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Best Grandfather Poems

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New Grandfather Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Grandfather poems are below this new poems list.

My Grandfather by Krieger, CJ
Dying Grandfather by Martin, Thomas
Grandfather Clock by Monihan, Rhoda
My Grandfather by Krieger, CJ
The Death of Grandfather Clock by Lane, Lin
Grandfather s Clock by Callus, Paul
a grandfather clock by Ward, Julia
A Letter From Heaven From The Point of View of My Great Grandfather by Pratt, Mia A.S.
A posthumus talk with my Grandfather by van Akkeren, Huberta
Grandfather Speaks with Eagles by Devonshire, Carolyn

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The Best Grandfather Poems

Details | Grandfather Poem | |



Hi, grandpa, it's me again!
Your dentures sit in an open glass above the nightstand
Remember the tears grandma sang before she passed?
The way she looked into your eyes, 
Moments before she said her goodbyes
Grandpa, I found a note from grandma, 
She waits for you.

Hi grandpa, it’s me again!
The rocking chair is old and dusty
Remember the way grandma sat me on her lap?
Read many stories before I took a nap
How she enjoyed stroking my hair with her hands
I miss the way she rocked me to sleep every night 

Hello, grandpa!
I stored your hearing aid away
Remember that special musical box in grandma's drawer? 
I opened it last night, to watch the ballerina soar
I wish you could hear the tiny chimes grandma loved
I hope you don’t mind, I’m keeping grandma's favorite scarf

Hello, Grandpa!
I'm caressing grandma’s picture frame
Remember the way she looked in the yellow pretty sundress?
Grandpa, I miss the things grandmother did for you
Like the walking cane, she handcrafted before she left

Hello, grandpa, it's me again! 
Here I sit holding your hand
I have no more tears
Soon you will see her again
She will no longer be alone
Say hi to her, give her a kiss
Tell her I miss her so much
Bye, grandpa

By; PD

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A

More great poems below...

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

Mirror Ball

I'm sure this hill is where it stood.
Amazing shapes of stuccoed wood.
A glass-brick, neon stream-lined place.
As if it flew from outer space,

A swing band auditorium,
An Art Deco emporium,
When romance, innocent in pace,
From dancing to a teasing chase.

The town grew west in modern haste
And down it came, without a trace.
The war and culture's change in taste,
Predestined doom, the past erased.

The future sighs, with solemn face
The wrecking ball, the glittered waste
No plaque to read "Historic Sight".
The swirling dust, a dance goodnight.

Gene Bourne

Copyright © Gene Bourne

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

Sepia Recollections

Sitting here, on these old porch steps, that I have always known
This weathered stoop, with gray floorboards
The creaks and groans, flaws and chips, so familiar to my hand 
I have come to some conclusion,
and I'm surprised to understand, 
how well I know each board, each slat,
the shape, the size, the warps, the cracks 
each rusty nail, ....

but not the facts of you.  

Oh yes, ........I've seen a glimpse or two, 
in photographs, I have a few...

I see a robust man, in yellowed hues,  of vintage stock...
There's a house, a barn, where land is strewn with stones to move. 
You stand behind a horse and plow, in coveralls,... a mustache too . 

I do recall, so vaguely gray,  as gray as the paint beneath my hand...
a jolly man, your wrinkled face, 
with a smile, a laugh, a loving way
A dream I have, or is it real?  
Is that me when I was two?  Sitting here, beside you then?
Or is it just my wish to know... more than just a trace of you?

I never knew the man you were, your hopes your dreams...  
the thousand schemes that brought you to these rocky slopes 
so far from where your hopes began
Where those steep cliffs rose and the seas were blue.  

Today, beyond these furrowed rows,...
where grasses grow in amber waves
the eyes will wander, and shadows grow
I ponder how it came to be....
that I am me,.... 
   who came from you;        

                a man I never knew. 

