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Grandmother Prose Poetry Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Grandmother

These Grandmother Prose Poetry poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Grandmother. These are the best examples of Grandmother Prose Poetry poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry |

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


Details | Prose Poetry |

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


Details | Prose Poetry |

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. 
 


Details | Prose Poetry |

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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