the trip had begun. Back in the bog, things were happening too. A barge made its way north with its captain and crew. The day had been hot. The night had turned cool. The fog roiled in, with its blanket of dew. The captain steered his tug, painfully slow, caution was key to safely deliver the tow. All of a sudden there was a scrape and a jolt the barge floated free, not held by a bolt. Panic seized the crew! "We've lost the tow!" "MAYDAY!" screamed the captain over the radio. Amid the chaos and moans of disdain, another great jar, "We've got it again!". Back on land not far down the track the Limited sped with a clickety-clack. Approaching the tressel no one noticed the shake. Who could blame the poor folks; the hour was late. Midway over the bayou came the tressels demise. A great shiver another great quake, tons of speeding steel, folks met their sad fate. Days went by weary and sad. Rescuers agreed none worked a wreck this bad. Twisted and bent the engine was pulled from the muck and the slime. "102" came the final count, the coroner spoke and noted the time. A weary voice shouted "Wait!" "Sir, I disagree!" Tired eyes turned, what did they see? A weary man held in his arms a child about three. Today believers say "an angel wanders." "A tiny spirit" Others agree. On foggy nights when no moon can be. A tiny light flickers so you will see. "It's a firefly!" Say the skeptics of haunt. The creatures disagree and murmur their taunt. They know the spirit of the child now lives in their swamp.

Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch


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Tater Sack Annie

On a raft in the river tied to a tree, lived in an old woman of whom most folks made fun. She didn't talk much, most thought she was dumb. Kids being curious, and the summer being hot, the cool of the river drew our disobedient lot. We kids soon discovered the crude raft and the tent. We oddly made friends with its strange occupant. Tried as we might to find out her name. All we got was a smile from the toothless old dame. One thing for certain we kids soon found out. Social graces she lacked, but her kindness made up for that fact. Times being tough and money being tight, often we kids confided our plight. She didn't care if we were dirty or poor. She loved her little friends all the more. We didn't mind her fashion was lack. She wore a dress made from and old "tater sack." What troubled us was she didn't have a name. We didn't care from where she came. One day as we sat on the bank, a thought came to mind. We were disgusted with folks being unkind. "Everybody's got a name," said one. "Let's call her 'Tater Sack Annie'", said another, so it was done. Annie smiled at us. She liked her new name. She didn't say much, just smiled again. She motioned for us kids to her camp for lunch. She always fed our whole bunch. Fried taters, catfish and greens. All of us believed she was a woman of means. Several summers went by. One year the fall came. A saturday night, folks out for a lark. Didn't see Annie walking home in the dark. Somebody sent, and a somber Sherriff came, "Anybody her know her name?" He spoke to the group. Two boys stepped forward, both knelt to a stoop. "That's our 'Tater Sack Annie'", they spoke in a low tone. Both their faces ashen and as white as bone. Today in a churchyard no monument gleams. Only a simple stone reads, "Annie a lady of means."

Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Damage Will Always Be There

The Damage Will Always Be There


I cried,I bleed,And now my heart longer beats the same way it did before I meet you.My heart feel broken,i feel like a rag doll played with over and over again only to be thrown away.I miss your love but now your gone and my hearts ache the most it has ever.There are time's I wonder if  I have been lying to myself,I must be because my heart should fee lighter it should feel like a free winged bird but it not.The damage the cuts the sores they shall be with my from happy time to sad time because you put them there.You who I looked up to you never promised I know but it aches from every thought of you.How come how come I must be alone in this world? It sound selfish but I only want you back to be here beside me and tell me you love me and I'm doing a great job with everything.Why does it hurt to think of you?why does it pain me to want to be lose to anyone?why does everyone leave me behind when I need them the most?why am I so closed up with a stone wall full of hate surrounding my heart?I know it shouldn't be there but do you? In time the cut will heal and the sores shall vanish.But what about the feelings and the damage inflicted upon them will never leave.Yes it sounds so cliche yes you've heard it all before.But really and this is know this is said this is everything I know.The damage is there no matter how much it seems to have healed.

For my grandmother who i lost now 5 years ago Granny i miss you i wish you would have fought for us a little longer then you did.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Across Fair Fields

Run across the fair fields, as fast as you can run, the fields your grandmother ran as a young girl,
Over long lush dark green grasses, whipping your knees, soft spongy turf springs each new step,
To stop where fast flowing streams rush and dance to the wind, a sweat breaking out on your face,
All out of breath kneeling by the bank of a brook, a stitch in your side, corn waves like a gentle sea.

By the brook with childhood friends enjoying sweet company watching spring as her beauty unfolds,
To walk across wet water mead’s, seeing glades in their finest clothes, to a meadow, in full flower,
Rolling in grass making camps sitting legs crossed as warm summer breezes temper-sweating brows,
Making sure you sit next to the one you care for most, nothing will be as good as this day ever again.

Playing in the meadows where your grandmother played, picking daisies, making very long chains,
Holding buttercups up to chins to see if they shine, then laughing, shouting out loud when they do.
Playing kiss chase, slightly slowing down, when the one you want to be kissed by is chasing you,
Under old pear blossom trees, flushed rosy red cheeks sitting next the one who is your first love.

Laying in high grass chin in cupped hands, it is so special this lovely day will be yours for all time,
Just staring at friends, full of innocence and so happy, this romantic time can never be repeated,
Unplanned moments where beautiful things just happen it’s your youth just enjoy the here and now,
Where everything is brighter has more colour, smells from the meadows become a memory for life.

Laying on your back staring at turquoise watery skies, listening to the silence, a perfect sunny day,
Heaths meeting small woods surrounded by greenest carpets only seen by a child’s pure innocence,
Give your heart and soul to this day enjoy natures gifts, your end of days will recall these moments,
Falling asleep in the December of your life, this last dream your friends will be there waiting for you.

So gather these thoughts, tie them up in a bow, put them safely in a corner of yesterday’s thoughts,
And walk again with your dear young friends in those happy times golden hair fluttering in the breeze,
Back to days of cotton dresses and turned-up jeans with baggy shirts, nobody noticed or even cared,
Hold your sweethearts hand once again and run across the fair fields where your grandmother ran.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

English Garden

I have found the treasure
that lies at the Rainbow's end;
surrounded by Sweet William, for-get-me knots,
and crimson shades of velvet rose.

Near the cottage of old where I was young,
the quaint charm of the English garden.
Where time has not weathered with due harm,
swirls of hued asters still in the brisk fresh air.

Moments spent dancing with cupid in midst
of a sunny afternoon.
Seconds where dreams danced on the moon,
sweet perfume floats by to wisp away my breath.
Up ahead mine eyes view the grassy slopes
where a thousand of narcissus bloom.

I watch them sway the day away tossing 
their sweet perfume to the winds.
Wicker seats and ivory benches upon I sit and muse.
The soul cannot thrive in the absence of a garden,
a rose plot, fringed pool and serenity.

Burn the sage, the leaves of rose and wintergreen
Light the candles in the middle of the afternoon.
From within my center core I breathe for more of this
paradise near heavens view.

Sweet surrender to growing things, cupids chimes in
melody rings, for here is a heavenly peace that mirrors
my thirsty soul.


My x4 Great Grandmother was from England a Duchess but she chose to marry my X4 Great
Grandfather and lost her inheritance and rights for neglecting the wishes of the family in
England. He was a Captain of the sea and brought many to the American shores of Mass. In
reading and studying, I found she loved to write of the sea and those things she cherished
from England and growing up, from memoires, she has touched my muse and from time to time,
I let her speak of such cherished beautiful things.