Carrie Richards

(To watch the youtube video recitation:)

Copyright © Carrie Richards

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

Santa's Special Delivery: a collab

Brutal was the biting wind,
sweeping brown locks of a tiny urchin 
side to side, often hiding her eyes.
Oversized slippers she had donned
were lost in deep snow drifts.
She plodded forth barefoot, risking frostbite.
Little daylight remained to guide her;
a dangerous holiday trek she undertook.
Villagers in passing carriages didn't notice her.
With snow falling fast and accumulations growing deep,
she didn't realize she'd left the main road.
If only she could find her grandfather's cottage!
For Christmas Eve it was,
but in her heart there was no joy.
Her cruel stepmother’s house she left in search of love.
As darkness fell, the biting cold increased.
Her weary legs she dragged; with teary eyes she searched
in vain, for only shadows could she see.
A green-clad elf with lantern lit was homeward bound
deep in the woods, when all at once he spied this forlorn girl,
sprawled on the snow deprived of strength and shivering.
He shone the light on her white face; eyelids moved and flickered.
He read her thoughts and understood; he knew just how to help her. 
No time was lost; his crystal flute he blew to call his trusted friends. 
An entire family of elves pulled the shivering child,
placing her gently on a sled,
fully decked out in Christmas flare.
The elves had been on their way to Santa;
Yuletide deliveries had to be made, 
but the wee girl's plight took priority.
Once she was aboard the sled,  
reindeer arrived on cue,
ushering the crew to the North Pole.
The little girl came to quickly,
nestled in Santa's arms.  
With pleasure he brought her to her grandfather's cottage.
Grandfather sat alone by his roaring fire
when a knock came to the door.
He went to see who it could be so late into the night.
There on the doorstep his young granddaughter stood with shining eyes,
a dream come true for those who never give up hope.
He picked her up in welcome arms, a warm embrace of love.
The clock struck twelve. They heard the sound of jingling bells
as Santa waved goodbye and off he sped across the sky.
Christmas had arrived, and his first gift had been delivered! 

[Inspired by the first paragraph of The Little Match Girl by H.C. Andersen]

Co-written by: Paul Callus~Carolyn Devonshire~Valentina Stagno-Navarra
Contest: A Christmas Tale
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
Placed: 1st

Copyright © Paul Callus

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

- On The Moon -

Thea, grandfather Alferd's dog died, she was so old and sick
Now is Thea on the moon, says Adrian who is six

Michael Jackson died so unexpectedly and abruptly
He is on the moon and plays with Thea, says Adrian who is a big fan

Betzy, grandfather Arild's dog died, she was also old and sick
Now Betzy is also on the moon with Thea and Michael Jackson and play all day

Great Grandmother died so unexpectedly and abruptly
Adrian who is six had difficulty understanding

Adrian who is six cried many tears for Great Grandmother
but comforted himself with the fact that she is sitting on the moon and
makes waffles to Thea, Michael Jackson and Betzy

A-L Andresen :)  - A true story -
Copyright © All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Anne Lise Andresen

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

'Love me with your Time'

I might make a noise right now There will be a time when I go silent Will you miss my racket? In those days of silence? I will no longer yearn for your presence Like I do at this very moment Will you wonder? Will you wish? For that good morning? I might be a nuisance right now I might ask you the same thing over and over One day Some day My voice will go silent All I ask today is be patient with me Please love me; with your ears Please love me; with your time Before all you will have Is my grave and the memories…
"Thoughts of the aged - loneliness don't discriminate " ©134517022015

Copyright © Wilma Neels

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

Wood Carving

            Wood Carving

He sits there, not quite motionless, for
even the comfortable must alter their
perception occasionally, frozen stare
upon a craggy visage, tiny fox-like predator
eyes peering into your soul.  “What are his
origins?” ask the bespectacled intellectuals.
“Who is he?” and “Why has he taken up
his unwelcome residence here?”  The buses
pass carrying workers, students, captains
of industry. They look at him but they do
not see him.  The children see him.
Wonder in their dreams how he came
to be.  Some want to be rid of him.
They have no reason, no justification
for alarm, nothing to warrant their
uneasiness.  One daring young lady
sat beside him, whispered a secret to
him, both shook with laughter.
Passersby were startled to see the
interaction and summoned the
the childs mother.  “What have you
taught her that makes her think that
she can do such things?”  They asked.
The young lady tried to speak but was
hushed by the serious looks she was
getting from the adults.  That evening at
bed time the young lady’s mother asked
her: “What did you say to him?”.  “I said:
‘You look like grandpa.”.  The mother sat
back, quieting a tear, and reminded the
young lady that her Grandpa was no
longer here.  “I know, Mommy”.  She said.
Well then, what did “he” say to you?”
The young lady sat up in bed and smiled
“He said that he was there every day,
and any time I wished to sit with him
and read to him it would be fine.”
“Mommy”, she said, “do you remember
grandpa”?  “You know …how his face was
all rough, and his hands hard and
spidery, and how he would like it when
I sat with him and read?”  The tear that
had been held “quiet” made a sound,
ran down the mother’s face as she
hugged her daughter and put her
to bed.  The next day mother and daughter
walked to the old tree, felt the roughness
of his face, touched his spidery thin
branches, sat with him – and read.
Soon others came to visit, sitting and
whispering, laughing and reading.
for they know who he is, what his
origins are, why “he” waits so patiently.

John G. Lawless

For PD's WHATEVER - Poetry Contest

Copyright © John lawless

Details | Grandfather Poem | |


A little girl full of life
With so much love for her papa
It was love at first sight when papa laid eyes on her at her birth
Being her nanny papa never laid her down but cradled her in his arms until it was time to leave
He was mama until she was two
When he would say “No, “Papa”
She would say, “No,” Mama”
He taught her to ride her first tricycle
He taught her to throw her first ball
He helped her with her homework when she started school
Once in a while she calls and asks “Papa would you come to school today and have lunch with me.”
And of course Papa cannot say no to his little girl
Her first baseball game was a t-ball team of all boys and one girl of course she out shined them all and took home the winning game ball 
The next few years she’s made the all –star softball team
At eight years old now coaches are watching her to get her on their team
By Eve Roper

Copyright © Eve Roper

Details | Grandfather Poem | |


He was always so happy
strong and bold.
He'd give you the shirt off of his back.
He had a rough life
growing up through the depression,
but like he always does,
he got through it.
He has two boys, of whom he is so proud.
Moved from Regina, to Victoria.
He had the best life anyone his age could have wanted.
But ever since his wife died, 
he has not been the same.
But like he has always done,
he got through it.
Mind slipping, 
just a little forgetful.
That's how it always starts out...
But like always, he powered through it, 
until now...
He is not the same person that I used to know.
He been sentenced to the prison in his own mind.
Possessed by the thoughts of his dogs ashes.
He likes to play the blame game,
but we know he doesn't remember that it was him.
He wakes up in the night
shaking with pain, 
tears streaming down his face.
There is nothing we can do,
Oh well...
Two more tylenol.
Hold on to hope
for as long as you can,
It's only a matter of time now.
He gets vocal, a very loud tone.
He'll block you in your room
and make false accusations
But we know that it's the pain induced monster in him.
Tick tock, tick tock...
You can't handle the stress anymore
you have to leave.
Just hope for the best, 
maybe it will get better.
Surprise, it doesn't.
Your denial is foolish, everyone knows 
what happens next.
All results of

Copyright © Laura Hamilton

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

Heart Of Gold

I sold my heart of gold
To the old man with a heart so cold.

Though it seemed I had sold my soul to the devil,
Truth be told, the old man was never evil.

Copyright © Marissa Faries

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

Dear Grandpa

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. 

Yours sincerely, 
A granddaughter that misses you dearly. 

Copyright © Emmy Weatherill

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

To My Wife Grandpa Murray's voice

I wandered and travelled
Nor knew where I'd gone .
Life became a problem;
T'was one long cruel song.

My problems seem to multiply;
They came from every side.
I vowed to find the answer;
by this I would abide.

I looked into nature
And tore apart my mind.
Then put them on the table
To see what I could find.

I found that I'de been greedy
and avaricious, too.
Whenever projects of mine failed
I put the blame on you.

I found that I was lonely;
I thought you didn't care.
But what I really didn't know
Was you were always there.

You tried to fill the void
That always was in my Life.
you tried to ease the sorrow
You've been a real good Wife.
                           Yvette & Grandpa Murray  
          From James Murray to , Janet Murray ..his beautiful wife.
" In great respect of Grandfather Murray's poem he wrote for my  Grandmother Murray "

Copyright © Shanity Rain

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

The Pilgrimage

They fought the tide to own this land
A fight I did not understand
They fought the plow, they fought the drought, they fought the debt
But yet,…by God,……they owned the pride

In retrospect, I'm still ashamed
It was, my flippant pilgrimage
I had come a stranger to this place
About to step upon the moon,
A cratered space of rocks and sage
Of rolling hills, with no escape

She saw it differently, of course 
Although her body weary, worn
Her eyes were strong, ...she saw a home

Her age was then, what mine is now
It had been her home, and it had been her vow
To come again, just one more time.  

I was thirteen, and dragged along
I overlooked the great attraction
I could not see the satisfaction
I missed the light upon her face

She saw the youth she left behind
Her gray eyes drinking up the sun, 
I saw the dust, I saw the bones, 
Where she saw beauty,  I saw none .....
Nothing more than a sea of weeds, the crumbling brick, 
A place to shuffle my restless feet

But stories came, and they sunk in….
And now I view with wiser eyes…
She told me all these things back then…but now, I smile,… remembering.

     They had to fight to own this piece of land
     They fought the plow, they fought the drought, they fought the debt
     And yet,…oh yes,…….they owned the pride


Recited on youtube

For Deb's Contest:....2nd Option..(With age comes wisdom, understanding and
                                                  appreciation. I am never too old to keep learning
                                                  and value those who came before and made me
                                                  who I am.)


Copyright © Carrie Richards

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

My Origin

Where do I come from? Well we all come 
from somewhere. I was born in a small 
town, here in in good old U S of A. South 
to the border, by the Rio Grand. Mission 
Texas is the town's name.

My real parents came from Mexico. My
grandmother, it was said  - she came from 
Spain. My grandfather was indian. He fought 
in the Revolution. Both were on my mother's

On my father's side, never knew too much, 
only that the grandmother died kind of 
young. The grandfather died years later, but
I never got to know them.

My father left my mom, when I was only three.
He never came back. My mother gave away my 
sisters, than later she gave me. She only kept
my brother, maybe she couldn't keep me.

I was raised with a nice lady and her husband.
I learned to call her mom. That title she had 
earned and my respect most of all. My parents
that raised me were poor, but made sure I had 
something to eat. My mother made my dresses 
so that I could go to school.

I learned to read and write and enjoyed school
very much, but I had to quit at fifteen to help my
parents out. Years later I went back and finished
my High School. 

I did not go to college , or mastered in any degree. 
I am what you might call self taught. For about thirty
years I worked with electronics and did my job well.
I gained respect from my bosses and high top

My parents taught me good values that have helped 
me  through out life. I am not ashamed of my 
origin, of Mexican Heritage I came. I am what you
would call a TEX. MEX. and I live up to my name...

Just a little about myself. Hope
you enjoy it.

written by Lucilla M. Carrillo

Copyright © Lucilla Carrillo

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

My Grandfathers Bilum

Bilum is a type of woven bag in Papua New Guinea (PNG)

How grandfather’s bilum, which
Across my father’s bare chest,
In a loving embrace slung.
Like the Leleki baskets’ blest
How while so pregnant swung.

How dwelleth he my father in its rich
Splendour till handing-over of its rest,
Then over my clothed chest again sways.
O this old bilum! like all other blest
No longer is laden with in my days.

For its treasures I search in earnest,
That I may grandfather’s mind know.
O this bilum is no longer pregnant!
Along the way, maybe some time ago,
How many treasures fade; this instant

Till my sleep, I’ll summon eagerness
To my modern soul strengthened to seek.
Grandfather’s treasures may be hidden;
Yet through a new eye must I ever peek
For glimpses my days have forbidden.

By: Jeffrey Febi        25 Oct 2010

Copyright © Jeffrey Febi

Details | Grandfather Poem | |


My grandfather on my father’s side, was a pecker-toothed sidle who raped his 
daughter when she was just ten. He threw down vodka from an eternal well and took my father out to buy prostitutes when he was just fifteen... It was here that my father first learned the true value of a woman. Mercifully, a permanent steel brace got loose at the Pennsylvania steel mill where he worked and crushed Grandfather into a pool of blood and urine.
     My father was a dried seed rattling in an empty gourd… he had grown up 
hardened with leather-stiff roots exposed too long in the sun. My mother knew 
that he wanted to rape me, so I kept guard with knives and ran away whenever I could. I went to bed fantasizing how to sneak into his bedroom and kill him with 
the kitchen carving knife. 
      My older brother hadn’t adjusted well to the chaos either, so he put all his expectations and dreams into a matchbook and burned down three houses in the neighborhood. He secretly, robbed his friends of their valuable coin collections. He grew weary and confessed and was taken to a local Mental Hospital for evaluation. At fourteen, I needed a good stiff drink! I was transferred to two different foster care homes and grew up like a weed.
     My mother Dolly was an auburn haired porcelain bisque, matt finished doll from a
discriminating collections of dolls... her father's dolls. She was not a witty woman 
but silent, afraid and alone. She gave birth to three children who grew up like 
wild dogs while Dolly made Betty Crocker weekends and otherwise TV dinners 
until she grew tired... very tired.
      One day the brothers were playing with Dolly tossing her back and forth… 
like a ball, one to another... until we dropped her. Fragile, she shattered into pieces 
on the gray cement patio. My father came out determined to put the pieces back 
together but clumsily, he repeatedly stepped on Dolly crushing the refined 
fragments into powdered dust.

Copyright © julie heckman

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

The Blessings of Grandfathers Beautiful Lies

Impressionable young hearts do tell the grandest lies
When learned from grandfathers with sparkling eyes
Grandfathers living renewed through the breath of a grandchild

Oh grandfathers’ whoppers told in all kindness and glory
The bigger the whopper makes the child’s lies the cute little story
Thus the grandchild’s faith breeching walls of reasonable reality 
Simply because beloved grandfather had told the story
My grandfather said it was so- tiny voice of pledged belief
And I believe him -for grandfather would never lie to me

So sleep little one- dream the telling’s of funny grandfathers beloved
For their little lies to you are meant to not make you a worried
But make you believe in the impossibilities of grandeur and extravagance 
There is a Santa Clause
The fish really was so big it couldn’t fit in the boat
I wrestled a grizzly when I was just about your age

For in the telling of such blessed little lies
A remembrance of grandfather will never die
The wisdom and laughter thus remembered in each time’s telling
Will warm you over and over- as little lies do you begin the telling 

Copyright © Mark Goodson

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

Shades of Life

Extended family, children play 
as sunbeams fall all slanted,
‘round a wooden table in the shade 
of a tree great-grandpa planted.
I like to think he smiled back then,
with sweaty brow, and handsome grin.
Old and wise – I’m sure he knew, 
in time his tree would block the view.
I wonder if he thought about,
his family tree - with branches out.
The bonds of blood are strong and grew.
So has the shade he never knew…

Copyright © 2014

Copyright © Cole Banner

Details | Grandfather Poem | |


Out in the middle of a large farmland, I become a girl of old charm and unexpected songs again. Past the flanks where cluttered rows of hyacinths and ferns quiver, disarranged huts begin to shake as the rough wind wheezes. And on this late July, mounds of dust remind me of summers back in my grandfather’s hometown. Yet, a different vanishing overtakes me.

a season passes…
carrying all its flowers
to emerge as buds

Watching for thrushes that grow moist from dusky froth , my heels trek along deepened clay. As I lay on haystacks listening to stars chiming, the inky moon sinks its riddled face through a veil. Somehow, I feel alone...abandoned  like the  opera of a heart which seems to fall into a tragic ending. Yes, Grandpa isn’t around any longer, as a requiem of tears swells.

on this barren field…
a solitary twig cracks
from one glittered tree

The nightfall drools looking for the yellow among clouds. For a while, the hazy outlines of strangers--native women and children ---disturb my old revelries  when Grandpa would linger by the porch dipping tunes from his violin. Through calm intervals of laughter, we sway together;  fire to air, salt to honey. Much as I need to inhabit this space, it no longer belongs to me, or to him. But twilight comes brimming with all the glistened jewels of our own world.

between two lifetimes
is a haunting melody…
like a song unsung

Creative Haibuns Contest
For Charlotte Jade Puddifoot

Copyright © nette onclaud

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

Pure Of Heart

Wise Grandfather Shaman, 
I am pure of Heart,
I bathe beneath the Moon, 
and dry beneath the Sun,
I listen to the Wind,
I run with the Deer,
I hunt with the Wolves,
I fish with the Eagles and Hawks,
I ride with the Wild Paints,
And roam with the Buffalo,
I grow with Grandmother Tree,
Ever learning from her Wisdom, 
I am skilled in Warrior Ways,
A strong Hunter, 
A compassionate Listener,
A patient Tracker,
I have gathered with the other women,
Contributing to our tribes growth and strength,
I leave no tracks of moccasins in the soft clay,
My heart is pure,
And I wish to continue my journy,
Wise Grandfather Shaman,
Allow me to enter your lodge,
I will smoke from the sacred pipe,
My heart is pure.

Copyright © Jay Loveless

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

Ninety Years

You see him at the store sometimes
He doesn’t walk too fast
His stride has slowed throughout the years
He slowly moves on past

The hair upon his head is white
If there’s any there at all
He may be stooped or bent a bit 
A cane so he won’t fall

He smiles but you don’t know his name
He waves a weathered hand
You might smile back and say hello
There goes a nice old man

What you don’t see beyond his face
His life of ninety years
The wife he met the kids he’s raised
The joys and work and tears

The letters won for high schools sports
The girls he used to date
The time his father grounded him
For coming home too late

The war he fought for freedom’s sake
Tales too hard to speak
The friends he lost the wounds he bore
The tears upon his cheeks

The job he worked for forty years
That kept his family fed
The home he built with his two hands
The church group that he led

Time and youth have slipped away 
His mind is not as clear
His friends have mostly left this earth
He’s lost his wife so dear.

When next you see an aged gent
Who passes through your day
There’s more to him than leathered skin
There’s much that he could say

He doesn’t want your sympathy
Nor pity could he stand
Don’t treat him like a feeble child
Approach him as a man.

He still remembers all he’s done
He hasn’t lost his pride
Respect his years for you’ll be there
And know his heart inside 

Copyright © John Curtis

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

Estella and Holden

A boy and a girl just arrived in this world
To parents they both will share
Now from the house within will echo the cry of twins
As an answer to prayers from everywhere
After passing the test of a month of bed-rest
To ensure that they developed complete
For Mom and for Dad, no more rest to be had
As in tandem twins seldom do sleep
But living this way is a small price to pay
For the privilege of parenting twins
For only a special few have the bond of these two
Sharing the womb in which life did begin
Congratulations to my daughter and the man that they'll call father
For doubling up on our number of grandkids
We are so very proud that our voices shout out loud
With the love we feel for this thing you did

Copyright © Joe Flach

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

Stand By Your Man

I have loved him since I was young.
Through every cloud, he rose the sun.
His work was honest – one-on-one with land.
I loved this farmer and his callused hands!
Safe, strong arms would lift me to sit upon his tractor.
Picture girl and Grandpa - no memory could be happier.

Today, I took the inherited watch from my mantle.
Now the cherished timepiece accompanies my flight,
Perhaps lending faith to my emotional plight.
Precious ticking in my pocket comforts my destination;
Brings forth his presence and I will not try to stop it
For the watch soothes my driving desperation.

Steering, I experience a constant sense of feeling
That wings have sprouted beneath my vehicle this day
As prayer of golden air to deliver me straight there.
So many endless miles of thunder under my wheels.
Thoughts ever somber tumble various appeals.
I gasp down feelings he may leave before I show.
He stays in my heart’s eye while I consume highway
On burning, dedicated tires determined to fly
Because Grandma phoned to say, Grandpa would soon die.

Written:  September 17, 2015
Contest:  Stand by Your Man
Sponsor: Silent One
Third Place

Copyright © CayCay Jennings

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

We Made Ice cream

  I remember! 
  Cranking that old wore-out handle on that ice cream maker, until I thought my 
arms were going to fall off.  Having a big smile on my face, as I turned and 
turned, pushed and pulled on that old crank begging my big brother, the whole 
time to “Spell me!” so I could set on an old rag on top of the ice, using my weight 
(as it was) to hold that ice cream maker in place. 
   I remember my grandfather coming out of the house, out on the back porch. To 
make sure my big brother and I was “Doing it right.” as if, there was a wrong way! 
He made sure that we
had plenty of ice, plenty of rock salt. I can still see him sticking his little finger in 
the weep-hole to make sure it didn’t get stopped-up. That was most important to 
him, as he
always got the first bowl. I don’t know why? He clamed, he would get the first 
bowl, to make sure that salt didn’t get into the mix. Funny to me, he never made a 
salty face as he was eating that first bowl.  
   I remember, watching my grandmother making that “mix” she picked the 
freshest eggs, measured just the right amount of vanillin extract, I loved the way 
her kitchen smelled. I watched her chop the bananas peal the peanuts, stir it up 
with the cream and sugar. She hummed “Old Rugged Cross” as she made that 
sweet ice cream mix, it was as if she was having fun; like the turning of the crank 
for us boys, work for sure but still fun!
  I would eat light, as that banana-peanut ice cream cured while we had supper, 
waiting for grandfather to finish his third helping, we had to wait, he always got 
the first bowl, I don’t know why? 

Copyright © Mike Samford

Details | Grandfather Poem | |

the nun and the witches last walk

Even though
It was so long ago
It still holds the place in my heart
The one I reserved for special moments
with him 
The times before his health
got the best of our relationship
Back when my grandpa 
was able to be my 

It was my first parade
and one of his last
The Halloween of

There was
and lions
and bear
oh my.
but there was also the usual
witches, and monsters
but most importantly
there was my grandpa.

He volunteered to help
with the small monsters
of classroom 301 that year
which would also be his last 
so he was able to walk with his
even if he kept stopping 
to pick up candy 
along the way.

walking with him
along the crowded streets
past the sirens of the firetrucks
and over the steep hills
will forever beat any memory
trick or treating
passing out candy
or the endless Halloween parties

for that was just a moment to enjoy
now that his old age has hit him
there's no more walking
no more dressing up for Halloween
just to see a smile on the face of 
his grandchildren
his little monsters

That moment will forever hold my heart
ten years ago was
the last time 
this witch
had her
of a grandfather
walk beside her   


Copyright © Alexis Hogg